The journey from Gracechurch Street, to the the Bingleys’ house, where the Gardiners’ little party was to break their journey, was achieved without difficulty or incident. Mary grew steadily more silent as they neared their destination. In the days immediately before their departure, her mind had been so crowded with visions of the Lakes and what they should do and see there, that she had given no proper thought to the days they were to spend with the Bingleys. It was only when they were on the road that she began to reflect upon what their stay might be like. She did her utmost not to surrender to the apprehension that had begun to scratch away at her confidence. Really, what had she to fear? Caroline Bingley would not be there to tease her. She would have the Gardiners near at hand, their kindness still to be relied upon. Mr Bingley was always cheerful and good natured; and it would be pleasant to see Jane’s beautiful face again. As the coach ploughed on northwards, she allowed herself to think of meeting her sister and her brother-in-law again with something like pleasure. But they were not the only relations into whose company she would be plunged on arrival: her mother would be there too.
When they pulled up at last outside the Bingleys’ house, Jane was waiting there to meet them. The little Gardiners clambered stiffly out of the coach, and were soon running about, laughing and shouting after their long confinement. It was some minutes before they were finally recaptured and led happily away, with promises of hot toast and a basket of young kittens to admire. The older people followed more soberly but no less gratefully towards the prospect of tea and a seat that did not jolt them about. Mr Bingley presided over all the arrangements with his usual affability; and in less than half an hour, everyone was happy.
Once enough had been eaten and drunk for conversation to be more general, Mr Gardiner observed that Mrs Bennet was not yet to be seen; he hoped his sister’s nerves were not troubling her again? Mr Bingley smiled into his tea while Jane replied evenly that, no, her mother was not seriously indisposed; she was merely conserving her strength for dinner and looked forward to meeting everyone a little later. There was a short silence while this news was absorbed; at the end of it, both men appeared to conclude they had now paid their debt to politeness. They rose together and left to inspect a plantation of new trees, on whose state Mr Bingley wanted very much to hear Mr Gardiner’s opinion.
Once they had gone, Jane cast a mild, assessing eye in Mary’s direction.
‘I must say, Mary, you look very smart in that dress. I don’t think I have seen it before.’
Mary had almost forgotten that she had acquired a wardrobe of new clothes since she had last seen her sister. It was a strange thing; now that she was so much better dressed, she rarely gave much thought to her looks at all. She no longer stared at her reflection, looking for new reasons to disparage herself. Indeed, she rarely looked in the mirror at all, but this was not because she despised what she saw there. It was rather because she was broadly satisfied with herself; or, as content with her appearance as she suspected was the case with most women who will never be beauties. Freed from a regimen of criticism and complaint, Mary had found her own level; and she was not unhappy to be there. Jane’s unfeigned praise pleased her; and she returned her sister’s smile.
‘I’m glad you like it. Mrs Gardiner persuaded me to buy it.’
‘That was very wise of her,’ replied Jane. ‘It is exactly right for you.’
‘In my opinion, Mary has really bloomed in the last few months,’ observed Mrs Gardiner proudly. ‘I only hope her improvement will be appreciated by everyone who sees it. And what of you, Jane,’ she continued. ‘How are you going on?’
Jane looked up, a little self-conscious but very proud.
‘Well, I have reason to believe – that is I think – I am pretty much certain that I’m expecting a child.’
She smiled shyly at her aunt and Mary as if she had told them the greatest news they could ever wish to hear. Mrs Gardiner jumped up and kissed her lightly.
‘My dear, I’m so very happy for you – and for Mr Bingley too – what a wonderful thing for you both!’
Once Mary would have searched for an aphorism or an extract from one of her favourite writers to do justice to the announcement. Now she understood that was not what Jane wanted to hear. Instead she found the courage to say simply what she felt.
‘I am delighted for you, Jane. No child could hope for a better mother. I wish you both joy, truly I do.’
Jane blushed, suddenly overcome.
‘It’s all I’ve ever really wanted, a happy home, a loving husband, and a baby. I’m not sure why I’ve been so fortunate, but I hope, Mary, that one day something similar will happen for you.’
