10
Not
counting Mr John Knowles — to whom I am to this day deeply attached —
George Allardyce was my first true friend. George was some eighteen
months younger than myself but I was never conscious of it. He knew so
much about so many things and had seen a great deal of the world. Apart
from his horsemanship and his being so good at games, he had prodigious
musical talent and was fluent in three languages. And despite these
abilities, so modest and unaffected was he that nobody at Longbourn —
not even my father — could laugh at him.
Considering
how little practised I was in the art of making friends, our friendship
bloomed amazingly quick, quite like one of Mrs Rossi’s hothouse plants.
Within days of our first meeting, we were practising duets together and
sharing the same music master. Mama of course was eager to promote the
acquaintance, as was Mrs Rossi (or Nonna as I came to call her), and
soon it was Netherfield for me every morning where the music master Mr
Bray would give us our lesson before breakfast. After breakfast George
and I would generally practise for a further hour and then it was time
for the boys to resume their regular studies and I would return to
Longbourn.
At first,
Kitty and Lydia accompanied me — Gil would bring all three of us in the
carriage — but this arrangement did not last. Lydia and Sam were too
alike, both spoilt and self-willed, to endure each others’ company for
long; and after the sport of baiting and bullying poor Kitty lost its
savour (and after Kitty refused point blank to go to Netherfield) I
always went alone.
During
this time I hardly ever saw Mrs Allardyce. She rarely rose before noon
and George was under strict instructions to close the doors to the music
room so that she would not be disturbed. (Even then, Nonna would often
ask that we play something less fortissimo because “poor Christina” had
the headache.)
But one
memorable morning after I had been a regular visitor for several weeks,
Mrs Allardyce stormed into the music room. George was playing the last
movement of a Beethoven sonata — appropriately, the Tempest
sonata — and I was sitting beside him, turning pages. We had our backs
to the door and such was the volume of the music that at first we did
not hear her. One moment she was screaming at us from the doorway, the
next, descending like a fury, pulling poor George off his stool and
crashing the lid of the pianoforte down on my hand.
The pain
in my fingers was something dreadful but I dared not cry out. She was
standing over us, breathing quick with her eyes bright black and hair
tangled up like serpents. George picked himself up and without looking
at her, began to brush an imaginary speck of dirt from the sleeve of his
jacket. And this went on for what seemed an age — George brushing and
brushing and refusing to meet her eye while she continued to stare
crazily at him and to breathe as if she had just run a great race.
Finally
she spoke, asking me if she had hurt my hand, but still looking at
George.
“It is of
no consequence, ma’am.” (If George could be dignified and stoic in the
face of her intemperate behaviour, then surely so could I.)
She
looked at me properly for the first time then and gave a grudging sort
of laugh. “You’re a fine pair, aren’t you?”
And then
Mr Coates came quickly into the room. He must have heard her screaming —
he looked quite anxious. “What is the matter? What is it, Tina?”
“Oh” said
she, shaking back her hair and smiling and trying to compose herself.
“Nothing, nothing. The music was so loud that I couldn’t . . .” Reaching
for Mr Coates’ hand and holding it in both of hers and then suddenly,
convulsively: “Oh Jasper. I couldn’t bear it!”
“Hush
now.” He was holding her and patting her, his expression a curious blend
of impatience and resignation, and then jerking his head at George in an
unmistakable signal for us to leave.
I almost
ran from the room so eager was I to escape, but George took his time and
when he reached the door I heard him say something in Italian whereupon
Mr Coates strode over and pulled him back into the room and shut the
door in my face — only to open it a moment later and say: “Run along to
the library, Mary. You’ll find Nonna there.” And then, perhaps sensing I
was close to tears, in a more kindly tone: “George will join you
presently.”
There was
no sign of Nonna in the library and after waiting for several minutes I
ventured to take down a book (A Voyage to the South Seas or some such
thing) and drew up a chair at the great chart table. The fingers of my
injured hand were beginning to swell so I swaddled them with my
handkerchief and tried hard to concentrate on the engravings of strange
animals and half-naked savages. I was also trying not to cry — I wanted
very much to go home, and had I been certain which path to take across
the fields I would have walked back to Longbourn by myself.
