Chapter 45
Mary did not think she could endure dinner that night.
Instead, she sat alone in her room, trying to decide what to do.
It was clearly impossible for her to remain at Longbourn.
Charlotte had been honest, but she was also implacable.
But where was she to go? Pemberley was out of the question, and her courage failed her when she imagined returning to the Bingleys’, subjected once more to the complaints of her mother, and Caroline Bingley’s torments.
No, she did not think she could bear it.
But who else could she ask? It was not until the following morning that a new possibility occurred to her.
Perhaps the Gardiners might take her? Her uncle and aunt were, without doubt, the most generous of her relations.
Mr. Gardiner was everything his sister Mrs. Bennet was not, open-hearted and cheerful, without pretense or affectation of any kind.
His wife was equally kind and affectionate.
Their residing in London had meant Mary had not seen them herself for some years, but she had heard much from Jane and Elizabeth of the thoughtful consideration which they had extended to both sisters when they had been troubled and needed to escape the confines of Longbourn.
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had happily offered them refuge in their home when it had been most needed; perhaps they would be prepared to accept Mary on similar terms?
The more she considered this possibility, the more hopeful she became.
After Mr. Bennet’s death, Mary had received from Mrs. Gardiner a letter of condolence in which her sincere regret at Mary’s loss and her frank appreciation of the difficulties of her situation had touched her very much.
It had concluded with an invitation to visit them whenever she wished.
Mrs. Gardiner understood that, as Mary had not been much in London, the prospect of staying with them there might seem a very formidable step; but she was to understand that their house at Gracechurch Street was always to be thought of as a second home to her, if she wished to join them there.
It was quickly plain to Mary that the Gardiners were her best and indeed only hope.
She did not find it easy to write the letter proposing herself as a guest to them; but the prospect of another encounter with Lady Catherine overcame any shrinking sense of delicacy that might once have troubled her.
She knew she must get away before that lady ushered her firmly into a schoolroom, ignoring all her protests and delightedly closing the door behind her.
Mary did not know what might become of her in London, but she was pleased to discover that she had courage enough to prefer an uncertain future to one she knew would make her unhappy.
By the end of the week, she had her answer, and it was just as she had hoped.
Mrs. Gardiner replied they would be delighted to see her and that she should come as soon as she found it convenient.
They would give her a room at the back of the house, where the noise of the City was least likely to trouble her; and if she could contrive to get herself on the coach from Meryton, Mr. Gardiner would be happy to meet her at Charing Cross.
Charlotte received Mary’s news with equanimity.
She offered no comment on her decision, other than offering to write to Lady Catherine, explaining that family circumstances had called Mary away from Hertfordshire, making it impossible for her to take up her ladyship’s kind offer to find her a situation.
Indeed, now she was certain Mary was leaving, much of Charlotte’s old warmth returned.
She made sure her clothes were properly packed, helped her gather up her books, lent her the money to pay the coach fare, and even included a pot of her lavender-scented floor polish as a gift for Mrs. Gardiner.
Mrs. Hill was far more distressed to see her go.
“I should hate to think the conversation we had a while ago was the reason for your leaving. I never intended to make trouble for you.”
“No, Mrs. Hill, none of this is your fault. If it is anyone’s, it is mine. There were things I did not see clearly, and your words made me more aware of the risk I ran.”
“You should not take all the blame upon yourself. Excuse me if I say I think Mr. Collins might have acted more carefully.”
“I think both of us were in error,” said Mary sadly.
“I was foolish. I thought I had found a friend, someone with whom to share my interests, who seemed to enjoy instructing me. It never occurred to me that any other construction might be put upon the time we spent together. I am not the sort of woman that men fall in love with.”
“You think too little of yourself. It makes me sad to hear it.”
“Well then, I will say no more. But I am glad to see that Mr. and Mrs. Collins seem far more contented with each other than used to be the case.”
Through the window, the couple were just visible in the garden, occupied as ever around the little arbour. Charlotte stood, plans in hand, whilst her husband positioned a sapling. William ran around them, laughing and shouting at the top of his voice.
Mrs. Hill suddenly seized Mary’s hands and held them tightly.
“One day I shall see you come back here as a married woman. I’m sure of it. It is what you deserve. And when it happens, I shall drink to your health, with the greatest joy.”
Mary leant over and kissed her cheek.
“Shall we ask Mr. Hill to come up and take down my bags?”
A short while later, Mary stood on the front steps, watching as her possessions were loaded onto the coach.
Soon she was ready to go. All the family were assembled to see her off.
William gave her a sticky kiss; Charlotte pecked her cheek and urged her to write as soon as she reached London; and Mr. Collins made his usual bow.
He had said very little to her since she announced her intention of leaving.
She supposed he felt a little ashamed now of the intimacy they had shared in the library.
But he held out his hand to help her into the carriage, and once she was settled, without a word he placed a small parcel on the seat beside her, before returning to stand alongside his wife and child.
All three waved as the carriage pulled away.
Mary waved back, gazing back at the house as it receded slowly into the distance.
As she watched the figures of Mr. and Mrs. Collins grow smaller and smaller, it struck her that Charlotte’s new attitude to her husband in many ways resembled her ambitions for Longbourn itself.
She had acquired both as unimproved properties.
There were exterior elements that did not please, but she was astute enough to appreciate that the basic structures of both were sound.
A woman of vision and patience might shape something of value from such raw materials; and although the result might never aspire to the heights of fashion, or display a thousand graceful details, it could be made solid and dependable, offering comfort and security to those satisfied with such unobtrusive virtues.
Charlotte dearly loved a project, and Mary had no doubt she would succeed as admirably with Mr. Collins as she had done with Longbourn.
The coach was well onto the Meryton road before Mary remembered the little package.
She undid it carefully, peeling back the wrappings before revealing the little Greek dictionary.
A small slip of paper poked out from between its pages.
On it was a line of writing in Mr. Collins’s hand.
She had to slip on her glasses before she saw that it was in Greek.
It took a few minutes and recourse to the dictionary before she was certain she understood what it said.
But she recognised the quotation. It was one they had often discussed together.
“Happiness depends on ourselves.”
She took off her glasses and leant her cheek against the cold window.
She had been determined not to cry when she arrived at Longbourn, and would not give into tears now she was leaving.
She took the slip of paper, placed it carefully in the dictionary, and put both safely in her bag.
The carriage rolled on through the countryside as she tried not to think of what might lie in front of her.
Tomorrow she would be in London, and Longbourn would seem very far away.