Chapter Ninety-Five
Mary was discovering that being married was a far different thing than engaging in a secret correspondence.
Purvis Lodge was about the size of Longbourn, so there was plenty of room for the new Mr. and Mrs. Rochester to begin married life. Sadly, though, the house had not been kept up-to-date. The furnishings were old, the wallpaper even peeling in places.
So there was that, Mary thought. But her feelings of uneasiness went beyond the discomfort of living in a place that was not ideal. She was now happy enough with marital activities, as her mother termed them, as Robby had been very careful with her.
So what was it that had her so very unsettled? She sat in a comfortable chair in the drawing room and considered it.
Well, to begin with, Robby spoke a good deal about his art collection – what he had purchased, what he had almost purchased, what he still planned to purchase.
And while it had been easy enough to skim over such talk when written in a letter, it was far more difficult to do so over the breakfast table.
She had been unable to prevent her eyes from glazing over, but when her husband actually asked her opinion on the landscapes of John Constable as opposed to those of Joseph Turner, she had blushed and stammered something out.
Robby had looked disappointed, but had said nothing more about it.
Heavens, would she have to actually learn about art?
And then there was the fact that she rose a good deal earlier than did he. She was accustomed to breaking her fast no later than seven in the morning, while he did not appear until half past nine! Was she supposed to wait for him? Or should she eat when she pleased and allow him to do the same?
In the evenings, she retired early, while he was awake for another two or three hours! She had made every effort to stay awake to be with him until he was ready to go upstairs, but she fell asleep in her chair every time.
Were these difficulties natural in married life?
Or were she and Robby simply incompatible?
After all, what had they truly known about one another before being married?
Nothing more than what each of them had been willing to reveal in letters!
Never had they discussed what times they rose and went to bed!
She had known about his obsession – for so it must be termed – with art, of course, but somehow she had not realised that she might be expected to share it!
There was nothing to do but to speak with Mama about it.
When she announced her intention to visit her parents, Mr. Rochester looked up from his book – about art, of course – and asked if she wished him to accompany her. “No, no,” she assured him. “I would not wish to disturb your studies.”
She ordered the carriage and was at Longbourn half an hour later. Mrs. Bennet was sitting with Kitty in the parlour, evidently trying to teach Kitty to embroider. Mary could not recall Kitty ever having been interested in the needle arts before, and expressed her surprise.
Kitty replied that it was time for her to work on her accomplishments, and since she had no musical abilities at all, she thought she would try to learn to sew. “I can sew plainclothes, of course,” Kitty said. “But I would like to sew beautiful things the way Jane does.”
“And where is Lydia?” Mary went on. It was unusual to see Kitty without Lydia.
Mrs. Bennet answered, “Lydia is studying with Mr. Bennet, if you can credit it.”
Mary’s mouth fell open in shock. So Kitty and Lydia were stepping into the shoes of Jane and Elizabeth! How very odd!
“Kitty, would you mind if I spoke with Mama in private for a quarter of an hour?”
As it happened, Kitty would not mind at all; she leapt from her seat and all but ran out the door.
“I do not think that Kitty is particularly enjoying her embroidery lessons,” Mary said, as she sat down on the sofa Kitty had vacated.
“It takes a good deal of time and patience to master such skills,” Mrs. Bennet replied. “And I do not think Kitty enjoys it as Jane did. In any case, Mary,” Mrs. Bennet went on, eyeing her middle daughter closely. “What brings you here? Not that I am not glad to see you, of course.”
“I suppose I wanted some advice,” Mary said, slowly.
“You are finding marriage difficult?” Mrs. Bennet asked.
“Not difficult, precisely, but…”
“Confusing, perhaps?”
“Yes, that might be a better word. Tell me, Mama, when you first married Papa, no doubt he spoke a good deal about books and Greek and the like, did he?”
“He did,” Mrs. Bennet replied.
“And what did you do? Did you listen?”
“I might have, had I the slightest idea of what he was talking about! But I should have made more of an effort, and that is something I regret. What does Mr. Rochester talk about? Art, I expect?”
“Yes! It is art in the morning and art in the afternoon and art in the evening!
And I sit there, gazing into space, until he asks my opinion about something, and I have no idea of what to say!
Oh, Mama, and he goes to bed quite late and rises quite late, and am I expected to change my own hours to suit his?
I do not know what to do! And I am afraid that we will end up like – well, like –“ Mary could not go on.
“Like your parents,” Mrs. Bennet supplied.
Mary hung her head.