Mary Bennet starts a blog

I am honoured that you have visited my blog for I accept that your affection for me is overshadowed by the allurements of my sisters.  Beautiful Jane, living a good life with her amiable rich husband; Lydia and her irresponsible stupidity encouraged by our equally silly Mother; and Lizzy, whose abundance of future happiness inspired a presumptuous sequel to her much-loved story.

I say ‘her story’ because what of Kitty? What of me? The ‘also present’ sisters who, in post-nuptials chapter 61, were frozen in unwed purgatory, any hope of a suitable match forever out of reach.  Mary was the only daughter who remained at home. And then, you may ask? Nay, aged just 18, my literary future was extinguished in nine words.

It is universally acknowledged that J.A. thought ill of me. Hostile, some have called her.  She described me as conceited and pedantic, preferring Fordyce’s sermons over dancing. For that I offer no apology. My musical ability she cast as the object of derision.  I am also declared to be plain.  A failing indeed. Does plainness produce piety or piety plainness? Either way, would I have gone to hell for the sake of one pretty ribbon?

J.A. would not countenance what was clearly the most agreeable solution to the entailment of Longbourn.  Gladly would I have accepted Mr Collins and spent my life suffering Lady Catherine’s condescension whilst offering Christian service to the parish poor. But my happiness was sacrificed for plot. Lizzy must visit Rosings as a single woman and I, as younger sister, could not possibly wed before her. Charlotte had to be written into existence. Saint Charlotte! Did you ever meet such a martyr?

In truth, every minor character without a future should be afforded the opportunity to complete their story, and I invite you to do so here with brevity and wit. What of me?  It is true, I did remain at home, eight years caring for Father after Mother’s unfortunate barouche accident. When he passed, the good doctor engaged me as his housekeeper. Kitty remains in the village with her dim-witted vicar for whom I write a weekly sermon offering deep reflection and moral guidance. A private arrangement you understand but his small payment keeps me in ribbons.

Rosemary McBryde