Mrs. Knowles said: “You must forgive him, my dear Mary.”
“Dear ma’am! There’s nothing to forgive.”
She stretched out her hand to me. “She was a farm-girl—her father was a mere laborer—marriage was out of the question, as our mother rightly adjudged.”
I was afraid then that she too might cry, but she was made of sterner stuff: “It was a long time ago but I fear that my own misadventure has brought it all back to him. ‘At least you followed your heart, Imogen.’ He said that to me last night. He thoroughly disapproved of Pitt of course but—” She released my hand. “Oh, Mary! Who’s to say that our decisions are right or wrong without the benefit of hindsight? At the time I truly believed that he would one day meet someone more suitable.”
Peter and I had arranged to meet at the blasted oak at ten the following morning. Mrs. Knowles placed no difficulties in my way—she had shut herself up in the kitchen with Sylvia—and I set out punctually, arriving at the exact same time as Peter.
He was wearing his old work-clothes (which suited him much better than his Sunday-best) and had brought with him the liver-and-white dog. The dog took exception to our embracing, however, even to our holding hands, and as a consequence I felt awkward and talked to hide it. I told Peter of Mr. Galbraith and Sukie Holloway.
To my surprise, he knew all about it. “She was supposed to’ve been very beautiful—but then they always say that, don’t they?”
He was throwing sticks for the dog, and there was a something in his manner—a levity—which I did not like. He must have seen this in my face for he turned back to me. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Oh, it’s such a pathetic story. Poor Mr. Galbraith.”
“He had a choice, Mary.”
“But he must have been so young.”
“He was of age—he could’ve married her if he’d wanted to.”
And then perhaps because I still looked troubled, he kissed me and—with the dog dancing round us hysterically barking—told me I was not to fret myself because he was not about to let anyone talk him out of marrying me.
Afterwards we walked to the coverts on the other side of the Great House, where Peter fed the young pheasants. We then went on to a little grove of late-blooming elder-trees (the scent of elder-flowers will ever transport me back to that sweet morning), where we talked of what we were going to do.
Peter was not planning to leave for New South Wales for several months, but I now learned that neither Mrs. Bushell nor Ruth would be accompanying him on the voyage: “I want to see the place for m’self first. Ruth wouldn’t mind roughing it but m’mother would be unhappy if things weren’t to her liking.”
I saw then that he was a little mistrustful of his father’s account, but it was too sensitive a subject to dwell on and I asked him instead about the voyage: “How far away is Sydney exactly? How long does it take to get there?”
His answer shocked me. “’Tis over thirteen thousand miles—nautical miles—depending on the route. The voyage takes at least four months.”
“Four months!”
“At least. It’s a long way, love.”
He kissed me then (the dog was asleep in the shade): “I shan’t be leaving for a good while yet—I have to stay for the shooting, I owe it to Sir John.”
“Could I not come with you?”
“Oh, Mary.” He kissed me again. “Let’s not think about it now, love—let’s just enjoy the present time.”
And so we talked no more about the future—instead, as is the way with new lovers, we talked about when we had first fallen. For Peter, it had been at Sir William Lucas’s dancing class. “It was when you come up to me—came up to me and shook my hand—I just didn’t expect it. There you were—your dear little serious face—saying how you wanted to learn to play the fiddle.”
“You saw that I liked you perhaps?”
He laughed and colored faintly. “And you?”
“I suppose it was at that first assembly. I noticed that your shirt cuff was frayed.”
“You felt sorry for me, did you?”
I denied it but he would not believe me and from there we descended into the childish sort of nonsense lovers delight in—nay-saying and yea-saying with kisses interspersed—whereupon the dog woke and we were obliged to be sensible once again.
We arranged to meet at the oak-tree at two o’clock the following afternoon and then talked of what we would do in the remaining days of my visit. (Mrs. Knowles had filled the evenings with engagements but the mornings were pretty much mine to do with as I pleased.)
