Chapter 86
Mrs. Bennet’s trip to London was not, as she explained at length to anyone unwise enough to ask about it, undertaken in pursuit of pleasure. Left to herself, she should not have risked it, for the journey was tedious and the inns unsatisfactory. But her doctor insisted upon it.
“Dr. Gower would hear no contradiction. ‘Your well-being depends upon it, ma’am.’ That was what he said—and the orders of a medical man are never to be ignored, so here I am.”
“No, indeed,” replied Mrs. Gardiner, as she, Mary, and Mrs. Bennet sat in a rather formal circle, drinking their morning coffee. “You were very wise to come. And who is it you are to see?”
“His name is Dr. Simmons,” said Mrs. Bennet respectfully, “and he takes a particular interest in ladies who suffer with their nerves. He charges a guinea a visit, but what is money where one’s health is concerned?”
She is still very handsome for her age, thought Mary, covertly watching her mother from under lowered eyes, and as proud of her appearance as ever.
As if to confirm the truth of Mary’s observation, Mrs. Bennet glanced quickly at her reflection in one of her sister-in-law’s pier glasses, made a minute adjustment to her hair, and another to her cap, before turning away with the satisfaction of having found everything as much to her liking as usual.
“You look very well, Mama,” ventured Mary. “Have your nerves been troubling you? I should not have guessed it from your appearance.”
“I would not expect you to understand. You have no notion of what I suffer.”
“And how long will the treatment last?” interrupted Mrs. Gardiner.
“Usually a week is sufficient, although with a particularly difficult case, it may take up to ten days. I only hope Jane can spare me for so long.”
“I’m sure she must have been very reluctant to see you go. Especially in her condition.”
“Oh, she was beside herself. But Mr. Bingley was all consideration, urging me to think of myself. He insisted I was not to hurry back until I had been properly attended to. He has sympathy for my state, even if others do not.”
Mary decided to ignore her mother’s pointed glare and reached out instead for one of the little cakes that sat so invitingly amongst the coffee things. Before she could take one, Mrs. Bennet removed them to the other end of the table.
“I don’t think so, Mary. Sugar is most injurious to complexions such as yours.”
With a sigh, Mary understood that her mother had been provoked by her remark about her nerves; and that she must expect to suffer for it until Mrs. Bennet felt herself revenged.
And just as Mary had expected, when Mrs. Gardiner left the room to see to her children, her mother settled down to the pleasure of delivering a few more disobliging observations.
“I cannot say your holiday has been of much benefit to you.” She moved a little nearer, to examine her daughter more closely. “You don’t look anywhere near as well as you did when you set out. You are quite pale. Washed out, even.”
“I’m sorry you think so, Mama.”
“A little rouge might not go amiss. But judging from her own complexion, Mrs. Gardiner has none about her.”
“I do not know, I have not asked her.”
“Well, as everything of hers is always to be preferred by you to anything of mine, I shall not offer you any of my own. Were there any young men to be met with in the Lakes?”
“There were two gentlemen in our party, Mama. As I believe I wrote to tell you.”
“Did you? I cannot recall. But neither of them showed you any particular attention?”
“I did not go to the Lakes in search of a suitor,” replied Mary, as evenly as she could, “but to see for myself the beauties of the landscape. And with that, I was very well satisfied.”
Boldly, she reached across to the plate of cakes and took one; but her defiance was not equal to actually consuming it in the face of her mother’s frank disapproval, and she set it, untasted, on the edge of her coffee cup.
“Were you indeed? Well, I suppose we must hope your luck will change now you are back in town.”
Mrs. Bennet leant over and rang the bell.
“The girl can come up now and do the dusting. This furniture is a disgrace.” She ran her finger across the top of a little side table and looked askance at the results.
“I suppose you remember what I told you about your spectacles? Did you wear them at the Lakes? If so, you have only yourself to blame for coming home in the same situation in which you left. But my advice is never heeded.”
Mrs. Bennet’s visits to Dr. Simmons met all her expectations, as he took a most gratifying interest in her complaints, without prescribing anything unpleasant to cure them.
Her only regret was that the consultations were over so quickly.
They occupied no more than a few hours every other morning, leaving her with a great deal of time on her hands; which required Mary and Mrs. Gardiner to give up their other occupations to entertain her.
