Mary worked slowly, taking care to ensure everything was done to the very best of her abilities. There were times when she was impatient to know what Mr Bennet would think of the little book; but she curbed her desire to make haste, for she had gradually understood the true significance of her task. She had long since ceased to think of it as a simple work of compilation. She knew now it was far more than that. It was nothing less than a calling card inviting her father to recognise her for who she really was – a like-minded spirit, a daughter it would be easy to love, if only he could be persuaded to notice her. It was this conviction that kept her hard at work, day after day, hour after hour, decorating the margins and ornamenting each page number with coloured flourishes. She would spare nothing to make her book of extracts the most accomplished of its kind.
One cold day, when unseasonal showers kept all but the bravest indoors, for once, Mary was not alone in the library. While she sat at her table, her papers spread out around her, Elizabeth was perched in the window seat, knees drawn up before her, a book in her hand. She knew the rules that governed visitors to Mr Bennet’s library as well as anyone; and for much of the time, she was obediently silent. But every so often, a little chuckle of amusement escaped her – until finally, she could not help herself and laughed out loud. Mary looked up, shocked at such a breach of discipline, but Lizzy merely smiled, offering her father an apology that was anything but abject.
‘I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
Mr Bennet took off his spectacles and gazed at Elizabeth with such warmth that Mary’s heart contracted. Perhaps, once he had read her extracts, he might look at her in the same way.
‘What are you reading, my dear, that pleases you so much?’
‘It’s Miss Burney’s Evelina. I’ve read it so often and yet it never fails to make me laugh.’
Mr Bennet put down his book.
‘And which parts of it do you find most amusing?’
‘The comic characters are very well done, but I think I enjoy those moments most where the humour is entirely unintended. Who wouldn’t smile at a hero who is not only single and strikingly handsome, but is also conveniently possessed of ten thousand pounds a year? And who could fail to be amused by a heroine wise enough to unite in her person outstanding beauty and a mind so superior that the hero is quite prepared to overlook the vulgarity of her birth?’
She closed the book, her expression alive with pleasure.
‘I am only surprised it took them so long to realise they were destined for one another. I should have thought such a remarkable pair would have recognised their fate in ten pages at most. So yes, I laugh – but I must confess, I envy them their cheerful conclusion. If only real life were like that!’
‘That is just the kind of happy ending I should wish for you, Lizzy,’ declared her father softly. ‘I would arrange it myself if it lay within my power.’
‘You need not fear for me, Papa,’ she replied. ‘I am much more sensible than I look. I am quite prepared, I promise you, to settle for something – or perhaps I should say, someone – far more ordinary than Miss Burney’s hero.’
It was painful for Mary to watch the intimacy between Elizabeth and their father, and know she was excluded from it. The affection that flowed so easily between them was exactly what she yearned to experience for herself. She stared down at the notes laid out in careful order on her table, at the books marked with slips of paper to remind her of passages she had enjoyed. That was the purpose of all this work. That was why she applied herself so tirelessly, day after day. All she wanted was to see Mr Bennet look at her with even a hint of the tenderness which he now directed at Lizzy.
But she must not let her mind run in that direction; it would only upset and distract her. She must concentrate on something less distressing. She watched as Lizzy took up her book again. It was a long time since Mary had read a novel. It did not surprise her that Mrs Bennet enjoyed them; but she found it hard to believe that Elizabeth, with her quick understanding, regarded such works so indulgently.
‘But, Lizzy,’ she ventured, ‘if you think so little of these books, why do you continue to read them?’
‘You quite mistake my meaning,’ replied Elizabeth. ‘These are loving criticisms on my part. For all the little faults in Evelina, I shall always be its firm friend.’
‘But aren’t you wasting time that might be better employed elsewhere? Dr Fordyce says novels are very unsuitable for women to read; their morals often leave much to be desired, they have nothing of worth to tell us and they convey no proper instruction.’
Elizabeth sat up straight, serious now.
