Chapter 2
Mary awoke feeling distinctly rumpled from her outburst. She rubbed her face and looked over at her desk.
There were two stacks of papers, a book, and a half-written letter.
That desk and the piano downstairs were the centers around which her life revolved.
During daylight hours, she was always at one or the other unless she was eating or, very rarely, shopping.
She got up and flipped idly through the stacks of pages. She knew what was there. After all, she had written it herself. One stack was made up of extracts she had created to help her fix in her mind what various books were trying to convey.
Elizabeth had always looked scathingly at these extracts, clearly thinking they were a waste of time and paper. The rest of her sisters mostly ignored them. None of them realized that they were essential to her studies.
Mary was not particularly bright. The only way she could learn the intensely weighty topics in the books she read was to summarize them as she read them.
Then she would study and re-study these summaries.
When someone she knew appeared to be in need of help or advice, she could draw upon these extracts to offer words of wisdom which she hoped would help them.
She moved her attention to the second stack of papers.
These contained Mary’s own musings, which she never shared with anyone.
She was certain they contained nothing of worth, since the ideas therein were substantially different from the ideas within her philosophy books.
Still, these were essentially extracts of life.
Since she had trouble understanding people and society naturally, she often wrote down experiences that puzzled her. Then, later, she would re-read these experiences and try to understand what they meant. She would write her thoughts on the experience in the margins or even between the lines.
Needless to say, these pages were far messier than her extracts.
Then, there was the half-finished letter.
Without even reading it, Mary picked it up and threw it in the grate, where it immediately caught fire from the flame that burned within. She watched it disintegrate with a certain grim satisfaction.
That worthless, pointless, stupid letter represented Mary’s most embarrassing secret.
Though she had accepted long ago that she would never be the object of a man’s affection; though she knew people assumed she was all logic and reason and had little feeling in her; Mary had a tendency to fall in love.
The first time it had happened, she was only thirteen.
Somehow, she developed an odd fascination with watching the blacksmith’s son learn his trade.
She decided to write him a love letter to get her feelings, which could never be openly expressed, out of her heart.
When the letter was done, she threw it in the fire, hoping that the fire would destroy the feelings along with the letter.
It hadn’t worked immediately, but once she had repeated the process three times, she lost her interest in the boy.
Once or twice a year since that time, Mary had gained a new object of her affection or fascination.
Each time, she poured her feelings out onto paper and burned them up.
Over the years, she had become quite adept at recognizing how it felt to fall in love, and she was even better at expressing it, at least on paper.
This knowledge, however, gave her no pride or sense of accomplishment. It was a useless ability for someone whose love and affection would never be returned or even desired.
This particular letter was for Jacob Lucas.
He was two years younger than Charlotte Lucas, now Charlotte Collins, and five years older than Mary.
He was the heir to Sir William Lucas’ fortune and property.
Mary had recently begun to recognize that his curly hair simply begged for someone to run their fingers through it, and his childish grin was entirely too charming.
The letter she had just burned was the first one she had written to him, and it was incomplete. However, there was no point in ever completing it. The fire of her affection was already gone.
When Mary had looked out at the crowd of people who had heard her play her song, she had clearly seen Jacob Lucas grimacing in displeasure.
Mary’s crush was crushed. There were no more feelings to write and no reason to complete the half-written letter.
Mary sat at her desk and stared at the evidence of her life’s work. At the moment, it held no appeal whatsoever. She was no longer certain it ever would again. The whole point of it all was that it was something she could do to gain recognition, but as the years passed that recognition had waned.
Now, she couldn’t remember the last time anyone genuinely praised her music or was truly grateful for the words of wisdom she shared. Without that, what use was any of it?
Eventually, the sun set, but Mary still made no move to go downstairs. Instead, she sat there with the fire as her only light source and stared off into the air, allowing her thoughts to go where they wished.
When Sarah, the maid who helped her and her sisters with their clothes and hair, arrived, she made no comment on Mary’s rumpled dress, her messy hair, or her tear-stained face.
She simply helped Mary wash up. Then she fixed her hair and buttoned up her dress.
When Sarah’s work was done, she took her light and headed to Kitty’s room.
Mary sat in the near dark for several more minutes.
She did not want to go downstairs, but her father had told her she could not study in her room after dark.
Though he would pay for a fire in there during the day when it was cold, he would not pay for the extra cost of the candles she would surely burn if he allowed her to study at night.
With a great sigh, Mary stood up and headed for the door, making her way down to the drawing room where the family gathered before dinner was served.
She was the first one there, but her father entered shortly afterward. “That was quite a display you made at your sisters’ breakfast,” he said. His cryptic comment sounded disparaging, but Mary still did not know what she had done wrong, so she made no response.
Mama came down next, but she made no comment other than a greeting. She was clearly tired after hosting the biggest entertainment this neighborhood had seen all year.
Then Kitty came. It was obvious from the moment she appeared that she was furious.
She walked right up to Mary and said, “Mary, how could you? It was mean and selfish, just as selfish as anything Lydia has ever done. I thought you were better than her or at least more mature, but you are no better. I can’t believe I am stuck here with you being my only sister left. ”
Mary felt as if she had been slapped. It took her a moment to come up with any response whatsoever.
As she attempted to gather her thoughts, she noticed her father watching them, the hint of his sarcastic smile curling one side of his lips.
