“I may say I read it ‘hot off the press.’ A friend of Edward’s has an interest in a publishing house and he gave us a copy. I enjoyed it immensely. All about a young man who falls in love with an Italian lady, a widow, many years older than himself. But the lady happens to be the widow of his own father—”
Papa said: “I take it this is Mr. Coates’s version of Oedipus?”
Aunt laughed. “The lady was his stepmother merely. But then a little later he falls in love with her daughter by a previous marriage.” Aunt paused in her recital, perhaps belatedly conscious that the story was not suited to the dinner table, where there were children present.
Mama had no such reservations. “Go on, Sister. What then?”
“Oh! the usual vicissitudes. It’s a great while since I read it.”
Mama was peeling an apple for Lydia. “I daresay it was a bit warm, was it? Most of your novels are.”
Aunt and Elizabeth exchanged smiles (they were constantly exchanging smiles) but Aunt said merely: “I daresay. But very convincing nonetheless.”
My father was also smiling. “Founded upon his own experience perhaps.”
Mama cried out: “My dear Mr. Bennet! You’re not suggesting that Mrs. Falco—”
“What was the name of the book, Aunt?” Elizabeth was adept at heading Mama off whenever she sailed too close to the wind.
“It was called Paola. But you won’t find it in the circulating library. The author had a change of heart shortly after the book was bound and tried to arrest publication. When that failed, he bought up every copy he could lay his hands on.”
I sat very still, experiencing one of those moments when one recognizes a truth both logically and intuitively. Nonna’s second name was Paola and Mr. Coates not infrequently called her by it. And innocent and ignorant as I was, I had long sensed that Mrs. Rovere’s hostility towards Nonna was founded on jealousy.
9.
“What is it you are reading, Mary, pray?”
Mrs. Rovere, still wearing her dressing gown, had entered the Netherfield library just as I was turning the first page of Paola. Concealment was impossible: She had already plucked the book from my grasp. All I could do was wait, speechless and trembling, for her anger to break.
And I had been so certain I was safe! Mr. Coates had left for London, Nonna had gone into Meryton to shop, and George and Sam were out riding. I had watched both boys out of the house before going to the library and unlocking—with shaking hands and pounding heart—the big break-front bookcase where Mr. Coates kept copies of his own works. But now as I sat, head bowed, I heard only the rustle of swiftly turned pages and then—incredibly—a burst of laughter.
“Good God!” (seating herself beside me) “I had quite forgotten.”
I glanced up at her. She was utterly engrossed, smiling as she read. Several minutes passed and I was beginning to breathe more easily when she said, without lifting her eyes from the page: “How came you by this? Did Jasper give it to you?”
“Oh no, ma’am!” I struggled to speak collectedly: “The key had been left in the bookcase and so I—I know I oughtn’t to have opened it without Mr. Coates’s leave but my aunt—yesterday my aunt spoke of the book so highly, that I ventured—”
“Your aunt? Your mother’s sister? The one who lives in Meryton?”
“Oh no, that is my aunt Philips. No, I was speaking of Aunt Gardiner—she is a great reader, my aunt Gardiner—”
But her attention had returned to Paola. She must have read for five minutes—it seemed an eternity—and then she laughed an embarrassed, groaning sort of laugh such as a poor joke might elicit and looked at me.
Her look was not unfriendly. She was happy to have an audience—a sycophantic servant would have done as well as a docile child. She wanted to talk.
“Very few people have read this novel, you know, Mary.”
“Indeed?” (I thought it best not to repeat what Aunt had said.)
“Jasper sent it to a publisher—fare un esperimento, you understand? He thought nobody would want it. And then they offered him a hundred guineas. That’s a lot of money, wouldn’t you agree, a hundred guineas? Very hard to say no to a hundred guineas.”
She was now tracing the gold scroll about the title. “He should never have accepted of course. He should have known that people would recognize the characters, the circumstances—everything pointed to Mama and myself. But it was very much a young man’s novel, very confessionale. He didn’t consider our reputations. Of course Mama—being Mama—declared she didn’t care.”
