Lydia then disconcerted me by saying: “I’ll wager Mary knows the reason for their going.”
I assured her that I did not, but of course I had had ample time in the past few snowbound days to think. And if Mrs. Long now feared—as well she might—that Helen was with child, I could see why a London doctor would be preferred to a local one, especially such a one as Mr. Jones, whose shop-boy was forever prating about his master’s patients.
On reaching Meryton, Kitty and Lydia went directly to Aunt Philips’s but Mama would not permit me to go on to Clarke’s, insisting that I first accompany her to call upon the Longs. There was a little delay upon Betty admitting us—I glimpsed Helen running down the passage—but Mama seemed not to notice, so intent was she on finding out why they had all gone to London.
Mrs. Long had her story prepared, however. Her bedridden brother was the reason for their going: An express had come early Saturday morning to inform them of a sudden life-threatening seizure.
Cassandra said: “My uncle was not in any danger as it happened, Mrs. Bennet, but we were not to know that at the time.”
“Yes, but why did you all have to go?”
I saw Cassandra compress her lips, and was never more ashamed of my mother. Mrs. Long knew how to distract her old friend, however: “Oh! but I was very glad of their company, and my brother is now completely recovered, thank heaven. But my dear Mrs. Bennet, have you heard the news? I was never more astonished. Mary King’s grandfather has died and left her a legacy of ten thousand pounds. I had it not half an hour ago from Madame Bejart—Mary and her mother were in her shop to see about their mourning clothes.”
Mama took the bait. “—Ten thousand pounds!”
“’Twill make a vast difference to her prospects, for she is not at all handsome, poor girl.”
“Handsome! I should think not—with that dreadful sandy hair and all those freckles. But how was it that the old man came to leave her such a sum? I thought the Liverpool family was to have it all.”
Cassandra now judged it safe for us to withdraw. We went to the kitchen, where sat Helen with her feet up on the settle, eating an apple. She did not look at all pleased to see me, saying: “Oh Lord, is your mother still here then?”
Cassandra said: “Try for a little conduct, Helen, for heaven’s sake.”
“I don’t see that there’s much point now really. Now that I am become a fallen woman.” She caught sight of my face. “Hasn’t Cass told you, chérie? I am enceinte. Oh, don’t look so horrified. I suspected it was the case all along.”
Cassandra drew out a chair for me. “We only returned yesterday, Mary, and would have called had it not been for the snow.”
Helen spoke through a mouthful of apple: “But of course it is one thing to suspect something and quite another to have it confirmed. Why should that be, I wonder? Do you have any thoughts on the subject, Mary? Some words of wisdom to reconcile me to my fate?”
Cassandra said: “How dare you speak so to Mary! She is not to blame for your predicament.”
Helen pitched her apple core into the fire. “Why did you not warn me, Mary, that he was to dine at Longbourn? I think I might have been spared that at least.”
Again Cassandra tried to take my part, but I was now determined to speak for myself: “Indeed, it was very wrong of me and I am sorry.”
Helen sat in silence for several moments but presently she said without looking at me: “I know I have not been behaving well towards you lately, Mary—I know that—but when you look at me, there is always an expression—a kind of pious condescension—and there is just no bearing it. But I know I have been behaving badly and I am sorry.”
A pause while Cassandra—looking pleased—went to the cupboard to take out some port wine, after which I ventured: “Do you still care for him, Helen?”
For a moment I feared I had said the wrong thing, for her countenance changed completely. “Lord, no! The very sight of him makes me—” (shuddering) “And the worst part is not being able to expose him—to have to just sit there and listen to people sing his praises. It makes me—well, if you will pardon the expression, it makes me want to puke.”
Cassandra now poured out three glasses of port wine, and Helen joined us at the table. An amazingly frank discussion followed. I heard how Helen had been taking “female pills” to bring on her monthly flowers, and that it was only when these failed to produce the desired result that a doctor had been consulted—one Dr. Carey, a reputable London accoucheur known to Mrs. Long’s brother.
