A Match for Mary Bennet Read Free Page A

table before her and fastened the gems carefully onto one ribbon and then another, twisting each into her hair and frowning, unsure which looked the most elegant. One by one, she took them to the mirror and returned, dissatisfied, to exchange ribbons or to rearrange the gems.
    Not far from the sitting room table, Mary sat quietly rereading a small volume of Pope’s essay-poems that her father had lent her. At Kitty’s every moan of displeasure, Mary sighed and frowned, distracted from the reading she depended on to improve her mind. Each of her sighs invariably brought on a volley of reproof from Mrs. Bennet, along with a reminder that Mary too would be dancing on the morrow and might profit by entering into the preparations. The expected arrival of Colonel Fitzwilliam increased Mrs. Bennet’s anticipated pleasure in the ball, and she showed deep resentment at Mary’s studious indifference. “It is a special blessing of Providence that he is coming just at this time, and you know he will feel obliged to partner you in the dance. Why do you not take interest enough to look your best?”
    Mary responded laconically, “Oh, Mama, Kitty can entertain the Colonel far better than I can anyway. Why should I not try to improve my mind?”
    Mr. Bennet, safe in his customary retreat of the library, contemplated his delinquent correspondence. The Colonel’s generous offer to stop on his way to Derbyshire prompted him to answer Elizabeth’s letter, so full of delight, awe, and trepidation over her expected first child. He easily addressed himself to her, perhaps his favourite daughter and certainly his wittiest. Upon completion of this labour of love, however, he sat back in his cosy leather chair and turned to the letter from Jane, his oldest daughter, which gave him pause. He reread it, enjoying Jane’s genuine delight in the antics of little Beth, Bennet’s only grandchild at present, and her expressions of genuine joy in her husband Charles, so loving and good-humoured. He set the letter aside. Much as he missed the Bingleys since their move to Nottingham, he knew they had done well in buying their own estate near the Darcys. He also knew that even life so close to Pemberley could not be as rosy as Jane contrived to portray it, and her failure to mention Charles’s sister Caroline conveyed more than Jane had intended. Sweet Jane, who never said anything where nothing good could be said, spoke a silent complaint to which Bennet could hardly respond. No, he would refer that letter to his wife, who would likely not notice the omission. Whenever Mrs. Bennet tired of urging Hill to the height of frenzy over the ball, which Kitty and she would enjoy and Mary would endure, she could write to Jane. Then the Colonel, due to arrive on the day of the ball, would carry letters to both daughters in the North.
    Bennet glanced at the other letters before him. Lydia’s request for an advance of her per annum allowance showed only her persistence in a vain pursuit and her ignorance of the meaning of annum. He would copy his previous terse letter, as he had no intention of honouring such a request. At any rate, he knew Mrs. Bennet would send her whatever the household could spare each month.
    He turned to the more amusing notes. Wickham, the ever-ingratiating erstwhile military officer who had carried off Lydia and subsequently been paid to marry her, had sent yet another preposterous scheme. The project purported to be like all Wickham’s others: “absolutely certain to double their money” in a few years. It offered Bennet an “investment opportunity.” Wickham and his cohorts proposed to buy up old post horses, spruce them up, and sell them at London fairs. Bennet decided to answer that one in a carefully expanded panegyric on the evils of speculation. Wickham would not, of course, read it, but if sufficient papers were inserted, Bennet could picture his son-in-law frantically