She paused, frowning, and then went on in a very passable imitation of Nonna: “Reputation is no matter when a person is making art.”
I laughed—I knew it was expected of me—and she continued: “Yes, well I happen to think it does matter. And Jasper eventually came round to my way of thinking—too late of course—he then had to spend a small fortune buying up the publisher’s stock.”
“Yes, my aunt did mention—”
But she was not listening, intent on justifying herself: “We all have to live in the world, Mary, and I had my boys to consider. And I have no assets—no capital—apart from my good name.” (giving me one of her disappointing smiles) “And my good looks.”
“Nature’s coin,” I murmured. I was then afraid she would think me impertinent. “Mr. Knowles had me learn many such aphorisms—on account of my plainness and my sisters’ good looks.”
“No, you’ll never be a beauty, that’s certain.” She rose and walked to the bookcase and took down the second volume of Paola. “You must cultivate your talents, your music—you must study to become interessante.” (leafing through the book as she spoke) “Perhaps you will write a novel yourself one day, who knows?”
“You’re pleased to make fun of me, ma’am.”
“Not at all.” She laid aside the second volume and took down the third. “It’s next to impossible for a woman to make her own way in the world, but if I had the least little talent I assure you I’d be laboring night and day to turn it to good account—to earn some money for myself. As it is, I’m reduced to muddling along with Jasper—who will never marry me now—or accepting an offer from Fred Purvis.”
I was astounded. “But Mr. Purvis is so… so…”
She laughed. “So so rich, Mary! I have it on good authority he’s worth twelve thousand a year.”
“But ma’am.” The image of Mr. Purvis—an elderly dandy with dyed caramel hair—was so strong I could not believe her to be serious. “You would have to live with him.”
“Ah, but not for long. I have it all planned. I shall engage an Italian cook—and Purvis will then gorge himself. Oh! he will pop off within a year.”
I could not laugh with her. That she should think of marrying Mr. Purvis solely for his money was bad enough, but to plan his death—to joke about it!
“What a solemn little creature you are.” She was now holding all three volumes of Paola. “You peer at me through your spectacles so that I feel quite…” (shaking her head at me, and then when I failed to respond): “Such an unforgiving basilisk stare—you look just like your sister Elizabeth. But really, you must not judge me, you know. ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’ I feel sure your Mr. Knowles has impressed that upon you. Should you like to read this then?”
Incredibly, she was handing me the volumes. “I really don’t think it will corrupt you—the whole thing is such ancient history now. It may even help you to understand us better. God knows we’re all of us in need of understanding. Only you must not tell them at Longbourn that it has any factual basis.”
“No indeed, ma’am. Thank you. I shall never let it out of my hands, I promise.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t object to your older sisters reading it. Elizabeth is a great reader, is she not? I would be interested to know what Elizabeth Bennet thinks of Paola.”
10.
Strange to say, once Paola was in my possession I no longer felt eager to read it. I had begun the first chapter tha
t same evening—a lengthy account of a rough channel crossing, it was all cresting swells and creaking masts, the stuff that boys delight in. Afterwards, having consigned the volumes to the depths of my bureau drawer, I was not impatient to take it out again. (At the same time, I was not about to let Elizabeth read it either.)
But in the days that followed, the secrecy of the whole business began to weigh on me. While I had grown used to concealing my thoughts from the members of my family, I was not comfortable hiding anything from Mr. Knowles—still less from George. But if I were to confide in Mr. Knowles, I was afraid I would never be permitted to go to Netherfield again. And I could not, in conscience, unburden myself to George. This then was the end of the perfect confidence that we had hitherto enjoyed. Now, when we were practicing together, I was in constant fear of Mrs. Rovere walking in. She would invariably ask: “Well Mary, and how are you progressing?” And such was my shame at having to prevaricate—knowing George believed her to be alluding to the Mozart sonata—I could not answer without blushing and stammering.
