The fact that Aunt was breeding was supposed to be a great secret, but I overheard her talking about it with Jane and Elizabeth one evening when the three of them were in the breakfast room making clothes for the poor. For the first time I had been allowed to help: Aunt had set me to cutting lengths of ribbon. But after a while I became sleepy—I was not yet nine years old and it was well past my bedtime—and the warm and tranquil room, the murmur of female voices, had lulled me into a sort of trance.
And in this trance or waking dream of mine the following exchange occurred, or something very like it:
“Dear Aunt, only look! Mary has cut this ribbon into such short lengths that it is now quite good for nothing.”
“Oh, I’m sure we shall find a use for it, Lizzy. Perhaps I shall use it to trim Baby’s caps.”
“I know Mama means to make you a present of a christening cap and robe, dear Aunt.” (This from Jane.)
“Do you wish for a boy or a girl, Aunt?”
“A healthy child is all I would wish for, Eliza.”
“Ah, but supposing Uncle’s property was entailed away from the female line, what then?”
There was a pause and then my aunt spoke very quick. She thought that there had been quite enough said on that subject already. And then: “Poor Mary. She will have to be carried upstairs to bed. Do you ring the bell for Nan, Lizzy.”
This conversation gave me much food for thought, and I confess to my shame it also gave me a taste for eavesdropping, for a few days later I deliberately listened to another conversation between the three of them.
I had not intended to eavesdrop precisely—I had gone downstairs in search of Lydia’s new kitten—but in passing the breakfast room I noticed that the door was ajar and a sudden burst of laughter roused my curiosity. What on earth did they all find so amusing? Even Jane was laughing loudly. And it occurred to me (as I crept ever closer to the door) that the lost kitten would serve as an excellent pretext if anyone were to ask what I was about. It was soon clear that they were talking—and laughing—about Mr. Benjamin Knowles—the young curate Mama had recently engaged to help me with my studies.
“He claims to have had visions, Aunt! He once told Jane he had conversed with an angel!”
(More laughter.)
“He is undoubtedly a pious young man, Aunt, but I fear he is misguided.”
“Papa thinks him the stupidest young man he has ever met.”
“We are a little concerned that Mary’s education will suffer. It seems to consist entirely of religious instruction.”
“He has her reading the Bible morning, noon, and night—the Bible and Fordyce’s Sermons. As for geography, it is all the Holy Land. They are forever poring over maps of the Holy Land.”
“But my dears—” Aunt had been laughing but now she sounded serious. “It is your parents to whom you should be addressing these concerns, not me.”
“No, it is of no use. It is the one thing they agree upon: that Mr. Knowles must stay.”
“Mary is so attached to him, you see.”
“I daresay you have heard of the Bushells, Aunt? Of Mary’s experience in that family?”
Aunt said that yes, she had heard about Bushell’s mistreatment of myself and Kitty: “A shocking thing to have happened.”
There was a pause during which I felt my heart beat fast. The name Bushell invariably had that effect on me. But I also hated to hear poor Mr. Knowles traduced, for to me he had been unfailingly kind and gentle. And I was especially grateful to him for perceiving that I needed spectacles. He himself needed always to wear spectacles.
“And Mary’s progress in other subjects?” Aunt was again speaking. “Arithmetic, for instance?”
“She cannot cast up a single sum with accuracy. She is completely ignorant of the rudiments.”
“I fear she has been hurried through the different rules.”
Aunt spoke again. “Yet Mary is so very attached to him.”
“And I believe he is sincerely attached to her,” said Jane. “I know he considers her to be amazingly clever.”
There was a moment’s pause and then all three of them exploded into laughter.
4.
I could scarce believe my ears. And my father undoubtedly shared this view of my abilities! My first reactions were passionately contradictory. I would prove them wrong if it was the last thing I ever did, confound them all with a dazzling display of genius. In the next breath I resolved to be completely idle—leave off my studies, burn my books. Since I was so stupid, what did it matter?