There was one matter, however, on which we did not see eye to eye. Despite my telling him that my father would never consent to our marrying, Peter insisted that he would speak to him—that it would be “underhand” not to do so.
“But not just yet,” I pleaded.
He kissed the top of my head and told me not to fret myself: “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
9.
But there was no tomorrow. Shortly after breakfast the news of Lydia’s elopement was brought to Stoke Farm by Mr. Purvis and George. Mr. Purvis had not waited for Matty to quit the dining room before bursting out: “I don’t like being the bearer of bad news but we’ve just come from Longbourn—a take-leave call—and the place was in an uproar—”
George said hastily: “They’re all well, Mary. Be assured they’re all well. It’s Lydia—the silly chit has run off with Wickham—they left Brighton two days ago.”
“We’ve come to take you home, my dear Miss Mary.” Mr. Purvis now handed me a letter. “’Tis from your sister, ’tis from Miss Bennet—it explains it all.” And then as I took it with trembling hands: “Shocking business, shocking! I could’ve told ’em the fellow was no good. First time I laid eyes on him I knew him for a smooth-talking rascal.”
Jane’s writing was nowhere near as neat as her normal hand:
My dear Mary, I have some very distressing news to relate concerning poor Lydia. She and Mr. Wickham left Brighton Saturday night, bound—as was then believed—for Gretna Green, but we have since learned that marriage was never his intention and that they are now in all likelihood living together in London. Our father has gone with Colonel Forster to try to discover them.
Excuse the scrawl, dear Mary—I write in haste—our poor mother is in need of constant attention.
Yr affec. sister, Jane
I have written to Lizzy in hopes of hastening her return from Derbyshire. Aunt Philips is just now come to help with the Gardiner children.
In all the flurry of departure, I was not able to write to Peter but I sent a message to Mrs. Bushell saying that “family concerns” had obliged me to cut short my visit. Mrs. Knowles bade me farewell with dramatic fervor, presenting me with a bottle of her homemade cherry brandy to be used judiciously as a composer: “And let me assure you, my dear Mary—” (clasping me to her bosom so that her housekeeping keys hurt) “—as one who has recently known scandal—let me assure you that it will pass. I shall pray for you, dear—and also for poor Lydia.”
Releasing me, she adjured Mr. Purvis and George to remember the Savior’s words: “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.”
Mr. Purvis had not appreciated this, and when we were seated in the carriage he said: “I’m not in the business of casting stones at anybody, but if I were, ’twould be at him, the deceitful dog.” And a little later: “Nobody was wise to him besides m’self—and now it’s too late, goddammit.”
He then begged my pardon, saying: “But there’s only one way to persuade such a rascal to do the right thing and that’s to bribe him—there’s nothing else for it—and so I should tell your father, my dear. ’Twill cost him a fortune but ’tis the only way.”
At Longbourn, Aunt Philips met us with a cheerful face. I heard her say to Mr. Purvis: “My poor sister keeps to her room—it has been a sad shock to her—Mr. Wickham was always such a favorite.”
Mr. Purvis spoke of his own m
isgivings then, while George took the opportunity of writing down his London direction, whispering as he handed me the piece of paper: “You will be sure to write to me now?”
As soon as they left, Aunt turned to me with sparkling eyes. “Well, pet! I see you have an admirer. Oh! don’t try to deny it now—I know your mother always had hopes of him—but if I were you, I’d secure him mighty fast because this business is bound to frighten away the men.”
When I went up to my mother, she was asleep, with Jane dozing in a chair beside her. The two of them made a fine picture—I wished Cassandra was there to capture it—a couple of sleeping beauties (my mother was then but two and forty) with the afternoon sun slanting on their faces and lighting up the bottles on my mother’s bureau—the cordials and smelling salts and jar of wilted pinks, gathered, I guessed, by the Gardiner children.
I closed the door and retreated to my own room. I had been craving solitude all morning. I had never been so confused about the rights and wrongs of anything in my life. My first feeling had been one of shock—that Lydia could have done such a thing. Ever since the time of my melancholia I had had a horror of notoriety, and now it seemed that Lydia had not only forfeited her own reputation, she had brought disgrace on our whole family. But I was also angry with Elizabeth. If she had spoken out about Wickham, this surely could not have happened.
