When she arrived at Pemberley, Mary’s first feeling was one of relief. Here there was no one to insult her or make her miserable; instead, Elizabeth greeted her with a most welcoming smile and took her arm as they made their way through the hallway. She asked no questions about her sudden departure, for which Mary was grateful. She did not feel ready yet to talk about Caroline Bingley.
‘Should you like to see over the house? I thought we might take the grand tour after you’ve had tea. I don’t think you saw much of it when you were here before.’
Mary had rarely seen Elizabeth as proud as when they walked together through the huge rooms, her pace quick and eager, her voice lively as she described and pointed and informed, her pleasure in her new establishment apparent in every tireless step. They viewed the sculpture gallery and the most notable family portraits; they stood at the door of the library, which was the largest Mary had ever seen and to which Lizzy was sure Mr Darcy would be pleased to grant her access when he returned home in a week or so. In the meantime, the sisters established a very comfortable routine. They drank their coffee in the yellow morning room and took tea in Lizzy’s boudoir. They ate alone in the dining room with the Chinese wallpaper, a servant standing behind their chairs. When they needed fresh air, they strolled together through the grounds, Lizzy drawing Mary’s attention to every remarkable feature, to every wood, pond, or possible improvement. Here she thought she might plant a flower garden. In this quiet corner, she had an idea of establishing a school.
But nothing delighted them both as much as the hours they spent in the nursery with young Fitzwilliam Darcy. He sat on Mary’s lap, a sturdy toddler in a white frock, his direct, assessing stare suggesting he was already in possession of his father’s determined will. It was not until their third or perhaps even their fourth encounter that he showed he had also inherited his mother’s charm. He took Mary by surprise, reaching out his hands towards her with a broad, enticing grin, his fingers sticky and warm as they clasped hers, before turning back to his mother and holding up his face for a kiss. It was impossible not to laugh and smile, and Mary did both very readily.
‘You seem very happy, Lizzy.’
‘Indeed I am. I’m not sure I deserve it; but I intend to behave as if I do. I won’t apologise for the great good luck I’ve been granted. But in truth, Mary, I am really very grateful. I never imagined I would be so admirably suited. And although I don’t choose to let everyone know it, there isn’t a day when I don’t give thanks that things turned out as they did. Not a single day.’
Very moved, Mary reached over and touched Lizzy’s hand. For an instant, Mary felt nothing for her but a rush of affection and a desire it might be returned. She knew she would never forget Lizzy’s betrayal on the night of Mr Bingley’s ball – for all her attempts to excuse her sister’s behaviour, she could not give it any other name – but had begun to hope that in the future, relations between them might be warmer once more. Lizzy was secure and content, no longer teased and annoyed by her family, desperate to distance herself from the embarrassments they caused her. Perhaps, thought Mary, this serenity would encourage Lizzy to look more kindly upon her, to think more generously of her and her situation. If they could recover just a fraction of the pleasure they had taken in each other’s company when they were young, that would be enough. Mary would not expect more.
As the days rolled by, there were moments when Mary allowed herself to believe her hopes might be realized. It seemed to her that she and Lizzy had become great friends once more, perfectly at ease with each other. They were happy together, requiring no other company. They read, walked, chatted, and played with Fitzwilliam, who now knew Mary well enough to bestow upon her an occasional lordly smile. It was exactly what Mary had once longed for; and she began to feel the weight of the anxiety which burdened her imperceptibly lighten. She wondered if she felt bold enough yet to speak to Lizzy about her future, to confide in her that she did not know where she should go or what should become of her, that she quailed when she thought of the few choices open to her. Could she confess that the thought of living alongside her mother appalled her? Surely Lizzy would understand that particular horror. No one had more good sense or more acute penetration. When she imagined the relief of having Lizzy as her confidante, Mary felt her spirits rise. She would tell her about Caroline Bingley and her taunts. She allowed herself a little smile as she considered how, with a single tart remark, Lizzy would take the sting from Miss Bingley’s insults and make Mary see her as she really was: ridiculous, petty, and eaten up with bitterness. She felt a sense of calm sweep over her; but she did not admit, even to herself, that she had begun to wonder whether she might eventually find a home at Pemberley, whether somewhere in the great house, amidst all the statues and paintings and boudoirs and drawing rooms, there might be a place for her.
