I saw there was no point arguing further: She had made up her mind. And her generosity in giving me the gown deserved a return in forbearance. I thanked her again for thinking of me and we parted as friends. (It was a struggle nonetheless not to quote to her Oliver Cromwell’s words: “I beseech you in the bowels of Christ, think it possible you may be mistaken.”)
The mantua-maker came the following morning to begin the work of making and remaking five ball-gowns. It was as well that she had agreed to live and work at Longbourn, for the weather during the next few days would prevent any of us from walking to Meryton. It rained for the whole of Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, and apart from tradespeople, the only visitor to the house was Helen Long.
Helen came twice to the house, calling before breakfast on Saturday to deliver a note from Cassandra, and calling again some three hours later to tell me to disregard the same note. She did not come on foot—both times she was driven by Mr. Wickham in his gig.
On the first occasion, the maid had brought the note to my room, saying that Miss Helen would not stay for an answer—she “would not keep the soldier waiting in the rain.” Cassandra’s note—so damp as to be in places barely legible—was as follows:
My dear Mary, I have a favor to ask of you on Helen’s behalf, or more particularly, of Jane. My aunt and I have both received cards of invitation to Mr. Bingley’s ball but as yet no invitation has come for Helen. I would be grateful if Jane could mention the matter to Miss B. Helen, as can be imagined, is excessively disappointed, and there will be no peace until the arrival of the all-important card.
Yours &c., Cassandra
Imagine my surprise then when Helen called again, begging me to “forget about that stupid note”—she did not want to go to the ball after all. “If Miss Bingley does not wish to invite me, then I am sure I do not wish to go. And I certainly do not want my friends to be put to the trouble of procuring an invitation for me.”
I stared at her in amazement. That Helen should not wish to go to a ball was next to incredible. But she looked to be quite in earnest—and at the same time remarkably pretty, face all aglow above her sodden red cloak, which was now dripping water on the kitchen flagstones (she had insisted we talk in the kitchen so that Lydia and Kitty might not know she was in the house).
I assured her there would be no difficulty in obtaining an invitation. “I have spoken to Jane—”
“No, you don’t understand!” She pulled me with her into the scullery, where we were in even less danger of being overheard. “You see, Wickham does not intend to go to this stupid ball—and so I do not wish to go either. Oh, Mary! Can you keep a secret?” (pressing her wet cheek to mine) “I am so in love. You have no idea.”
It all came out then—how, on the pretext of running errands, she had spent the last two days driving about the countryside with Wickham, sheltering from the rain in the now derelict Collins Cottage, where they had (to quote Helen) “plighted their troth.” I was horrified of course and tried to tell her what I had already told Elizabeth—that Wickham was not a respectable young man. She only laughed and embraced me, assuring me that one day I would understand.
“I was used to be a very correct young lady—correct and creepmouse—but I found it did not answer. Good-bye—I must not keep poor Wickham waiting. Tell Jane not to bother writing to Miss Bingley.”
She was gone—and such was my unease that I could no longer work on my song. If I had not been so afraid of figuring as a tale-bearer (and of getting my feet wet) I must have walked into Meryton to speak to Cassandra. Afterwards, I wished very much that I had.
22.
After being received by Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst in the Netherfield drawing room, I followed my sisters and Mr. Collins into the ballroom (designated the “music room” in Mr. Coates’s day), there to join the group of officers and girls gathered about the fire. The room was full of redcoats and I saw Elizabeth looking eagerly about, while Lydia and Kitty questioned the officers directly: Where was Mr. Wickham? Why was he not here?
Having no interest in Wickham’s whereabouts (other than devoutly hoping he was not with Helen) I moved away so that I could better view the entire room. I was becoming nervous at the prospect of seeing Peter. Somewhere in the background music was playing but I could not see the musicians. And then I saw that a screen had been placed so as to hide them from view.
