Chapter Five The Return of the Prodigal Wallflower
The morning of Mary Bennet's departure from Darcy House dawned with the precise shade of grey that London reserved for emotional farewells and funerals. Mary found both equally uncomfortable and was grateful the sky had chosen to match her mood.
Georgiana stood in the entrance hall, clutching a handkerchief she had not yet needed but was clearly preparing to deploy at the first sign of sentiment. Her lower lip trembled. Her eyes glistened. She looked, Mary thought, like a porcelain doll that had been left out in the rain.
"You must write to me." Georgiana's voice wobbled dangerously. "Every week. Every day. I shall wither without your counsel, Mary. I shall revert to my former state of jellyfish-like compliance. I shall be invertebrate."
"You will do no such thing." Mary adjusted her spectacles with a brisk gesture designed to forestall any tearful embraces.
"You have been practising your narrow-eyed stare for three weeks.
You successfully bullied Madame Fanchon regarding the price of lace on Tuesday.
You are no longer a jellyfish, Georgiana.
You are, at minimum, a very determined barnacle. "
"A barnacle." Georgiana sniffled, though a smile broke through the impending tragedy. "That is the strangest thing anyone has ever called me."
"It was not intended as strange. It was intended as accurate. Barnacles are immovable. They cling to rocks and ships and refuse to be dislodged by storms or scraping. You shall be a barnacle, Georgiana. You shall attach to your principles and let the tide do its worst."
They stood facing each other, two young women who had spent a month learning to be walls and had discovered, somewhat to their mutual surprise, that walls could also be friends.
Georgiana extended her hand. Mary took it.
"Iron for air," Georgiana whispered.
"Backbone for beauty," Mary replied.
They shook once, firmly, in the manner of generals concluding a successful campaign. Georgiana's handkerchief remained dry. Mary considered this a victory.
Elizabeth appeared in the doorway, her expression caught between amusement and affection.
"The carriage is ready, Mary. And there is a delivery for you. A rather large one. It appears to be... flowers?"
Mary turned.
A footman stood behind Elizabeth, looking significantly wider than usual because he was obscured by a vegetative explosion.
His arms were full of yellow blooms—roses, chrysanthemums, and several varieties Mary could not immediately identify but suspected were expensive.
The arrangement was enormous. It was cheerful.
It was aggressively optimistic in a way that made Mary instantly suspicious.
"There must be a mistake." Mary approached the bouquet as one might approach a potentially venomous creature. "I do not receive flowers. I receive books from Aunt Gardiner. Occasionally, I receive unsolicited advice about my posture. I do not receive shrubbery."
"The card is addressed to Miss Mary Bennet.
" Elizabeth plucked a small envelope from the arrangement and offered it with a smile that suggested she knew precisely how entertaining the next few moments would be.
"Quite clearly. In a hand that appears to have been educated at a very good school and then immediately forgotten everything it learned about penmanship. "
Mary took the card. She opened it with the detached eye of an anatomist examining a suspicious growth.
Miss Bennet,
Thank you for the depth.
—C.B.
She stared at the words. She read them again. She turned the card over, as if additional explanation might be hiding on the reverse, perhaps a bibliography or a footnote. There was none.
"C.B." Mary's voice emerged flat. "Who is C.B.?"
"I cannot imagine." Elizabeth's eyes were dancing now, bright with barely suppressed mirth. "Though I did notice Mr Bingley leaving his card recently. He seemed rather distracted. He walked into the doorframe on his way out. Twice. It was very thorough of him."
Mr Bingley? What new madness is this?
Mary looked at the flowers. They were very yellow. They were the colour of sunshine and optimism and people who believed the world was fundamentally jolly. They were entirely impractical. They would wilt within a week. They served no purpose whatsoever except to be beautiful.
She found them, against every instinct she possessed, far more interesting than a Doric column.
"I shall take them with me," she announced, surprising no one more than herself. "The carriage has room. And botany is a respectable science."
Elizabeth said nothing, though her smile said everything.
Mary gathered the flowers, tucked the card into her reticule, and walked out to the waiting carriage. She did not look back at Darcy House. She held the bouquet very gently as she was helped into the equipage.
The road from London to Hertfordshire stretched before Mary like a sentence in a particularly tedious sermon—long, winding, and inevitable.