Mary’s heart was too full for a reply. She could not remember when Jane had spoken to her with such affection.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mrs Gardiner with feeling. ‘I hope so too. There is no more lasting satisfaction than knowing you have chosen the right partner in life.’
Later, upstairs in her bedroom, Mary dressed for dinner with as much care as if she was about to meet a roomful of critical strangers. As Jane’s maid put the finishing touches to her hair, Mary attempted to steady her nerves. It had been arranged as she now preferred it, with no attempt at a curl; and she had chosen an equally plain dress, a pale yellow, with a dull gold stripe. Once the servant left the room Mary sat before the mirror for some time, turning this way and that, trying to imagine what her mother would say. She told herself she was foolish, after so many years to expect anything in the way of encouragement from that quarter; but for all her determination not to do so, she still yearned for her mother’s approval. A kind word, an assenting nod would be enough. Even the absence of a frown would suffice. She picked up her shawl. The moment could not be postponed. She looked at her hair one last time and made her way downstairs.
When Mary entered the drawing room, she found herself alone. Why was she always the first? She thought ruefully of Caroline Bingley’s arrival at Mr Ryder’s supper party, and the stir her carefully timed entrance had created. She knew she would never possess the confidence to be late; anxious, uncertain guests like herself were doomed always to be early, to provide a waiting audience of admirers for those too assured or too fashionable to pay any heed to the time.
To keep herself in countenance, she walked round the room, admiring the beautiful objects her sister had arranged so tastefully: the elegant china, the delicate glass. She ran her hand over an embroidered chair cushion – she had no doubt Jane had sewn it herself – and inspected the painting of her sister which hung over the fireplace, presiding over the room with her characteristic remote and gentle gaze. She was so absorbed, that the sound of the drawing room door closing quite startled her.
‘Well, Mary,’ observed Mrs Bennet evenly, as she made her way towards the sofa. ‘Here you are at last.’
She held her cheek out to be kissed. As Mary bent towards her, she saw that her mother had not changed at all. A few grey hairs perhaps, but nothing more. Touches of black on the neck of her dress and round her sleeves were all that remained of her mourning clothes. She no longer looked like a widow.
‘I’m very glad to see you, Mama. I trust you are in good health?’
‘Dr Gower who attends us here says I am very well. But I’m afraid he does not fully appreciate how I suffer.’
She plumped one of Jane’s embroidered cushions and settled herself comfortably.
‘But Jane and Mr Bingley seem very attentive?’
‘Jane is an angel, of course. And Mr Bingley does what he can. But neither of them has the first idea how to run a household properly – Mr Bennet always said they would be taken advantage of by everyone, their natures are so trusting – and I’m afraid he was right. I’ve offered to take things in hand – but they won’t have it. My advice is ignored, as always.’
‘Perhaps they’re afraid you might exert yourself too much. I’m sure they have your interests at heart.’
‘Perhaps.’ Mrs Bennet’s expression suggested there was much that might be said on this subject if she chose to do so. Instead she merely pursed her lips. ‘Now, let me look at you properly.’
It was the moment Mary had dreaded. Knowing there was no escape, that she was about to be judged as she had been so many times before, she did her best to breathe evenly and not to drop her eyes. It seemed an age before Mrs Bennet spoke.
‘Mrs Gardiner wrote to say you were much improved. I see she was right.’
Mary allowed herself a small smile. Her mother, still examining her, did not return it.
‘That dress shows off your figure and the colour suits you. It’s good to see you stand up straight at last, and not hang your head. I should like to see your hair curled, but it is better done than it was. Altogether, there is a bloom about you that was not there before.’
‘Thank you, Mama.’
‘You will never be a great beauty like Jane’ – Mrs Bennett glanced reverently at the portrait above the fireplace – ‘but if you go on as you are, you may become quite passable.’
Mary was almost angry with herself at the strength of the emotions her mother’s words provoked. She knew that to those accustomed to more generous compliments they would seem like very little, but to her, they were praise indeed. To be accounted merely passable was a great improvement upon being dismissed as plain; and it meant all the more because Mary knew it must be true. Her mother did not care for her enough to take the trouble to dissemble.