But the last part of their conversation was every bit as hurtful as the first. Aunt had told Jane and Elizabeth she believed I was lonely, that I lived too much apart from my sisters: “It must be hard for Mary, situated as she is. You two are exceptionally close and Lydia and Kitty are inseparable, but she has nobody. It must be very hard.”
Elizabeth then spoke in a tone uncharacteristically serious: “What you say is very true. I wonder it had not occurred to me before.”
“But Aunt, whenever Lizzy and I ask Mary to come on walks with us or to join in games with the younger ones, she nearly always refuses.”
“That is to say whenever you ask her,” said Elizabeth. “The truth is I never do. I find Mary’s company tedious.”
“My dear Lizzy.” Aunt’s tone was both amused and disapproving. “If Mr. Knowles is as you describe and Mary is with him for the chief part of every day—”
“I know, I know, I see that now. I have not been kind to her. But I shall try to do better. I shall make amends.”
And Elizabeth did try to make amends, unquestionably. She invited me to walk to the farm with her, to practice duets with her, and on several occasions—with real heroism—offered to accompany me when I sang. She also made me a present of an old and much loved doll I had coveted when I was seven but now no longer wanted.
But I could not allow myself the luxury of loving Elizabeth; I could not respond to friendly overtures now that I knew my company was so irksome to her. Also, it struck me that she was herself a little lonely at this time and less likely to be discriminating. Jane was beginning to put away childish things.
Like most such transitions, it was uneven. One day she would be playing at hopscotch with her skirts tucked up, the next would see her blushing and looking conscious when a clerk from Uncle Philips’s office stared at her. Jane had always been a remarkably pretty girl with a great sweetness of expression but she was now becoming quite beautiful. When we walked into Meryton people would look at her so, it was embarrassing—and not men merely; she had the sort of face that also charmed women.
My mother of course took a vicarious delight in this admiration, prophesying to Lady Lucas that Jane would marry a duke someday: “There’s no denying she has a higher claim than most by virtue of her sweet face, and I’ve not the least doubt she would make a charming duchess. And then, you know, she would be waited on by liveried footmen and I daresay dine off gold plate every day. Not that I would wish her to marry without affection of course.”
Absurd as it might seem, I believe Elizabeth too saw Jane as somehow set apart from the generality of girls—if not destined to be a duchess then certainly deserving homage as a superior being. But for whatever reason—loneliness, ennui, disgust at Mama’s vulgar aspirations for Jane—Elizabeth at this time began to read and study a great deal more; a master was engaged to teach her the Italian language, and she practiced her music assiduously. She also persevered with Aunt Gardiner’s work for the poor families in the parish, as indeed did Jane.
Meanwhile, the Gardiner family continued to increase—there were now two little girls, Susan and Virginia—and perforce their visits to Longbourn became less frequent. But Jane and Elizabeth had both been to stay with the Gardiners in London, and more recently Jane had visited on her own.
It was on this last visit when Jane had just turned fifteen that she met a very eligible young man, who—if Mama is to be believed—fell in love with her. His name was Mr.
Leigh Stanley and although he was not, alas, a duke, he was heir to a baronetcy and stood to inherit a sizeable estate in Gloucestershire.
I never heard the full story of Mr. Stanley. I knew that he had sent Jane some verses but Jane seemed her usual serene self when she returned home, and I remember thinking that she could not have been very much in love because she laughed when Elizabeth made fun of Mr. Stanley’s poem.
The poem had half a dozen verses but I can recall only one:
I saw her first in Gracechurch Street
One hot bright August morn.
She wore a chipstraw bonnet
And kirtle of pink lawn.
I remember Elizabeth laughing as she read it out to me. She had come to the breakfast room where Mr. Knowles was giving me my scripture lesson—she had not yet given up trying to make amends.
“Dear Mary! Have you ever heard such stuff?”
“Now then, Miss Lizzy,” said Mr. Knowles. “We must not be too ready to ridicule.”
“What is a kirtle?” I wanted to know. (I did not think the poem at all bad.)
