She considered trying to read again, but her eyes were too weary. This book belonged to her—not to Mr. Collins—and she would take it with her when they left to stay with her aunt and uncle, the Philipses. She only had a handful of personal books, and Mr. Philips’s library was not much to speak of. Without books and a pianoforte, she wondered how she would pass the time. Hopefully their mother would continue their membership at Meryton’s subscription library, but Mrs. Bennet might not see it as a necessary expense. Mary could not picture how she would occupy her life in the coming months, for she had no interest in endless days of needlework and gossip.
Mary twisted the mourning ring around her index finger. Traditionally, the rings were not dispensed until the funeral. They were gifted to the men, who brought them home and gave them to their wives to wear. In his will, Mr. Bennet had specified that each of his children should receive a ring. For his married daughters, the matter was simple—give it to Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley, and if he were here, Mr. Wickham, and Elizabeth, Jane, and Lydia would receive theirs. But for Kitty and Mary, who would it be given to? Mr. Collins? That was certainly not an ideal solution. Perhaps one of their uncles, Mr. Philips or Mr. Gardner. But they would also receive rings for their own wives.
Elizabeth and Jane had decided it made the most sense to give both Mary and Kitty their rings in advance, to ensure there would be no confusion or difficulties.
Mary’s ring was more expensive than she thought necessary, but it had been too late to argue with her older sisters—the purchase had already been made. Yet despite the extravagance, she found herself liking the ring. In the bezel, encased under a thin layer of crystal, was a miniature painting of a broken column, shaded by a weeping willow. Written on the column in tiny black lettering were Mr. Bennet’s name and date of death.
Mary removed the ring from her finger and twisted the bezel so it faced the inside of the ring, revealing another thin piece of crystal, this one with a small lock of her father’s hair underneath. She flipped the bezel around and around, revealing painting, hair, painting, hair, painting, hair, finally stopping on painting. She liked that she could keep her father’s hair next to her finger, that she could keep her longing and sorrow close, yet hidden from the world.
Her eyes were a touch watery, so she blinked them rapidly, then gazed at her father’s body, lying on a table, surrounded by flowers. She had never learned any painting or drawing, but if she had, she would attempt to create a likeness of her father, with his profile in recline, surrounded by the room draped in black. Even in death, there was a certain lightness of spirit in his features.
No one had expected his sudden illness or his passing only a fortnight later. Death was, as Mary’s sermons taught her, a natural part of life, but part of her had assumed she would always have her father.
She had never been his favorite. That position, of course, belonged to Elizabeth. But he had encouraged Mary in her studies and listened to her philosophical discoveries. In the last year, with Elizabeth, Jane, and Lydia gone, they had spent far more time together. Sometimes he had even shared his humor with her, and though she did not always understand it, she appreciated the gesture. Yet perhaps the additional time she had spent with him had not been enough; she should have asked his opinion more often, done something more—anything more—to demonstrate that she cared. She spun the mourning ring around her finger. At least she had been able to do some small service for him by finding the rings.
A sudden noise startled Mary.
She looked immediately to her father’s body. The flickering candlelight sometimes played tricks on her eyes, made it difficult to tell if she saw life or death, so she stood and walked slowly around her father’s body, laid out on the table. Nothing had changed. There was no movement, no life.
The sound came again, several times in a row. Someone was knocking at the front door. How strange to have a visitor at this hour.
“Sarah,” she called.
The kitchen girl did not respond. She was supposed to be sitting right outside the room, in case Mary needed anything.
Mr. Bennet’s body had been laid in the front parlor, directly off the main hallway. The room’s windows faced the front of the house. Mary pushed aside some of the black drapery and the curtains and peered into the night.
She could make out the faint outline of a carriage and horses. At the door stood a servant or driver holding a large lantern. Behind him stood a regal-looking older woman with a younger man at her side. Their dress marked them as distinguished visitors. It almost looked like Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
If it was Lady Catherine de Bourgh, she best open the door immediately and then wake the others. Lady Catherine de Bourgh was Mr. Darcy’s aunt and a prominent individual. The one time Mary had met her, she had observed that Lady Catherine was not the type of person who liked to be left waiting. Besides, though the summer meant it was not cold, one still could catch a chill from exposure to the air in the middle of the night.
There were more knocks at the door. Mary stepped out of the room into the main hall and found Sarah slumped on a chair, fast asleep. Mary nudged her on the shoulder. “Wake up, Sarah, we have visitors.”
Sarah startled awake.
“Someone is knocking,” said Mary. “Would you open the door and let them in?”
Sarah nodded quickly. She almost tripped as she