I then began to wonder what Wickham and Lydia would be doing now that they were alone together. My own recent passages with Peter—the exciting strangeness of being kissed and caressed—made me alive to certain possibilities. I recalled the “crim con” pamphlets: what had hitherto seemed disgusting I now conceded might—with a particular person—be not wholly disagreeable.
I even wondered—I am ashamed to confess this—whether Lydia’s disgrace might make it easier for me to marry Peter. If, as Aunt Philips opined, all the eligible men were likely to be frightened away, then would not my mother be obliged to look lower for suitable sons-in-law?
When I went back to my mother’s room, I found Aunt Philips there with Mrs. Long. Mama held up her arms to me. “Oh, my dear Mary! I hear such tales of Wickham now as make my blood run cold.”
Mrs. Long hastily assured me that she was not the tale-bearer: “’Tweren’t me, my dear. I’ve not heard a word of this till now—I’ve been in London this past week.”
Aunt Philips said: “Lord, Sister, you would not wish me to hide it from you, would you? Everyone knows it was he who debauched Lucy Fry—”
A moan from Mama caused me to intercede. “Dear Aunt! This can do no good now.”
But I soon realized that my mother in a perverse way wanted to know the worst of Wickham: The more he figured as a depraved monster, the less Lydia could be held accountable. She blamed everybody except Lydia (and of course herself) for the elopement. She blamed my father for not agreeing to take his family to Brighton in the first place; the Forsters, for not taking proper care of Lydia; and lastly, poor Kitty, for concealing the couple’s plan to run off together.
It was wearying to have to sit and listen to it all, although I was pleased to see Mrs. Long took no joy in her old friend’s distress. She was uncharacteristically quiet, patting Mama’s hand. Later, in tones not meant to be overheard by the other two, she asked me to call on her next morning: “Come to me after breakfast, my dear. I shall be quite alone.” And then in a whisper: “The girls will be coming home soon—if all goes well—very soon.”
There was no mistaking the significant look that accompanied this, but before I could inquire of her further, Mama was wanting attention—her pillows plumped and her face fanned—complaining in the next breath that I did not perform these tasks nearly as well as did Jane.
Jane and Kitty and the elder Gardiner girl were in the breakfast room when I went down. Jane embraced me and Kitty kissed me and said: “I am glad you are come back—everyone has been so cross with me. I knew what they were planning—Lydia wrote me.”
Jane shook her head at Kitty then, for Virginia Gardiner, a knowing little eight-year-old, was listening to every word.
10.
We now lived for letters. Wednesday’s post brought a number, most of them disappointing. My father wrote merely to give his London direction, warning that he would not write again until he had something of importance to relate. There were several letters from Aunt Gardiner and Elizabeth—carefree travelers’ letters from Derbyshire written in ignorance of unhappiness in Hertfordshire—and there was also a letter from Cassandra. I went to my room to read it:
My dear Mary,
Our friend was last night brought to bed of a healthy boy and is, as I write, sitting up in bed drinking caudle. As for the child, he seems very stout for an eight-month babe; the doctor certainly holds no fears for him, and he is to be taken to the wet-nurse tomorrow. (There is now a little reluctance on his mama’s part for this to happen but she knows what must be in the end had best be done soon.) I will write at length in a day or so.
Yours ever,
Cassandra
My aunt returns to Meryton tomorrow and we plan to follow in about three weeks.
Mrs. Long confirmed all this when I called on her later that morning. At first though, she wanted to talk of Wickham: “Think of it, Mary!—at the exact same time when that devil was making off with Lydia, his son was being born—the exact same time. When your poor mother told me, I nearly died. ‘Saturday night, you say? Don’t tell me they ran off on Saturday night?’ Oh, my dear! It nearly killed me.”