‘I suppose it is all my sister Gardiner’s doing,’ complained Mrs Bennet. ‘Why you paid attention to her when you would not listen to me, I really do not know. No one can say I did not try. It is very provoking, to be sure.’
Mrs Bennet grumbled on until Mr and Mrs Bingley arrived, when the conversation turned naturally enough to Jane’s situation. Mary was not sorry to sit and listen. She had escaped the full force of Mrs Bennet’s disdain and felt almost jubilant when finally they went in to dinner.
Mary’s cheerfulness sustained her over the next few days, enabling her to bear Mrs Bennet’s querulousness with good grace. She did not allow herself to be provoked by any remarks relating to London suitors, the importance of looking her best at any and every moment when such an exalted being might appear – ‘a woman like you cannot afford to take chances, Mary, you must always be prepared’ – and the absolute, irrevocable necessity of never, under any circumstances at all wearing her spectacles in a man’s presence until they were safely married.
Nevertheless, Mary thought it could not be a moment too soon until they were safely on their way; and her wishes were soon gratified. The next afternoon, as she sat with the children on the drawing room carpet, amidst a litter of puzzles and card games, Mr Gardiner strolled into the room, brandishing a letter. He announced it came from Mr Hayward, who had left London and was now travelling towards the Lakes, where he would meet them.
‘He is in the very best of spirits,’ said her uncle, as he handed the letter to his wife. ‘It seems all that hard work was worthwhile – he has won the legal case that has caused him so much time and trouble!’
Mrs Gardiner was delighted; the children, who were very fond of Mr Hayward on account of his great generosity in the matter of sweets, cheered loudly, and Mr Gardiner, who looked upon Tom Hayward with an almost fatherly concern, beamed with pride. Mary’s heart leapt at the news. It touched her very deeply to think that Mr Hayward had achieved this mark of success, which he had so hoped for.
‘Will he wear his wig when he next comes to visit?’ asked Edward, the elder Gardiner son, who had once been allowed to put it on, and yearned to do so again.
‘He will be far too grand for that now,’ declared Mr Gardiner, leaning down to place a piece of jigsaw puzzle in place. ‘Next time you see him, he will be the perfect picture of a grave and steady lawyer.’ The children looked crestfallen. This did not sound to them like an improvement in Mr Hayward’s character. ‘Unless of course,’ their father continued, ‘there is no one around to see. Then I imagine you might be allowed to try it on, as long as you have been exceedingly well behaved.’
He turned back to Mary and his wife.
‘Tom says he is making excellent progress on the road. He warns us, that if he arrives at the inn first, he will have no qualms at all about claiming the best room for his own, and that we shall be obliged to shift for ourselves as best we can.’ He took a last look at the letter and put it in his pocket. ‘I think he is joking; but with him, you can never be sure. So, my dears, if you don’t want to bed down with the chickens, we must rise with the sun tomorrow and crack on.’
When dawn arrived, the travellers were up and ready to go. The children, who were to remain with the Bingleys, had been kissed and hugged and wished loving goodbyes; their hosts had been heartily thanked; and by six o’clock, they were on their way. They had not been in the carriage long before Mrs Gardiner fell asleep, her head leaning on her husband’s shoulder. When he swiftly followed her example, Mary pulled from her bag her copy of Wordsworth’s Guide to the Lakes, followed by her spectacles. These she put on boldly regardless of the offence they might give to any potential suitor happening to pass by. The idea amused her, and she was smiling as she opened the little book. She had already read it so often that it was very familiar to her; but the scenes it described never failed to excite her, especially now it would not be long before she should find herself amongst them. She opened the first page and began to read.
‘In preparing this manual, it was the Author’s principal wish to furnish a Guide, or Companion for the Minds of Persons of taste, and feeling for Landscape.’
Taste, feeling, landscape. Mary lay back against her seat. Surely no words could more powerfully conjure Mr Hayward into her mind? Yes, she thought, he will approach the wild northern country with the right spirit, eager to be amazed by the awesome or silenced by the sublime. Mr Wordsworth could not wish for a more willing disciple. But what of herself? Was she capable of giving way to a similar intensity of experience? Sleep began to steal over her. But before she abandoned herself to it, she understood that if she was ever properly to allow her feelings free rein, the Lakes were surely the place to do it.