It seemed an odd arrangement and I determined to move closer, but there were people in my path: Maria Lucas—who wanted me to stand beside her so that she should not appear “singular”—and after her, Miss Harriet Lamb on the arm of Colonel Forster, and finally, Mr. Bingley, who stopped to say: “You must be wondering why that silly screen has been placed in front of your musicians, Miss Mary—I have this minute given orders for its removal.” (speaking low) “My sisters would have it that the lads did not look sufficiently elegant—a great piece of nonsense and so I have told them.”
He was gone, steering a course towards Jane, but before I could move on, Cassandra came up to me. “Mary, I must speak with you.”
After glancing around to assure herself nobody was listening, she told me that Helen had run away. She began then to question me: Had I seen Helen that morning? Had either Lydia or Kitty seen her? Had she written to anyone at Longbourn?—Left a message with any of the servants?
With growing alarm, I too began to ask questions: Did Cassandra not know that Helen and Mr. Wickham had spent the past few days driving around the countryside together in the rain? Was it possible that Helen had gone off with him?
Cassandra knew only that Wickham had gone to town on business the day before and had not yet returned. The last time she and Mrs. Long had seen Helen had been at tea the previous evening, after which they had retired to their rooms—Cassandra to paint and Mrs. Long to sleep—while Helen helped the little maid Betty clear away the tea-things.
“Next thing I knew ’twas past midnight—when I am working I am forgetful of time—and I went down to see if everything was in order—the doors locked and bolted and the fires banked—Betty is sometimes careless with the fires. The back door was locked but not bolted, only I thought nothing of it until this morning, when I went to Helen’s room.” (whispering) “She left no note, but Aunt suspected Wickham from the first—”
“Is Mrs. Long not here tonight?”
Cassandra shook her head. “I came with the Lucases. Poor Aunt is beside herself. She has given it out that Helen is ill.”
We talked on, not to much purpose, except that it seemed to relieve Cassandra’s mind. Her concern now was for Helen’s reputation—the need to conceal her absence: “But if Betty keeps quiet, all may yet be well. Wickham cannot afford to stay away long—he has to rejoin his regiment.”
“Yes, indeed.” I was eager to reassure. “I should not be surprised if they were to return tonight—while everybody is at this ball.”
One of the officers, Mr. Pratt, then approached and requested Cassandra’s hand for the first two dances. And much to my amazement, another officer, Mr. Chamberlayne, applied for my own hand.
23.
The screen concealing the musicians was still in place as Chamberlayne and I took our places in the set, but moments later I saw two footmen enter and approach the dais. After a short parley, they lifted up the screen and bore it away. Three musicians stood revealed—but Peter was not among them. My disappointment was acute, the more so for never having doubted that he would be present—I felt absurdly let down.
“I trust you do not regret taking me for a partner, Miss Mary?”
Chamberlayne was looking at me anxiously. A slight, elfin-faced young man, I perceived he was just as inexperienced a dancer as myself. Compared to Mr. Collins though, who was now dancing with Elizabeth, his footwork was exemplary—at least he did not keep blundering into people and apologizing; Elizabeth I saw was red with mortification, the more so perhaps because Mr. Darcy was standing nearby observing it all.
In the intervals when he did not need to mind his steps,
Chamberlayne was disposed to chat. He spoke of his fellow officers as a “very respectable body of men.” I asked him then whether he was much acquainted with Mr. Wickham, to which he replied with a sigh that “all the ladies” wanted to know about Mr. Wickham: “A dozen ladies have asked me where he is tonight.”
The movement of the dance then separated us but when we were once more face to face, I asked if he knew when Wickham meant to return.
“Still harping on Mr. Wickham? Well, there is an eight o’clock roll-call tomorrow morning and a drill before breakfast—he will need to be back for that.”
As soon as the dance ended I sought out Cassandra to tell her. She had received the same information from Mr. Pratt and in consequence was looking more cheerful. “But look behind you, Mary.” She nodded towards the dais. “One of the musicians seems to be trying to attract your attention.”