Images of the three red leather volumes in my bureau drawers (wrapped now in petticoats and covered with a cunning latticework of handkerchiefs) began to surface in my dreams. Indeed, I am convinced that the melancholia that was later to afflict me had its roots in this experience. But I am getting ahead of myself. For the most part I was cheerful enough. I constantly practiced the Mozart sonata, with and without George, and that helped to preserve my peace of mind.
My father meanwhile had forbidden all discussion about the musical evening (I suspect because it was of such concern to my mother), but on the morning of the great day just as we were sitting down to breakfast I saw Jane go up to him and whisper, and shortly afterwards he turned to me and said: “So, Mary. Your concert is tonight, I understand. And are you thoroughly prepared for your ordeal?”
“I hope so, sir.” (I never knew how to respond when he quizzed me thus. Elizabeth was able to deflect his irony, challenge his assumptions—always with grace and good humor of course—and he permitted it because he loved her. The rest of us were not granted the liberty.) “We are to play Mozart’s Sonata for Two Pianos in D Major.”
He nodded. “George is to play the other instrument, I take it?”
“Yes, sir.”
As always when he gave me his attention, I felt myself becoming awkward and stiff. In my imagination I was again three years old; his look conveyed such contrary feelings—pity and malice both, or so I fancied.
Now I watched him slice off the top of his egg and prayed he would turn his attention to someone else, but Lydia’s evil genius prompted her to ask: “Shall you be going to the concert, Papa?”
“Oh, I think not. Unless—” He was looking at me again. “Unless Mary would be heartbroken if I did not.” I had not the least idea how to respond and judged it safer to be silent. “While Mary is making up her mind then, I should be obliged if someone would pass me the salt.”
It was this sort of treatment—the inference that I was slow-witted, the slighting of my accomplishments, my music especially—that made me harden my heart towards him. (Later, when I was suffering from melancholia, I found the means of similarly wounding him. In response to inquiries after my health—for I was for a time most seriously ill—I would stare at him without speaking and his bemused expression gave me—I confess it—the most exquisite satisfaction.)
But I digress. After breakfast I went to my room to practice, and a little later Lydia and Kitty and young Susan Gardiner burst in without knocking. I was wanted in Mama’s dressing room immediately: Aunt Gardiner had finished the new gown I was to wear at the concert.
“And Mama has a present for you,” said Lydia.
“And you are to go to Netherfield just as soon as you are dressed,” said Kitty. “Papa is to send for the horses.”
Lydia now began plunking notes on my pianoforte and Susan Gardiner—a mischievous little two-year-old—was reaching up to touch the keys so that I was obliged to close the lid. Lydia then began her usual moan that I never shared my toys with anyone.
“A pianoforte is not a toy, Lydia.”
“Anyway, we know something about somebody at Netherfield that you do not.”
“Indeed?”
“You will never guess what. Me and Kitty are the only ones in this family who know.”
“Maria Lucas told us in confidence. You will never guess.”
“Very well then, I will never guess.” (I knew the exchange could last a quarter of an hour if I did not concede as much.)
“Mrs. Rovere and Mr. Frederick Purvis are betrothed.”
“It is to be announced at your concert,” said Kitty. “They are to make their home in London.”
“And George and Sam are to go with them.”
The realization that I would no longer be able to go to Netherfield—that I would revert to my former friendless state—so shocked me that I could not immediately reply.
Lydia seemed to read my mind. She said, not unkindly: “Poor Mary. You will lose your little playmate.”
My new gown was laid out in Mama’s bedchamber. Aunt Gardiner helped me on with it, and as she tied the sash edged with beautiful old Buckinghamshire lace she asked me if anything were the matter: “You are not worrying about playing a wrong note, I hope?”
I shook my head. The gown was so fine it seemed to make my face look less plain, and I took comfort from that. And when I walked into the adjoining dressing room where the rest of my family had gathered, I experienced the novel sensation of being the center of attention.