With Mrs. Gardiner, Mrs. Bennet found many engaging topics to discuss, from the inadequacy of the children’s breakfasts, to the unaccountable negligence of the head parlour maid; but her conversations with her daughter followed a much narrower path.
Her interests remained pretty much what they had always been, and she had nothing to say to Mary on any subject other than her looks and her marriage prospects.
On both these questions, Mary refused to be drawn.
She was particularly determined that no mention of Mr. Hayward’s name should reach her mother’s ears.
She did not think she could bear the interrogation she knew would follow if any hint of her feelings for him were to escape her.
Mary was sure Mrs. Gardiner could be trusted with the secret; her relations with her sister-in-law were not such as encouraged the exchange of private intimacies.
If anything, Mary was more afraid of betraying it herself, revealing it by some unguarded expression forced out of her by her mother’s relentless questioning.
To avoid such an accident, Mary did all she could to reduce the hours she was obliged to sit with Mrs. Bennet; and in pursuit of fresh air and a little relief from her mother’s presence, she spent more and more time on her walks around the City.
As she retraced her old routes, she slowly recovered the enjoyment she had once found in them, and usually came back happier than she had set out; but as she left the house one morning, the weather was against her.
The skies were low and grey and threatened rain; and she got only as far as St. Paul’s before the showers began.
She took shelter in the great doorway for a while; eventually, she had no choice but to pull up her collar and make her way back to Gracechurch Street.
When she arrived back at the house, she was surprised to hear her mother’s laughter drifting down to the hall from the drawing room.
Perhaps the great Dr. Simmons was paying a house call?
But when she entered, there was Mrs. Bennet, sitting delightedly on the sofa, gazing with every appearance of approval at the smart, manly figure of Mr. Ryder.
Her aunt, from the other side of the room, caught Mary’s eye and made the tiniest shrug; but Mrs. Bennet did not see it.
She was far too fascinated by Mr. Ryder to notice anything occurring beyond the space occupied by his captivating person.
“Miss Bennet,” he exclaimed, jumping up to greet her, “I am so glad you have come back. I should have been very sorry to leave without the pleasure of seeing you.”
“I was out walking—” began Mary, before her mother interrupted her.
“Your hair is damp, my dear,” she cried, with a brilliant smile Mary did not recall seeing directed at her before. “I’m sure you will want to attend to it before you join us.”
“May I request that you do not,” said Mr. Ryder eagerly. “It is charming exactly as it is. Very natural and becoming.”
Mrs. Bennet was somewhat taken aback to hear so unmistakeable a compliment addressed to Mary; but she quickly recovered herself.
“All my girls were brought up to be as natural as possible, sir. I do hate to see anything false in a young woman.”
“I cannot speak to the virtues of your other daughters,” declared Mr. Ryder smoothly, “not having had the pleasure of meeting them; but I can say that with this Miss Bennet, you have succeeded admirably. There is no artifice in her at all.”
He smiled knowingly at Mary, his expression conveying with amusement that he understood the part he was expected to play in the conversation, and would not scruple to indulge himself in doing so.
“I might add,” he continued, “that having been introduced to Mrs. Bennet, it is only too apparent from whom her daughter has inherited her delightful manner.”
“Really, Mr. Ryder!” exclaimed Mrs. Gardiner. “That is a little too much, even for you!”
“I am never afraid to offer praise where praise is due,” he murmured.
Mrs. Bennet, not at all disconcerted, moved a little forward on the sofa.
“I should very much like to hear about your trip to the Lakes, sir. I have always longed to see them, but have not been lucky enough to do so. My desires are not much attended to, but as long as everyone else is happy, I do not mind it.”
Mary touched her hair, feeling the raindrops wet on her hand.
Mr. Ryder launched obligingly into a lively account of their trip, occasionally appealing to Mary or Mrs. Gardiner to confirm some detail.
He did not, Mary noticed, mention the Scafell climb, for which she was very grateful.
She obediently added an aside now and then; but she had no desire to establish in Mrs. Bennet’s mind a picture of herself and Mr. Ryder as inseparable fellow travellers or indeed, good friends.
She knew her mother would already be thinking of him as a potential suitor, and she did not wish to offer her any further encouragement.
When Mr. Ryder eventually took his leave, Mrs. Bennet could barely contain her excitement.