8
When
a new family comes into a country neighbourhood there is always
speculation about its circumstances, pecuniary and personal, and the
histories of individual family members, their habits, talents, oddities
and secrets are much wondered about and discussed. And when such a
family takes possession of one of the principal properties in the
neighbourhood, the speculation reaches fever pitch.
That, at
least, was how it was with Jasper Coates. Stories about him began to
circulate long before he arrived at Netherfield. He was first reported
to be a single man of four and twenty, living in London, a writer of
novels but with an independent fortune of some five or six thousand a
year. His widowed sister and her two young sons were also reportedly
coming to live at Netherfield and this same sister was to keep house for
him.
A
contradictory report however had Mr Coates as a widower, aged about
thirty, and father to two young boys — the boys were the constant in all
the stories — whose mother-in-law and unmarried sister were jointly to
keep house for him. In this version, there was no mention of Mr Coates
writing novels although he was reputed to own a very fine library which
he intended bringing with him to Netherfield.
Sir
William Lucas was the first to visit the newcomer and he called at
Longbourn shortly afterwards to tell us what he had learned.
Yes, he
assured Mama, Mr Coates was indeed a single man, and a very fine young
man too, very handsome — if Sir William was any judge — with an affable
well bred manner, perhaps a little too informal in his dress (he had
been in his shirtsleeves, supervising the unpacking of a crate of books
when Sir William called) but on the whole Sir William was very well
pleased with him.
However, when questioned further by Jane and Elizabeth as to what sort
of a man Mr Coates really was — his interests and pursuits and whether
he was indeed a writer of novels — Sir William at first could offer
little: he guessed Mr Coates’ age to be five and twenty or thereabouts,
and his weight to be about thirteen stone.
But then
Sir William did recall that while the crate of books was being emptied,
Mr Coates had set aside several identical three-volume sets in red
leather, all with gilded page fore-edges, and ordered that they be
placed under lock and key.
“His own
work!” cried Elizabeth eagerly. “It must be so. And what was the title,
Sir William?”
Sir William could not recall the title except that it was encased in a
scroll and the lettering was in gold.
“And what
of the other members of the family?” Mama wanted to know. “Did you see
the man’s sister, Sir William? And what of the little boys?”
Here, Sir
William was much better informed. It was Mr Coates’ step-sister,
a Mrs Allardyce, who was the mother of the boys, and it was her mother,
Mrs Rossi, who would be acting as housekeeper. As to the boys, Sir
William had met them both; their names were George and Samuel —
remarkably well-grown rosy-faced fellows, and the older boy, George, a
very talented young musician by all accounts. Both boys were very happy
to have left London and looking forward enormously to living in the
country and riding their ponies every day — their ages were ten and
eight.
“The
exact same ages as Kitty and Lydia!” exclaimed Mama joyfully. “Well, and
so what of the mother? How is she circumstanced? Did you meet her?”
“No, I
did not have that honour — although I saw a lady as I was leaving — a
remarkably fine lady on the stairs as I came away, who I assumed to be
Mrs Allardyce — dark hair and eyes and a decided air of fashion —”
“She is a
widow, I suppose?”
Sir
William had not liked to enquire; it seemed a rather delicate point.
“For, you know,” said he. “If she is not a widow, she must be living
quite apart from her husband or possibly even,” (lowering his voice)
“divorced, and that, you know, would be . . .” Shaking his head, he
forbore to say what it would be.
“Well”
said Mama. “Mr Bennet is to call on Mr Coates tomorrow — that is, if he
does not put it off again — and after Mr Coates has returned the visit,
I shall invite them all here to dinner. And then, you know, it will all
come out I daresay — that sort of thing can never be hushed up.”
Mama was as good as her word, and one week later a little before four in
the afternoon the Bennet family gathered in the drawing room, there to
await the arrival of the guests. It was but a small dinner party — only
the Netherfield family and Sir William and Lady Lucas had been invited —
but Mama had asked the two Allardyce boys as company for Kitty and
Lydia, observing to my father that today’s childhood playmates often
became tomorrow’s lovers.
We children would not be joining the rest of the company in the dining
parlour however — we would be sitting quite apart in the breakfast room
— but this evening for the first time Elizabeth was to dine with the
adults. And now as I looked across at her, I saw she was quite excited
at the prospect. Her face, bent over her needlework, had a heightened
colour and she was behaving in an unusually quiet and decorous fashion.
I also
saw that she was wearing a new gown — white with a sort of silvery trim
— and as I watched her sewing and from time to time pausing to rethread
her needle or snip off her silk, it seemed to me that she had become all
at once maidenly and mysterious, that she had joined Jane in an esoteric
world to which as yet I possessed no key. I remember it unsettled me a
little.
Perhaps my father sensed something of this too for he said suddenly:
“That is a new gown Lizzy, I think?”
“Yes,
Papa. Do you approve?”
She was
looking up at him and smiling in her usual mischievous way, and he —
possibly reassured — nodded and returned to his book.
My mother
meanwhile was becoming restless. “The Lucases are late,” said she. “And
Sir William promised me they would come early — he promised faithfully —
so that we might all be assembled here and ready for when Mr Coates and
his party arrive.”
And then
after a couple of minutes during which nobody spoke — Kitty and Lydia
being engrossed in a game of spillikens in the corner — she burst out
again: “I do so hate it when people do not keep their word. And nowadays
that man thinks of nothing but his own importance. His head is full of
the Court of St James — everything is the Court of St James! He thinks
of nobody’s convenience except his own —”
“Of whom
are you speaking?” My father asked the question without putting aside
his book and his tone was decidedly unfriendly.
Mama for
once took the hint: “Nothing, nobody. It is of no consequence.”
But then
her angry restless glance fell on me. “For heaven’s sake Mary! That gown
if I do not mistake is the one I told you to leave off wearing — it is
by far too tight and now look, look!” (Pulling at my sleeve.) “Here is
the seam split open entirely. Oh! I declare I have no patience with you!
If you would spend one-tenth of the time you spend squinting over your
books on your appearance!”
“Mama,”
said Jane. “I believe I can hear a carriage.”
But
Mama’s attention was now firmly fixed on my split seam: “I cannot pin it
— there is not time enough to pin it — you will have to go and change.
Go put on your blue checked muslin. Ask Gil to help you. Go on, girl!
Hurry!”
[ This novella will be continued in
the next issue. ]
