Mary Bennet's Little Book of Love: A Jane Austen Variation

By Miranda Markwell

Expanding on Jane Austen’s Mary Bennet from Pride and Prejudice comes Miranda Markwell’s Mary’s Bennet’s Little Book of Love, an endearing and charming story about the transformative power love has in relationships.

Mary Bennet is enjoying her life as an independent woman at Number Seven Mumford Street in London. Free of her family and uninterested in marriage, Mary enjoys her quiet life as a Latin tutor and occasional visits to enjoy company at her friend’s parlor. All this is shattered upon the arrival of two sisters: Mary’s recently widowed sister Lydia and the respectable Adam Elliot’s beautiful sister Felicity.

At her wits end, Mary writes and pleads for her close friend Anne to come save her from Lydia’s incessant chatter, all while Mary attempts to squash her growing attraction to Felicity. But as the attraction grows treacherous, can Mary keep her standing and her secrets safe?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Aug 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781094440392

Book preview

1

Chapter One

Dear Anne,

I hope you won’t think ill of me if I begin with a stark criticism of my sister, but I feel my words cannot be contained. I am exhausted, and here is why: Lydia does not stop speaking.

I have long lived my twenty-seven years of life with a love of silence and contemplation, but I’m afraid my one good deed of bringing Lydia into my home has catastrophically demolished any semblance of peace here at Number Seven Mumford Street from now until the end of time. When Lydia and I were still young women living at home, I remember that she had much to say on endless varieties of subjects, but there were plenty of recipients of her chatter at Longbourn. And if all the human souls were averse to her conversation, she could always go jabber to the sheep.

There are no sheep here. There is only me. And I am tired.

When Mama wrote to see if I would consider inviting Lydia to stay with me here in London, she seemed to forget that Lydia and I never much liked one another. It was as if Mama had blocked out all of the rude things Lydia said to me right before she upended the Bennet family by eloping with that rogue George Wickham. But, of course, the moment the rogue finds himself dead, he is suddenly a saint in the eyes of all.

Dear Lydia’s life is now like something out of a novel, darling Mary, Mama wrote to me. You must offer her refuge during her mourning period. I’m afraid Papa is not yet prepared to welcome Lydia home, given the history. I do wish I could persuade your father to change his mind, for I miss my little Lydia-bird tremendously! Do be kind, Mary. She is your sister!

Mama does not know me at all. The only reason Lydia was shipped off to me is because I have a spare room and Mama thinks Lydia’s chances of finding a second husband will be greatly increased by a residence in the city. She is not wrong, of course. I hope that Lydia will live out the customary six months of mourning with great composure and then swiftly remarry so that I can regain control of my spare room.

Lydia arrived at Number Seven Mumford Street wearing a black silk gown with more lace embellishment than should be permissible by law. She looks ravishing, of course, but wholly inappropriate for the current circumstances.

My dear Anne, I don’t know how long I can bear the company of Lydia alone. I need help. Desperately. I know you were planning to come to Number Seven Mumford Street for summer’s end, but I wonder if you might consider hastening your visit?

Oh, Anne. I miss you. Being in the company of Lydia reminds me of my supreme difference from all the rest of my sisters and the lives they have chosen for themselves. Lydia, in spite of all the scandal she brought upon our family, still looks at me as if I am faulty somehow. She almost seems to pity me, a frustrating realization since there is little about my life I find pitiable. Of course, it would be nice to spend a little less time tutoring the young women the ton sends to me… I am indeed grateful for an independent living as a single woman, but it would be lovely to have a bit more time for writing. I have so many lovely thoughts, but nowhere for them to go. You, Anne, seem to be the only soul who takes a genuine interest in what’s happening inside my head.

Do come, Anne. I need you.

Yours ever,

Miss Mary Bennet

Number Seven Mumford Street

London

Miss Mary Bennet felt only a bit more relieved after finishing the letter to her dearest friend, Lady Anne de Bourgh. She needed to share her frustrations with a confidant, and she knew that Anne would receive the contents of this letter with great feeling. It made Mary feel lighter to put her desperation on paper, although she also felt a sense of weakness that she wasn’t more resilient in the face of Lydia’s frenetic human energy.

Mary Bennet had a quiet life at Number Seven Mumford Street. At twenty-seven years old, she had found herself with an independent living as a private tutor to young women whose parents thought a sturdy education in Latin would earn them an Oxford man’s hand in marriage. These parents didn’t dare risk sending their daughters to a male tutor. If they wanted their dear girl to end up with a lawyer (who, by and by, might end up as an MP), then it was best to keep the usual leagues of Latin tutors out of their child’s way. God forbid their sweet little bumblebee might find the young male tutor handsome.

Mary was a fine deterrent to such liaisons. She was stern, exacting, and a very good teacher. A self-taught Latin scholar, Mary had benefited greatly from the marriage of her sister Elizabeth, whose husband’s estate was home to a university-quality library. Instead of throwing herself into the marriage market, Mary dipped herself deep into Latin, Greek, and any books she could get her hands on that spoke of the great Enlightenment sweeping Europe.

The books had been her companions during the years after she left Longbourn. It was a difficult choice but nonetheless the right one for Mary. A point came where Mary was the last Bennet daughter living at home, and she was increasingly alone as her parents found themselves consumed with visits to Netherfield. They occasionally visited Pemberley too, but Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy were a bit more vigilant about, well, boundaries.

She finally left Longbourn when her father insisted that the widowed Mrs. Charlotte Collins should rightfully take up residence at Longbourn. That poor young woman could use a change of scene, Mr. Bennet had insisted. Mary wondered if he would ever think of her as needing a change of scene, but she had grown to understand that her father viewed her as a child, not as an adult woman.

She knew that it was something to do with the fact that she was unmarried. Indeed, Mary had never once expressed any real interest in matrimony. Men seemed rather complicated to her, too much trouble to be bothered with. And the prospect of childbearing and motherhood seemed to her a grand distraction from one’s regular reading schedule and from adult conversation. No, Mary had little interest in the things that seemed to sustain her sisters. She liked to be alone.

She looked around at her small study, which served as the modest room where she conducted her private lessons. Another soul might find the room to be a little confining, perhaps even oppressively small, but Mary liked how the room made her feel large. She was the queen of her domain in this little room, and in it, she lorded over her pupils until they came to have hitherto unknown confidence in the power of their minds. Her young charges took to Latin well, and Mary often considered how they would likely end up better Latin scholars than their future husbands.

There’s power in commanding a small, authentic space. Mary felt that sensation deeply, and she felt profound gratitude that this knowledge lived within her. She was independent. She had the satisfaction of her studies and her teaching. She had friendships. And she had her self-respect.

A playful knock at the study’s door reminded her that she also had a sister.

Oh, Mary, it smells odd in here, don’t you think? chirped Lydia, still wearing her frilly dressing gown, even though it was approaching luncheon.

Just because it does not smell like perfume does not mean it smells ‘odd,’ Lydia, Mary grumbled in reply.

But what does it smell like, Mary? she said. I can’t place it for the life of me!

Mary glowered. Lydia, This is what books smell like.

Lydia pulled a random tome off the shelf and gave the pages a good whiff.

Lord! You’re right! Lydia gagged a little at the smell of the musty pages. I don’t think it agrees with me, sister.

Mary didn’t understand how Lydia always seemed so cheerful, even while gagging on the smell of old books. Lydia was perpetually in a good mood, even when her circumstances were dire. Mary clearly remembered when Lydia eloped with George Wickham, a scandal that shook the Bennet family to the core. For the entire