Then Mr Darcy returned. He had been in London on business, and now came home, bringing with him his sister Georgiana, a fine-looking girl of nineteen. Immediately, the tenor of their little party shifted. Mr Darcy was not a demonstrative man, but his character was of such a strong and decided nature that it could not fail to impress itself very powerfully on those around him. With Lizzy and his sister, his habitual gravity was tempered by affection. To Georgiana he was a kind and indulgent brother; to Lizzy a passionately attached husband. But as the days passed, Mary saw that in her company, he was never at his ease. He was always strictly polite and gentlemanly, but around her, he could not unbend. It was not long before his air of detached correctness unsettled her, and she began to grow self-conscious around him. She did not know how best to raise herself in his opinion. Should she try to join the conversation, attempt a liveliness she did not feel in order to show herself a pleasant and amusing guest? Or was it better to say nothing at all, choosing instead to efface herself as much as possible in the hope of simply escaping his notice?
She soon discovered that neither stratagem worked. When she was silent, she merely confirmed his opinion of her dullness. When she sought to entertain, she always struck the wrong note. Then Elizabeth would intervene, smoothing everything away with a joke or a laugh. Under Lizzy’s tender, amused gaze, her husband became another man, warm, smiling, taken by surprise at his own happiness. Mary once caught a look pass between them of such intimate intensity that she dropped her eyes, as flustered as if she had come upon them alone and unawares. It was this that finally led her to understand there was nothing she could ever do to win Mr Darcy’s goodwill. He had no desire to bridge the distance between them. He was far too well bred to show it, but she saw with absolute clarity that he longed for her to be gone. Her presence was more than a petty irritant; it was a constraint on his desire to indulge his strongest affections as freely and as openly as he wished. Only when she had left Pemberley could he be himself again, secure amongst those he loved best, unhampered by the company of a stranger at his table, of an awkward guest in the breakfast room, on the terrace, in the nursery, anywhere in fact where he wished to be alone with his wife.
Mary felt the truth of this revelation with an almost physical pain, certain that her happy days at Pemberley were numbered. She did not think her welcome would long survive Mr Darcy’s impatience with her. Indeed, it was painfully apparent that Lizzy had already drifted away from her, preferring to spend her time with her husband rather than her sister; and when he was occupied with business and unavailable to her, Georgiana was always with them. Mary rarely saw Lizzy alone now. The companionable hours they had enjoyed together when she first arrived were not repeated; now it was Georgiana who walked arm in arm with Lizzy, Mary following a few steps behind.
Georgiana Darcy was a timid, watchful girl, somewhat in awe of her brother and plainly delighted to have discovered in Elizabeth such an agreeable and sympathetic friend. Mary often caught her looking at Lizzy with frank adoration; and saw too that her feelings were returned, that Lizzy enveloped her in all the warm affection Mary had hoped might one day be directed towards herself. It was sometimes hard for Mary to watch as her sister coaxed Georgiana delicately out of her shell, encouraging her to think better of herself and not to be afraid of displaying her talents. In the afternoons, they sat in the drawing room as Georgiana practised at the piano, her slender figure shown to advantage as she leaned over the keyboard, her pale hands extended in scales and arpeggios. Mary was compelled to admit she played well, so well in fact that she did not dare approach the piano herself, unwilling to suffer by comparison. She tried to banish jealous thoughts, but it hurt to watch Lizzy offering Georgiana all the praise she had once yearned to receive herself. Lizzy never asked Mary to play. Instead, at the end of a particularly demanding piece from Georgiana, Lizzy applauded loudly and turned to Mary, her face shining.
‘Wasn’t that fine? Don’t you think she is extraordinarily good? Have you ever heard anything better done?’
Mary shook her head.
‘No, I do not think I have. Well done, Georgiana.’
Her face faintly flushed from exertion, Georgiana smiled briefly towards Mary before rushing to sit at Elizabeth’s side, the better to enjoy her approbation. Georgiana did not speak to Mary, but she rarely did. Her silence was in part a product of her shyness; but Mary suspected there was more to it than that. Sometimes she caught Georgiana observing her with mild, puzzled surprise. What exactly are you doing here? she seemed to ask. However did this happen? And how long do you mean to stay? There was no malice in her curiosity, just a faint whiff of bemusement. As Mary watched Georgiana engage Lizzy in cheerful conversation, in which it was clear she could have no part, she began to ask herself the same questions.