It was Peter. He was standing on the dais smiling across at me. My delight at seeing him was such that I could not disguise it—did not try to disguise it—and I made my way to him directly. “How is this? I looked for you earlier and did not see you.”
Before he could answer, the other players spoke up:
“Pete had to speak to His Nibs about the screen.”
“The lady of the house thought us too shabby to be on show.”
“Didn’t like the cut of our jibs.”
Peter was laughing. “D’you think we look shabby, Mary?”
I blushed, denying it, although they did look a little shabby, the flautist especially in an outmoded velvet coat and buckled shoes. But Peter at least looked neat, with not a frayed shirt cuff in sight. I had noticed the absence of the “Miss” of course, but when he came to introduce them to me, he said:
“May I make the lads known to you, Miss Mary? This is Will Waldron and his brother Rob, who play with me regular—” He indicated two red-haired youths whom I vaguely remembered from the Meryton assembly. “And this here is Jim Payne—” (nodding towards the flautist, who executed a courtly bow in keeping with his old-fashioned finery) “Miss Mary Bennet, boys.”
They all bowed again—Jim Payne almost bending double—and thanked me for recommending them to Mr. Bingley:
“He’s a right one, Mr. Bingley,” said Will Waldron. “Sent his carriage to collect us and all.”
“Not like the lady of the house.”
“Stubble it, Jimbo.” (This from Peter.)
“Aye, man,” said the other Waldron, “she’ll put the screen afore you again if you don’t mind your manners.”
It was then that Miss Letty Stoke, the daughter of Peter’s employer, came up, calling for her favorite tune to be played—“The Hound and the Hare.”
I was about to move away when Peter called to me: “What is your favorite song then, Mary?”
His voice, deep and carrying, must have been heard by many, for there was a ripple of laughter and Letty Stoke said: “Oh! Mary Bennet does not care for songs—she only likes serious music.”
I was prevented from replying by my father who, in the first of the humiliations he was to inflict on me that night, now stepped forward saying: “Come, child. You are keeping the musicians from their work.” He then made me walk away with him, saying in his most sarcastic manner: “They have not come here to make conversation.”
He left me by the side of Maria Lucas, where I stood, eyes smarting, and watched while he resumed his station next to Elizabeth.
The music started up again—they were playing “Highland Mary”—but I was unable to regain my composure, for Maria was questioning me about Peter, wanting to know if he was “the same gypsy fellow” whom Sir William had engaged for the dancing class. And upon my admitting that he was: “You seem to be wondrous great with him, letting him make free with your name.”
I lost patience then. “The musicians have been treated very badly, Maria—and since it was I who recommended them, I feel responsible. And I shall be civil to them—I shall talk to them—and if one of them makes free with my name, so be it.”
After this, Maria fell silent. But when Cassandra joined us she started questioning her about Helen, wanting to know the exact nature of her illness and whether Mr. Jones had been called in. Cassandra had at first answered her politely, but finally, forced to utter falsehoods, she too lost patience: “Upon my word, Maria, you are becoming a regular little poke-nose.”
Poor Maria at once begged pardon, and the three of us then stood watching the final movement of the dance. Elizabeth now had Captain Carter for a partner, and in contrast to her earlier passage with Mr. Collins, looked to be enjoying herself. Again, I noticed Mr. Darcy watching her.
Maria noticed too. “I wonder Mr. Darcy does not ask Lizzy to dance. He is forever looking at her.”
When the dance ended, Elizabeth joined Charlotte Lucas. And soon afterwards Mr. Darcy began a slow but purposeful advance towards her.
“Look!” Maria clutched at my arm. “He is going to ask her.”
For the first time that night Cassandra laughed. “I’ll wager you he won’t, Maria.”
I said: “Even if he does, she won’t accept him. She has sworn never to dance with him.”
“Of course she’ll accept him.” Maria’s grip on my arm tightened as Mr. Darcy approached Elizabeth, bowed, and began to address her. “There! What did I tell you? I may not be clever like you two, but I always know when somebody likes somebody.”
