“What do you mean by that, pray?”
“Good heavens, Mary, they were kissing! Don’t pretend you didn’t see.”
“I don’t believe you!”
He shrugged. “Have it your way.” I heard him mutter something in which only the word “blind” was audible.
“What? What did you say?” (He had now turned back to the window and I slapped his arm.) “You and your sotto voce rude remarks. What did you say?”
“Oh, stow it.”
The sight of his back—so upright whilst spying on my sister—enraged me. “How dare you speak to me like that!—You know I cannot see as well as most people. And look at you now! The use you’re putting your eyes to. Oh! you should be ashamed.”
He ignored this, whereupon I pinched him—I confess it—but the shame of Elizabeth’s behavior—of his witnessing it—provoked me so. “You’re no better than Peeping Tom.”
He then opened the window as wide as its hinges would permit and leaned out to better view the lovers.
I longed to push him headlong out. Instead, I said that I was glad he was going to London, and when he did not answer, I ran from the room.
I did not at first know where to go. I was desperate to sit quietly, to check my murderous thoughts—the desire to defenestrate George was so strong—and in the end I went down to the little ground-floor chapel. The room was never used for worship by the present tenants but occasionally George and I went there to play upon an old spinet housed in an oak case designed to resemble a Bible.
After praying for forgiveness and saying over the 121st psalm, I opened up the spinet and began tremblingly to play. But whereas I could usually rely upon music to rescue me from myself, now it quite failed me. I did not know with whom I was most angry—George or Elizabeth. They had both behaved disgracefully. And then the thought that George would in two days be gone began to work on me. What after all had he done to deserve being slapped and pinched and insulted? He had spied on a couple of lovers, one of whom was my immodest sister. What normal thirteen-year-old boy could resist such temptation?
And just as I was about to go in search of him to apologize, there was a knock at the door and he poked his head around.
“Mary. I have been looking for you everywhere.” (approaching with mock trepidation) “You are not going to hit me again, are you?” And although not normally a demonstrative boy, he now gave my arm a pat. “Your sister has left. My uncle sent her home in the carriage.” A pause and then: “I ought not to have spied on her, I know.”
“Oh! let us not talk about Elizabeth.”
“No, I have been thinking about her—about the whole business. A girl like your sister—she would never do that sort of thing I’m sure, unless she really cared for someone.”
“No.” I was not interested in finding excuses for Elizabeth but if George was, I would humor him.
“And when people fall in love, you know, they go a bit mad.”
“Is that so?” I forbore to ask how he could possibly know.
“Especially a girl of spirit, like your sister.”
And now I felt the familiar pang of jealousy: Elizabeth it seemed had won herself another heart.
“What is it, Mary? I will not speak of this to anybody, I swear. Your sister’s reputation is safe with me.”
I looked up at him. He was now dressed for the concert in a black velvet jacket and matching trousers, his dark hair carefully combed. He looked flushed and anxious, and I saw that his concern was all for myself, for my feelings as a sister. I said: “Should you like us to practice the sonata now?”
He at once sat down beside me and for the next couple of hours, in spite of everything, I believe we were both very happy.
Only Mrs. Rovere was present when George and I went up to the drawing room. She was standing at one of the long sashed windows and looking quite magnificent in a gown the color of old gold and with a great rope of pearls about her neck. She said: “This promises to be an interesting evening.”
George then said something under his breath but I cut in quickly: “I have heard the news, ma’am—the news of your betrothal. I’m sure I wish both you and Mr. Purvis very happy.”
She smiled her unsatisfactory smile. “I am on the watch for him now as you may gather. I do not want anyone to snub him—my mother has been saying some very cutting things, calling him il bottegaio and saying he smells of the shop.”
“Which he does,” muttered George.
His mother then rounded on him, telling him in Italian he was a rude, ungrateful boy: “I do this for you and for Sam—not for myself!”
Before George could answer back, I said: “I hear you are removing to London the day after tomorrow, ma’am?”