“Oh! ’tis an archaic word for a gown—and Jane does not even own a pink gown. It is the most absurd thing.”
Mr. Knowles then said that his late father had once written a poem: “A lovely little acrostic upon my mother’s Christian name it was—my dear mother’s Christian name is Imogen—I wish I could remember it. He composed it when they were courting.”
Mr. Knowles had taken off his spectacles, closing his eyes in an effort of recall and I saw that Elizabeth was having difficulty keeping her countenance. After a moment she turned to me: “Jane and I plan to walk to Clarke’s Library. Do you care to come with us?”
I wanted very much to go but her attitude towards Mr. Knowles had unsettled me; it reminded me of her earlier scornful comments. And my loyalty to Mr. Knowles was now absolute. I said: “I am afraid I have a great deal of work I must attend to.”
“Just as you choose.”
It would be the last time for a long while that Elizabeth asked me to go anywhere or do anything with her, and I wish now that I had accepted. If the two of us had been better friends it might have made a difference later when Netherfield Park was let—not, I hasten to add, to Mr. Bingley; we have not yet come to Mr. Bingley—but to a very personable and clever man called Jasper Coates.
Elizabeth conceived a violent infatuation for Mr. Coates—she was fourteen at the time—and if she had been in my confidence, she might have been spared a deal of heartache, for I knew a thing or two about Mr. Coates that she did not. But the manner in which I came by this knowledge—and the threat it posed to my own peace of mind—will take a little time and paper to set down.
5.
Stories about Mr. Jasper Coates began to circulate long before he arrived at Netherfield. He was reported to be a single man of about eight and twenty, living in London, a writer of novels but with an independent fortune of some six thousand a year. His widowed sister and her two young sons were also to live at Netherfield, and this same sister was to keep house for him.
Sir William Lucas was the first to visit the newcomer; he called at Longbourn later to tell us what he had learned.
Yes, he assured Mama, Mr. Coates was a single man and a fine young man too, very handsome—if Sir William was any judge—with an affable, well-bred manner, although a little too informal in his dress (he had been in his shirtsleeves, supervising the unpacking of a crate of books when Sir William called).
However, when questioned further by Jane and Elizabeth as to what sort of man Mr. Coates really was—his interests and pursuits—Sir William could offer little: He guessed Mr. Coates’s age to be thirty or thereabouts, and his weight to be about thirteen stone.
But then Sir William recalled that while the crate of books was being emptied, Mr. Coates had set aside several identical three-volume sets in red leather, all with gilded page fore-edges, and ordered that they be placed under lock and key.
“His own work!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “And what was the title, Sir William?”
Sir William could not recall the title except that it was encased in a scroll and the lettering was in gold.
“And what of this man’s sister?” Mama wanted to know. “And her little boys?”
Here, Sir William was better informed. It was Mr. Coates’s stepsister, a Mrs. Rovere, who was the mother of the boys, and it was her mother who would be keeping house for them. As to the boys, Sir William had met them both; their names were George and Samuel—remarkably well-grown, rosy-faced fellows, and the older boy, George, a talented young musician. Their ages were twelve and eight.
“The exact same ages as Mary and Lydia! Well, and so what of the mother? Did you meet her?”
“No, I did not have that honor—although I saw a lady as I was leaving—a remarkably fine lady on the stairs as I came away, whom I assumed to be Mrs. Rovere—dark hair and eyes and a decided air of fashion.”
“Well, Mr. Bennet is to call on Mr. Coates tomorrow—if he does not put it off again—and after Mr. Coates has returned the visit, I shall invite them all to dinner.”
Mama was as good as her word, and one week later the Bennet family gathered in the Longbourn drawing room to await the arrival of the guests. It was but a small dinner party—only the Netherfield family and Sir William and Lady Lucas had been invited—but Mama had also asked the two Rovere boys, observing to my father that today’s childhood playmates often became tomorrow’s beaux.
