When all the formalities had been observed, Mary accompanied her mother to the north of England, where they were to stay with Mr and Mrs Bingley until a more permanent arrangement could be made for them. However, Mrs Bennet had not been long in their house before it was apparent she would never willingly leave it. The loss of Mr Bennet seemed to weigh less heavily on her nerves with Jane to look after her, and Mr Bingley to ask how she did with such regularly solicitous attention.
Mary, however, did not find her sister’s home so comfortable. She was grateful for the invitation to stay; but somehow, she could not settle. Jane was never less than gracious, but her kindness did not put Mary at her ease. There was something distancing in Jane’s benevolence, bestowed as it was equally upon both those who deserved it and those who did not. It was an admirable quality, but spread so generally that Mary knew it implied no special warmth for her. Jane’s deepest affections were reserved for Mr Bingley and Lizzy; only they were granted access to her private heart, and Mary knew she would never be invited to join them. This knowledge made Mary’s dependency upon her sister harder to bear than if there had been stronger feelings between them.
However, she thought she could have borne this if it had not been for the presence of Caroline Bingley in the household. This lady had none of her brother’s charm and affability; she had always been of a proud, resentful disposition, but disappointment had soured her still further. As Mary had seen at the Netherfield ball, her feelings for Mr Darcy had been strong, and she had hoped one day to secure him for herself. It had been a cruel humiliation to see another woman preferred; but to have lost him to Elizabeth Bennet, who had neither fortune, family, nor long acquaintance to recommend her, was all but intolerable. In consequence, Caroline Bingley was unhappy and angry in equal measure but, it being impossible to vent her frustration on Mrs Darcy, she decided to console herself by abusing her sister in her place.
She did not open her campaign until she considered sufficient time had passed since Mr Bennet’s death, for there were niceties to be observed, even in spite. But once she was satisfied that brief amnesty had expired, Miss Bingley was relentless. She was an accomplished practitioner in the art of insult and knew exactly how to deliver pain in a few well-chosen words, always pronounced with a smile. She began with Mary’s clothes, which presented her with a very obvious target but one she did not disdain to seize.
‘How refreshing it is,’ she remarked one afternoon at tea, ‘to see a young woman with the courage to defy the dictates of fashion, or indeed, those of human nature itself, for most of us are foolish enough to want to look as well as we possibly can. I salute you, Miss Bennet, as an example to us all.’
Mary could think of no reply, and hung her head, unable to meet Miss Bingley’s hard, unflinching simper. She was equally lost for words when, a few days later, Miss Bingley begged, with a very arch expression, for the honour of her advice. She had been asked by a friend who had recently engaged a governess to suggest a suitable dressmaker for her – ‘one whose fees recommend her more than her taste’ – and she felt sure Mary would know just such a person. When she had exhausted the subject of her appearance, Miss Bingley turned to Mary’s books, picking them up and reading out their titles in tones so pompous that both they and their reader were made to look ridiculous.
‘Only a very superior understanding could rise to the challenge of such works. Or one which had no other distractions with which to occupy itself. Scholarship is a fine thing, no doubt, but I am not sure I should wish to acquire it at the cost of every social grace.’
On and on it went. Mary bore it with all the resignation she could muster. Sometimes, she looked around to see if anyone else had observed Miss Bingley’s jibes, but they were spoken in such low, confiding tones that no one seemed to notice them. Mrs Bennet rarely concerned herself with Mary at all; and Jane seemed so cocooned in happiness that it was impossible anything unpleasant could penetrate her contentment. Only once did Mary catch a disapproving glance directed by Mr Bingley towards his sister after she had made a particularly disobliging remark in his hearing; but far from correcting her behaviour, his mute rebuke merely encouraged her to take more trouble in concealing it.
For a while, Mary hoped Miss Bingley would grow tired of attacking her; but the weeks went past, with no slackening in either her tormentor’s energy or ingenuity, and Mary began to wonder for how much longer she could bear it. She did her best to ignore her, attempting neither to acknowledge nor respond to any hurtful words. But her courage wavered as she understood Miss Bingley’s desire to wound was far greater than her ability to withstand it.