And a little later, as Darcy led Elizabeth onto the floor to the stately strains of “Sellinger’s Round”: “Oh! what a handsome couple they make. And so alike too, don’t you think? Dark and haughty-looking—the sort of people one is terrified to talk to for fear of saying something stupid. And only think, a few short weeks ago he would have none of her—do you recall, Mary?—at the assembly when he said she was not handsome enough to dance with. And now he cannot take his eyes off her.”
Maria continued to comment on the progress of the dance and its principal couple, but Cassandra’s attention soon reverted to Bingley (now dancing with Jane), while my own remained fixed on the dais and one of its four dark, distant figures.
24.
The nearer I approach a certain distressing event, the more reluctant I am to relive it. But there is no escaping it.
When we went in to supper, a Welsh officer, one Mr. Monk, poured me a glass of punch instead of the lemonade I had requested. It seemed an innocuous enough beverage and I allowed Mr. Monk to pour me a second glass. It very soon went to my head, and when there were calls for singing I unhesitatingly stood up and—cheered on by Mr. Monk and armed with my song-sheet—made my way to the instrument.
En passant, I noticed Elizabeth. She was staring at me and shaking her head. Plainly, she did not wish me to perform. There was now no turning back, however, and as soon as Mr. Monk placed my music on the stand, I struck the opening chords.
The sound of my own voice seemed at first entirely satisfactory. It was not until I caught sight of Peter that the bubble burst: He was standing in the doorway with Jim Payne. His expression was peculiar—I could not read it—but the shift in perspective was fatal. It allowed me to hear myself—the words I was actually singing:
He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim—
Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him?
I felt my mouth go dry, my throat constrict. What possible interpretation could Peter place on those words other than that they were about him?—that the entire song was about him? I tried not to look at him. I heard myself falter. One uncertain high note was followed by another: “She sees the Musician, ’tis all that she sees!” Somehow I managed to go on—heaven knows how, for the room had begun to revolve. And yet when it was over, I continued to sit there. And when they pressed me for another song—Mr. Monk among the most importunate—I instantly obliged with “My Father Was a Farmer.” Perhaps I had some wild idea of proving myself to Peter. I could not now see him, for the room was still revolving, but I had a dizzy glimpse of Elizabeth. She was no longer loo
king at me: Her eyes were fixed upon our father, who shortly afterwards I beheld rising from the table.
Even now—even as I write—the image of that implacable white shirtfront advancing towards me fills me with horror. Stationing himself before the instrument, he pronounced: “That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit.”
Mr. Monk having long since decamped, there was no one to escort me back to my old seat, and as the room was still spinning I was obliged to sit at the nearest table. I found myself among a set of people I did not know—fashionable London ladies and gentlemen all—and although I tried to appear unconcerned I was now shaking so that I could not pick up a glass of water.
It was Mr. Collins who saved me. Unable seemingly to resist the temptation to address a congregation, he suddenly started sermonizing on the duties of a clergyman. The people at my table were at first amazed and then amused—one gentleman holding up his eyeglass to better view such a “specimen.”
But I could only be grateful that Mr. Collins’s peroration lasted long enough for me to recover. As soon as I felt steady enough to stand, I left the room.
I went first to the library, where, for a wonder, I found Mr. Hurst wide awake and playing a card game with himself. I then tried Miss Bingley’s bedchamber but a housemaid came and fussed over me with smelling salts. Finally in desperation I directed my steps to the little ground-floor chapel. No matter if it were not lighted up; nobody would there intrude upon me and I might easily light it with one of the candelabras in the corridor.
I found the room without difficulty. By candlelight, it appeared unchanged—the same pine pews and threadbare cushions, and the little oak spinet shut up in its Bible case. But I was shocked to see a bundle of old coats draped over the altar rail.
Having removed this desecration, I knelt and without further ceremony told my heavenly father how his earthly counterpart had humiliated me. The tears flowed then, a great self-pitying flood, after which I wrapped myself in one of the coats and lay down upon the bench.
The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice Page 16