“Yes and not a moment too soon. I tell my mother she should be grateful. She may stay on at Netherfield now and have Jasper all to herself.” She paused and then addressed me in a conspiratorial whisper: “What think you of my pearls? Frederick bought them for me as a wedding gift.”
“Very fine.” (Privately, I thought them quite vulgar; some were the size of sparrows’ eggs.)
“I confess I did not look to receive quite such a magnificent proof of affection.”
Again George said something sotto voce but fortunately his mother did not hear; she was peering out the window. “Here comes a carriage! Certainly not Frederick’s—the horses look to be great lumbering farm beasts.”
“No, it is my family’s, I believe.”
“Oh good God, I did not mean—” (laughing) “But Frederick’s carriage horses are particularly fine—matched grays and beautiful steppers, costing every bit of three hundred pounds.”
I marveled how in a remarkably short space of time she had so immersed herself in Mr. Purvis’s world, informing herself about his business and possessions—particularly his possessions. But it would surely have been the same with Mr. Coates. I imagined her in the early days of their love—sitting beside him while he wrote, mending his pens and admiring his prose.
My family’s carriage had now drawn to a standstill. Mama was the first to alight, followed by Aunt Gardiner, Jane, and Elizabeth. And after them, to my astonishment, I saw my father emerge.
Mrs. Rovere was equally surprised. “I’m sure I did not expect to see Mr. Bennet.”
“No more did I, ma’am.” (I was secretly delighted however.)
George joined us at the window, and the three of us watched my family mount the stone steps. Jane I saw was wearing her new gown of blue Italian taffeta, and Mama and Aunt had on their best silks. Elizabeth wore her favorite cream sarcenet and a little bronze beaded cap which suited her clear brown complexion admirably.
I felt a pride in their collective good looks—a new experience this, since I had always felt my own inferiority too keenly to appreciate my family’s personal claims. It was also a novelty to feel gratitude towards my father for overcoming his usual indolence. I wondered who—Aunt Gardiner or Jane—had persuaded him to come. Elizabeth would not have had time to think of me or my concert. By itself, the walk to Netherfield must have taken her at least an hour.
Another carriage was now coming down the drive. It was a closed Berlin, bright yellow and highly varnished, pulled by a pair of gray horses—Mr. Purvis’s, I guessed, and Mrs. Rovere soon confirmed it: “Benissimo! It is him!”
She almost ran from the room. And a few minutes later the other pair of lovers—accompanied by my mother and followed by footmen bearing trays of decanters and glasses—walked in.
12.
Even had I not witnessed their earlier clandestine meeting, seeing Elizabeth and Mr. Coates together I am sure I should have guessed their secret. I had never seen my sister look lovelier. She was like the gypsy girl in an old picture-book of mine, dark-eyed and vivid-faced. And Mr. Coates, though he affected interest in what my mother was saying, seemed also happily abstracted.
All conversation was swamped by Mama’s effusions: “Oh, Mr. Coates! I am so happy to hear you will not be leaving Netherfield.
I have a presentiment about this place. When first I came into the neighborhood—when Mr. Bennet brought me to Longbourn as a bride—I said to him that of all the houses hereabouts, there was but one that truly spoke to me, and that one was Netherfield Hall.” Turning to Papa, who was following with Aunt Gardiner and Jane: “Did I not say as much, Mr. Bennet? And if it were not for the fact that it is undoubtedly haunted—else why should the owner not choose to live in it?—I should dearly love to live here myself.”
Mr. Coates then said something about having heard tales of a resident ghost: “A maiden who haunts the kitchen garden and hides behind the hollyhocks.” (Here a swift, sly smile at Elizabeth.)
Mrs. Rovere and Mr. Purvis now showed themselves, and after Mama had made Aunt Gardiner known to them, they immediately moved off—as if they had rehearsed it—to the opposite end of the room. The sight of them together—the dyed-haired old dandy and the beautiful, still youthful woman—was at once comical and shocking. I found it impossible not to stare, and they seemed to want to be stared at, bowing and smiling like a couple of players.
