More Sport for our Neighbours

by Ronald McGowan

  “Very well, at first, thank you. There were entertainments, and shops, and I bought a new dress, and a few gifts for my mother and my sisters. But it was all a swizz in the end, for we had to come back here all of a sudden, even though we were to go to a ball at the Assembly Rooms tomorrow, and I had been so looking forward to it.”

  “That is indeed regrettable,” said Darcy, “but perhaps we can make amends, for we intend to have a ball here at Pemberley as soon as may be.”

  This announcement, and the entrance of Mrs. Bennet and Mary, put an end for the time being to any pretence at rational conversation. I had, however, observed the knowing look, as of a shared secret, exchanged by Lizzie and Darcy at the mention of a ball.

  So, they had a secret surprise planned, did they? Well, they must take care how they used it, for on the way from Buxton I had discovered a secret of Mr. Darcy’s, and a guilty one, at that.

  The route the postilion had taken had been a different one from that we had used on the way from Pemberley, and we had been surprised when, after an hour or so, he stopped outside a large, stone building from which muffled noises emerged, while the noise of a roaring stream could be heard in the near distance.

  Kitty and I exchanged puzzled glances while he dismounted and came to open the door.

  “Here we are, sir,” he said, “Pemberley.”

  “This is not Pemberley,” I objected. “Not even the servants’ entrance. Are none of the inhabitants of Buxton to be trusted?”

  “Course it’s Pemberley,” replied the rascal, “Pemberley Mill, as I always has a call to on Sunday mornings. Any road, who are you? You’re not Mr. Barnett.”

  “No,” I replied, “I am Mr. Bennet.”

  “Mrs. Darcy’s father.” I added, since he seemed to be in need of further elucidation. “And today is Saturday.”

  Realisation slowly dawned on the man’s face.

  “Oh,” he said, very slowly. “Oh! Begging your pardon, sir, but Mr. Barnett, that’s the foreman at the mill, here, he has an understanding with Mrs. Fubbs at number sixteen, like, and I generally has to pick him up, only it’s usually on a Sunday morning, after his Saturday night out, like, and bring him back here. So when they said ‘Mr. Bennet from sixteen The Crescent to Pemberley’ I thought they meant ‘Mr. Barnett to Pemberley’ and he was a day early. I must have missed you when you got in, sir, but then, I only had eyes for the young ladies, and a couple of rare beauties they are, too, if you don’t mind my saying so. I don’t recollect seeing them there before, though, and Old Mother Fubbs don’t normally lend her girls out. But then, if you’re Mr. Darcy’s father-in-law she’d likely make an exception. Are they new?”

  “Silence, you rascal,” I cried, holding up my hand, for it was now my turn to suffer from the slow dawn of realization. “If you are saying what I think you are saying, then I wish to hear no more. And these young ladies are my daughter and her maid.”

  “Course they are, sir,” he replied, with the traditional wink and nod. “ Course they are. But bless you, sir, everyone in Buxton knows what sort of house that is, if you take my meaning.”

  “Enough,” I cried. “Not one word more. Take us to Pemberley House, directly.”

  During the short drive to Pemberley proper, I had leisure to reflect, between fending off Kitty’s enquiries as to what the man had meant with his remarks, upon the significance of the name ‘Pemberley Mill.”

  Could it be that this great manufactory was owned by our Mr. Darcy, and that his famed wealth was derived from it? While the coachman was handing down our bags, I took the opportunity to question him on the subject.

  “Why, sir, everybody knows Pemberley Mill. That and Darcy Mill and Fitzwilliam Mill, further downstream, have been going for years. They spin wool for the weavers down in Yorkshire, wool from the Pemberley sheep. There’s many here looks to them for their livelihood. Narrow valleys and fast-flowing streams is just what you need for turning millwheels. That’s why places like Manchester, down on the flat, there, will never come to anything much in the way of industry.”

  So it was with my own secret knowledge of the inauspicious source of Mr. Darcy’s vast income that I greeted the signs of something rather less than candour from Darcy and Lizzie.

