Chapter Ten
Mary
Lady Hamilton had brought her knitting, which was a reliable indicator of an afternoon that would not require her active participation.
She was Mr Thwaite's long-standing family friend, a connection from his mother's side, and a comfortable widow of sixty who had taken to chaperoning the Bennet girls at social occasions with great enthusiasm.
She was fond of the girls, which made her company easy, and she had strong views about the proper introduction of young women into society, which she shared freely.
She settled now into a chair in Mr Thwaite's library, her interest fixated on her knitting.
Mary and Mr Thwaite had been deep in Paley's Evidences within minutes of her arrival at his townhouse. The question at hand was whether Paley's watchmaker analogy adequately accounted for the complexity of moral experience. They were developing a cohesive analysis just as the Bingleys arrived.
The sound of a carriage on the gravel drive announced their presence first. Then came the voices in the entrance hall, one belonging to a man and the other to a woman, the first with a lightness she had come to associate with Mr Bingley, even at a distance.
The butler announced the presence of the new guests, who were subsequently directed to the library.
Mr Bingley walked in first, a habitual smile lingering on his face.
Mary knew him well enough by now: he had visited the Bennets on several occasions to see Jane, who spoke of him regularly enough for Mary to have formed a complete impression.
He was pleasant without effort and typically cheerful, and he always treated Mary with the same patient interest he applied to everyone. Behind him came Miss Caroline Bingley in a deep green gown that was perfectly suited to an afternoon call.
"Thwaite." Mr Bingley shook his host's hand. "I have been intending to visit for a fortnight. We have that outstanding matter about the northern property to discuss. I thought we might address it today, if you are not occupied."
"I am happy to discuss it in a couple of minutes," Mr Thwaite replied.
"Good, good. Ah, Miss Mary, how do you do?"
"Very well, Mr Bingley. I thank you."
"And your sisters? Miss Bennet is in good health, I hope?"
"She is quite well," Mary said. "She is to attend a garden party at the Fernsides’ this afternoon, I believe."
"Very good." He peered closer. "You were reading, I take it? We have interrupted."
"We were discussing Paley," Mr Thwaite said.
"Ah." Mr Bingley nodded. He was aware enough to realise he was in the presence of an intellectual conversation that he would be unable to contribute to and he didn't seem to mind that fact.
"I shall leave Paley to you. Caroline has been very eager to call.
She had some questions about the music at your last gathering, Thwaite. "
This last statement was delivered innocently and made it clear he had been told this was the reason for the visit.
Miss Bingley had, through all of this, been conducting her own assessment of the room. She glanced at Mary with a surface-level attentiveness that quietly communicated that she did not include Mary in the orbit of the room's subsequent arrangement.
"Mr Thwaite, I have been meaning to ask," Miss Bingley began with ease, "whether you attended the Philharmonic's last programme. The Haydn ‘Surprised Symphony’ was quite extraordinary. I have seldom heard it so well performed."
"I did not. I had a prior engagement," Mr Thwaite responded.
"A huge pity. Until that attendance, I had never heard it performed with such delicacy. There was an immense amount of refinement in the strings! I'm not easily moved by instrumental work, but this was exceptional."
To Mary, Miss Bennet’s thoughts appeared to have been prepared well in advance of the current moment. She had learned the vocabulary of a subject only enough to speak it fluently, and relied on said fluency because depth was more difficult to produce.
Mary knew the Haydn in question and had formed a view of it that was not about the delicacy of the strings. The second movement was interesting structurally, due to its harmonic resolution, which was more technically audacious.
Yet, she did not offer her opinion.
She was not sure why, only that Miss Bingley had an easy confidence about her, which came from never having to wonder whether she was the kind of person who ought to be listened to.
Her dress and posture were perfect; she had an incredible amount of self-possession that was rare to see in young women.
Mary was privy to the absence of that trait in herself. Watching Miss Bingley speak, she felt the familiar, dull pressure of comparison.
Mr Thwaite, for his part, was all courtesy. He said he had heard the performance well-spoken of, and then he gestured to Mary.
"Miss Mary here and I were discussing Paley’s argument on design before you two arrived. She raised an objection to the watchmaker analogy that I find particularly compelling."
Miss Bingley glanced at Mary only briefly. "What was the objection?"
