Page 29 of The Vanished Bennet Sister

Mary wrote back that same afternoon.

No, I do not find it easy.

I have never found the right way to say this without sounding as though I am reproaching her, which I am not. She loves me, I know. She loves all of her daughters, but even more so the idea of each of us — the version she has assembled from her expectations and her hopes — and I have never aligned with the version she created for me. I am too serious, too interested in the wrong things, and too nonchalant about the ideals she considers important. I think she has loved me as well as she can, and I think her capacity has certain limits, and I have lived for eighteen years within those limits without any bitterness.

But it has always been limiting, and the knowledge has produced the feeling I described to you: of being present, loved, but fundamentally beside the point.

I have not told anyone else this. Not in these terms.

Elena's next missive contained commiseration.

I recognise that feeling more than you know. When we meet, I will tell you why.

Mary had read this sentence over and over, feeling the thrill of being acknowledged.

Elena knew her, in the sense of acknowledging how she worked and why, without requiring her to perform a version of herself that was more digestible. She was not accustomed to this. She had Mr Thwaite, who engaged with her on matters of substance, and she valued this immensely. But Elena knew the other territory, of loneliness and other unpopular emotions, and offered appraisal without finding Mary wanting, which was a relief.

She was relying on that more than was perhaps prudent. She was also becoming practised at turning to Elena's letters with an alacrity that had everything to do with Caroline Bingley.

Mr Thwaite had not encouraged Miss Bingley, but she continued to appear in his proximity. She had attended two events at which he was present. She had written to Lady Ashworth to confirm if he’d be present at her dinner event before deciding to attend it herself, which Mary learned about because Lady Hamilton was the sort of woman who noticed things and considered it her professional obligation to share them.

Mr Thwaite continued to call weekly. He brought books, brought up the manuscripts he was acquiring, or asked her opinions on theological arguments. A few days ago, they had spent long minutes debating the question of whether translation produced a necessary diminishment of the original copy and if the act of rendering one language into another led to some level of loss.

Increasingly, she had fewer doubts as to whether he liked her or not. It was clear now that he did and she would no longer burden her heart too deeply over it. She knew he was interested in her and that was what mattered most.

Yet there was an anxiety that knowledge did not fully address. The persistent, irrational pressure of watching someone else pursue what one valued, regardless of whether the pursuit was likely to succeed.

She had written to Elena about this as well, who had responded with as much encouragement as one could hope for.

She was in the middle of reading one of Mr Thwaite's book recommendations when the dinner bell rang.

The first course passed without incident. The soup had been cleared and the fish brought in before Mrs Bennet said anything. This was sufficient warning that the subject had been held in reserve from the start of dinner and had been refined in all that time.

"I have heard," she began, setting down her fork, "from a good friend of mine that Caroline Bingley was at the British Museum yesterday."

"A great many people visit the museum," Elizabeth said.

"Miss Bingley was with Mr Thwaite and his mother."

The table received this with varying degrees of attention. Lydia and Kitty stared with their mouths open. Jane seemed surprised and Elizabeth went quiet, which did not happen often.

Mary glanced down at her plate.

"His mother!" Mrs Bennet repeated. "That is no ordinary occurrence and I’m certain Miss Bingley did not invite herself. She was certainly invited, which means Mrs Thwaite has taken an interest in a young lady that isn’t Mary."

"It may mean nothing specific. A social outing does not constitute an introduction in any formal sense," Jane offered.

"A mother does not invite a young woman to accompany herself and her son to the museum unless she is making an assessment. She is being evaluated as a prospect, and Caroline Bingley knows it perfectly well, which is why she accepted."

"But maybe—"

"No, Jane. It’s exactly what it seems. Mary, I have said nothing, because I did not wish to press you, and also because you are a sensible girl whom I trusted to understand her position. But if Caroline Bingley is now being received by Mr Thwaite's mother, the matter has become considerably more urgent than I had supposed. Patience is no longer a luxury we can afford."

Mary said, with as much clarity as she could produce at short notice: "Mr Thwaite and I have agreed between us to take sufficient time to know one another properly. He is a widower, Mama. He has good reasons for not proceeding with haste, He does not intend to rush his judgement, and I would not respect him if he did."

"The time for knowing one another is well and good when there is no competition. There is now competition." Her mother's voice had acquired a register that preceded true distress. "Mr Thwaite’s reasons are not going to keep a roof over our heads if Caroline Bingley secures him first. This house and everything we have been given this season only exist because of his interest in you. Do you understand what happens to us if that interest transfers? We lose the house, the extra carriage, the invitations, connections, alongside everything we have built here. If Caroline Bingley succeeds where you have been too modest to press your advantage…all is lost. Even Jane's connection with Mr Bingley becomes ten times more difficult to sustain if we have lost the goodwill of Mr Thwaite's household!"

"Mama," Elizabeth said. Her voice was level, but it carried. "That is enough."