“Actually,” said George with a smile that made me long to hit him, “I think you like him because he is uneducated. That way, you can better show off your own knowledge and accomplishments.”
“How dare you! You know nothing about him—or me for that matter.”
We were now reentering the wood and our raised voices must have disturbed a woodpecker. George waited for its harsh laughter to subside before saying: “Actually I do know something. Letty Stoke told me something.”
I was afraid then that Letty had indeed said something to Peter’s discredit, but it was no worse than: “His father was transported to New South Wales for poaching.”
“He is not responsible for his father’s crimes. And poaching is not—” (I tried to recall what Mr. Darcy had said in defense of poachers.) “A poor man might have to resort to poaching to feed his family.”
To my surprise, George did not challenge this. Instead, he said: “I have sometimes thought that Letty might have a tendre for Bushell herself.”
I stopped. “What exactly are you trying to tell me?”
“She is always talking about him. I know she frequently lends him books.”
My face must have betrayed my disquiet and George gave another of his knowing smiles. He cast no more aspersions, however. Possibly he was content to have sown the seeds of doubt. Or possibly he had remembered his letter to Helen—that it would be impolitic in the circumstances to provoke me further. But as we were nearing the keeper’s cottage, he suddenly stopped and said: “I just don’t want to see you get taken in, Mary. I care about you, you know. I cannot stand by and see you getting into a scrape.”
He was now very much in earnest, telling me how fortune-hunters cast out lures to innocent young girls like myself. But looking up at him—at his flushed face, the beads of sweat upon his upper lip as he lectured me—it struck me that George was himself something of an innocent.
“You’ve not been listening to a word I’ve said!”
“Yes, I have.” I started to walk again. “Have you brought your letter for Helen? You may as well give it to me now. If Mrs. Knowles were to see you handing me a letter, she might wonder—she already believes you to be in love with me.”
Mrs. Knowles greeted us on our return with complacent smiles, and upon learning that George was soon to leave Hertfordshire she asked him and Mr. Purvis to dinner the following day: “I can promise you only a neat, plain dinner, Mr. Rovere—farmhouse fare—but I shall invite Miss Letty Stoke to meet you, and afterwards I hope you will play for us one of your own compositions.”
Up in my room, I mulled over what George had said. His view of Peter as a fortune-hunter I at first dismissed. I prided myself on my discernment (I had never been taken in by Wickham, after all) but then of a sudden I remembered what the landlady of the Red Lion had said of Peter—that he was “ambitious.” From there my thinking became increasingly confused. I began to question Peter’s sincerity, and thence to argue with myself: “But did he not seem pleased to see you? Did not he declare by his manner, his looks, that he liked you?” “Perhaps,” came the doubting reply. “And perhaps Letty Stoke believes that he likes her too.”
I had been lying upon the bed but now I leapt up and went to the window—peering out from beneath the blind at the keeper’s cottage—willing Peter to appear. And from there it was but a short step to fearing I had gone a little mad.
If thou rememberest not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not loved.
Fortunately Shakespeare’s words came to me before I had worked myself into an absolute fever of mistrust. I had written them in the Commonplace Book not long after writing my foolish letter to Peter. They served to calm me before I went downstairs.
I found Mrs. Knowles and Mr. Galbraith arguing in the parlor. “But I have not invited his wife, Brother! I made sure she was fixed in London before ever I gave the invitation.”
“You might at least have consulted me.”
“Well, ’tis all settled now—young Mr. Rovere assured me that neither he nor Mr. Purvis had any prior engagement and I have just now received a very pretty note of acceptance from Letty.” She offered this up for Mr. Galbraith’s inspection. “Sylvia is to cook a goose and there is not the least little thing for you to worry about.”
Mr. Galbraith waved away the note. “I suppose now you’ll have Sylvia and Matty and young Bert—” (Bert was the yardboy) “You’ll have them all running around preparing fancy French dishes—”
“No indeed!” Mrs. Knowles was laughing now. “I promise you there will be none of that. And afterwards we will have some splendid music because Mr. Rovere has promised to play one of his own compositions—and Letty will sing—” (recollecting herself) “—and Mary too of course.”
