One spring afternoon, when she returned from a walk, Mrs Gardiner called Mary to join her in the drawing room. When Mary entered, she found her aunt sitting on the sofa with a preoccupied air. This was unusual, for she was rarely disconcerted; and as Mary sat down opposite her, she began to fear Mrs Gardiner must have some difficult message to deliver. They chatted for a while about what Mary had seen on her outing; but eventually Mrs Gardiner began upon what was clearly the point of their conversation.
‘Since you joined us, we have lived very quietly, but that is about to change. We always become more sociable as spring approaches. It’s our custom to give some little dinners and other small entertainments, simple gatherings for friends and relations whose company we enjoy.’
Mary’s heart began to beat faster. She was certain now that something difficult was about to be said. Perhaps if she could imagine what it might be, if she were to speak first, she could save her aunt the embarrassment of having to raise the delicate subject herself.
‘Nothing extravagant, all very domestic,’ continued Mrs Gardiner. ‘But there will be rather more social life in the house than you’ve been used to.’
‘I hope you will not feel any obligation to include me,’ said Mary quickly. ‘I will be happy to stay upstairs with the children. I have my books – I will be quite content, I assure you.’
Mrs Gardiner looked at her with genuine surprise.
‘Can you really suppose,’ she asked, ‘that we would arrange a pleasant dinner for family and friends, and send you off into exile upstairs?’
‘I would understand if you did,’ replied Mary. ‘I do not sparkle much at dinners, I’m afraid.’
‘Perhaps that says more about the dinners you have so far attended than it does about you,’ declared Mrs Gardiner. ‘And anyway, in our house, no one is obliged to sparkle. Which, I find, makes it far more likely that they might. So, you will join us, I hope?’
Mary knew this was not the moment to confess that the prospect of a London dinner filled her with apprehension, but nonetheless she hesitated.
‘Come, Mary, do me this favour. You might even enjoy yourself.’
Mrs Gardiner would never have hinted that she thought her niece was obliged to accept; but Mary had no doubt that she was. When she considered all the kindnesses, great and small, which had been showered upon her since her arrival at Gracechurch Street, she knew she must welcome the invitation with the simple graciousness with which it had been made.
‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘I should be very glad to join you. And I will try my very best not to disappoint you.’
‘I know that will not happen,’ said her aunt, reaching for the bell and ringing for tea. After it had been brought in, she returned to the task at hand.
‘You misunderstood my meaning earlier, but you were right in perceiving I had something of importance to ask you.’
Mary replaced her cup in its saucer and put it carefully on the table. She had no idea what might be coming.
‘If you are to become a social being,’ announced Mrs Gardiner, ‘we must dress you properly for the part. We must buy you some new clothes.’
‘New clothes?’ asked Mary. ‘I don’t think I understand.’
Her aunt put down her own cup and surveyed Mary with the wary patience of one who does not expect to carry her point without a great deal of effort.
‘You are a sensible girl, so I will be candid with you. What you wear now might be suitable for quiet days in the country but will not do for evenings in town. We must smarten you up a little, my dear.’
Mary flushed. It appeared that even in Gracechurch Street, she was never to escape the vexed and humiliating subject of her appearance. Mrs Gardiner reached across the table, holding out her hand to reassure her.
‘I know this is not an easy subject to discuss, but let me tell you how I consider such things. I see plainly enough that you don’t like to make a fuss about dress – that you dislike having attention drawn to you. But there are times when the best way to ensure you are not remarkable is to conform to the expectations of those around you. You are a rational being. You must see that if we are to go into society, it makes sense to obey at least some of its rules.’
‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘I made such an argument to myself once, a while ago.’
‘Then why, may I ask, did you abandon such excellent reasoning?’
‘I lost the heart for it. I was persuaded to buy a new dress, and the first time I wore it, I behaved very badly to someone who deserved better. I decided I did not deserve to wear nice clothes if I could not trust myself to act properly in them.’
This was not the reply Mrs Gardiner had expected; and she was so surprised that she almost laughed.
‘Lord, Mary, if that rule were to be applied universally, not a woman in London would be decently dressed!’
But Mary did not return her amused smile; and Mrs Gardiner, perceiving her obvious unhappiness, understood this was a hurt that ran very deep.
‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to make light of whatever it was that happened. But I beg you to consider whether your response to it was justified. Because you were unhappy once when wearing a pretty dress – it was pretty, I hope?’
‘Handsome rather than pretty,’ murmured Mary. ‘But I liked it.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. But it makes no sense to assume that every time you wear something becoming, the outcome will be the same. On the contrary, as you have obviously reflected very seriously upon your actions, it seems most unlikely you will repeat them.’
Mary clasped her hands round her knees, considering. It was hard to dispute her aunt’s logic. She could not deny that when spoken aloud, her reasoning did not sound very sensible. There was a knock on the door as the maid arrived to clear away the tea things; but Mrs Gardiner, clearly keen to carry on the conversation, shook her head and the maid slipped quietly away. Mrs Gardiner topped up their cups with what remained in the pot.
‘It is a little stewed,’ she said as she handed it to Mary. ‘But I prefer it strong, myself.’
She leaned forward across the little table that sat between them and addressed her in a low but steady voice.
‘I realise this is a delicate matter,’ she said, ‘but I am determined to persevere. I know you’ve always been told a woman’s worth can be measured only by her beauty, by the way she presents herself to the world. But please believe me when I say there is a middle way between an obsession with one’s appearance and an absolute denial of its importance. I do not consider myself a vain woman, but I admit it pleases me to be smartly turned out. And I would like you to feel the same.’
Mary surveyed her aunt, taking in the trim figure she presented as she sat on the sofa. Mrs Gardiner was not a beauty; but, as Mary was compelled to admit, this made little difference to the favourable impression she made. Her clothes became her; they were admirably chosen to suit her person and her situation, and in them, she looked exactly as she should, smart and yet completely at her ease. And her aunt achieved it with none of the fuss or effort with which it had been pursued at Longbourn. Staring down at her own familiar cotton dress, she began to feel impatient. Her resolution to stay hidden behind such dull and unremarkable garments began to waver. Perhaps Mrs Gardiner was right. Perhaps the time had come to discard them and begin again.
‘I am not suggesting anything elaborate,’ Mrs Gardiner went on. ‘We could begin with three or four day dresses and two for evenings. A new coat, perhaps, and certainly several hats. A straw hat or two. Some silk stockings rather than cotton. And we might also visit Mr Dolland and find you a more pleasing pair of glasses.’
At a stroke, the fragile image that had begun to take shape in Mary’s mind of herself transformed by a few choice garments was shattered. As Mrs Gardiner listed everything she would need to enter city life with confidence, Mary knew it could not happen. Even if she convinced herself she was worthy of buying new things, even if she accepted she was not condemned forever to hide herself beneath clothes that neither flattered nor pleased her – even then she could not do as her aunt wished. She could not possibly afford it.
‘I understand what you say,’ Mary began, choosing her words with care. ‘And I admit my misgivings must look foolish when exposed to the scrutiny of common sense.’
‘I am glad to catch a glimpse of the old, rational Mary at last,’ said Mrs Gardiner. ‘I confess I had begun to wonder where she had gone.’
‘But even if I am persuaded by what you say,’ Mary continued, ‘I’m afraid it won’t make any difference. I have no money, aunt, with which to pay for new things.’
‘But I do,’ declared Mrs Gardiner. ‘And I should be delighted to buy them for you. It would be my pleasure!’
Mary shook her head.
‘I cannot think of that. I am already indebted to you in so many ways and cannot bear to add to my obligations.’
‘I am not sure there is such a thing as obligation between those who truly care for each other.’
‘You are very kind. But I cannot accept.’
Mrs Gardiner stood up and smoothed down her dress.
‘I thought you might say that; and while I don’t agree it is necessary, I understand your reluctance. But there is another who would like to help you, whose assistance I feel you might accept with no such embarrassment.’
Mary was amazed. She begged her aunt to tell her who this person was and how they knew of her circumstances. But Mrs Gardiner brushed away all her enquiries and instead calmly rang the bell for the servant.
‘We have sat here long enough. Sarah can come in now and clear the trays.’
She held out her hand to Mary in invitation.
‘I know you have been out already, but I feel the need for some air. Have you yet discovered the pretty garden at Finsbury Circus? No? Then that is where we’ll go. We can speak there quite freely.’