The footmen went up to them with wine but nobody else approached more nearly. Following on the mention of a Netherfield ghost, Mr. Coates and Elizabeth began to talk of novels of phantasy with Mr. Coates taking out his pocket book and writing down the title of a “horrid” romance she was urging him to read. Laughing the while, their heads together, they seemed oblivious to their company.
Papa and Aunt Gardiner now joined George and myself—Papa was always kindly disposed towards George—and after Aunt had retied my sash and otherwise assured herself that my gown was in order, she kept glancing (uneasily I thought) in Elizabeth’s direction.
The Lucases were the last of the guests to arrive, and Nonna came rustling after them, vivaciously assaulting in quick succession Mama and Jane before advancing on her daughter and telling her to speak to other persons “subito.” Short of making a public scene, Mrs. Rovere had no choice but to comply. And Mr. Coates, perhaps conscious that he too had been paying attention to only one person, put away his pocket book and moved to talk to Mr. Purvis.
No sooner had we all entered the dining room, however, than Mrs. Rovere found fault with the seating arrangement, insisting that she be placed next to Mr. Purvis and as far away from Mr. Coates as possible. There followed several chair changes (during which Mr. Coates jokingly offered to eat his dinner in the nursery with Sam) before we were placed according to Mrs. Rovere’s liking, with Mr. Coates at the head and Nonna at the foot of the long table.
And so began the last meal I would eat at Netherfield for over six years, for I did not dine there again until the arrival of Mr. Bingley. I look back on it now as a sort of unholy Last Supper, for there were thirteen of us seated around that table and a lot of wine was drunk—at least by Nonna—and it all ended in tears.
It began with my father quizzing Mr. Purvis about the latter’s acquisition of a Meryton ale-house. (Mr. Purvis loved to talk about his properties, the improvements he was planning and the profits he was making. He loved also to talk of his humble beginnings when he worked as a waiter in the Bedford Coffee-house in Covent Garden.)
I now heard him tell my father that he thought of making the ale-house into such another coffee-house. “A meeting-place for Meryton’s finest minds, where good conversation and fine food may be had for a modest subscription. What do you say to such a scheme, sir?”
I saw from Papa’s expression that he did not think much of it. “Meryton’s finest minds, eh?” He glanced up the table at Sir William Lucas. “I fear the number of subscribers would make such a scheme impractical, Mr. Purvis. A little market town such as Meryton—”
“But there must be many gentlemen who would welcome such a place, sir. I do not mean the townsfolk merely—”
Nonna turned on Mr. Purvis. “You listen to what Mr. Bennet is telling you. He is living here always and you know nothing about it.”
This was too much for Mrs. Rovere; she began to abuse her mother in Italian. Nonna merely hunched her shoulders and addressed herself exclusively to my father: “It is very strange to me, Mr. Bennet, how the Englishmen want always to be together in the coffee-house or the club. Always they want to be without the women.”
“Aye, we’re an uncouth lot,” Papa agreed.
“My first two husbands, they were English, so I know. Christina’s papa, always he is in the coffee-house.”
There was laughter at this—although Mrs. Rovere did not look amused—and Nonna held up her wineglass to be refilled, saying: “Christina thinks I should not talk so about her papa. Always he is the perfect one and I am not to say bad things about him.”
“I couldn’t care less, Mama, I assure you.”
“My second English sposo—when I go with him to London he is in White’s club always.” She called to Mr. Coates: “Jasper! I am telling Mr. Bennet about your naughty papa.”
Mr. Coates was talking to Elizabeth, but Aunt Gardiner had been listening to Nonna: “You were married to Mr. Coates’s father, ma’am?”
“Scusi?” And after Aunt repeated the question: “Ah. But if I talk about that, Christina will be cross.”
“Oh, say what you like, Mama. It makes no odds now.”
“You hear that, Mrs. Gardiner? My daughter, she is telling me to say what I like. Bene. I say then that Jasper’s papa and me—we marry and I love him dearly—but he was much older man. We marry for one year only, and then he die. Very sad, sì?”
I saw Aunt Gardiner and Papa exchange glances. Nonna’s history was beginning to sound dangerously like the plot of Paola.
