Page 38 of The Vanished Bennet Sister

She sat on the edge of the bed, her mind spinning in various directions.

The family she had known all her life was not hers.

The sentence was simple. It was also, in its simplicity, entirely resistant to absorption; she could hold it in her mind and turn it over and it would still not make it elaborate sense.

She was not related to Jane. Jane, who was the warmest person she knew, who had always defended her against the carelessness of Lydia and Kitty's teasing. Nor was she related to Elizabeth, whose sharpness she had always respected and occasionally envied and whose habit of paying attention was a trait Mary most admired in any person.

Or her father, whose infrequent notices she had always valued without much complaint.

And the mother she had always known was not hers. Mrs Bennet, who often told funny, loving stories from Mary’s childhood and raised her to believe she was a Bennet daughter, despite nurturing a secret regarding this subject for eighteen years.

The emotions within Mary were turbulent and she could bear it no longer. She rose and paced around the room. What could she do to ease this nerve-wracking feeling she felt? This sick sensation of loss and betrayal combined?

She considered what it was that she needed, arriving at an answer that emerged with startling clarity.

Elena.

Elena would know what to do, how to help. She would take the reality of the situation, piece it apart and assemble it gradually into a canvas that made better sense. She understood Mary’s worries, fears and could be counted on to give proper advice.

Every other person Mary could speak to was connected in some ways to her family—her sisters, even Mr Thwaite—and what she needed now, most of all, was a neutral air. Someone who saw through Mary’s calm facade and saw the hurt and devastation beneath.

She could not manage this by letter. Letters arrived and could take days to get a response, but what she required was not the reflective distance of correspondence but immediate, physical presence. It was a good thing then, that Elena was in London.

Mary retrieved Elena's most recent letter and copied the address carefully onto a card. She put the card in the pocket of her morning dress.

Then she sat for a moment and considered the option of leaving the house unannounced. It was not proper for a young lady to leave home without any prior announcement, but Mary’s heart quivered at the notion of having to announce her absence. She was not quite ready to speak to anyone in the household about what she’d just overheard or to entertain any long discussions.

In only a matter of minutes, the ground had shifted from under her, and she had little option but to proceed anyway.

***

Elizabeth

Long after Mr Darcy had finished speaking, there was no sound to be heard. Elizabeth stayed mute, too stunned to speak. She made herself think, in sequence, about the claim. Mary was born to the Bennets. She had been taken in as an infant.

She had been two, perhaps three, when Mary arrived. The memory of that time was that of a small child: impressionistic, non-specific, more feeling than fact. There had been a baby, and then the baby grew to become Mary. Mary had always been there, as much a part of the household as the kitchen range or the elm tree at the back of the garden.

It had never occurred to Elizabeth to find this arrangement in need of examination.

Although, Elizabeth thought uncomfortably, Mary did not look like any of them. She had Elizabeth's shade of dark hair and that was it. They had all been told she resembled Mrs Bennet's mother and that explanations had been sufficient.

She looked at Mr Darcy.

His expression was serious and unguarded, with none of the smugness that came from having confirmed a prior judgment or arrived at a satisfaction he had been seeking. This registered, even through the confusion she was sorting through.

He had not come to deliver a verdict for malicious reasons. He had visited because he thought they needed to know. The distinction was visible in his face, but a stubborn part of herself refused to acknowledge it.

The truth was that she was frightened. Mary would learn this and what would happen afterwards? A fracturing within their family, most likely. Total devastation, a sense of betrayal…

She felt helpless, aware that she could see a blow coming with no way to intercept it.

What came into the space where clear reflection should have been was fury. It was directed at the gentleman in front of her, and she could not hold it back.

He had been enquiring, from the first evening at Almack's, into her family's circumstances. On other occasions, he had asked about the townhouse, their experience of the Season and the length of their stay. She had deflected his attempts, and all along she had suspected he had been forming a judgement regarding the Bennets. And here it was: her family's most private matter, delivered to him by Mrs Bingley.

That he had not sought the information was, at present, a distinction she wasn’t prepared to consider.

"I see."