Later that evening, resting on her bed before dinner, already dressed but conscious it was too early to go down, Mary heard the sound of one of her favourite sonatas coming from the piano below. She would have known Lizzy’s style anywhere, bold and blithely indifferent to the odd false note. She sat up; as the sonata came to an end, she heard laughter, voices raised in pleasure. There was a pause; then a new piece began, played with a delicacy that could only be Georgiana’s. Quietly, she stole downstairs and stood outside the door, listening. No one looked towards her. There was Georgiana, intent at the keyboard, her expression rapt. There was Mr Darcy standing at her side, turning the pages of the music, smiling as he never did when Mary was near. And there too was Lizzy, her hand draped over her husband’s arm, looking up at him with transparent affection, while their little son played at their feet, banging his toys in a rhythm that did not entirely complement the beauty of the song. The foursome was as perfectly composed as a painting, handsome, charming, and entirely self-contained.
Georgiana finished the piece with a flourish. Mr Darcy proudly patted her shoulder while Lizzy clapped her hands. Mary closed her eyes and turned away. It was impossible for her to go in and join them. Her presence would only break the spell. In that moment, Mary understood that while she would never be treated harshly at Pemberley, there were other ways of being made to understand you were not required. Mr Darcy would never warm to her. He might tolerate her for Elizabeth’s sake, but in his eyes, she would always be the worst possible version of herself, gauche, clumsy, and dull. Georgiana’s situation was very different. She would never be a guest to be endured on sufferance. She was family, loved by both her brother and Lizzy, always welcome to make her home with them. If there was a place at Pemberley for an unmarried sister, Mary knew, as she watched the little group around the piano, it was not for her. She did not belong in these elegant rooms, amongst these beautiful people. They had each other, and that was enough.
When Mary told her sister she intended to leave Pemberley, Elizabeth had not entirely understood the reasons for her decision, but did not press her too hard for an explanation. Perhaps she too had begun to sense Mr Darcy’s irritation with Mary’s presence; and forced to decide between preserving the comfort of a beloved husband and her duty to an awkward sister, she did not protest very convincingly when Mary announced her departure. Mary’s proposed destination, however, surprised her. She found it hard to believe she intended to visit Longbourn.
‘But why should you want to go there? It must be full of so many painful associations.’
Mary did not choose to explain that her present circumstances were hardly conducive to happiness, nor to confess that she could think of nowhere else to go.
‘I think I should like to be somewhere familiar again, to be surrounded by places I know. I hope I might find it consoling.’
‘Really? It seems a strange way of seeking solace. Won’t it distress you to see the Collinses established in our old home? I’m not sure I’d want to see Mr Collins at his ease in our father’s library. Or Charlotte presiding over our mother’s tea table.’
‘Yes, I don’t doubt that will be difficult. But I’ll be able to walk in the woods and sit in the garden. I can read Papa’s books. And Charlotte could not have urged me more eagerly to come.’
Lizzy said no more. Mary was too tactful to add that the prospect of seeing Charlotte had in fact been one of the principal inducements which had driven her to beg an invitation to Longbourn. She was desperate to discuss her unhappy state with someone; and she understood now that neither Jane nor Lizzy could help her. Securely settled with men they loved, they could have no understanding of her fears. Charlotte, however, was a different matter, for she knew what it was to feel hopeless and alone. Mary had not always found her advice palatable, or agreed with her conclusions, but she longed to talk to someone who had once shared her predicament. Perhaps the ideas that had so shocked her when Charlotte first confessed them might not seem so dreadful now. The experience of the last two years had certainly helped her understand why Charlotte had embraced them so determinedly. And in her secret heart, Mary hoped that her stay at Longbourn would result in something more than guidance. She longed to find out whether Charlotte had been right when she insisted a marriage founded on self-interest rather than love stood as good a chance as most unions of turning out well. Were Charlotte and Mr Collins happy? And if so, should Mary make up her mind to follow Charlotte’s example? But she said none of this to Lizzy.