  It turned out that they had been planning this event for our return from Buxton all the while we had been away. The invitations were all written and ready to be sent out, but had necessarily awaited our return before a date could be set.

  “It is a pity you had not stayed longer in Buxton,” said Darcy, at dinner that night, after announcing that the invitations had been dispatched, “for then Bingley and Jane would have been here, too. But, as it is, they will still be at the Duke’s. There is always a case for delay in such matters, however. Another week and Georgiana would have been with us. The date we have settled on is when I am informed that the Pemberley larders will best support a large gathering, and, in any case, I am reluctant to keep Mary and Kitty in suspense longer than need be.”

  “I believe,” said Mr. Tomkins, “that such an entertainment, when given by a great gentleman such as yourself, Mr. Darcy, can have no deleterious effect, and, indeed, must present a great advantage to the neighbourhood.”

  Mr. Tomkins had ‘just happened to be passing on his way home from the village’ and had taken very little persuasion to stay dinner. I think, perhaps, he had ‘looked upon the wine when it was red’ a trifle too much, to be so forthright in expressing his opinions when they had not been called for.

  His interruption reminded me, however, and I leant over to Mary, who was sitting to my left, and enquired how she had fared with Mr. Tomkins during our absence.

  “I have not seen him. He has been very busy,” she replied. “This is the first time we he has been here since you and Kitty left.”

  I took her meaning at once, and vowed to keep a close watch on this turbulent priest, a vow that was firmly reinforced a few minutes later, when he leaned across the table and said –

  “I very much hope Miss Kitty will grant me the honour of the first two dances. It would crown the evening for me.”

  I had obviously, not yet succeeded in adopting my ‘volto sciolto, pensieri stretti’ expression, for he caught sight of my face, and hastily added –

  “And Miss Mary the second set, of course.”

  Mrs. Bennet’s effusions of gratitude on behalf of her daughters then led on to discussion of balls in general and the desirability of sufficient white soup, and suchlike, which I shall not make the effort to recollect.

  “I don’t know what you have against that charming Mr. Tomkins,” said Mrs. Bennet as we retired later that evening. “Such a nice, polite young man. I think he would do very nicely for Kitty, and it would be so convenient for Lizzie.”

  “You know precisely what I have against him,” I replied. “There are fifty very good reasons that immediately spring to mind, and the want of another nine hundred and fifty is hardly likely to be remedied before we leave Derbyshire. ”

  After church the following day I had ample opportunity to observe the pronounced courtesies Mr. Tomkins paid to Kitty, and the complete absence of any such conduct towards Mary. There was nothing to which one could openly object. It was but natural that he should enquire after her stay in Buxton, and express gratification that the time should have passed so pleasantly for her. But the contrast in his behaviour between Kitty and Mary was plain for all to see. It was tolerably vexing to know what to do next. I found myself regretting very much my library at Longbourn, where I need know nothing of such things until it became necessary to deal with the consequences.

  But I recollected that, in Lydia’s case, such consequences might have been serious indeed, and resigned myself to an imminent intervention.

  The next few weeks were, in their way, nearly as much of a trial as I care to encounter in my declining years. Being marooned among miles of trackless countryside, in a great house where a ball is preparing is enough to drive any man to distraction. No peace wa
s to be had anywhere, with servants bustling about with mops and brushes and measures, and females everywhere demanding reassurance about frills and lace and other fripperies such as no rational being would ever give a moment’s thought to. Even in the library, everything was in such a frenzy of dusting and beating and polishing, with a ‘pardon me, sir’ here and a ‘by your leave, sir’ there, that two consecutive thoughts were impossible.

  I attempted to escape into the grounds, in the hope that the natural surroundings would inspire me, on the lines of M. Rousseau, but even there I found myself pursued and called in for fittings of new shirts, new coats, new breeches, new everything, on all of which my opinion, having been sought so peremptorily, was then completely ignored.

