Page 25 of The Vanished Bennet Sister

The account came in Mary's way, without embellishment, providing the events in sequence without editorialising them. She described the way the day had reoriented itself around Miss Bingley's arrival, and the comment Mr Thwaite had made on the path.

"He also said she had excellent taste in sacred works," she said, at the end. "I don't know that he necessarily meant anything by it…"

"What did you make of it?"

"I found it humiliating. To be standing two steps behind on the path, listening, and to have nothing to say because she had said it first, with such ease. I worry that he’ll…" She stopped. She did not need to finish.

Elizabeth understood her sister’s feelings, even the unsaid ones. Mary had undergone years of being the Bennet daughter that rooms did not commonly acknowledge. Now there was one person who matched her interests and her mind, yet the fear that too might be taken from her remained prominent.

She understood that Mary had the persistent sense of being uncommon in a family known for having louder or distinguishable qualities. And now Caroline Bingley, who had the vocabulary that appealed most to Mr Thwaite, posed a direct challenge.

"Did Mr Thwaite seem to enjoy Miss Bingley's company?" Elizabeth asked curiously.

"He was perfectly civil and there was no excessive feeling."

"Then there is your answer."

Something in Mary's face shifted. It was not relief yet, but Elizabeth hoped it was the earliest precondition for it.

Mary thanked her for support before heading to her own room. Elizabeth sat for a long while afterwards, turning the situation over in her mind. Caroline Bingley had identified her target and was closing the distance.

She wondered what, if anything, could be usefully done, and she had no ready answer.

Chapter Eleven

Mary

The next day, Mary sat down to make a full report of the previous days events to Elena. She’d wanted to confide in Elizabeth more, but her sister had only wanted to comfort her. Which, while kind, had not been exactly what she needed.

Mary didn’t really know what exactly she’d needed, but it was something…more. Something her family could not give her.

And yet, she knew Elena would understand. She gave Elena a full account of what had occurred, from her pleasant morning with Mr Waith to Miss Bingley’s unexpected appearance and then to the exchange in the park.

She sat back for a moment and swallowed hard before setting quilt to paper once more.

She is a beautiful woman — I will not pretend otherwise, because doing so would be dishonest and also beside the point — and she appears to share in the same interests as Mr Thwaite and myself. I use the word ‘appears’ in this context because it is obvious that she has recently learned these subjects to speak about them, rather than for inherent understanding. There is a clear distinction, yet I'm not sure if it is visible to anyone except me.

She spoke to Mr Thwaite about a recent Haydn programme that I have not seen. I had opinions of the composition but did not offer them, which I regret now. At the moment I could not quite bring myself to do so. This is what I mean when I say that her ease does something to mine. It does not extinguish it, exactly. It makes me doubt the point of it.

Then we met her again in the park, quite by design I think. Her mother drew Mr Thwaite into conversation and I fell behind, which I did not intend but also did not know how to prevent. Mrs Bingley said she had recently been gifted a collection of sacred anthems by Miss Bingley and thought immediately of him. Upon hearing this, Mr Thwaite complimented Miss Bingley, stating that she had always had excellent taste in sacred works.

It was a small matter, I'm aware of that. There is a high chance that he was speaking with his usual honest feeling, but I must confess that this situation has made me feel odd.

I feel unsure, along with a million other feelings. I wonder if I must be worthy of being liked by Mr Thwaite, especially when in consideration with Miss Bingley. She is a lot of things I'm not. So much more outspoken and confident…

I am not given to self-pity, she wrote next, then sat back and looked at the sentence with scepticism. She was not given to self-pity of the visible variety, but she was capable of its private form, which was perhaps more tenacious for being conducted without an audience. She decided to leave the sentence in, because it was true enough in distinct, irreplicable ways.

When I first met Mr Thwaite, I did not expect to care for him as much as I do. I respect him enormously and I began to value his intellect as we continued to speak to each other.

There is something else now that I cannot say without embarrassing myself, even on a page that only you will read. I will only admit this much: the prospect of losing his regard is a fear that has increasingly grown within me.

Elizabeth was kind to me last evening. She asked whether Mr Thwaite had seemed to enjoy Miss Bingley's company. I responded in the negative. She said: then there is your answer. She is perceptive, she loves me and she wanted me to feel better, and I did, briefly.

But I find that Elizabeth's kindness and your understanding are not quite the same thing. She knows what I feel because she is observant and because she has known me all my life. You seem to understand, intellectually, why I feel the way I do. Yours is a different capacity, considerably rarer, and I do not encounter it often enough to take it for granted.

I hope this letter does not alarm you. I am not in despair. I am simply telling you the truth, which is what this correspondence has always been for. I value it more than I can easily say.

Your friend, Mary