“Very well.” Mr. Galbraith picked up his newspaper. “But I hope you have not forgotten that Peter Bushell is also coming here tomorrow evening. That is ‘all settled’ too. I have asked him to come round after dinner and play for us, and I have no intention of putting him off.”
4.
Dinner at Stoke Farm was at the unfashionably early hour of three o’clock (a point on which Mr. Galbraith remained immoveable) and at half past two the following day therefore Mrs. Knowles, Mr. Galbraith, and I repaired to the parlor to await the guests.
I was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. I had slept very little the previous night and had helped in the kitchen for most of the morning—sieving gooseberries to make a sauce for the goose. (Contrary to Mrs. Knowles’s promise, there had been a lot of running about, for besides the goose Sylvia had cooked a raised giblet pie and, because it was Mr. Galbraith’s favorite, a Savoy cake.) At the time I had been happy to help—it had taken my mind off Peter—but I was now tired and becoming increasingly nervous at the prospect of seeing him, especially in the company of Letty Stoke and George. I feared that he might be carrying on some sort of flirtation with Letty and that George would again be uncivil to him. I was afraid too that I would make a fool of myself. I resolved not to sing—even if everyone were to press me.
“You look pale, Mary.” (Mrs. Knowles was always observant of my looks.) “Can I get you a glass of wine, dear?”
“I’m not surprised she looks pale.” Mr. Galbraith spoke from behind his newspaper. “You’ve had her slaving away in the kitchen all day.”
“She has not been slaving. How you do exaggerate.”
Brother and sister began to bicker then—or rather Mr. Galbraith began needling Mrs. Knowles, who defended herself but at the same time sought to placate him. Eventually she said: “Brother, you cannot put a good dinner before six people without a little extra work. And a Savoy cake—Sylvia wanted to make you a Savoy cake—and it takes time to prepare. Twelve eggs—and the whites to be whisked into a froth. Ask Mary if you don’t believe me—she helped—you cannot just wave a magic wand.”
Mr. Galbraith subsided then. And a few minutes later he folded up his newspaper and got me a glass of wine. “There you are, my dear—Sercial—the very best old Madeira. Imogen, can I get you a glass?”
Letty Stoke was the first to arrive. I have not yet described Letty so I shall now set down her chief points. She was a healthy-looking girl, short but well made, with a thick head of red hair and a sharp face. Her conversation consisted chiefly of hunting anecdotes. (Lydia once unkindly observed of her that she looked like a fox herself.) In one respect I envied her: She had a fine, strong singing voice about which she seemed to be not in the least conceited. Her vanity lay rather in pride of family—she was fond of telling people that the Stokes had come over with the Conqueror.
Today though, she seemed more interested in the Long family. “Now tell me, Mary, how are they getting on? Have you had a letter from them lately?” And after I assured her that Cassandra and Helen were both well: “But now you must admit, Mary, ’tis very strange. They have been in Cornwall for months now and nobody has heard from them except you.”
> I then said what I always said—how the Cornish cousins lived in a very remote village and the consequent difficulty and expense of keeping up a correspondence.
“Yes, yes.” Letty had an unfortunate habit of darting out her tongue when excited. “But my father could have franked my letter, you know, and so it would have cost them nothing. And who exactly are these mysterious Cornish cousins? I’m beginning to think that they don’t exist.”
I was very relieved when the knocker sounded and Mr. Purvis and George were shown in. More Madeira was handed round, after which Mr. Purvis and Mr. Galbraith began exchanging views on fine wine and Letty embarked on one of her hunting anecdotes. Nobody checked her—George being himself fond of hunting and Mrs. Knowles too polite to interrupt—and I pretended to listen, drinking more Madeira than was good for me in the meantime.
When we went into the dining room, Letty started speaking of Peter: “Now I understand our keeper is to come here later in the evening—I understand he is to play for you?” And upon Mrs. Knowles confirming it: “Well, you are in for a rare treat, I promise you—Peter plays superbly—better than anyone. Have you ever heard him, Mary?”
