Miss Mary Bennet (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
missmarybennet) wrote2012-04-24 10:47 am
missmarybennet) wrote2012-04-24 10:47 am
(no subject)
The Bennet household adjusted with relative ease to having Mr. Lowell as a house guest. Even infirm and confined to bed, everyone seemed to find him more agreeable than Mr. Collins. It was perhaps helpful that Mr. Lowell brought with him none of the tensions or worries that the dreaded cousin had.
Mr. Bennet enjoyed having another gentleman in the house, and spent any number of hours in the guest room conversing with Mr. Lowell about books and sea trade and the wonders on either side of the Atlantic. Mrs. Bennet looked in daily, but after fifteen minutes or so, Mr. Lowell would begin to look tired, and Mary would distract her mother with something in the drawing room or kitchen.
Kitty and Lydia didn’t pay him much mind after the first. The Regiment was still in Meryton, and most days, even with winter settling in properly, they found an excuse to walk into the village. Ostensibly they went to visit with the Forsters or the Phillips or the Lucas family, but they seemed to find plenty of time to practice their charms on the red coated officers. A recuperating and somewhat bookish young man did little to hold their interest.
Lizzie sometimes went with them, half to chaperone, half to converse with Mr. Wickham, Mary suspected. But Lizzie also found time to help keep Mr. Lowell company during the long hours, and they clearly got on well. He seemed to enjoy her quick and easy wit. Of course, the more humorous and clever Lizzie was, the quieter Mary found herself getting, until she was by and large silent during these conversations.
She also attempted to help Mary with some of the mundane tasks involved in seeing to their guest’s comfort. And that was the point at which the worm turned.
“It’s just tea,” Mary snapped, swiping the spoon from Lizzie’s hand. “I am quite capable of seeing to tea without your superior graces.”
Lizzie looked perplexed. Annoyed. And a little bit hurt.
“Mary, I’m only trying to help." Lizzie walked off for a moment and came back with a loaf of bread. “You’ve taken on a great deal of work with Mr. Lowell. I thought you’d want a respite. That’s all.”
Mary picked up the bread knife before Lizzie could, and moved the loaf to her side of the table. “Well, I don’t. And I’m sure you can find far more effective means of showing off your cleverness.”
Lizzie frowned and marched off into the pantry. She was a little longer in coming back this time, and when she did she bore a dish of butter and looked considerably more thoughtful.
“Mary?” she ventured. “Are you……fond of Mr. Lowell?”
It was probably just as well that Mary had finished slicing the bread, otherwise she might have divested herself of one of her own fingers.
“Don’t,” she said shortly, taking the butter from her sister, “be ridiculous. Not everything needs to be reduced to romantic nonsense.” Mr. Lowell was her friend—well, at least now that they’d made up their argument. Nothing more. “Just because every other female in this house can’t think of anything but flirtation doesn’t mean that I can’t.”
Lizzie gave her a knowing look (which was irritating) but left her alone. Mary noticed from that time on, though, that Lizzie started to spend far less time conversing with Mr. Lowell. She made apologies about having a great deal to tend to--letters to write to Jane, Kitty and Lydia to see to, calls to pay--and shooed Mary in his direction every chance she got.
It was a bit infuriating, but after a bit, Mary just shrugged over it. Lizzie could think she knew everything all she wanted. That didn’t make it so. And Mary liked speaking with Mr. Lowell, so there was little reason to complain.
Besides, it was hard to blame Lizzie from thinking along those lines just given the general atmosphere in the house. Jane was off in London to attempt to (one way or the other) heal a broken heart. Lydia and Kitty were constantly giggling over the officers. And if Mrs. Bennet ever thought of anything else these days there was never so much as a hint of it.
Mary had a hard time not choking one day when she overheard her mother and father talking in the drawing room.
“One does not want to wish injury on anyone, of course,” Mrs. Bennet was saying. “But it would have been so convenient if Mr. Bingley could have met with such misfortune right on our doorstep.”
“My dear,” Mr. Bennet said, as if he couldn’t even work up the energy to be scandalized.
“Well, it worked well enough when Jane took ill at Netherfield. And a broken bone lasts a good deal longer.”
“I do wonder, my dear,” Mr. Bennet said, dryly, “that you don’t try to send Mr. Lowell home with a wife, as he is so conveniently placed at present.”
“Mr. Lowell is a pleasing young man,” Mrs. Bennet replied, “but we know nothing at all of his family. And he's an American. Really, Mr. Bennet, would you see one of our girls disappear all the way off to Boston?”
“Put in those terms, Mrs. Bennet, how can I possibly argue?”
Mary shook her head and tiptoed past the drawing room with her mending basket. Her thoughts on the matter must have showed on her face though, because Mr. Lowell asked, “What’s the joke?” as she settled into her usual chair.