She sat with her back straight, her spectacles polished to a gleam, and Mr Bingley's yellow flowers arranged on the seat beside her. The bouquet was another passenger, one that beamed at the upholstery and shed pollen cheerfully.
The maid, a sensible woman named Hobbs who had been lent by Elizabeth for the journey, was situated opposite. Hobbs was knitting a grey and shapeless thing, and she did so with the rhythmic clicking of a ticking clock.
Mary watched the city give way to the countryside. The cramped, soot-stained streets of London dissolved into rolling green hills, hedgerows, and the occasional cow that stared at the passing carriage with the vacant expression of a creature unburdened by the concept of social expectations.
Mary envied the cows. They stood in fields, they chewed grass, and—most importantly—they did not have mothers. Or if they did, the mothers were likely in a pie, which was tragic, but quiet.
She opened the small notebook she had begun keeping, a log of her "improvements," as she called them.
Previously, she had only dared to keep these accounts in her head, where no one could see the deficit.
But London had changed things. It was important to keep accounts on paper now.
One could not manage what one did not measure properly.
The first page contained a list:
Accomplishments Achieved in London:
Mastered the Narrow-Eyed Stare. (Effective on fishmongers, haberdashers, and one unfortunate curate who attempted to explain the Book of Job to me. He retreated during the plague of boils.)
Played Music That Made Georgiana Weep. (Intentionally. And she thanked me for it.)
Survived Twelve Balls Without Quoting Fordyce. (An unhuman feat of restraint, given the behaviour of some of the gentlemen present.)
Received Flowers from a Gentleman. (Unexplained. Possibly a clerical error. Or a prank.)
She studied the fourth entry. It still made no sense. It defied the laws of the universe.
Men did not send flowers to Mary Bennet. Men sent flowers to Janes and Elizabeths and Lydias—women who sparkled and flirted and made the world seem a place worth living. Mary did not sparkle. She informed. She corrected. She cited sources.
These were different skills, and none of them attracted floral tributes. They attracted silence and a sudden need to check the weather.
And yet.
Thank you for the depth.
What depth?
She had insulted a Countess, explained the economics of trade routes, and compared portraiture to digestive complaints. These were not actions which inspired romantic gestures. These were actions which inspired polite concern for her sanity. She had not been charming. She had been accurate.
Unless.
Mary looked at the flowers. A horrible thought occurred to her.
Unless he likes it.
Noooooooo. Mary shuddered. That is impossible. No one likes accuracy that much. He is simply confused. He has mistaken my rudeness for charm. It is the only logical explanation.
The carriage jolted over a rut in the road, launching the yellow blooms briefly into the air. Mary caught the bouquet with one hand, steadying the aggressive optimism before it left its petals on the squabs.
"Hertfordshire approaches, Miss." Hobbs did not look up from her knitting, her needles clicking ominously. "We should arrive within the hour."
Home.
Mary closed her notebook and tucked it into her reticule, beside the card.
A headache began forming behind her eyes. She sighed dramatically but quietly, not wanting to attract the maid's attention.
She braced herself.
Longbourn appeared through the carriage window like an old acquaintance one had hoped to avoid at a party—familiar, slightly dishevelled, and demanding attention.
The house looked exactly as Mary had left it: white walls, climbing roses that were winning the war against the brickwork, and the same crooked shutter on the east wing that Mr Bennet had been promising to fix since the reign of Henry the Eighth.
The garden was overgrown in the cheerful, haphazard manner of a household that had given up on discipline and embraced "botanical anarchy" as a design philosophy.
The front door burst open before the carriage had fully stopped.
Mrs Bennet emerged like a force of nature in muslin. Her cap was askew and her eyes wild. Her handkerchief was fluttering in the summer breeze like a white flag of a war only she was fighting.
"Mary! Oh, Mary! At last! I thought you would never come! I have been waiting and waiting, and my nerves, Mary, my nerves are in such a state that I cannot describe it, though I shall try, for the agony is considerable and must be expressed—"
Mary stepped down from the carriage and was immediately engulfed.
Her mother's embrace was not a greeting. It was a siege. It was a combination of relief, accusation, and desperate clutching. Her mother had been denied an audience for her complaints and was determined to make up for lost time.