She was still talking about George—marveling that over six years had passed since the family lived at Netherfield—when much to my astonishment she began to speak of Mr. Coates: “I saw you look at me when his name was mentioned, Mary, but I assure you I no longer think about him other than to wonder at my own folly in loving him. My excuse must be that I was but fourteen.”
I was tempted then to quote from the Commonplace Book that “love is the folly of the wise,” but I held my peace, and after a moment she went on: “In one respect, the experience did me a great deal of good. I was able to reassure Aunt Gardiner that I was not at present ‘in love’ with Mr. Wickham.” She smiled. “I could not, alas, promise her that I would not be in love with him in future.”
And now I felt bound to speak out—to warn her yet again about Wickham: “I have tried to speak to you before, Lizzy, but you would not listen—Mr. Wickham has behaved shamefully to a young lady of my acquaintance.”
Immediately her manner changed. “How shamefully? What exactly was the nature of his offence?”
“I cannot give you the particulars but I do solemnly assure you—”
“Who is the young lady?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“What evidence can you adduce—other than this nameless young lady’s word?”
“I knew you would not listen to me.”
“On the contrary, my dear Mary, I have listened—this is the second time you have seen fit to denigrate Mr. Wickham without offering a shred of proof. What am I to make of it, pray?”
I shook my head, and after an interval during which we walked in silence she suddenly turned to me, saying: “I thought Helen Long looked very pale and tired at the wedding this morning—I thought she seemed sadly out of spirits.”
I realized then that she had been mentally reviewing all the young ladies of my acquaintance—there were not, after all, so very many—and had finally fixed upon Helen. I said: “Oh! Helen has not been well lately, that is all.”
Under Elizabeth’s gaze, I felt my face grow hot. I dreaded further questions, but when she spoke, her tone was surprisingly gentle: “I am sure you mean well, Mary, but Aunt does not disapprove of Mr. Wickham’s character, you understand. Her concern is solely about his lack of fortune. And for that, as we all know, Mr. Darcy is responsible—abominable man that he is.”
“I do not consider Mr. Darcy abominable. On the contrary—”
“Well.” (still trying to be conciliatory) “There we must differ, Mary.”
“I do not see why you are so eager to think ill of him. He likes you well enough—admires you even—”
“Nonsense!” She gave me a look. “What makes you say so?”
I longed to make her a Lydia-like answer—a “wouldn’t you like to know?” retort. Instead, I said that I had often noticed him looking at her and listening to her conversation with others: “I wonder you did not notice it yourself.”
Her response to this was to quicken her pace. She appeared to find the idea of Mr. Darcy liking her disturbing, for she walked on for several minutes in frowning silence. But presently she turned to me, saying: “That young man who plays the violin—whose family used to live in Collins Cottage—Bushell? Is not that his name?”
My face burning, I agreed that it was.
“I hope you will take this in good part, Mary, but if Aunt saw fit to advise me as to the imprudence of encouraging Mr. Wickham, you must not mind my cautioning you. Bushell is a very good sort of man I daresay, but he is not your equal, and for you to be making a friend of him is unwise.”
I was too confused to speak. For while I was obliged to acknowledge (in a worldly sense) that she was right, yet I longed to defend Peter’s claims to be considered my equal—to quote from Burns and the scriptures. I also felt that in customary elder-sister fashion she was now seeking to put me in the wrong.
Approaching the town, we met with Captain Carter and Mr. Fox, who insisted on accompanying us to the library. And there, the most embarrassing incident of all occurred, for the clerk at the desk recognized me, calling to me in the library hush: “Miss Mary Bennet! You will be pleased to know that your message has come at last. I have it here—” (hunting in the pigeon-holes behind the counter) “I was not by when the young man delivered it, but I made certain it was for you—” (finally extracting a folded paper and handing it to me) “I trust it was the one you were expecting?”
7.
Knowing Elizabeth’s eye to be upon me, I pocketed the paper and did not dare read it until I was safely back at Longbourn. There, with trembling fingers, I unfolded my treasure.