Presently she said: “He has a look of Wickham, you know, the child. ’Tis chiefly about the mouth. But when I mentioned it to Helen, she was fit to be tied. ‘How could you say such a thing, Aunt!’ And then we had mutterings in French—always a bad sign—and the next thing, she was saying she could not bear to part with the child, covering its face with kisses and carrying on—after everything we’d been through! Lord! it nearly finished me. But luckily Cassandra came in and made her see sense.”
She confided then that Cassandra had urged her to return to Meryton: “She told me—you know her direct way—she said, ‘You can do no good here now, Aunt.’ And really, I have to admit, she can manage Helen better than I ever could. And there is an excellent nurse in attendance, a very respectable woman who was once nurserymaid to a nobleman’s family. And of course dear Dr. Carey—he and Helen are now the best of friends. All of it paid for by my brother of course—he has been most generous. But oh, Mary! My heart misgives me when I think she might yet change her mind and decide to keep the child.”
On Thursday, Aunt Philips returned to her own home and it now became easier to divert Mama. To that end, I offered to read to her from Mrs. Brunton’s new novel, Self-Control. Jane had presently relieved me, however, saying she feared I tired my eyes from too much reading. (Jane in her own gentle way could be quite obstinate, telling me she considered it her responsibility to wait upon Mama.)
In the days that followed we heard nothing further from my father, which did not at all surprise me, but Jane now began to worry that she had not had a reply to her letters to Elizabeth: “I hope they have not gone astray—I directed them both to the inn at Lambton.”
On Friday, I received a second letter from Cassandra, giving more news of Helen’s lying-in:
Dr. Carey is happy with her progress, tho’ he disapproved of Aunt’s caudle, saying it clogged the stomach. He says that provided his instructions are faithfully followed, the patient should be fit to travel in a fortnight. He assures me he has never yet lost anybody to the puerperal fever. (I confess I am half in love with Dr. Carey.)
But one may be fit in body and less robust in mind, and when last Monday the child was about to be taken to the wet-nurse, Aunt said something ill-considered and made it all much worse. (Here there had been a line crossed out.)
I look forward to seeing you soon, Mary. You had better burn this.
I was reading the letter at the breakfast table when Virginia Gardiner said: “Pray who is your letter from, Mary?”
I felt myself blushing. “They hope to come home in about a fortnight.”
Virginia now nudged Kitty. “Mary has gone all red—p’raps the letter is from her lover—p’raps she has a lover like Lydia.”
It was but a momentary flare-up, swiftly checked, but I had never seen Jane so angry. Virginia was sent back to the nursery (after protesting she had heard the housemaids talking about Lydia) and we continued our breakfast in silence.
Afterwards I went to my mother and again offered to read to her from Self-Control. I was in need of Mrs. Brunton’s wise words myself. I had been back at Longbourn for three days now—three interminable days of waiting for news that never came—and the atmosphere of the house was dreadfully oppressive. Apart from Hill and Nan Pender, Jane had told none of the servants of Lydia’s elopement, but they all seemed to know about it anyway, tiptoeing around us with covert glances—the kind of glances I remembered from the time of my melancholia.
I had read only a chapter of Self-Control to Mama when Jane again came to relieve me, saying in a tone of gentle reproof: “She has fallen asleep, dear Mary—were you not aware?”
On Saturday we received no letters and I spent the morning in my room writing a song—a ballad about Lydia and Wickham running away to Gretna Green, which was of course really about Peter and myself (though it took me a while to realize it).
Later, I went down to my father’s library to while away the interval before dinner with a book. The four Gardiner children were playing on the lawn outside—Virginia strutting about in a gold-paper crown while Edward, the elder of the two boys, marched behind her beating a toy drum. The two younger children were being mercilessly ordered about: I could hear Virginia telling them to bow down and pay her homage.
Peter had ridden right into the paddock before I realized that it was indeed he, and by the time I unfastened the French windows and stepped out onto the terrace, the children had all run towards the fence that marked off the paddock.
The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice Page 27