Dr. Carey had given them all a severe talking-to, telling them to throw away the pills, that they were endangering Helen’s health. He reminded them that Helen’s situation was not the end of the world, that it called for careful planning rather than risk-taking and recriminations. He had even offered his services for the lying-in.
I then heard how they proposed to manage in the months ahead—where Helen would go when she began to “show” and what story they would give out to account for her absence &c. If their humor was somewhat forced (and in Helen’s case, even a little coarse), their courage was exemplary. I felt privileged to be their confidante, and would have been happy to sit listening to their plans all morning if I had not been worried about my letter. I could not be easy until I had retrieved it and after first asking that Mama be told where I had gone, I took my leave of them.
Clarke’s Library was but a short walk from the Longs’ house, and on entering I went directly to the desk. A new impudent-looking clerk in a red waistcoat informed me that my letter had been collected not five minutes before.
11.
The degree of vexation and shame I now suffered was such that, for days, I could settle on nothing. No sooner did I recover from one bout of embarrassment than another would engulf me. One minute I would resolve not to think about it, the next saw me obsessively reviewing what I had written and imagining Peter laughing at it—at me.
Likewise, my resolve not to attend Tuesday’s assembly weakened when Lady Lucas—on hearing that Lydia and Kitty had been invited to the Forsters’ party—offered to chaperone me with Maria. But no sooner was I climbing the staircase of the Red Lion behind the broad back of Sir William than I wished myself elsewhere. Maria had persuaded me to leave off my spectacles, assuring me that I looked a thousand times better without them, and I feared that at any moment I might trip on the train of my new gown. (The gown was silk, the color of pale wheat, far too fine for an assembly but I had been unable to resist wearing it.)
Entering the room, everything seemed a blur of candlelight. The dancing had begun—the musicians were playing a lively reel—but I could not see them clearly. I could not see anyone clearly unless they were within a few feet of me. When Sir William and Lady Lucas stopped to exchange civilities with the innkeeper, Maria urged me on, complaining she had never seen the place so thin of company: “There are hardly any officers—only Monk and Chamberlayne—I suppose they are all gone to the Forsters. But Lady Stoke and Letty are here—I did not know that they had come back from London. Now we do not want to be too close to the orchestra, do we?” She gave my hand a significant squeeze. “’Twill be impossible to hear ourselves speak, and I have such a lot to tell you.”
As soon as we sat down, she began: “You will scarce credit it, my dear, but Mr. Wickham is now making up to Mary King. I had it this morning from Ann Watson—she saw them out driving in his gig. Mary had on her new mourning clothes—all dressed up in black bombazine and smiling all over her freckled face. Can you believe it? The hypocrisy!”
She then turned to her own news: “We had a letter from Charlotte this morning and ’tis all settled—Papa and I are to go to Kent in three weeks’ time, and Elizabeth too of course. Think of it, Mary! I shall soon see Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
I managed to make the correct responses although her words scarcely registered. A fog of unreality was walling me off—not unlike my experience of melancholia.
“Charlotte says that they dine at Rosings at le
ast twice a week. I do not know how I shall go on in such exalted company—a footman behind my chair and the Crown Derby dinner service that Mr. Collins is always talking of…”
She chattered on until the dance ended and the music ceased, whereupon I burst out: “I wish I had not let you persuade me to leave off my spectacles.”
“Oh! but you look so much better without them.” She took my hand. “You look like a completely different person.”
At that moment a solitary violin struck up. But the music was not dance music; it was more like a song—a solemn, sweet song. (I know now that it was Beethoven’s “Romance in F Major.”) I listened and suddenly it was as if the fog that surrounded me had been penetrated, as if I were being spoken to.
I sat transfixed, gripping Maria’s hand. The other stringed instruments were also playing but it was the solo part I waited for, the melody that wove itself in and out with such astonishing trills and turns and grace-notes. I knew it was Peter playing. I fancied he was trying to tell me something—an absurd idea but it persisted: I may not be able to spell but just you listen to this.