Like most long-looked-for things it was a disappointment, being but two scrawled lines without salutation or signature:
We play at the Assembley Tuesday fortnight and hop to see you there.
On reading it, my first feelings were shame (at the misspellings) and annoyance that he intended to play at the assembly in the face of his employer’s prohibition. But these feelings soon gave way to more tender reflections, and I was then ashamed that at the first stirring of resentment all my old prejudices should have surfaced. I tried to consider the situation dispassionately—whether I ought to try to dissuade him from playing. On the other hand, I so longed to see him! In the end I could decide on nothing. I kissed the paper—paper that he had handled—and placed it in my bodice next to my heart.
Next morning, when Elizabeth and I were awaiting the music master, she suddenly turned to me and said: “I heard what the library clerk said to you yesterday, Mary. You are not engaged in any clandestine correspondence, I trust?”
It was smilingly said, but she was watching me closely and without thinking, I denied it. But even as I spoke, I knew myself to have taken the first step down the slippery slope—for although I had not yet written to Peter, I had every intention of so doing. I sat, heart beating hard, recalling the words of the Ninth Commandment while Elizabeth regarded me with a skeptical little smile.
Fortunately Mr. Turner then entered the room, followed by Helen Long—Helen now regularly attended our Friday singing classes—and we were at once required to turn our attention to breathing exercises and scales.
And now I must confess to something shameful. I had become increasingly jealous of Mr. Turner’s praise of Helen’s singing. I could not understand why such an untrained voice—Helen could not sing above F—was judged superior to my own. According to Mr. Turner, Helen’s voice was God-given and all she needed to do to perfect it was to practice her high notes. And the fact that she had never learnt Italian seemed not to matter either (previously Mr. Turner had held that a knowledge of Italian was essential for any serious singer).
Amazingly, Helen seemed indifferent to all the praise—Elizabeth also paid her many compliments—and this too had provoked me. But Helen now seemed indifferent to most things. She was in every respect an altered creature—uncommunicative and paying little attention to matters of dress. Everybody remarked the change in her: Lydia declared her to be a dead bore and my father was especially struck, opining that she had been crossed in love.
Belatedly, it occurred to me that she might be unwell. She was frequently obliged to excuse herself during class, and the previous Friday I had met her coming from the privy, pale and perspiring and with a handkerchief pressed to her lips. However, when I had offered to ask my father to send for the carriage she cut me off most ungraciously.
She was much more civil to Elizabeth, chatting to her while I sang my solfeggio. These conversations were always initiated by Elizabeth and covered a diverse range of subjects, but so far as Helen was concerned, there was an embargo on one subject at least. Whenever Mr. Wickham was mentioned—and Elizabeth mentioned him quite often—Helen would sit in smiling silence like the proverbial Patience on a monument.
On this particular Friday, Elizabeth seemed especially determined to speak of Wickham, remarking on his forbearance in his dealings with Mr. Darcy. But this time it seemed that Helen could bear it no long
er. With more animation than I had witnessed in her in weeks, she jumped up, exclaiming: “Lord, I have but just now remembered! Aunt particularly asked me to speak to your cook about a receipt for oyster soup—Aunt is particularly partial to oyster soup—”
So saying, she fled the room. She returned a little later, looking extremely unwell—and while Elizabeth was singing a duet with Mr. Turner, I again offered the carriage, assuring her I would be happy to accompany her: “I have several errands to discharge in Meryton myself—I need to change my books at Clarke’s—”
But again she cut me off, speaking in a manner so curt that I could not help taking offence. As a consequence I did something that was really most unkind: I failed to warn her that Wickham was to dine with us that day. Helen always stayed to eat her dinner at Longbourn after our class, and I began to relish the prospect of her discomfiture.
8.