We younger children would not be joining the rest of the company in the dining room of course—we would be eating quite apart in the breakfast room—but for the first time Elizabeth was to dine with the adults, and I saw that she was quite excited at the prospect. Her face, bent over her needlework, had a heightened color and she was behaving in an unusually quiet and decorous fashion.
I also noticed that she was wearing a new gown—white with a sort of silvery trim—and as I watched her sewing, it seemed to me that she had become all at once maidenly and mysterious, that she had joined Jane in an esoteric world to which as yet I possessed no key.
Perhaps my father sensed something of this too, for he said suddenly: “That is a new gown, Lizzy, I think?”
“Yes, Papa. Do you approve?”
She was looking at him and smiling in her usual way, and he—possibly reassured—returned to his book.
My mother meanwhile was becoming restless. “The Lucases are late. And Sir William promised me they would come early.”
And then when nobody spoke—Kitty and Lydia being engrossed in a game of spillikins in the corner—she again burst out: “I do so hate it when people do not keep their word. And nowadays that man thinks of nothing but his own importance. His head is full of the Court of St. James’s—everything is the Court of St. James’s—”
“Of whom are you speaking?” My father’s tone was decidedly unfriendly.
Mama for once took the hint: “Nothing, nobody. ’Tis of no consequence.”
But then her angry, restless glance fell on me. “For heaven’s sake, Mary, that gown if I do not mistake is the one I told you to leave off wearing—it is by far too tight and now look, look!” (pulling at my sleeve) “Here is the seam split open entirely.”
“Mama,” said Jane. “I believe I can hear a carriage.”
But Mama’s attention was now fixed on my split seam: “I cannot pin it—there is not time enough to pin it—you will have to go and change. Go put on your blue checked muslin. Ask Nan to help you. Go on, girl! Hurry!”
6.
I did not hurry, I dawdled. And I did not ask Nan to help me change my gown. I was very angry with my mother. There had been something about her treatment of me, a contempt, which I very much resented and vowed I would make her sorry for.
I knew such a thought was sinful, that Mr. Knowles would be shocked, but the idea of making Mama sorry was too sweet to relinquish in a hurry, and while I removed my spectacles and polished them (slowly) and stared at my reflection in the
glass, I meditated on how best I could punish her.
Meanwhile the guests had arrived—and by the time I fixed on a most exquisite punishment, they had all left the drawing room and gone in to dinner. The punishment was nothing more than that I had determined to return downstairs still wearing my torn gown—in fact I had made the split rather bigger.
Nan was serving soup to Lydia and Kitty and the two Rovere boys when I entered the breakfast room.
The younger boy said: “And who might you be, Miss?”
Lydia thought this so amusing she spluttered her soup: “That is my sister Mary, you rude boy.”
The boy was cramming bread into his mouth and talking at the same time. “Why is she dressed in rags then, pray? I thought she was a maidservant.”
More spluttering from Lydia, with Kitty copying her as usual, but now the other boy spoke up sharp: “Stow it, Sam!” And then turning to me: “I am George Rovere and I apologize for my brother’s manners.”
He had a very pleasant, albeit foreign-looking face, red-cheeked and full-lipped and with beautiful dark eyes—so dark it was hard to tell where pupil and iris met. His manner too seemed slightly exotic; he inclined his head when he spoke and used formal phrases. But at the same time he was eager to talk and full of questions. And while Lydia and Sam and Kitty sniggered and spluttered and when Nan’s back was turned rolled pills of bread and threw them at each other, George cross-examined me:
Did I enjoy living in the country? Did I have my own pony? Was I interested in music? Did I sing or play the pianoforte?
After I answered these questions and a dozen more besides—he was disappointed to learn that I did not own a pony and had never been taught to ride—I ventured to ask a question of my own: Had he and his brother always lived with their uncle Mr. Coates?
His reply surprised me. No, it was only in the last four years that he and Sam had lived in London with Mr. Coates—who by the bye was their step-uncle, not their real uncle. Before that, they had lived in Italy, in Florence.
The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice Page 2
