Mary kept her countenance pretty well over the next few days, during which the house was turned upside down by the preparations for Mrs Bennet’s hasty departure. She did not crumple when her mother climbed into her carriage, her whole person stiff with affront, refusing to make so much as a farewell nod to her disobedient daughter as she drove away. Later, Mary was still tolerably in control of herself when she finally plucked up courage to read Mr Ryder’s letter. It was a gentlemanly epistle, containing neither recrimination nor offence. Only one line in it caused her a moment’s pause. ‘Had you taken me as I am, I have no doubt I should eventually have become the man I ought to be. For that, I am sorry.’ She bit her lip at that; but there was no point in torturing herself anew. She had made her choice, taken her gamble, and now she must live with the consequences.
It was not until life returned to its regular rhythm that she really began to suffer. While there had been crisis and urgency and drama, she had sustained herself tolerably well; but now there was nothing but the everyday and the ordinary to greet her when she woke. Her spirits plummeted. She could not work, could not settle to her books. She had no energy to read to the children. She had consigned herself to an existence whose main, whose only purpose was waiting; and that, she discovered, ate away at her until she could barely force herself to leave her room. At night she did not sleep but stared into the darkness, when doubts and fears crowded in upon her. Her mother was right. She was a stupid fool. She had lost the one man who would have made her truly happy. There was no reason to think he would appear now. And she had rejected his friend, who might have rescued her from a future she had feared for as long as she could remember. She would become that most despised of creatures, an old maid; and this was how it would feel, on and on and on, forever, until she was too old or too sad to care.
As she walked past Mary’s door on her way to bed, Mrs Gardiner often heard her crying. She stood outside, wondering if she should go in; but what comfort she could offer? She asked her husband whether she should write again to Mrs Hayward or try to discover where Tom Hayward was walking; Mr Gardiner thought not. It was a very difficult business all round. When the law courts opened again in the autumn, Tom must return to his work, then perhaps Mr Gardiner might try to speak to him; but now it was best not to interfere. No good would come of it. The young people must be left to resolve it for themselves.
At first, her aunt was relieved when Mary was not to be found in tears quite so often; but soon she was not sure whether her dry-eyed misery was much to be preferred. In the absence of any other useful tasks with which to occupy her time, Mrs Gardiner encouraged Mary to take as much exercise as possible. Walking, she thought, must be good for her; or at least could do no harm; and each morning she urged Mary to take an airing, in the hope that she might return a little less miserable. Mary did not protest – what else had she to do? – and it was on one of these aimless walks that she felt someone fall into step beside her. Looking around, she was astonished to discover her new companion was none other than Caroline Bingley – the very last person likely to be found striding so confidently along such an unfashionable City street.
‘Good morning, Miss Bennet. I have been looking for you. Your aunt was kind enough to suggest where I might find you, since you were not at home when I called.’
Her careful politeness gave no hint of the hostility of their previous encounters, but Mary was not deceived into thinking her appearance boded well.
‘If I had known you planned to visit us, I would have ensured I was there to receive you.’
‘But then I would have missed the pleasure of walking through such a very interesting district,’ replied Miss Bingley sweetly. ‘It is not a part of town with which I am at all familiar. It positively bustles, does it not?’
Mary’s heart was racing, and she knew she must show no sign of weakness or hesitation in Miss Bingley’s presence. She gathered up all her courage and smiled back at her with equal insincerity.
‘Since you have found me, I am at your disposal. Should you like to come back to Gracechurch Street, where we could have some tea?’
‘Well, that would be charming,’ declared Miss Bingley, her tone implying that it would be nothing of the kind, ‘but the children seemed in a particularly boisterous mood this morning. The ambience wasn’t entirely conducive to the quiet conversation I had hoped to have with you.’
She touched the collar of her perfectly cut jacket, as if to brush away any specks of City dirt which had had the temerity to attach themselves it.
‘I passed a respectable-looking pastry shop a few steps back. It appears they have private rooms upstairs for ladies. I suggest we take ourselves there instead.’