‘For me, that is one of their chief recommendations. I do not care to be told what to think at every turn of a page. And I do not agree that they have nothing to tell us. These are works in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature is displayed, the greatest powers of the mind described. No, I cannot sit by and leave the novel undefended.’
Mary searched through her notes, hunting for a favourite quotation. ‘Dr Fordyce says books of history and philosophy are more useful for a female mind. They enhance our understanding, while novels only arouse our passions.’
‘I cannot see why a woman of sense shouldn’t enjoy both. I should consider it an insult to be denied the pleasures afforded me by Miss Burney because it might make me less receptive to those of Mr Hume. Dr Fordyce, however, I leave to you. I shall not compete for his company.’
Mr Bennet, who had been watching the conversation with interest, laughed out loud at this.
‘Well said, Lizzy! Well said, indeed! And you are quite right about Fordyce. Milk-and-water stuff. All cant and obsequiousness, not worthy of serious notice.’
Mary looked down, unable to bear the affectionate smiles that passed between her father and sister. She knew Lizzy had routed her. But the humiliation of her defeat was as nothing to the pain she felt in hearing her favourite Dr Fordyce spoken of by Mr Bennet with such disdain. It had never occurred to her that her father would not share her appreciation for Dr Fordyce’s ideas.
Elizabeth slipped off the window seat, readying herself to leave. Generous in victory, she held out her book to her sister.
‘Shall I leave you my copy of Evelina, Mary? I think you might enjoy it if you would allow yourself to do so.’
‘I shall try it if you wish,’ replied Mary in a low voice. When she did not reach up to take the book from her sister’s hand, Elizabeth laid it amongst the other volumes on the table, where Mary noticed it quite obscured her well-thumbed copy of Dr Fordyce.
Once Elizabeth had gone, Mr Bennet turned back to his own reading, a very faint expression of pleasure just visible on his face. Mary sat thinking for a few minutes. When she spoke, her voice semed very loud in the silent room.
‘Papa,’ she ventured. ‘May I ask you a question?’
Her father started up, as if surprised to find her still there.
‘Do you really think so meanly of Dr Fordyce? I have been studying him for some time.’
‘I’m afraid those are unlikely to have been hours well spent. I consider him a tedious, unprofitable read; but you may have reached other conclusions.’
‘Can I ask your opinion of other books I have been looking into? Blair’s Sermons? Paley’s Evidences of Christianity? Hannah More on female education?’
‘Well, Paley is at least a proper thinker. I suppose you may derive some benefit from what he has to say. The others are quite worthless, unless you have a taste for arid morality and pompous sentiment of the most obvious kind.’
Mary closed her eyes for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. She had clearly made a great error in judgement. How could she have been so foolish as to imagine Mr Bennet would approve of the authors whose words she had been copying out so carefully and with such keen expectation?
‘If you don’t approve of the writers I have chosen, can you suggest any whom you value that you think I might enjoy?’
‘I’m not sure I should venture to do so. Your tastes seem very … strenuous for so young a girl. They don’t seem to tend much towards the light, bright, or cheerful.’
‘No, Papa, I don’t think they do. I wish to be informed, not entertained.’
‘Indeed? Well, the best advice I can give you is to follow your own instincts. They will be a far better guide than anything I can suggest. One way or another, they will direct you towards what you require.’
He picked up his book again, and Mary knew she was dismissed. She gathered together her papers, closed the door of the library, and walked to her bedroom. She understood now that the book of extracts over which she had laboured with such care was quite useless. Mr Bennet would find nothing in it to admire. Every writer she had included was regarded by him with contempt. Sitting at her writing desk, she turned the pages of the little book, looking at the entries she had made with such hope, that had cost her so many hours ungrudged effort. A loving father would have been pleased with the gift regardless of its contents, because his child had taken the trouble to make it, but Mary knew Mr Bennet would not be so indulgent. It would do nothing to raise her in his estimation. On the contrary, it would confirm his opinion of her silliness, of her unworthiness to be noticed, valued, or loved. It would certainly not persuade him to look at her as he did at Lizzy. Stone-faced, she opened the drawer of the dressing table, placed the book of extracts within it, and slammed it shut.