No sooner did I catch sight of Helen’s face upon Wickham entering the drawing room than I was sorry for what I had done. I saw her half-rise from the sofa and glance swiftly about, momentarily bent on escape before sitting again and submitting to the ordeal of being civil to him.
And I was even more sorry when I saw that Wickham seemed to be completely at his ease, smiling and acknowledging Helen with a graceful bow before moving on to greet Elizabeth. Elizabeth had also been observing them both—and had perhaps drawn a false conclusion from Wickham’s sangfroid. (He was to display a similar brazen assurance when he and Lydia visited Longbourn after their patched-up marriage.)
But then if Helen had not stayed to dinner, she might never have met George. For George and Mr. Purvis were also among the guests, and although George did not appear to be much struck with Helen at first—having sat next to her at dinner and barely exchanged two words with her—afterwards, listening to her sing, he was overflowing with admiration.
Mr. Purvis was also struck, remarking to my father: “That little lass could make a career for herself on the concert stage. But I daresay she’s too proud to sing for her supper.”
Except for the color of his hair, which had changed from caramel to chestnut, Mr. Purvis had altered little. He and the new Mrs. Purvis seemed to lead quite separate lives. I heard him tell my father during dinner that his wife did not care for the country: “Christina prefers London. Always in London when she’s not off on her travels. Italy’s out of the question now of course with Boney rampaging about—she has to make do with Brighton or Bath.”
At the mention of Bath, Elizabeth glanced at me. Her glances were chiefly directed at our father, however. The two of them were up to their old trick of laughing at their neighbor—in this case, Mr. Purvis. My father was again quizzing him about his properties: “They tell me you are planning to rebuild West Hall, Mr. Purvis? And we are now to call it ‘Purvis Lodge,’ I understand?”
Mr. Purvis nodded and smiled. Under his stiff dyed hair, his face was curiously boyish and unlined. My father’s mockery did not seem to bother him. He told us he was presently rebuilding the Meryton banqueting hall: “And as soon as the work is finished, young George is to play his whatchamacallit there.”
I saw a quiver pass over my father’s face and Elizabeth trying to repress a smile. But I considered Mr. Purvis cleverer than they gave him credit for. For one thing, he was awake to Wickham. When the latter began to talk as usual about Pemberley, Purvis heard him out patiently. But when Wickham related how the present owner had robbed him of the living, Purvis said: “That’s all very well, sir, but it don’t pay to be dwelling on past grievances, you know. Whenever I’ve been cheated—and it’s happened a few times over the years—I’ve called in my good friends the lawyers and if they couldn’t get me my money back, I made up my mind to forget about it. I’d advise you to do the same, sir.”
Wickham was listening, lower lip outthrust, and I saw him redden. Purvis had not yet finished: “A fine, upstanding young officer like yourself shouldn’t find it hard to make his own way in the world. I had to earn my own living when I was twelve years old, you know. Of course, there are short-cuts—you can always marry money.”
The rest of the evening was uneventful, but right at the end while we were awaiting the arrival of Mr. Purvis’s carriage (which was also to convey Helen to Meryton) Lydia began to urge Wickham to attend the next assembly: “Me and Kitty will be there—and Lizzy too, I daresay. Do say you will come.”
Wickham temporized: “I thought you were tired of public balls, Miss Lydia.”
“Lord, no! I prefer private ones of course—who does not? But seriously now, why will you not come? You have no other engagement, have you?”
Alas, Wickham had to confess that he had. The newly married Colonel and Mrs. Forster were to give an evening party that same night, which he felt obliged to attend.
Lydia was extremely put out. “Lizzy! Did you know that the Forsters are giving a party Tuesday fortnight?—to which we have not been invited. It is too bad.”
Elizabeth was looking embarrassed: “The Forsters may have thought that you and Kitty would prefer to attend the assembly, Lydia.”
“So you have been asked then?—And Mary too, I suppose?”
I assured her that I had not been invited, but this seemed only to enrage her more. She had lately become friendly with Harriet Forster and doubtless felt herself slighted. I saw her turn away, and her furious red face recalled to mind the four-year-old who had so resented being excluded from the Gardiners’ wedding feast.