Nonna again held up her glass for the footman to refill. “After he die, Lady Lucas, I do a very stupid thing.”
There was a hush. By some mysterious alchemy, everyone seemed alert to the possibility of high drama. Mr. Purvis said: “I am sure you could never do anything stupid, Mrs. Falco.”
Nonna was looking at Mr. Coates: “A month after he die, I do like Hamlet’s mother.”
My own mother now burst forth: “Oh, Mrs. Falco! I know what you are about to say, I can guess. I know I should lose my mind if Mr. Bennet were to die—I should go distracted. And not merely because of the entail.”
“I not lose my mind, Mrs. Bennet. I marry again. A month after Jasper’s papa die, I marry Falco.”
There was a shocked silence during which Sir William cleared his throat and said in his best mayoral manner: “Might I remind everyone that there are children present?”
“I marry Falco and I am very unhappy. And Jasper—” (looking across at Mr. Coates) “He help me. Always he is so kind to his papa’s widow.”
I looked at Mr. Coates then. He was staring at Nonna and I saw that he was very angry.
Next moment, there came a crash of china: Mrs. Rovere had knocked over a sweetmeat dish from the raised display. And while the footmen moved to pick up the pieces, Mr. Coates took out his watch. “Our concert begins in just half an hour, and our other guests will very soon be arriving—”
“No, Jasper,” said Nonna. “Your watch, it is much too fast. And I have still some things to say.”
Mr. Coates continued as if she had not spoken: “You may go to the music room, George. You too, Mary. We will join you presently.”
13.
Apart from one or two things I was able to piece together later, I never learned what was said in the Netherfield dining room after George and I left. But when at last the whole party entered the music room, it was clear that there had been some sort of denouement. They looked like a funeral party, for there was not one cheerful face amongst them, and Mrs. Rovere had unaccountably changed her gold gown for one of black.
As they took their places in the eleven gilt chairs of the first row, I saw that Elizabeth chose to sit between Papa and Aunt Gardiner and quite away from Mr. Coates.
But the concert itself was a brilliant success. Perhaps because of all that had gone before, I felt amazingly calm throughout—a nerveless, near exalted feeling where
a wrong note was inconceivable. And George seemed to share the feeling, for immediately after we ceased playing he described the performance as “almost” perfect.
The applause too was such as I have never known, with people coming up to congratulate us. (I fondly recall Mr. Knowles coming with his mother, who was wiping away tears. I also remember Mrs. Rovere coming forward with Mr. Purvis, and while my head was being turned with compliments, I still possessed the wit to wonder why she had changed her gown.)
In all the excitement I did not notice the absence of Elizabeth, and I was therefore quite unprepared when Aunt Gardiner took me by the arm and whispered: “We are to go home at once, Mary. Elizabeth is unwell.” (urging me forward as she spoke) “The Lucases are to take you in their carriage.”
On the journey home, it was clear that Sir William and Lady Lucas knew something that they were at pains to keep from me, and when at last we reached Longbourn and I was set down—after which they immediately drove off—I had to nerve myself to sound the knocker.
It was Nan Pender who let me in. And it seemed that she too knew something, for she would not suffer me to enter the drawing room before first going ahead to announce my arrival. I followed her with fast-beating heart—a visitor in my own house—and upon Papa opening the door, I saw Elizabeth sitting white-faced on the sofa, still wearing her little beaded cap, with Aunt on one side of her and Jane on the other.
My mother sat slumped in a chair nearby, but on catching sight of me, she cried: “Here she is at last! Little Miss Mary Quite Contrary. Never a thought for what we have had to endure while she is a-playing her precious music.”
And when Papa—having first dismissed Nan—bade her hold her tongue, she cried out afresh: “Had it not been for her, none of this would have happened. But she must needs go to Netherfield every day and live in his pocket.”
Here, Elizabeth spoke: “I beg you, Mama. It is not Mary’s fault.”
She was unable to continue, and Papa then placed a hand on my shoulder and made me walk with him into the hall. Closing the door behind us, he motioned me to go ahead a little before saying: “Now, Mary.”
The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice Page 5
