On the night of the ball, Mrs Hill was in great demand, hurrying from room to room, helping each of the sisters with the final adjustments to her dress, pinning and tucking, snipping and trimming. But it was Mary to whom she devoted most of her time, arranging her hair in a style as smooth and simple as her dress, with no attempt at imposing short-lived curls. When she had finished, she drew a twist of paper from her apron pocket, undid it carefully and placed it on the dressing table, revealing a small pinch of pale pink powder.
‘Is that rouge?’ asked Mary uncertainly.
‘It is indeed, borrowed from Miss Lydia’s drawer. She has enough of it not to notice the loss of such a little amount.’
‘You’re not suggesting I should wear it, are you?’
‘Only the very smallest touch, that’s all you need. Put your finger into it, as lightly as you can, and rub it very gently into your cheek.’
Mary took the little package and stared into it curiously.
‘Go on,’ insisted Mrs Hill. ‘The very tiniest quantity. No one will know, I promise you.’
Her mind suddenly made up, Mary dabbed her finger into the powder as delicately as she could and applied it to her face.
‘Just a little at first,’ advised Mrs Hill. ‘It’s a bit like cooking – you can always add more salt, but you can’t take it out. There, that’s perfect. You have a bit of colour, but you don’t look painted. Time to put the gown on now, if you’re not to be late.’
The dress slid over Mary’s head with a confident, slippery ease; and suddenly, there she was, ready. She was almost afraid to look at herself, but plucked up the courage to stare at her reflection in the pier glass. She saw a tall young woman with a neat figure, sleek brown hair, and mild, regular features, clad in a light and pretty dress. Relief flooded over her. She knew she would never turn heads when she walked into a room, as she had so often seen her sisters do; but, as she surveyed herself with her usual critical eye, she thought she looked as well as she had ever done. She would do.
‘Very pleasing,’ said Mrs Hill. ‘Just what we’d hoped for. But there’s still one thing left to do.’
With that, she reached across Mary’s face, took off her spectacles and laid them on the dressing table.
‘Now you’re ready. And Miss Lydia has been calling this last ten minutes.’
Left alone in her room, Mary looked at her discarded spectacles, uncertain what to do; then, after a moment’s hesitation, she picked them up, stuffed them into her little evening bag, and made her way downstairs to meet her sisters.
Unusually for her, Mary was the last to come down, and when she arrived in the hall, everyone was already there, waiting and chatting. Her appearance silenced them all, as they took her in. Elizabeth spoke first, looking her up and down with appreciative surprise.
‘That is a very handsome dress. You look very well in it, Mary.’
‘Indeed, you do,’ agreed Jane. ‘The colour is just right. It suits you perfectly.’
Mrs Bennet drew herself away from the hallway mirror, where she had been making all those vital last-minute adjustments to her outfit and person, without which she would not have considered leaving the house. She examined Mary coolly. She had long hoped to see an improvement in Mary’s appearance, but, as she had had no hand in her transformation, she was not inclined to be generous.
‘So, miss, it seems you can make an effort when you choose. What a pity you can’t be troubled to do so more often.’
‘It is amazing what new clothes will do,’ observed Lydia tartly. ‘Anyone is improved by them. If I had a new dress to wear, I’m sure I should astonish you all!’
‘I have no doubt you will do that,’ remarked Elizabeth, ‘new dress or not.’
Mary drew her cloak carefully over herself, pleased that her outfit had provoked nothing worse than she had expected, and followed her sisters out into the cold night air. She was silent as their coach pulled away from the house, and no one spoke to her. Jane and Elizabeth chatted in low whispers, while Lydia addressed them all in loud declarations which did not require a reply.
‘Just think, Mama, I saw Dick Smythson in Meryton yesterday, and he positively insisted I should keep the second dance for him. He’s engaged to that annoying Miss Denny for the first, but she’s his cousin, so I suppose he was obliged. And Captain Carter has bespoke me for the third. I do hope he’ll wear his regimentals; you can’t believe how much he is improved by them.’
‘Oh, but I can,’ answered Mrs Bennet. ‘I liked an officer well enough myself once. I hope for your sake he will wear them tonight.’
‘And for the fourth,’ Lydia continued, having hardly noticed her mother’s intervention, ‘I am in hopes of William Digby. I told him he would have to find ices for me afterwards, for I’m sure to be sweating all over by then.’
Elizabeth raised her eyes in exasperation as Kitty gave way to a wail of outrage.
‘Lydia, you know Mr Digby asked me for the fourth dance, you are not to steal him away. Really, Mama, tell her she musn’t, it isn’t fair …’
Huddled in the corner, Mary began to consider her own chances of finding a partner. She knew so few young men. Lydia’s and Kitty’s daily walks into Meryton had introduced them to numerous masculine acquaintances, especially since the arrival some months ago of a militia regiment. They met officers sauntering about the streets, bantered with them outside the milliner’s shop, and counted many amongst them as their intimate friends. Jane and Elizabeth were more aloof, but even they had been sometimes known to acknowledge the salutes of the more gentlemanly of the soldiers with a polite inclination of their heads. Mary had no such small introductions to smooth over her way into the ballroom. She rarely accompanied her sisters on their trips into Meryton; and when she did, she had nothing to say to any officer whose path they happened to cross. She had no talent for charming small talk or provoking chit-chat.
As the carriage rolled into Meryton, her anxiety grew. All the excitement she had felt when she left the house began to drain away as she thought about what lay ahead. While the ball had remained safely in the future, she had been able to think of it almost with excitement. But now it was about to become reality, it felt very different. As they pulled up before the assembly rooms, her courage began to fail her. What would she do if no one asked her to dance? She had heard Jane and Lizzy laughingly lament occasions when they had found themselves with no one to stand up with; but they did so with the cheerful self-mockery of those for whom this was a rare event. They could be sure they would not linger like that for long; another partner would inevitably appear at any moment. Mary knew she could summon up neither their poise nor their confidence. As the Longbourn party gathered their cloaks and bags, eager to be out of the carriage, Mary followed her mother and sisters towards the light and noise of the ball, her heart in her mouth.