  I eventually succeeded in obtaining some relief, by giving it out that the doctor in Buxton had prescribed at least two hours of uninterrupted walking every day. This served two purposes. It gave me a modicum of freedom from distraction, and also a degree of sympathy for ‘not being able to join in the fun,’ and being so considerate as not to require a companion on my walks.

  I did walk, too, when the mood took me, especially at first, while I still had paths to explore and vistas to take in. But these delights were very soon exhausted, and in any case it was far more congenial to settle into a summer house with a notebook and pencil, and jot down ideas and observations.

  But, contrary to our perceptions and the old saying, bad things must come to an end quite as much as the good, and the day of the Grand Pemberley Ball dawned at last.

  I fear that I will forever disappoint those who look for detailed descriptions of balls and the like. To call such events a torment to me would be an exaggeration, but not so very far short of the truth. The truth is that I am growing a trifle deaf, and cannot take the delight in the music that I once did, while the sight of a roomful of people, with whom I am rather less acquainted than I am with Adam, hopping and twirling about while gabbling their nonsense fills me with unutterable ennui. I simply cannot bring myself to pay attention to any of it, and my mind drifts off onto more congenial subjects.

  As for taking part in the cavorting, I do not shirk my burden, but while I may not quite have the proverbial two left feet, I swear I must have at least one and a half. Being, in a manner of speaking, the guest of honour, my duty was rather more onerous than it might otherwise have been. I had to open the ball with Lizzie, and then to take my turn with Mrs. Bennet, with Kitty and the wives of the leading neighbours, all of them instantly forgettable. I could take no delight in it. I should sooner have joined Mary, whom I now spied sitting comfortably in a corner, reading quietly and making notes on a tablet. Not for the first time, it struck me that she would have made a scholar, albeit of the more plodding kind, had she only been born a boy. But, then, had she been born a boy, so many things would have been different.

  “Come, my dear,” I said, “once around the floor with me and you will have done your duty, and may settle down to pass the evening in a more agreeable fashion.”

  She looked up at me with a wistful smile on her face.

  “It is no use, you know,” she said. “I know quite well that no young man of fortune will spy me on the dance floor and immediately vow to make me his wife.”

  “Come, come,” I replied. “If I may mangle the old saying somewhat, ‘faint lady never won fair heart.’ And, what is more to the point, once round the floor with you, and I, too, will have done my duty, and we may both resign ourselves to endure the rest of the proceedings as best we may.”

  So we walked through a quadrille, thanked each other with rather more sincerity than is perhaps usual in such situations, and retired to our respective vantage points.

  Mrs. Bennet, I am sure, would happily provide me with a catalogue of ‘so-and-so danced with such-and-such,’ and ‘Mr. That said this, and Mrs. This said that,’ but I will waste neither time nor ink upon such things.

  I did, however, have ample leisure to observe the marked and repeated attentions of Mr. Tomkins to Kitty. Whether these were also noticed by the assembled company, who could scarce have the same interest in such goings-on, I cannot say, but they were obvious enough to the concerned eye.

  Chancing to find myself next to Darcy during a lull, I remarked upon how very active his curate had been, and enquired whether there might not be another family living that he might be presented to.

  “There is a perpetual curacy,” was the response, “at the other end of the county. It would provide him with more security than his present position, which depends entirely upon Dr. Temple, but I fear it would only be security of poverty, for the emoluments are no more than his present stipend, and in fact he would be the loser, from having to forego his intercourse with Pemberley. I make no pretence, you see, at not knowing why you ask, and feel for your dilemma.”

  “Is it so noticeable?”

  “Not, I think to anyone not in daily company with the pair – for I will not say ‘couple’ without your sanction – but those who have eyes and ears cannot help but see and hear.”

  This encounter, and the behaviour of Mr. Tomkins and Kitty at the ball, caused me seriously to think. So marked was it that it even caused Mrs. Bennet to think also, an outcome inevitably unsatisfactory but blessedly rare.

  “How many times did Kitty dance with Mr. Tomkins tonight?” she asked, as we retired.