"Indeed. I should like to hear it." Mr Bingley said with true curiosity.
Mary shyly provided the abbreviated version, which Mr Thwaite then elaborated upon with a precision that restored her full argument without making her feel she had been inadequate in its presentation. This was not an accident and thus, she was grateful for it.
Miss Bingley then offered a remark about the limits of rational theology.
It was not a poorly made remark, but it was devoid of enough logistical consistency to make it flawed.
It seemed deliberately crafted to draw Mr Thwaite’s attention, who merely gave an acknowledging nod before turning his focus back to Mary.
Lady Hamilton's needles continued their steady rhythm. The older woman was engrossed in her knitting, although the occasional twitching of her ears signalled that she was aware of the external audience.
Bingley, who had been listening to everyone speak, said finally: "I suppose the question is whether the watchmaker left any instructions."
Everyone looked at him and he appeared mildly surprised by this.
"Only that a craftsman who cared enough to design something intricate might also be expected to have views about how it should be used," he continued. "That seems reasonable. Whether the analogy holds, I leave that to people with more Paley than I have."
"I mean no offence, good friend, but I did not expect a man like yourself to have such a unique perspective on the topic. However, it is not an unreasonable point." Mr Thwaite said.
Mr Bingley glowed at the praise.
Miss Bingley made another attempt at securing Mr Thwaite’s regard.
She spoke of a lecture she had attended at the Royal Institution, where a famous mathematician's paper had been discussed at length.
As she expanded on her views on the scientific method, Mary listened and felt the internal pressure within her increase.
The Bingleys took their leave shortly after. Mr Thwaite saw them to the door and returned to find Mary at the bookcase with a volume she had taken from the shelf and had not opened.
"Are you well?" he asked.
"Yes, I am."
He was quiet for a moment. She was aware that he was not satisfied with her answer but had decided, as a matter of respect, not to press it.
"I have kept you long enough today and I ought to be leaving, I suppose," she added.
He did not contradict her. But instead of calling for the carriage directly, he suggested that the afternoon was clear enough for a short walk, if she was not too tired, and that the air downtown was pleasant at this hour.
Lady Hamilton, who had put away her knitting with a spry alertness, immediately said that a walk sounded exactly right.
As they left Mr Thwaite’s townhouse, Lady Hamilton took her accustomed position a comfortable few paces behind, close enough for propriety and far enough for the privacy of conversation.
As Mary walked beside Mr Thwaite, she listened to him describe the seventeenth-century Psalms commentary he had recently acquired.
He spoke at length of the condition of the manuscript, the points of theological argument he was finding most interesting, which she found truly absorbing.
Before long, Mary’s face transformed into a smile that held as much weight as his complete attention on her. That was the reliable nature of his company: it did not permit one to linger inside one's own difficulties.
They took a detour to one of Mary’s favourite places, McIntyre’s Ices, where she, Mr Thwaite, and Lady Hamilton all partook in an ice, before pressing on.
They stopped at a book shop where Mary procured a book of poetry, which Mr Thwaite immediately reserved for his own reading pleasure once she was done.
Her mood had lifted significantly, when they made their way into the park which served as a short cut to get home.
They had completed most of the circuit when Mary heard Mr Thwaite's name being called, delivered with a measure of surprise.
"Mr Thwaite! What a fortunate coincidence."
Mrs Bingley came toward them along the east path with Caroline Bingley beside her.
Twice in one afternoon. One ought to be so fortune, Mary thought to herself, in a most uncharitable manner. The woman must have returned home and then gone out again almost immediately, for despite the ices and stop to buy a book, merely 2 hours had passed since they last met.
Mrs Bingley's smile was the full one she brought to all social occasions and which made Mary uncomfortable for reasons she couldn’t explain.
"Mrs Bingley." Mr Thwaite greeted. "Miss Bingley. Good afternoon. What a pleasure to see you again so soon."
"We were just taking in the cool air. This path is so pleasant in the afternoon light, is it not?" Mrs Bingley turned, briefly, toward Lady Hamilton. "Lady Hamilton, how delightful. You are keeping our young friends company."
Not one for many words, Lady Hamilton nodded, secure in her function and executing it without apology. "I am, indeed. It's a good day for it."