They walked in silence to the very shop where Mary had been taken by Mr Ryder in what now seemed a lifetime ago. Miss Bingley swept into its precincts, commanded the best table on the first floor, and ordered China tea, sliced lemon, and a plate of macaroons.
‘It is not exactly Gunter’s – one could hardly expect that, so far from the West End – but I think it will serve our purposes,’ murmured Miss Bingley, dismissing the waiter and pouring out the tea herself. Mary had decided to say nothing until she had some idea of Miss Bingley’s intention in bringing her there. She did not have long to wait.
‘I don’t think there is anything to be gained in making idle conversation, Miss Bennet, so I will come to the point directly.’
She wiped her mouth delicately with a napkin.
‘I understand that Mr Ryder came to visit you not long ago. I should be grateful to know what he spoke of while he was there.’
Mary looked up, nonplussed. She had not expected such a direct approach. She was surprised to find her apprehension falling away, replaced by resentment that Miss Bingley should see fit to question her in such a manner.
‘It was a private matter. It seems odd you should ask about it.’
Miss Bingley inclined her head, as if to indicate that although she had heard the displeasure in Mary’s voice, she did not choose to acknowledge it.
‘He mentioned to me that he saw you.’
‘Then you should ask him about what was said.’
‘But I am asking you.’
‘I’m not sure with what aim.’
‘Was there a declaration of some kind?’
At this, Mary finally awoke from the miserable lethargy which had engulfed her so long. Who was this woman to interrogate her in this way? What right did she have to demand answers from her? All the humiliation and misery of the last months suddenly turned into a kind of rage. She would not be treated like this. She had had enough and would no longer bear it.
‘That is an extraordinary question. I cannot imagine why you think you have the right to ask it.’
‘That was the impression Mr Ryder gave me.’
‘I am amazed he felt able to discuss our conversation with one whom it did not concern. Did he volunteer this information freely? Or did you demand it of him?’
Mary was pleased to see Miss Bingley’s composure waver a little.
‘I saw he was upset. When I asked why, he seemed happy enough to tell me. He is not a man who hides his feelings from himself or others. He implied you had not given him reason to hope.’
‘If you have had that from him, I do not see why you require anything further from me.’
‘Because I wish to understand from you directly if it is true. Or whether it is just a ploy to whet his interest, to make him even more eager to have you. After all, that was a ruse that worked very well for your sister. Darcy never wanted her more than when she was clever enough to refuse him!’
Mary was really angry now but determined not to show it. Miss Bingley should not have the satisfaction of knowing she had provoked her.
‘That is as ignorant as it is insulting,’ she replied deliberately. ‘Elizabeth would never trifle knowingly with the affections of a decent man. Nor would I.’
Miss Bingley leaned across the table, her face taut with bitterness.
‘Yes, you Bennets all talk a fine game, but in practice, you’re as hard-headed as the most consummate husband-hunters. You have a remarkable record of reeling in the men you want, and then looking around as if it was all an amazing accident, nothing to do with you at all, just love finding a way! I’ve seen it happen twice, in front of my eyes, so please don’t play the innocent with me.’
‘As I do not love Mr Ryder, it would make no sense for me to marry him.’
Miss Bingley laughed out loud.
‘Oh, come, Miss Bennet, we are not children! When you think of the alternative, marrying a man one does not love may be the most rational decision a woman can make. Do not pretend you haven’t considered it. Especially now that Ryder is to be so rich. I cannot believe you were unaffected by that piece of news.’
For the first time, Mary was genuinely surprised by Miss Bingley’s words. To give herself something to do while she marshalled her thoughts, she took the napkin off her lap, folded it carefully, and placed it on her plate.
‘I have no idea what you mean.’
‘Please don’t treat me as a fool.’
‘I do not know what you are talking about. If you will not enlighten me, I do not see how we can continue this conversation.’
Mary held Miss Bingley’s gaze, determined not to be the one who looked away. In the end, it was Miss Bingley who flinched, accepting that she would learn no more of Mary’s true intentions without disclosing what she knew.