She wasn’t certain whether he agreed with Kitty or he was simply watching the entertainment of two sisters fighting.
“I don’t understand,” said Mary. “I didn’t do anything selfish. What are you talking of?”
Kitty rolled her eyes. “That is exactly what Lydia would have done. Do you not recall when she nearly ruined us all by eloping with a man who almost refused to marry her? Then, when she did come back, she had no clue she had done anything wrong. That is you, Mary. You ruined Jane’s and Elizabeth’s wedding breakfast by taking all the attention to yourself.
You played so loudly that no one could speak or do anything else but stare at you. And you did it for fifteen minutes.
“It would have been bad enough if you had played for five minutes, but no, you had to take all the attention for a quarter of an hour. And then, when you got the response you so rightly deserved, which was no response at all, you rushed out of the room and didn’t come back, not even to see your sisters off. ”
Mary stared at Kitty, not knowing what to say. This interpretation of the situation had never occurred to her, but the fury in Kitty’s eyes and the urgency with which she spoke pointed to the idea that at the very least Kitty viewed Mary’s behavior in such a light.
With the memory of her own pain still fresh in her mind, Mary could not truly comprehend all that Kitty was trying to say, nor could she determine how to respond. Though her mind could think of no words, her stomach seemed to know just what to do. It revolted.
“Mama,” said Mary, “I suddenly have no appetite. May I be excused from dinner?”
Mama opened her mouth to reply, but Kitty spoke first. “That is just like your selfishness,” she said.
“You shove yourself forward when no one wants you to. Then, when your presence is wanted, you run away. Well, good riddance, I say. Go, run away up to your room. Dinner will be all the better without your pithy comments and your pointless, unsympathetic, and unwanted advice.”
Mary did not wait for Mama’s permission. She bolted from the room, ran up the stairs, and reached the safety of her room just in time to empty the meagre contents of her stomach into the chamber pot.
Only when her stomach was empty and her mouth had been rinsed to rid it of the taste of bile did Mary’s mind catch up and begin to understand Kitty’s words.
If Kitty was correct, everything Mary had ever done, all her work, her self-sacrifice, her pain and discomfort, all of it wasn’t just for nothing.
Rather it was the reason she was unloved.
Instead of garnering praise and gratitude with her efforts, she had only succeeded in alienating herself further.
It is a hard, hard thing when a person realizes they have wasted a large portion of their life. Additionally, it is devastating when someone finds that they are not the person they thought they were.
Mary never set out to be selfish. She had good intentions.
She wished to be of service to others simply to gain just a bit of notice, only a little bit of attention.
If Kitty was to be believed, however, she had never considered whether her “helpfulness” was truly helpful.
She had never considered how others might perceive her actions in any way.
Mary sat in her darkened room for the rest of the night, simply staring into the fire or gazing out the window, as her mind gradually came to grips with this new perspective on her life. Sleep that night was not easy to find, but she did eventually manage to get some rest.
In the morning, when Sarah came in to help Mary dress, she allowed it, but she asked Sarah to see if a maid could bring her some toast and tea to her room. “If Mama asks why, simply tell her I am not feeling particularly well,” Mary explained.
As usual, Sarah made no objections or comments. She simply did as she was told. Twenty minutes later, a tray with lukewarm tea and cold toast arrived.
Mary consumed it slowly, since her stomach was still not particularly happy to be receiving food. As for Mary, she was simply happy to not have to face her family.
Mary spent the rest of the day in her room. Sometimes, she thought about her life, recollecting the many things she had read and the many hours of self-suppression that it took to play the piano accurately. Sometimes, she thought about nothing in particular.
As time passed, something within Mary began to change.
She was not certain whether she should be grateful that no one disturbed her musings or to simply chalk it up to yet another example of how no one truly cared about Mary in any way. In the end, it made little difference. When Mary awoke the following morning, she was a new woman.
No longer would she practice or play the piano unless she wanted to. No longer would she spend hours forcing knowledge into her unwilling mind. No longer would she seek approval or gratitude from anyone.
If Mary’s family and neighbors truly believed Mary was selfish, then that was exactly what she would be.
If no one would show her any affection, she would manufacture it herself.
She would do what she wanted to do, how she wanted to do it, and she would take no one’s concerns into consideration other than her own.
Her family was surprised to see Mary descend to breakfast that morning in such a calm manner. She said nothing as she buttered her toast and poured her tea. Instead, she listened to Kitty chatter about her plans to visit Maria Lucas.
When there was a pause in Kitty’s flow of words, Mary said, “Mama, I would like to walk into Meryton today. I have some shopping I would like to do.”
“Alone?” asked Mama.
“There is no one to accompany me,” said Mary. “Three of my sisters are gone, and Kitty clearly has plans for the day. Besides, I think it might be pleasant to walk on my own. If I recall, Elizabeth did so quite often.”
“I suppose you are correct,” said Mama. “Very well. You may go. I do hope the experience cheers you up a bit.”
Mary smiled a tiny little secretive smile. “I’m sure it shall,” she said.
She made no other conversation until just before Kitty was ready to leave the table.
Then she said, “Kitty, I would like to thank you for your words to me two days ago.” She made no explanation as to why she would say such a thing, and Kitty clearly was confused.
However, when Mary did not continue, Kitty simply shrugged and flounced out of the room.