“Indeed I have—”
“After the accident we feared his fiddling days might be over—after the shooting accident on our Norfolk estate—for his arm was quite badly injured, you know. But our physician soon put things to right. And so you have all heard him play, have you?”
George said: “I have not had that pleasure.”
Emboldened by Madeira, I declared: “I have heard him at the assemblies and also at Mr. Bingley’s ball. He plays extremely well.”
“Yes, well, you will hear him this evening without those other musicians, Mary, and a good thing too. I have told him that he will never amount to anything while those yokels are accompanying him. ‘Shake ’em all off!’—that was my advice!” She was laughing and flicking out her tongue. “Give ’em their marching orders!”
George had been looking at me during much of this with a “what did I tell you?” expression, and indeed Letty’s proprietary tone—the intimacy it implied—was making me most uneasy.
Mr. Purvis then entered the conversation. “It’s not pleasant, giving people their marching orders, I can tell you. I had to turn off an old carpenter yesterday—he’d been working on the attics at Purvis Lodge.” Turning to Mr. Galbraith: “My wife would have it that the attics don’t matter—she’s been at me not to spend any more money on the place.”
George then said (more as a sarcastic aside to me): “My mother, you perceive, considers the servants’ quarters quite immaterial.”
There was an awkward silence. Mr. Purvis always ignored George’s criticisms of Christina, but Letty held her own parents in high esteem and gave George a disapproving look. It was Mrs. Knowles who came to the rescue. “That puts me in mind of a very good joke. Why is the soul like a thing of no consequence?” She looked smilingly around the table. “Because it is quite immaterial of course.”
Thereafter things went smoothly albeit predictably, with Mr. Galbraith helping himself to all the fancy dishes and telling Mr. Purvis how much he preferred plain cooking, and Mr. Purvis reminiscing about the meals of his impoverished childhood. George fell silent, and as the effects of the Madeira wore off, so too did I. It was left to Letty and Mrs. Knowles to keep up the conversation—a very lopsided one since Letty wanted only to talk of hunting and headed off poor Mrs. Knowles whenever she tried to change the subject.
5.
George was the only gentleman to return promptly to the parlor, and on Mrs. Knowles inviting him to play one of his own compositions he sat down at the pianoforte and started playing the sisters’ duet.
Letty lifted her little fox-head to give tongue and we had just reached the “Tide of Malice” when there was a burst of laughter from the adjoining dining room. Mr. Purvis’s loud voice could now be heard: “’Tis wonderful to see a farmer and a keeper on such easy terms.”
Next thing, the parlor door burst open and in walked Mr. Purvis and Mr. Galbraith—smelling of cigar smoke—and behind them Peter, looking very neat and sober in black coat and breeches. He was carrying his fiddle and some music sheets.
Because I was sitting directly opposite the door, Peter saw me first and smiled at me. But such was my delight and confusion I then looked away and did not see how he greeted Letty. The little farmhouse parlor seemed of a sudden very crowded. Everybody was talking loudly; Mr. Purvis was almost shouting. “And it’s very much to your credit, Galbraith, I’m sure. Because if the hares had been eating up my wheat crop I would most certainly have shot ’em.”
Mr. Galbraith was a little the worse for all the wine he had drunk. “Between you and me, Mr. Purvis, I did shoot a few—and one or two pheasants, if you must know, but Peter wisely turned a blind eye.”
“Sir John a strict landlord, is he?” (Mr. Purvis seemed to have forgotten Letty’s presence.) “He has the look of it.”
Letty had cried out at this. “’Tis only natural Papa should wish to preserve our game, Mr. Purvis!”
“Sir John is a splendid landlord, Mr. Purvis,” said Mrs. Knowles. “And a thoroughgoing Christian gentleman.”
In the midst of all this, I saw that George and Peter had struck up a conversation. I heard Peter say: “Oh, I doubt there’s much that’d interest you, sir—it’s just some old songs.”
“I like old songs. Show me.” George held out his hand peremptorily.
“Just some Robbie Burns’s songs, sir. Nothing you’ve not already seen.”