One night, as she sat alone in the drawing room, waiting for the rest of the company to arrive, Mary found herself looking with interest at the piano which occupied pride of place there. It was polished and gleaming but very seldom used; she did not think she had heard anyone attempt it since she arrived. She walked across to it and raised the lid, wondering how it would sound, how the keys would feel under her fingers. It was only when she was seated at the keyboard that it struck her that this must be the very instrument on which she had been playing when her father had so humiliatingly put an end to her performance at Mr Bingley’s ball. A shiver ran through her as she recalled the shame she had felt, the frantic desire to vanish into thin air. She had not performed in company since, and thought she would never do so again. She trailed her fingers lightly over the keys and struck a single note. The piano was in tune. For a moment she hesitated, the horror of that evening fresh again in her mind. But it had been so long since she had played, especially on an instrument as fine as this. The keyboard was so inviting – the keys so smooth and well-balanced – the urge to play overwhelmed her, and before she knew it, she was tearing into a Scottish air with a tremendous attack, quite unlike her usual precise style. It was the very piece which had sealed her fate on that dreadful night, Mr Bennet extinguishing so many of her hopes. She had not consciously chosen it; but once she knew what it was, she could not let it go, but drove it passionately towards its conclusion. She was breathless when she finished, lost in the powerful emotions the music had awakened in her. It was only when she felt more composed that she looked up from the keyboard; and saw Caroline Bingley standing by the door. It was impossible to say how long she had been there. She smiled her icy, ingratiating smile.
‘Please don’t say I have left it too late to hear more.’
Miss Bingley walked towards the piano, her fan in her hand, her expression demure.
‘Or perhaps you fear you have delighted us enough already?’
Mary’s eyes filled with tears. She could not speak but stood up and hurried to the door. She caught a glimpse of Miss Bingley’s face as she passed, alive with pleasure at having finally found the tenderest place on which to land her blow.
As Mary ran upstairs to her bedroom, she knew she could stay with Jane no longer. Her spirits were not robust enough to repel Caroline Bingley’s spite, and she saw that if she remained, she would soon become accustomed to her attacks, shrinking a little more each day under her blows until she thought she deserved no better. No, she would not allow herself to become Miss Bingley’s cowed and willing victim. If she was not prepared to fight, then she must retreat, and do so quickly. Pemberley was not far away. Why should she not write to Elizabeth, asking if she might spend a little time with her there? The more she thought about it, the more the idea pleased her. Pemberley would offer her a refuge from Miss Bingley’s bullying, a haven of peace and quiet where she could lick her wounds and recover. But perhaps, she thought, it might do more than that. There she might also find the courage to confront at last the fears that troubled her more with every passing day. What would become of her now that Mr Bennet was gone? Where would she live? What could she do? These were questions so painful and so disturbing that she had not allowed herself to reflect upon them since his death, banishing them to the far corners of her mind, from whence they sometimes emerged to taunt her – at night, when she could not sleep, after a particularly painful encounter with Miss Bingley or an afternoon with her mother. At Pemberley, freed from these provocations, she might become calm and rational enough to face the question of her future directly. And perhaps Elizabeth would help her. She was happy now – blissfully so, from all Mary had seen and heard. Surely Lizzy would not grudge a little time to assist and advise a sister who was so very far from enjoying that joyful state herself? Soon Mary had convinced herself this was the best course of action; and as she could think of no other, she decided not to go down to supper but picked up her pen and began to write to Elizabeth straight away.
She did not have to wait long for an answer, and a few days later, her scanty belongings secured on its roof, she clambered into the coach that was to take her to Pemberley. Mrs Bennet did not come out to say goodbye; early morning departures jangled her nerves. It was Jane who saw her off, standing on the steps alongside Miss Bingley, who waved her away with every appearance of regret at poor dear Mary’s wholly unexpected departure.