Page 29 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
So, I was close enough to hear when he turned to Miss Bingley and said, “And allow me to congratulate you on your brother’s superior bounty of marriage gold. We anticipate a most prestigious binding when he is joined to my fair cousin Jane.”
I stopped dead halfway across the dance floor.
Miss Bingley’s face convulsed in anger.
Mr. Darcy’s lips twisted in revulsion. With utter disdain, he turned his back. Even Mr. Collins’s impaired social judgment registered the cut. He halted his soliloquy, jaw hanging.
Miss Bingley’s furious laugh ripped the room as she swirled away.
Jane arrived beside me. “Poor Mr. Collins.”
“Poor Mr.Collins?” I said, incredulous.
“It is not so bad, Lizzy. People will forget his peculiar flapping.”
Jane had not been close enough to hear. But soon enough, she would know. At least a dozen people had been agog at the drama.
Mr. Collins rejoined us. “I am greatly pleased with my reception,” he blurted, then wiped his beaded forehead with a handkerchief. “Recalling the conversation, I realize how highly he valued my report on Lady Catherine’s—”
I could stand no more and walked away myself.
I ended up beside Mary, who was waiting her turn to perform on the pianoforte. Mary would be a relief from gossip, at least.
“I am quite relying on you for a wonderful report of the evening,” I said. “Mine has been horrible.”
“Do not practice your wit on me, Lizzy.” Mary’s voice was tight, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
“I did not intend wit.” Had she already heard what had happened? “Jane—”
“Jane has danced every dance, and she and Bingley are in love. Should Bingley fall out of love with her, a parade of gentlemen awaits.”
I reviewed the evening and realized what was wrong. “Has no one asked you to dance?” Mary’s stiff silence was answer enough. “It is of no consequence. Perhaps next time, a light-colored frock—”
Mary turned on me. “Spare me the pity of a beauty!” I was speechless as she continued, “Witty Elizabeth Bennet, admired by men and dodging invitations with a laugh, then caught by the most elusive man at the ball. You do not comprehend what it is towishyou were wanted. Instead, you waste your intellect insulting suitors so they can marvel at your nerve.”
“What is this, Mary?” I was hurt, and shocked, and frightened for Mary as well, as her voice was rising.
“This”—she swung her hand in an accusing arc, and heads turned toward us—“is a joke. And I am the object of the joke, for this chase is the greatest falseness of my life, and yet I envy your perfect success. And I am ashamed of my envy.”
“Mary, I spoke thoughtlessly. I… there is some truth in how you accuse me. But do not accuse yourself of envy when it is only frustration. A public scene is no solution—”
“No? Shall I find the solution by standing, scorned for dull features and lank hair, at more dances? Shall I simper and flutter to attract a gentleman, when their attention repulses me? I hide my feelings and become an invisible fraud. What choice do I have? I am lonely, Lizzy, and I am not brave. The prospect of a life alone frightens me, as does surviving on fifty pounds a year if our estate is lost. And that is selfishness, for that sum would be wealth for the maids sharing our roof.” She dashed tears from her eyes. “If I were a man, I would go to London, or Paris, or New York, and I would… dosomethingthat mattered! Do you not see how unfair it is? Mamma bargains you off to secure our luxury, and I should rejoice because it frees me from this charade—even though I know you should refuse. I am a laughingstock for wearing a velvet dress, while around us, even in Hertfordshire, people die of hunger and cold…” She stopped, her spray of fury exhausted, a fire kicked into lifeless cinders. She finished, “Are you evenaware?”
I had not known she felt any of this. I did notknow what to say. What stumbled out was an answer to her last question. “You cannot think me so callous as to be unaware of the inequity of suffering.”
“No. I think you only complacent.”
The lady playing the pianoforte had stopped to stare, and she fled when Mary pulled a piece of music from her satchel and advanced to the instrument. Mary’s satchel fell to the floor, and music scores flew. Mechanically, I knelt to gather them. I knew she treasured them.
Mary began to play.
I recognized the notes, something strange and new that she had practiced every day for weeks, like scales. But never like this. Not at speed, and angry. Defiant.
I rose, my arms full of music too challenging for me ever to attempt, while Mary’s final accusation,complacent, burned deeper and deeper, and her music rolled over me like nothing I had ever heard. It was wonderful. Incredible. This was no Italian air, with the composer’s words replaced by English doggerel in a pathetic nod to English patriotism. This was raw emotion, Mary’s accusation pounded into the keys. There were tears on her cheeks as she played, and on mine.
Then, I saw the room around her.
People were smirking and laughing. And, cruelly, their grins made me hear the music through their ears—notes missed and tempo wavering, the passion that moved me overwhelming accuracy and control.