“Show me.”
Peter then extracted some sheets and handed them over, saying with a little smile at me: “I thought Mary might wish to hear ’em. I know she likes Burns.”
“And how do you know what Miss Mary likes, pray?” George was shuffling through the sheets.
Peter paused for a moment. “Well, I know she likes that work of yours, sir—The Philistine, isn’t it?”
I was surprised and delighted. Not only was Peter quoting from my letter, but his voice now had an edge to it. George looked equally surprised. “Upon my word, you are certainly well informed.”
Letty caught this last. “Of course he is well informed. He is incredibly well informed about music. He can read it at sight, you know.”
“Can he indeed?”
George handed back Peter’s song-sheets and I heard Peter mutter to Letty: “I’m for it now.”
And sure enough George now took out one of his own scores, saying to Peter: “I have a sonata here for piano and accompanying violin—shall we play the first movement then?”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
But Mrs. Knowles would not permit this. “Oh! but first we must hear the rest of that song from your opera, Mr. Rovere.” And then in a minatory aside to Mr. Galbraith, who was still talking to Mr. Purvis: “I want you to listen to this, Brother. ’Tis a splendid song and Letty sings it beautifully.”
Thus directed, Mr. Galbraith and Mr. Purvis seated themselves and Letty took up her previous station beside George at the pianoforte. Peter meanwhile moved over to stand behind my chair.
George in his usual contrary fashion played from the beginning of the passage, thus leaving Letty with little to do other than to wait and lick her lips. Peter was now standing very close—as if he wanted to comfort me—as if he knew how hurt I felt that Mrs. Knowles had not asked me to play or to sing. And I did feel comforted. It was as if a tide of warmth was carrying me out of myself, inclining me to trust him and to conduct myself well. The words of the 101st psalm came to me straight: “I will sing of mercy and judgment; unto thee, O Lord, will I sing. I will behave myself wisely in a perfect way.”
I found I could listen without envy to Letty’s singing, and afterwards when the applause came I did not mind that Mrs. Knowles was heaping praises upon her. Peter’s hands were on my chair-rail and when I leaned back I could feel them against my shoulders.
But now George was wanting Peter to play and Mr. Galbraith a
nd Letty were adding their voices to his. George placed his score on the stand, saying: “We will play the second movement only, Bushell—the adagio—the violin’s part there is far less taxing.”
I felt Peter’s hands leave my chair-back. I watched him walk over and pick up his fiddle. As always, he moved in an unhurried way and it struck me anew what a relaxed person he was—how rarely he betrayed any sign of nervousness. There was a brief exchange with George while the latter explained some notations on the score, after which Peter tuned his instrument and at a nod from George, began playing.
I was familiar with George’s sonata. I had heard him play it unaccompanied many times and knew it for a charming composition, the second movement especially. But now Peter’s execution lifted it to a new level. I am not competent to judge the finer points of the art of playing a stringed instrument but I am sure that everybody felt it—I am sure that they did—for the atmosphere in the room seemed charged and for a short time it was as if we were all somehow connected. I suspect that George felt it more than anyone—it was, after all, his creation—although when the movement ended he did not speak, merely sat with his head bowed. But everybody else was also quiet (that sweet hush before the applause!) and then of course came the compliments.
Peter appeared not to relish them, at one point chiding Letty for “emptying the butter-boat” over him. I said very little in consequence, and George continued to sit in silence. Presently he stood and gathered up his music. I saw then that his hands were shaking, and I marveled (not for the first time) how someone so sensitive could be so stupidly stiff-necked. I was sure he would not be able to bring himself to praise Peter—certainly not in front of me.
Mrs. Knowles was begging both men to play again and as Mr. Galbraith soon echoed her pleas, they were obliged to comply—George with none too good grace. This time, however, the collaboration was less happy. They played the final movement of the sonata, and although it began sweetly, a darker theme was presently introduced by the piano. There was much thumping of chords by George—shortly to be matched by furious double-stopping on the part of the violin. It was as if the two instruments were at war and I could not help thinking that the two players partook of the rivalry.
The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice Page 25