She had had the story from Mr Ryder himself. He told her that shortly before their trip to the Lakes, he had been called to Kent, to attend Lady Catherine de Bourgh at Rosings. There he had found his relative so beside herself with fury and frustration that it had taken some time for him to understand the cause of her anger. A whole day passed before the terrible truth was revealed to him in all its horror and shame – her ladyship’s daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh, was engaged to be married – to her doctor. ‘You might think such a thing impossible, Mr Ryder – it should be impossible – if there were any gratitude and obedience in this world, it must be impossible – but I regret to tell you that it is not.’ The affair, it appeared, had been going on under Lady Catherine’s unseeing eyes for some time – ‘for years, Mr Ryder, years!’ – the silent couple concealing their affections until Miss de Bourgh reached her majority. ‘Think of the deceit. The flouting of my authority!’ Now that she was twenty-one, however, Miss de Bourgh was free to contract a marriage with whomsoever she chose, however distressing her intentions were to her mother. ‘This is how I am repaid for a lifetime’s care and trouble. This is how I am defied and humiliated.’
Lady Catherine now demanded that Mr Ryder seek to achieve what her own efforts had failed to do, and bring her daughter to her senses. He doubted very much whether his endeavours would have any more success than her ladyship’s; and he was quickly proved right. His attempts to make Miss de Bourgh consider, if not her own position, then what she owed to her mother, fell on very stony ground indeed. It was quickly evident that she had no sympathy at all for a parent whom she considered had always bullied and belittled her; and that she could not wait to begin a new life at as great a distance away from her as possible. It was an additional blow to Lady Catherine to discover, so late in their dealings with each other, that her daughter’s will was quite as strong as her own, and not to be deflected by either threat or inducement.
When it was certain Mr Ryder could do no good, there was nothing left for the beleaguered Lady Catherine to do but apply to her nephew for his help. Only in such pressing circumstances was she reluctantly prepared to acknowledge Mr Darcy’s position as the titular head of the family. But when the Darcys arrived at Rosings, she began to regret the decision to invite them. Neither her nephew nor his wife seemed inclined to pursue the matter with the harshness she thought appropriate. Mrs Darcy she suspected of harbouring some sympathy for her daughter’s situation, having come upon them more than once closeted in conversations she could not but regard as disloyal; and she did not doubt Mrs Darcy’s opinions were reflected in her husband’s ultimate conclusions as to the best way to proceed. Having interviewed the doctor, Mr Darcy declared himself satisfied that he was no fortune-hunter, but a respectable man with a genuine affection for Miss de Bourgh. That lady was as determined to marry him as he was to marry her; and it was therefore difficult and probably unprofitable to imagine how or even why, they should be prevented from doing so.
Miss Bingley took a sip of her tea. Mary sat in silence until she was ready to continue.
Mr Darcy, it appeared, had advised Lady Catherine to reconcile herself, with what good grace she could muster, to a union that was likely to take place, whatever she thought of it; and to do what she could to salvage some fond feelings in her daughter by not appearing vindictive. Lady Catherine paid not the slightest attention to this latter advice; but she was finally persuaded to agree to the marriage itself, once Miss de Bourgh made it clear she was quite prepared to elope with her doctor if her mother refused to countenance more usual arrangements.
Lady Catherine laid down two conditions. The marriage should take place as privately as possible, with all who knew of it agreeing to say nothing about what had transpired. And the happy couple should immediately afterwards go abroad and stay there, on as prolonged a honeymoon as was possible. When these requests were agreed to, they were married, by private licence, in the drawing room at Rosings.
‘I believe,’ observed Miss Bingley, ‘it was your old friend Mr Collins who did the honours – he was always ready to do anything in his power to oblige her ladyship. And Mr Darcy made all the arrangements, ensuring that – for the moment at least – it has attracted no public attention nor any breath of scandal. Rather as he did for your sister Lydia, as I recall?’