Lydia ran to seize my hand, making me turn about, whereupon everyone clapped and little Susan Gardiner in imitation of Mama cried out: “Oh la!”
Mama now presented me with a black onyx cross on a gold chain, and Aunt, perhaps observing that I was a little overset, then said: “Come, my dear. We must have the gown off so that Nan may give it a last press.”
When I was once more in Mama’s bedchamber with Nan in attendance I heard Lydia boasting that she knew something about somebody at Netherfield, and a moment later she was repeating the secret of Mrs. Rovere’s betrothal.
“Are you certain of it?” Elizabeth’s voice sounded a little breathless, and shortly afterwards she came to me and said: “You are going to Netherfield soon, Mary?”
I told her that Papa was to send for the carriage just as soon as the horses could be spared from the farm.
“They will all be leaving I imagine. The lease will be canceled. He will give up the place.”
I had not seen her so agitated since the time two years back when she had accidentally pushed Jane down the back stairs. But then her mouth curved into the smile that always unsettled me—it was so like our father’s. She said: “Perhaps it isn’t true. I shall not shed tears until I’m certain.”
11.
As soon as I saw George though, I knew that it was true. He was up in the old schoolroom, and I saw at once that he had been crying.
“I have heard the news, George.” (I spoke as if to one bereaved.) “When is the wedding to be?”
He went to the window, averting his face. “I neither know nor care. But we are to remove to London the day after tomorrow. He has taken a house for us in Russell Square.”
“So soon!”
“Mother says Sam is to have his own pony to ride in the park every day—trying to turn him up sweet. And Sam is such an idiot, he thinks we will all live happily ever after.”
When next he spoke, his voice was not quite steady. “Nonna says she will not go with us. She will remain here with my uncle.”
“Mr. Coates means to stay on at Netherfield?”
He was now fiddling with the window-catch, twisting it this way and that. “My mother says it is because of your sister—she says he cannot bear to leave his little Lizzy. She calls your sister la lucertola, ‘the lizard,’ you understand—cold-blooded and with black, unblinking eyes. She was harping on about her forever last night.”
George went on tw
isting the window-catch. I felt sick in my stomach, unable to think clearly. The tangle of loves and jealousies was past understanding—certainly past the understanding of my twelve-year-old self. If Mrs. Rovere loved Mr. Coates, why was she marrying Mr. Purvis? If she did not love him, why was she so jealous of Elizabeth? And did Nonna too still love Mr. Coates? Why else had she chosen to remain at Netherfield? And what were Mr. Coates’s feelings towards them both? What were his feelings towards Elizabeth?
George meanwhile had pushed open the window and was now looking out across the yard (the schoolroom overlooked the stables and, beyond them, the walled kitchen garden and orchard).
“Mary,” said he suddenly, speaking soft. “Come and look here.”
“What is it?” All I could see was one of the grooms leading Mr. Coates’s horse back to the stable-yard.
“Your sister Elizabeth,” he whispered. “Cannot you see?”
I could then (but dimly) make out the figure of a girl standing beside a clump of hollyhocks in the shadow of the garden wall. “Are you sure it is she?”
“Cannot you see?”
“No,” I whispered, annoyed. “Plainly I cannot.”
“Well it is her, I swear.”
We both watched, and after about a minute Mr. Coates appeared, walking from the direction of the stables. The figure straight away emerged from the shadow of the wall (I saw then that it was indeed Elizabeth) whereupon Mr. Coates went swiftly to her, taking her arm and leading her—bundling her almost—along the path to the orchard. I could barely make them out once they reached the cover of the trees, but George continued to peer after them.
“Well?” I whispered, and then in a normal voice: “Can you still see them?”
He did not reply, so intent was he on looking.
“George?”
He pulled shut the window and I saw that he was no longer looking sullen and despairing—in fact quite the reverse. “Seems my mother was in the right of it after all.”
The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice Page 4