Maria said: “Your fiddler friend is certainly in fine form.”
“Oh, hush!”
“He should not be playing such stuff. People cannot dance to it—’tis a concert piece.”
Sir William came up then, huffing and puffing. “If I do not mistake, Miss Mary, that is the same gypsy fellow who was so impudent to your father at the Netherfield ball. Bush—is not that his name? Sir John Stoke’s keeper?”
I let go Maria’s hand because my own was trembling so. “His name is Bushell, sir.”
“Well, he has no business to be playing here tonight—playing in defiance of his master’s prohibition. I shall speak to Lady Stoke.”
I could not think what to say—I was afraid of saying too much. Maria spoke before I could: “Best not interfere, Papa.”
I found my voice. “I beg you will say nothing, sir. He—the young man—his family used to live on the Longbourn estate and I know a little of his circumstances. He has a mother and sister to support. If he were to lose his place, it would be very hard.”
“If he chooses to flout Sir John’s authority, then he must take the consequences. People should never try to rise above their station, my dear Miss Mary.”
I made a further effort: “Permit me then, sir, to speak for him as a musician—as a fellow musician. Music is such an important part of my own life that if anyone were to forbid me to play or sing—”
I could not go on, and after a moment Sir William said: “You feel these things a little too much, my dear. ’Tis only a common fiddler, after all.” And then with his usual gratuitous gallantry: “But here is young Mr. Rovere just come. I make no doubt he is eager to dance with you.”
George stood before me, bowing and smiling, and did indeed ask me to dance. It was of course charming to be sought for a partner—it was the kind of thing that happened to my sisters—only I wanted him to move out of the way in the meantime. I wanted to keep a close watch on Sir William.
Next thing, Mr. Chamberlayne approached and also applied for my hand, declaring that he had been practicing his steps since dancing with me at Netherfield. “I assure you I have improved no end, my dear Miss Mary.”
I was speechless. To receive two such offers in the space of as many minutes! And so I had now to refuse a man—a new and distressing experience—whereupon Chamberlayne turned and (quite cheerfully it seemed to me) solicited Maria.
Sir William meanwhile had moved out of my limited range of vision, and I could only pray that he had not gone to complain of Peter to Lady Stoke.
It would be absurd to say I was the belle of that Meryton assembly, but undoubtedly I received more attention—more male attention—than I had ever done in my life. It may have been because I was not wearing my spectacles, or because I had on a fine new gown, or because so many Meryton young ladies had gone to the Forsters’ party—but whatever the reason, George and Chamberlayne vied to partner me for every dance and a late-coming officer, one Mr. Liddle, paid me many foolish compliments.
I did not forget Peter in all this. While I was never close enough to see him clearly, I hoped very much that he could see me. But not since the long-ago musical evening at Netherfield had so much notice been taken of me and I confess it rather went to my head. George took me in to supper and Chamberlayne hovered with supernumerary glasses of negus, and by the time I returned to the assembly room (with Mr. Liddle as my train-bearer) I felt quite giddy.
It was then that Maria came to me and whispered that my fiddler friend had just left and that the other musicians were playing on without him.
12.
Next morning, I was extremely ill. Not only had I drunk too much negus, I had convinced myself that Peter wanted nothing more to do with me. But with my head over a basin “casting up my accounts,” it did not seem to matter, and in the limp intervals between I craved only oblivion.
Sir William, it seemed, had not spoken to Lady Stoke. Maria assured me that Peter had left of his own accord: “Papa had nothing whatsoever to do with it, I promise you.”
The rest of the evening had passed in a blur of negus. Maria told me afterwards she had heard Mr. Liddle say he considered me to be quite as pretty as my younger sisters: “He thought you looked so lovely without your spectacles—he thinks you have the most beautiful eyes.”
She repeated this when visiting my sickroom the following morning. I told her that I had no taste for such compliments but choked (quite literally) on the words, and after poor Maria held up a basin and ministered to me, I no longer had the strength to argue.