Describing the misfortunes of others had quite restored Miss Bingley’s self-assurance, and she poured herself more tea with all the calmness in the world. Mr Ryder, she continued, had attended the wedding, as had Mr and Mrs Darcy, although Lady Catherine had not lowered herself by doing so. She had been compelled to accept the fact of her daughter’s choice, but had resolved never to forgive her for it; and while Miss de Bourgh was exchanging her vows, her mother was consulting lawyers, determined to extract via the law the revenge she had not been able to elicit by any other means. By the time the new husband and wife were on board the boat to Calais, Lady Catherine had decided exactly what was to be done. The properties bequeathed to Miss de Bourgh by the terms of her father’s will could not be withheld from her, except by ingenious legal challenges, which were certain to be protracted and whose outcome must be unknown. But Lady Catherine’s own money remained hers to dispose of as she wished; and she was absolutely determined it should not be bestowed upon such a wicked, ungrateful child as her daughter had revealed herself to be.
‘So,’ concluded Miss Bingley, ‘to everyone’s surprise, including his own, she made Mr Ryder her heir. Mr Darcy and his family she considered wealthy enough already; and I think she had a particular disinclination to add to the riches your sister already enjoys. There being no other near relation, Mr Ryder was the lucky man. He will not be as wealthy as Mr Darcy. But he will certainly be what is called “comfortable”. Whoever marries him will be assured of a very agreeable situation.’
For a moment, Mary sat stupefied. It was some time before she spoke.
‘I am surprised no word of this story has yet found its way to Gracechurch Street. But I do not see why you think it should affect my feelings for Mr Ryder. If I did not encourage his advances before I was aware of his good fortune, you cannot think I would change my mind when I was told of it.’
Miss Bingley smiled her little smile.
‘I think it is entirely to Mr Ryder’s credit that he did not mention it to me himself,’ continued Mary. ‘A more foolish man – certainly a less honourable one – might have thought it would make a difference. And with some women, it might well do so.’
‘That is a strike at me, I imagine,’ said Miss Bingley, ‘but I do not feel it. I cannot be lectured by a Bennet on the relationship between love and money and be hurt by it. It is impossible for me to take your protestations at face value when I consider your sisters’ histories, or what your mother would be likely to advise, were you to confide in her.’
Mary picked up her cup and drank what remained of her tea. She did not hurry as she stood up, plucked her coat from the hook on the wall, and began to put it on.
‘You have insulted me and my family in every possible way,’ she said quietly. ‘There is really nothing more to be said between us.’
Now Miss Bingley rose, pushing her chair to the wall with such force that it scraped along the floor.
‘Can you promise me you will not marry Mr Ryder? That your refusal was not mere strategy on your part?’
‘I make no promise, I give you no undertaking. I owe you nothing at all.’
‘But I know you don’t want him – it’s the friend for whom you have such a tendresse, isn’t it, the boring lawyer? Does he know how you feel? Perhaps someone should enlighten him?’
The venom in Miss Bingley’s voice was unmistakeable, but Mary was surprised to discover herself unaffected by it. With an evenness she did not think she possessed, Mary was quite calm as she tied the ribbons under her hat.
‘For a long time, I was frightened of you, just as you intended me to be. But your power over me is finished now. I see you for what you are – a bitter, angry spirit, so eaten up with unhappiness that you can do nothing but make others as miserable as yourself. If I was a better woman, I should pity you. Instead I am merely grateful that you cannot touch me any more because I will not allow it.’
Mary straightened her hair and picked up her things, with as much equanimity as if she had been bidding Miss Bingley a polite farewell.
‘If you wish to make trouble, you will do so, whatever I say. But I will not live in fear of it and am therefore quite prepared to tell you what you seem so desperate to know. Yes, I do love Mr Hayward. He is the only man whom I think would ever make me happy. No, I have no wish to marry Mr Ryder. That is the truth. You may do with it what you will.’
She turned and left the room, closing the door quietly after herself, and walking down the stairs, head held high. It was only when she reached the street that she trembled a little with shock. But she mastered herself; she was not ashamed of how she had conducted herself or of what she had said. She did not look up once at the great bay window of the pastry shop, behind which she knew Miss Bingley still sat, but walked steadily into Leadenhall Market, heading towards Gracechurch Street and home.