Chapter Nine
Mary
Mary had come to understand that there was a distinct advantage to already having a suitor. It did not make her mother less interested in the business of matrimony—nothing short of a geological event would accomplish that — but it redirected her interest to her other children.
Mrs Bennet had Jane, Lydia, Kitty and Elizabeth to supervise at every assembly, which was a considerable project. Mary, who had Mr Thwaite's steady attention, was left largely to her own devices.
Given that she didn’t get as much pressure from Mrs Bennet to participate in activities in the Season, she often spent the time available to her in her library.
It had become her established territory, not through any formal claim, but as a result of repeated occupation.
Now the household understood that the library in the morning was Mary's, in the way she could be counted upon to be present in the music room in the evenings as well.
She often went to the library before breakfast, while the house was still rousing itself awake, and she read, wrote missives, or sat with a book on music theory.
Mr Thwaite did not visit often. His affairs occupied him with a consistency she had come to respect.
He had business in the city that was real and demanding, and he managed it with great diligence.
But when he did come around, which was typically twice a week, the visits were immensely sufficient.
He did not make up for brevity with performance.
He was usually fully present and they indulged in intriguing conversations.
On one morning, after breakfast, Mr Thwaite had arrived with a volume of Cowper under his arm. He set the book on the desk beside hers eagerly. "I find I am not satisfied with my previous reading of the third book. The devotional sections especially. I wanted to ask what you make of them."
A maid brought some tea, which Mr Thwaite sipped as Mary flipped through the book.
"I think Cowper is doing something that most devotional poets do not attempt, which is to write from inside the failure of faith rather than from its resolution," she said finally.
"Most religious poetry is written looking backwards: here is what I doubted, and here is how I came through it, and here is the clarity I reached on the other side.
Cowper never arrives at the other side. He is always in the middle of it. "
Mr Thwaite turned his teacup in its saucer, a slow, regular motion she had come to recognise as his thinking gesture. "But is that not a flaw? The poem presents itself as a work of faith. If it never arrives at faith, has it not failed its own intentions?"
"I think it has succeeded in its own capacity.
A poem that presents faith as achieved is not, in my experience, a very useful account.
It describes a destination but not the end.
Cowper describes the journey. The fact that the road is difficult, and that he does not pretend to have walked it cleanly, is exactly what makes the devotional passages worth reading. "
"You would say, then, that the uncertainty is a useful feature rather than a deficiency."
"I would say the uncertainty is the truth. Cowper never stops asking. The questions are painful and he says as much, repeatedly, but that is the most religious factor about the poem."
Mr Thwaite deliberated on this with full attention. Outside, a carriage sped along and inside, the fireplace flickered.
"There is a section in the second book, on retirement and solitude.
He seems to argue that withdrawal from society is a prerequisite for genuine prayer, suggesting that the crowd makes it impossible to hear God.
And yet the poem itself is deeply social.
It addresses a reader. It is in continuous dialogue. The form contradicts the argument."
"No," Mary shook her head. "He is not saying one must be physically alone to pray.
Only that one must achieve an interior quietness that most social existence makes very difficult.
The poem itself is a form of that quiet, a conversation that is also a prayer, directed at a human reader and at a figure beyond the human reader simultaneously. That is not a contradiction."
Mr Thwaite glanced at her in awe, which he often reserved for subjects or people who truly engaged him. This was a trait of his that Mary valued alongside his pure heartedness: his expressions which held immense depth and appreciation.
Their conversation continued for an hour and a half, drifting through various interesting topics. Mr Thwaite rose reluctantly, seeming to recall the existence of obligations he would, at the moment, prefer to defer.
"I have kept you long enough." He retrieved his hat from the side table where he had set it earlier. "I was in the middle of the third book when I arrived. I shall be sure to read it again for improved understanding."
"You will find it a different experience. Having something to argue against clarifies the mind notably. That is one of the better arguments for not reading alone."
"Then I am grateful for your perspective.
" He moved towards the door, and then paused, with his hand on the frame.
"I have not had a conversation of this quality…
not since my wife died. I want you to know that I value it.
And this." He gestured, briefly, at the library, which encompassed her presence, the books, the tea and possibly the sensations he felt within.
She met his gaze head on, without looking away. "So do I."
He nodded once, a smile tugging on his lips, before departing. She heard his footsteps in the hall, low exchanges with a footman and the closing of the front door.
The library was quiet and she sat for a long while without any intention of reading.
The recent conversation turned over in her head, unhurriedly.
It was not the anxious replaying of an exchange that held worry or uncertainty, but an easy, almost luxurious return to one that had gone entirely as it ought.
Thoughts about Mr Thwaite were not unusual.
She had been thinking about him with increasing frequency for the better part of three months, and had passed some time trying to establish whether this was appropriate.
In time, she had arrived at the conclusion that it was, even more so now that it had become clear that he was courting her.
She liked him very much, and with every visit her feelings grew, and the progression showed no signs of reversing. He was a good listener, an excellent conversationalist. And the compliments he directed at her were delivered delicately enough to make her swoon.
If he had asked her to marry him that morning, she would have said yes.
Mary exhaled and closed her eyes. This was the difficulty with mornings that began so intensely: they left the mind too full for the ordinary business of the afternoon.
Mr Thwaite had been married prior and often said little about his late wife.
Mary had not pressed, because doing that was not in her nature and because she had sensed that the subject was one he was not prepared to share.
However, today he had offered a sentence referring to his past, and it was sufficient.
The afternoon post arrived at three o’clock. Mary heard the administrative sounds of missives being sorted, not expecting anything that any would include her name. Elena's previous letter had arrived only a couple of days ago, after all.
She was wrong. The housemaid brought up a letter for her and Mary recognised the handwriting at once, that distinctive, forward-slanting script that she had come to know across several months of exchange.
My dearest Mary,
I write from London, which I did not anticipate doing so soon.
A relation of mine, a cousin on my late husband's side, with whom I have remained on cordial terms, has taken ill.
The illness is of a nature that requires someone to come to Town quickly.
I am here now, settled in a comfortable townhouse on Jermyn Street.
The cousin is improving, which is the most important thing, although the circumstance that brought me here has been rather anxious.
But I will not dwell on that, because I have something far more interesting to discuss, which is this: I am in London, and so are you, and the distance between us is now measured in streets rather than extended distance.
I have thought of you a great deal during the journey, and during the days since my arrival. I have been here a couple of days and have not written because the situation with the cousin has occupied most of my attention. Now I am writing to tell you I should like very much to meet you.
There is a flower garden in St James's Park that is often quiet in the mornings.
I have walked there several times since my arrival and found it entirely free of the kinds of interruptions that make some locations in Town unsuitable for conversation.
I suggest we meet there on a morning of your choosing. I will present myself accordingly.
I have thought often, in the past months, about what it will be like to meet the person whose opinions I have come to know so well through these pages.
I find I am not apprehensive, which surprises me as I am not typically easy with new encounters, but I believe that reflects the unusual nature of what we have built here.
I look forward to that meeting, good friend. I am eager, at last, to see your face.
Write to me at the enclosed address and tell me when you will come.
Your friend, Elena
The pleasure Mary felt was immediate. It was strengthened by the unexpected knowledge that her friend was near and the distance between them had collapsed.
She had imagined meeting Elena at various points over the course of their correspondence and the activity had always produced a feeling of anticipation rather than dread. She was not afraid of the meeting.