Mary Bennet: A Novella in the Personages of Pride & Prejudice Collection by Jennifer Becton Page A
Authors: Jennifer Becton
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accomplishments, and she had acted to please her parents and to raise herself in the esteem of the town by marrying Meryton’s most sought-after bachelor. She had never considered the possibility that attaining her dream might bring her such potential for unhappiness.
Her mother’s voice yanked Mary from her consternation.
“Oh! Mr. Randall,” Mrs. Bennet enthused. She gave her daughter a stern look before turning back to the gentleman. “Do not mind my daughter. She was deep in thought about your wedding, I am sure.”
“I—I,” Mary stammered. “I was thinking of our future.”
“You cut quite a dashing figure on the dance floor, Mr. Randall,” Mrs. Bennet continued, oblivious to Mary’s discomfort. “If you don’t mind my saying so.”
“You are all kindness,” replied Mr. Randall, bowing to her slightly. “I fear you are too generous, for I am well aware of my flaws.”
He glanced sidelong at Mary, and she thought she might have read guilt in the quick look.
“Well, we see no such flaws,” Mrs. Bennet protested, looking to her daughter for support. “Do we, Mary?”
Burdened by the weight of her situation, Mary could not manage to compose a reply and fell back on what was comfortable. “We are told to ‘judge not,’ and so I shall keep silent on the matter.”
“Mary!” her mother shrieked, dismayed by her daughter’s implication.
Mr. Randall smiled crookedly at her. “What a kind way of agreeing with me, Miss Bennet. It is no secret that dancing is not among my greatest talents, as I have often been told.”
Mary studied her would-be husband. He did not seem to be the sort of gentleman who would flaunt his unfaithfulness or steal a young woman’s dowry. He seemed perfectly agreeable, even now. But that could not be.
“Do not listen to my daughter, sir,” Mrs. Bennet said. “She is overtired from dancing, for she has never had so many partners in one evening. You must come and see her again after she has taken the opportunity of resting. Perhaps later in the week you would do us the honor of paying a visit to Longbourn.”
Mr. Randall looked to Mary and smiled again.
“I would be most happy to call upon you, Miss Bennet, if you wish it.”
“I do,” Mary said, for they had much to discuss.
Seventeen
On the day Mr. Randall was to call at Longbourn, Mary found herself alone at the pianoforte, still pondering what she ought to do and say to her betrothed. Her fingers caressed the keys, but she hardly heard the resulting music.
How she wished she might discuss the matter with her mother or father, but surely they would only encourage her to hold her peace and marry Mr. Randall as planned. That was the sensible choice.
Mary longed to be sensible and rational, but she must discover the truth about the young woman. Though many wives seemed to coexist quite peacefully with a philandering husband, Mary knew herself well enough to be aware that she would not. Marrying a gentleman who loved another—whose eyes were ever focused on another—would be an unendurable fate. The town would pity her, and in her own household, she would be all but invisible. No one, not even her husband, would look upon her.
Though she had never contemplated the prospect of love, she must do so now. If Mr. Randall could not love Mary, then, at the very least, he must not give his heart to another woman. Mary could not bear knowing that with each look at her—his wife—he would be wishing another woman sat in her place.
Even if it cost everything, Mary would not allow that to happen.
She winced. She might very well lose her reputation and her place in society. As she once said of her sister Lydia, “Loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable—that one false step involves her in endless ruin—that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful, and that she cannot be too much guarded in her behavior toward the undeserving of the other sex.”
What a dreadful coincidence that her
Her mother’s voice yanked Mary from her consternation.
“Oh! Mr. Randall,” Mrs. Bennet enthused. She gave her daughter a stern look before turning back to the gentleman. “Do not mind my daughter. She was deep in thought about your wedding, I am sure.”
“I—I,” Mary stammered. “I was thinking of our future.”
“You cut quite a dashing figure on the dance floor, Mr. Randall,” Mrs. Bennet continued, oblivious to Mary’s discomfort. “If you don’t mind my saying so.”
“You are all kindness,” replied Mr. Randall, bowing to her slightly. “I fear you are too generous, for I am well aware of my flaws.”
He glanced sidelong at Mary, and she thought she might have read guilt in the quick look.
“Well, we see no such flaws,” Mrs. Bennet protested, looking to her daughter for support. “Do we, Mary?”
Burdened by the weight of her situation, Mary could not manage to compose a reply and fell back on what was comfortable. “We are told to ‘judge not,’ and so I shall keep silent on the matter.”
“Mary!” her mother shrieked, dismayed by her daughter’s implication.
Mr. Randall smiled crookedly at her. “What a kind way of agreeing with me, Miss Bennet. It is no secret that dancing is not among my greatest talents, as I have often been told.”
Mary studied her would-be husband. He did not seem to be the sort of gentleman who would flaunt his unfaithfulness or steal a young woman’s dowry. He seemed perfectly agreeable, even now. But that could not be.
“Do not listen to my daughter, sir,” Mrs. Bennet said. “She is overtired from dancing, for she has never had so many partners in one evening. You must come and see her again after she has taken the opportunity of resting. Perhaps later in the week you would do us the honor of paying a visit to Longbourn.”
Mr. Randall looked to Mary and smiled again.
“I would be most happy to call upon you, Miss Bennet, if you wish it.”
“I do,” Mary said, for they had much to discuss.
Seventeen
On the day Mr. Randall was to call at Longbourn, Mary found herself alone at the pianoforte, still pondering what she ought to do and say to her betrothed. Her fingers caressed the keys, but she hardly heard the resulting music.
How she wished she might discuss the matter with her mother or father, but surely they would only encourage her to hold her peace and marry Mr. Randall as planned. That was the sensible choice.
Mary longed to be sensible and rational, but she must discover the truth about the young woman. Though many wives seemed to coexist quite peacefully with a philandering husband, Mary knew herself well enough to be aware that she would not. Marrying a gentleman who loved another—whose eyes were ever focused on another—would be an unendurable fate. The town would pity her, and in her own household, she would be all but invisible. No one, not even her husband, would look upon her.
Though she had never contemplated the prospect of love, she must do so now. If Mr. Randall could not love Mary, then, at the very least, he must not give his heart to another woman. Mary could not bear knowing that with each look at her—his wife—he would be wishing another woman sat in her place.
Even if it cost everything, Mary would not allow that to happen.
She winced. She might very well lose her reputation and her place in society. As she once said of her sister Lydia, “Loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable—that one false step involves her in endless ruin—that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful, and that she cannot be too much guarded in her behavior toward the undeserving of the other sex.”
What a dreadful coincidence that her
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