9.
I wasted no more time wondering about the rights and wrongs of acknowledging Peter’s message. I wrote to him on Saturday morning, having composed the letter lying awake in the small hours. I now took pains to write it out fair and to include the words he had misspelled. I did not seal it, however. I wanted Cassandra to cast her eye over it before I left it at Clarke’s Library.
Lydia and Kitty agreed to walk with me to Meryton, but much to my relief Elizabeth declined to accompany us, saying she had letters to write.
The three of us set out shortly after breakfast. It was a fine frosty morning and Lydia was her usual bumptious self. She intended, she said, to call upon Harriet Forster and “make” her invite her to their party: “And if she does not oblige me, I shall tell everybody about her wedding gown—how she had it padded out to make her bubbies look bigger.”
I left my sisters at Aunt Philips’s while I went to call upon the Longs. The little maid Betty answered the door, saying that all three ladies had gone out and that she couldn’t say when they would return.
“They had an engagement, Betty?”
“I really couldn’t say, Miss.” And then putting her face up close to mine, she whispered: “Miss Helen had a bad night and Miss Cassandra insisted she see the doctor first thing.”
“And so what was Mr. Jones’s opinion, Betty? What did he have to say?”
“Oh, Miss!” Betty stepped back inside the house. “She didn’t see no Mr. Jones. Please don’t ask no more questions, Miss Mary. I really couldn’t say.”
And before I could utter another word, she shut the door in my face.
With somewhat ruffled feelings I then made my way to Clarke’s where—without allowing myself time to think—I took my letter to the desk, sealed it with a wafer, and handed it to the clerk.
It was only after I returned to Longbourn that I began to have doubts—not about the propriety of corresponding with Peter, but about the letter itself. As always, the doubts were strongest in the early morning, and after much tossing and turning, I got up and lit my candle and walked around in an embarrassed sort of stupor.
The letter, I now realized, was a terrible mistake. I had wanted to reach out to him—to tell him something of what I had been doing and thinking, and instead, I had written an overfamiliar, prescriptive little sermon. Every line of it now made me cringe.
The salutation “Dear Peter” was far too familiar. He had not used my Christian name in his message.
“I hope to see you at the Assembly Tuesday fortnight.�
�� The sentiment was unexceptionable—but I had then had the happy idea of underlining the “e” of hope and the “ly” of Assembly to indicate the correct spellings.
“—Although I am not entirely happy at your playing in the face of Sir John’s prohibition.” (Was that really any of my business?)
And compared to his, my letter was so long! Not only had I described George’s musical achievements, (was I hoping to make him jealous?) I had also written about Helen Long—of Mr. Turner’s extravagant praise of her voice &c. (Was I seeking reassurance about my own voice?)
But the coup de grâce—the thing that now made me blush over and over—was that I had signed myself “Your friend, Mary.”
I determined to set out for Meryton after breakfast to retrieve the letter and then recollected that it was Sunday—the library would be closed. I resolved then to collect it first thing on Monday and in the meantime not to think about it. I snuffed my candle and went back to my bed, and thought about nothing else until Sarah came in with the hot water.
10.
As it happened, I was obliged to wait until Wednesday to visit Meryton—and then to go in the carriage with Mama and Lydia and Kitty. On Sunday evening it had snowed and the road afterwards was too slippery to venture forth on foot. The delay only made me more anxious to recover my letter.
I was also impatient to see Cassandra. None of the Long ladies had attended church on Sunday, and after the service Aunt Philips had told Mama that she had seen the three of them mounting the London mail coach early Saturday morning. Mama had since talked of little else.
“Mrs. Long is always so secretive about her affairs—secretive and sly—aye, and selfish too—she thinks of nobody but herself and her precious nieces. Now if I had only known she was going to London, I might have given her a little parcel to take to Jane.”
The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice Page 19