I continued unwell the whole of Wednesday, beset by such shiverings and streams of coldness about my shoulders that Mama called in Mr. Jones to prescribe to me. He recommended that I be moved from my attic room to a bedchamber on the floor below where a fire might be lit, and Mama then ordered that Jane’s room be prepared for me. In all the subsequent bustle I heard her say to Mr. Jones: “’Tis the best place for her—the sun comes in all morning and there are the new chintz hangings to cheer her up. We cannot have her falling into another melancholy.”
Mr. Jones diagnosed my complaint as a nervous fever, for which he prescribed his own special physic and a regimen of rest. But after the first few days I was allowed visitors, and soon it became a regular thing for me to receive them in the adjoining sitting room. In this way, not only Maria Lucas and Cassandra and Helen were accommodated, but George was also admitted to my “salons” (as Elizabeth was wont to call them). Mama even arranged for my pianoforte to be brought down so that we might have music, and many agreeable hours were then spent listening to George play his own compositions. (He was now writing an opera about two orphaned sisters living in an English country village, the elder a gifted artist, the younger a talented singer. But any resemblance to the Long sisters was—he assured me—entirely coincidental.)
Elizabeth was also very generous with her time—giving me the latest news of the Collinses, as well as an edited version of Jane’s London doings. I heard how badly Caroline Bingley had treated poor Jane—waiting a whole fortnight before returning Jane’s call, and then only sitting with her for a quarter of an hour before hurrying away. “But we will not speak of it to Mama, if you please, Mary.”
Lydia and Kitty when they came talked chiefly of Mr. Wickham’s defection. Mary King’s many imperfections were dwelt on—her sandy hair and freckles and how she looked like a coal sack in her new mourning clothes. Lydia declared her to be quite the plainest girl in Meryton: “Harriet Forster says Wickham does not care for her in the least. But Harriet says he has no choice—he must marry money, poor fellow—only Mary King is such a stupid little fool, she thinks he likes her for herself.”
I now feared that I had been equally credulous over Peter. I thought of him constantly. Occasionally, I even entertained the possibility that he had not left the assembly in order to avoid me. Cassandra certainly thought that he had not: “You are
a great deal too apt to fancy the worst, my dear Mary. ’Tis much more likely that he wished to steer clear of Lady Stoke and her daughter.”
Cassandra had lately adopted a rallying tone when talking to me that I did not at all care for. I believe she thought that my family was indulging me in my invalid regime, and there may have been—I am sure there were—conversations with Elizabeth about my earlier illness. Also, I worried that she felt obliged to sacrifice her precious painting time in order to visit me.
For this reason, I asked if an easel might be set up in the sitting room and for Cassandra to be furnished with a supply of artist’s materials. Mama was happy to oblige and overrode Cassandra’s objections, saying: “Oh! my dear—if it means you are able to spend more time with her, I am sure I do not grudge the expense.”
Not every one of our salons was harmonious, however. The last such one ended most unhappily—an exchange having occurred very hurtful to my feelings. Helen was present and George had pressed her to sing a newly finished aria. She was in a wayward mood, however, wanting first to know why it was written in Italian.
“I know nothing of Italian. Why cannot Mary sing it?”
George gave me a quick look. “I do not think Mary is quite well enough yet.” And on my assuring him that I was: “I think I should prefer Miss Helen to sing it.”
Helen shrugged off the compliment. “Then someone must first tell me what it is I am to sing about.”
I said: “The opera is about two sisters who live in an English country village—”
“Miss Helen does not need to know the plot, Mary.” He turned back to Helen: “The song is the second of the sisters’ duets—‘O! mia bella sorella’—the elder is warning the younger not to trust men.”
But Helen now wanted to know why, since it was an English village, the sisters were singing in Italian. And when George explained that operas were always written in Italian: “That’s no reason! You had much better change it—change the whole thing to English so that everyone will understand.”
The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice Page 20