  “I stopped counting after the fifth,” I replied.

  “You must do something, Mr. Bennet. People will talk. People are talking, I am sure. You must speak to Mr. Tomkins and find out his intentions.”

  “I should sooner speak to Kitty and find out her intentions, although I dare say she has none. As for Mr. Tomkins, whatever he may have in mind, I will not have my daughter consigned to a life of scrimping and saving in a curate’s house.”

  “But if they should chance to love each other, Mr. Bennet? Would it not be cruel to separate them? And Mr. Tomkins’ mother was cousin to a baronet with a very pretty estate, and the present baronet has no heirs.”

  “My mother had a cousin was a duke, and much good it did her. Such things do not signify. An heir will always be found when one is wanted. But I see that you have been going into this matter in my absence. Send Kitty to me in the morning, and I will see what she has to say.”

  But when Kitty found me taking breakfast the following morning, while her mother endured the attentions of the curling tongs, it was she who surprised me.

  “Mr. Tomkins gave me this last night, father,” she said, “and asked me to read it in the morning. What am I to do about it.”

  And she handed me a sheet of paper, on which were penned the following lines –

  O, lovely Miss Kitty,

  My word, you are pretty,

  And charming and witty,

  And quite “comme il faut.”

  No lord from the city,

  Whate’er his quality,

  For you would be fit, he

  Would merit too low.

  I pray you, take pity

  On the poet of this ditty,

  Whate’er he has writ, he

  Could ne’er be your beau.

  For his fortune’s unfit, he

  Has problems too gritty,

  And in spite of all it, he

  Must worship you so.

  Why is it that so many men feel they must pursue my daughters in verse? And why is each piece of doggerel even more depressingly inept than the last? I should have said we wanted only a Petrarch to Mary’s Laura for the full set, save that I cannot see Wyckham ever penning verses to Lydia, nor she ever reading them, were he to do so.

  “I am not aware that you need do anything,” I replied, “save be more guarded in your conduct with the gentleman in future. But tell me, do you wish to do anything? I say nothing about the difficulties of life as a curate’s wife, on a stipend barely sufficient to maintain one person, and that at the will of the incumbent. But, if these difficulties did not exist, would you wish to be Mr. Tomkins’ wife?”

 
She hesitated a long while, staring out of the window at nothing in particular.

  “I do not know,” she said, at length. “I simply do not know. A gentleman never wrote a poem to me before.”

  “Then there is your answer my pet, for you may believe me when I tell you that if there were deep feelings involved, you would know. I should do nothing, but act as if you never received this billet doux. I dare say he will never raise the subject again if you do not, and, if he should, refer him to me. But tell me, does your mother know of this?”

  “She does not. I have not even shown it to Mary.”

  “Then say nothing more to anyone. Let it be our little secret. There may be some discomfort at first, but you will find it will soon pass. Now, kiss me, and tell me you are content.”

  Having done so, she then devoted quite as much attention to her breakfast as any condemned prisoner might, while I found my own appetite quite fled.

  Had it not been for this complication, who knows how contentedly we might have jogged along at Pemberley before outstaying our welcome? I was, in fact, now beginning to be quite exercised about the attentions Mr. Tomkins was paying to Kitty. She herself was no longer in the least concerned, having shuffled off her problem onto me, and I was starting to fear that I should have to reconcile myself to the thought of one of my daughters becoming a curate’s wife, married to a clergyman manifestly unable to support her.

  I was perfectly aware that my pointing out the drawbacks of such a course would be sadly likely to render it more attractive than otherwise, and was becoming quite uneasy as to how to proceed. To cut short our stay would be seen as an insult to both Lizzie and Mr. Darcy, and in any case, we had promised to spend some time with Jane and Bingley at their house, just over the mountains, and hardly far enough removed from danger. How to avoid further attentions from this penurious clergyman without either embarassment or domestic turmoil might prove rather a puzzle.

  Why does no-one else in this family ever take notice of such things?