Note: I love Mary Bennet, mostly for what she has become a symbol to me - the plain, forgotten ones; the boorish and unlikeable ones. Mary Bennet is the part of me I have been told to hate but I am slowly accepting to be a part of me.

This was a first chapter I drafted a year back but never found the inspiration to finish. Now, I once more found my muse and despite the short chapter, I hope you would like this. Thank you.

I

Longbourn, Hertfordshire

Miss Mary Bennet, third of the so-called group of lovely Bennet sisters, stopped being described as lovely the moment she turned ten and started to follow after her older sister Elizabeth's footsteps and read books to try and gain their father's affection. The most common description given to her as she grew older was 'severe, dull, and boorish'.

The world has always been cruel to those who lack the appearance society dictates they must have. Mary, unfortunately, was not blessed with the kindness that amplifies Jane's beauty nor the good humour that makes the crowd fall for Elizabeth's sharp tongue. Mary is plain in appearance with a penchant for sermons and words that makes everyone frown at her. She was the personification of all things society says a well-bred should not be.

Her most frequent critic lives so close to her - her own mother. So, it was not a surprise that her mother began to complain when it came to light that her sister Elizabeth invited her to spend a season with her in Derbyshire.

"Oh, Mr. Bennet, you must speak with your cruel daughter," she says. "Extending an invitation to Mary and not Kitty? However will my dear child find a husband?"

"Why? Should you not be glad, Mrs. Bennet," her father responds, not looking up from his papers, "that your other daughter shall be in the midst of available bachelors this season?"

"Pah! Mary shall chase suitors away with her glasses and her poor posture," Mama sniffs, "not the way my Kitty would have charmed all of London. My dear girl is handsome and charming. She would be able to bring home a rich gentleman and we shall be fortunately with all our daughters married."

"And Mary?"

"Mary?" Mrs. Bennet's incredulity was evident. "I have long given up on that girl. With her attitude, it is quite clear she will either be spinster or part of the convent."

Mary, who had accidentally listened on to the conversation from behind the door, straightened her back and pushed her chin up. She tried not to show the hurt in her eyes as she knocked on the door and pushed it open.

"Mama, Papa," she greeted, "I do agree that Kitty would benefit more on a chance to have a season out in London."

"Have you been eavesdropping on us, young lady?" Her father says with mirth, but she also saw the way he looked at her mother with a stern look.

She and her father had never been close - not the way he and Elizabeth ever were. But with the loss of his favorite daughter, he found solace in her and their hours of quiet reading in the library. Had she been younger, Mary would have been hurt at being the second choice but she had grown a thicker skin over the years. She would be happy with the scraps of leftover affection her father would give her.

And it seems he found he would finally defend his middle child.

"Pardon me, sir," she looked down, "I did not mean to do so but it is our hour for reading."

"Quite right, my dear," Father mused and waved her mother out of the room. "Now, Mrs. Bennet, it is time for my hour of reading with our daughter." He said when his wife protested.

Her mother gave a huff and left the room, but not before throwing her father a dirty look. She didn't deign Mary with another glance on her way out. She did, however, slammed the door on her way out to showcase her displeasure.

Mary sat in the armchair near her father. She was silent for a minute, the tick tock of the clock counting the moments that passed loud in her plain} ears. She could not focus on her book.

"You are thinking far too loud, my dear," her father said. "Might you share your thoughts with your father?"

She closed her book and sighed, "I fear I may have caused mother to be upset with you."

"Never you mind," her father waved her concerns away. "Your mother and I always have our disputes. This time is no different and the fault does not lie with you."

"But, father," she squared her nerves, "mother is correct in her words. Kitty is more personable than I. She shall be a more delightful company to Mrs. Darcy. And it is truth that her chances for marriage is infinitely higher than mine."

She looked down on her lap, unable to look at her father's eyes.

Mr. Bennet, for all his faults, truly did love all his daughters. It is true that he does play favourites with them but he wanted to believe that he does show them his love. Looking at his middle daughter, he felt like he failed as a father.

"My dearest Mary," he said, "I fear I must apologize to you."

Shocked, the middle Bennet met her father's sorrowful eyes. "Whatever do you mean?" She asked.

"I have been most remiss of my duty to you," he said. "I have been most unkind in my silence against your mother."

"Father?"

"My dear, it seems to me that despite your glasses, you are blind to your own beauty."

She gave a laugh, "Father, please, there is no need for jests."

"I am not jesting," he said. "Mary, you look like my family, you know. And your Grandmother Bennet, bless her soul, was always called beautiful. But it is not just her physical qualities that attract everyone to her. It was her kind heart that did."

"I am not kind," Mary admitted. "I have stopped being naive, Papa. People have called me boorish and stern and pedantic, never kind. That is Jane, not I.

"As for beautiful? Papa, I know that I resemble Lizzy's colour, but that is the only thing that could liken me to beautiful."

Mr. Bennet frowned. "Mary-"

The girl cut him off, "Papa, please stop. You are being most generous but do not lie, I beg of you." She looked down and tears pricked her eyes as she whispered, "After all, if you continue, I may believe the lies."

Mr. Bennet knew he could not force his daughter to see what he sees when she had years of people telling her her faults.

"If I must," he said, "however I shall not accept any other reasons. You are to go to your sister for the season."

"But Kitty-!"

"Kitty is not who Lizzy asked for, correct?" He opened his book and returned his focus there, ending all protests from his daughter. "Now, pack your trunk, Mary. I shall send for the carriage. You can leave as soon as tomorrow mid-morning."

Mary felt her shoulders sag and her knees lose its strength. All she could do is stare in bafflement at her father, book on her lap forgotten.