Chapter 17
Mary shivered slightly in the cold breeze, though she simultaneously reveled in the feeling of being alone. She was walking to Meryton by herself for the third time that winter, and the feeling was utterly glorious. She had begun to understand why Elizabeth had always enjoyed her solitary rambles when she was still at home.
There was no Lydia to demand they go to the bakery for sweet rolls. There was no Kitty to gently request a trip to the milliners for the third time in a single week. There was no Mama to demand that they visit five different friends since they would be in town anyway.
There was just Mary. She could consult her own wishes, which certainly did not include a visit to the milliners or to Mrs. Hampton, one of Mama’s greatest gossiping friends. She did plan to visit Aunt Phillips while she was in Meryton, but she first needed to go to the general store.
She was out of paper for the second time in as many months, but she could not ask Mama to purchase any more, else Mama would question her endlessly on how in the world someone could go through a hundred sheets of paper in four weeks. Mary did not wish anyone to know that she secretly wrote a great deal.
It was hard to describe what kinds of things Mary wrote, for they were never meant for anyone’s eyes but her own. One couldcall them essays or perhaps extracts, but they were not formal in any way. Instead, they were merely a record of Mary’s thoughts when she read something, and Mary read a great deal, far more than anyone except her father knew.
In the last three years, she had read nearly every book her father owned and had even taught herself Greek so that she could read some of them. The only ones she hadn’t read were the ones written in Latin. Somehow, since that was the language of the clergy, it did not feel quite right for an insignificant young lady to attempt to learn it.
Mary had started writing down her thoughts shortly after she had begun reading so ravenously. She had wished to share her ideas with someone, but every time she brought up any of the subjects she was reading about no one wanted to listen. So, she began writing.
Over time, her writing had increased, and in the last six months it had reached prodigious proportions. She spent more on paper than she did on cloth, but she had to be very careful not to purchase too much when any of her family or friends could see her.
That was why she was so enormously happy on this cold February morning. She was completely alone, and she could purchase as much paper as she could carry.
Mary entered the shop, and Mrs. Whitaker called out, “Good morning, Miss Mary. It’s a mite cold for a lady to be out.”
“I am quite comfortable,” said Mary, “but I thank you for your concern. May I see what kinds of paper you have today?”
Mrs. Whitaker showed her four different types of varying quality. Mary chose the second cheapest. She was not fond of foolscap, since it could be quite fragile. “May I have two hundred sheets of this one?” she asked.
“Two hundred?” asked the shopkeeper. “That is quite a lot. Are you buying for the whole house? If so, you might consider a slightly higher quality. I know your mother likes the thicker paper for writing her letters.”
“I am certain of my choice, Mrs. Whitaker,” said Mary. “Would you mind wrapping it for me so that it doesn’t blow away on my way home?”
“Of course. Just one moment.”
As Mary waited, a gentleman stepped up next to her. “May I help you carry your parcel home, Miss Mary?” asked Mr. Alan Goulding.
Alan Goulding, aged twenty-eight, was the only son of Mr. Goulding. He had spent most of his time in London, so Mary had not seen him much until he came home permanently last autumn. Mr. Goulding, Sr. was beginning to feel his age, and he wished to begin the process of passing on the family’s estate to his son.
Ever since Mr. Goulding had returned to the neighborhood, he seemed to make it a point to speak to Mary at every opportunity. He even requested a dance from her the few times they had been at a dance together. Mary did not understand him. She could only assume he was being polite to the outcast, which would be very charitable of him.
“There is no need,” said Mary.
“It would please me a great deal if you would allow it,” said Mr. Goulding.
Mary looked at him. She knew her confusion was written clearly on her face. Eventually, she said, “In that case, I thank you for your assistance.”
By the time their exchange was complete, Mrs. Whitaker had finished wrapping the stack of paper, and she handed itover. Mr. Goulding took it while Mary produced the coins to pay for it.
As they left the shop, he said, “This is quite a lot of paper. Do you have a great many correspondents?”
Mary couldn’t help but let out a sharp burst of self-deprecating laughter. “No, not at all,” she said. “I only write to my sisters, and that is just once a month or so.”
“Then I can only assume you have aspirations of being an author,” he said.
“No, not truly,” Mary said. “I write only for my own amusement.”
“What do you write?” he asked.
Mary hesitated. She liked Alan Goulding, and she was grateful for his attention. Though she knew he couldn’t possibly have romantic notions towards her, she did not wish to lose his company which she had grown used to over the last few months. She feared that if she shared what she actually wrote that he would think poorly of her just as her mother did.
“Nothing of interest,” she said.