“Suffice to say, Mr. Lowell, that while one’s relatives might be familiar, they are still a constant source of mystery.” Mary took out her needle and thread. “Now, what shall we talk about today?”
Mr. Bennet enjoyed having another gentleman in the house, and spent any number of hours in the guest room conversing with Mr. Lowell about books and sea trade and the wonders on either side of the Atlantic. Mrs. Bennet looked in daily, but after fifteen minutes or so, Mr. Lowell would begin to look tired, and Mary would distract her mother with something in the drawing room or kitchen.
Kitty and Lydia didn’t pay him much mind after the first. The Regiment was still in Meryton, and most days, even with winter settling in properly, they found an excuse to walk into the village. Ostensibly they went to visit with the Forsters or the Phillips or the Lucas family, but they seemed to find plenty of time to practice their charms on the red coated officers. A recuperating and somewhat bookish young man did little to hold their interest.
Lizzie sometimes went with them, half to chaperone, half to converse with Mr. Wickham, Mary suspected. But Lizzie also found time to help keep Mr. Lowell company during the long hours, and they clearly got on well. He seemed to enjoy her quick and easy wit. Of course, the more humorous and clever Lizzie was, the quieter Mary found herself getting, until she was by and large silent during these conversations.
She also attempted to help Mary with some of the mundane tasks involved in seeing to their guest’s comfort. And that was the point at which the worm turned.
“It’s just tea,” Mary snapped, swiping the spoon from Lizzie’s hand. “I am quite capable of seeing to tea without your superior graces.”
Lizzie looked perplexed. Annoyed. And a little bit hurt.
“Mary, I’m only trying to help." Lizzie walked off for a moment and came back with a loaf of bread. “You’ve taken on a great deal of work with Mr. Lowell. I thought you’d want a respite. That’s all.”
Mary picked up the bread knife before Lizzie could, and moved the loaf to her side of the table. “Well, I don’t. And I’m sure you can find far more effective means of showing off your cleverness.”
Lizzie frowned and marched off into the pantry. She was a little longer in coming back this time, and when she did she bore a dish of butter and looked considerably more thoughtful.
“Mary?” she ventured. “Are you……fond of Mr. Lowell?”
It was probably just as well that Mary had finished slicing the bread, otherwise she might have divested herself of one of her own fingers.
“Don’t,” she said shortly, taking the butter from her sister, “be ridiculous. Not everything needs to be reduced to romantic nonsense.” Mr. Lowell was her friend—well, at least now that they’d made up their argument. Nothing more. “Just because every other female in this house can’t think of anything but flirtation doesn’t mean that I can’t.”
Lizzie gave her a knowing look (which was irritating) but left her alone. Mary noticed from that time on, though, that Lizzie started to spend far less time conversing with Mr. Lowell. She made apologies about having a great deal to tend to--letters to write to Jane, Kitty and Lydia to see to, calls to pay--and shooed Mary in his direction every chance she got.
It was a bit infuriating, but after a bit, Mary just shrugged over it. Lizzie could think she knew everything all she wanted. That didn’t make it so. And Mary liked speaking with Mr. Lowell, so there was little reason to complain.
Besides, it was hard to blame Lizzie from thinking along those lines just given the general atmosphere in the house. Jane was off in London to attempt to (one way or the other) heal a broken heart. Lydia and Kitty were constantly giggling over the officers. And if Mrs. Bennet ever thought of anything else these days there was never so much as a hint of it.
Mary had a hard time not choking one day when she overheard her mother and father talking in the drawing room.
“One does not want to wish injury on anyone, of course,” Mrs. Bennet was saying. “But it would have been so convenient if Mr. Bingley could have met with such misfortune right on our doorstep.”
“My dear,” Mr. Bennet said, as if he couldn’t even work up the energy to be scandalized.
“Well, it worked well enough when Jane took ill at Netherfield. And a broken bone lasts a good deal longer.”
“I do wonder, my dear,” Mr. Bennet said, dryly, “that you don’t try to send Mr. Lowell home with a wife, as he is so conveniently placed at present.”
“Mr. Lowell is a pleasing young man,” Mrs. Bennet replied, “but we know nothing at all of his family. And he's an American. Really, Mr. Bennet, would you see one of our girls disappear all the way off to Boston?”
“Put in those terms, Mrs. Bennet, how can I possibly argue?”
Mary shook her head and tiptoed past the drawing room with her mending basket. Her thoughts on the matter must have showed on her face though, because Mr. Lowell asked, “What’s the joke?” as she settled into her usual chair.
“Suffice to say, Mr. Lowell, that while one’s relatives might be familiar, they are still a constant source of mystery.” Mary took out her needle and thread. “Now, what shall we talk about today?”