I must
have sat there for the best part of an hour before one of the maids came
to tell me that the carriage had been brought round.
The next
morning I fully expected George to talk to me about the whole sorry
incident, to offer me an explanation, if not an apology. I had told
nobody at home what had happened; I was afraid I would not be permitted
to go to Netherfield again if I told. I was afraid too that poor George
had been cruelly punished — the idea of him being beaten by Mr Coates
had kept me awake half the night. But more than anything, I wanted him
to tell me about his mother: did she scream and run mad very often? The
discovery that Mrs Allardyce was capable of far worse behaviour than my
own mother had been both shocking and reassuring.
But it
was clear to me as soon as I arrived at Netherfield that George wanted
to avoid a tete-a-tete. He was not waiting for me in the front hall as
usual; he was in the music room with Mr Bray, practising scales. And
although he looked up and smiled when I walked in and wished me good
morning with his customary courtesy, I could sense a new reserve.
When Mr
Bray was distracted by a bluebottle buzzing against the window at the
far end of the room, I seized the opportunity to whisper: “I have been
so worried, George! Was your uncle very cross?”
He shook
his head and immediately played some thunderous chords. I then placed my
(still swollen) hand over his left hand to still his playing whereupon
he threw it off but then sat silent for several moments, head bowed.
Finally
he spoke: “You were not treated well yesterday. For which I apologise —”
“No no —”
I began, but he would not let me finish.
“My uncle
is also very sorry.”
“Indeed?”
I felt that if anyone should apologise, it ought to be Mrs Allardyce.
He placed
his hands on the keyboard once more. “He intends to speak to you about
it.”
He was
playing loud chords again, and I began to feel quite annoyed: certainly
this was not treating me well. But I saw it was useless trying to talk
to him and I resolved to wait until breakfast — George, Sam and I always
breakfasted together with only one of the housemaids to wait on us —
although I could not help remarking (raising my voice above the great
din he was making): “I am glad that you at least are able to play
chromatic scales with both hands!”
I was given no opportunity to talk privately to George at breakfast
however: Mr Coates was already in the breakfast parlour reading a
newspaper when George and I walked in.
“Good
morning to you.” He made a great show of folding up the paper and
pushing aside the coffee pot. “I expect you’re both famished, are you?
There’s boiled eggs and hot rolls and a very decent ham — shall I carve
you a few slices, Mary? Or would you prefer the sirloin?”
“Oh! Just a slice of ham if you please, sir.”
It was
embarrassing having Mr Coates wait on me. Normally I ate a hearty
breakfast at Netherfield but now this ostentatious hospitality quite
took away my appetite.
George
meanwhile had moved directly to help himself, merely remarking that his
uncle was not working on his book this morning. (Most mornings Mr Coates
shut himself in his study to work on his novel, breakfasting off a tray
and refusing to see any morning callers.)
“No
George, not this morning.” Mr Coates was concentrating on carving
wafer-thin slices of ham. “Do you take mustard, Mary?”
“No thank
you, sir.”
“Now
then,” (as my plate was finally placed in front of me) “Let’s see how
good a trencherwoman you are. Buon appetito.”
I was
afraid he was going to sit and watch me eat, but mercifully he turned
his attention to George. “You’ll be pleased to hear that the new mare
has arrived.” (George had been promised the gift of a horse for his
eleventh birthday.) “Sam’s down there with her now, getting acquainted.”
I could
see George was excited, although trying to appear offhand. “But you’ve
not given him leave to ride her, have you sir?”
“No no.”
Coates laughed his odd cracked laugh. “She’s your horse, never fear.”
Turning back to me then. “Will you take coffee, Mary? No? Or some
chocolate now? Can I get you some chocolate?”
I had a
mouthful and was obliged to shake my head, feeling my face grow hot that
I was unable to speak, unable to thank him. I was sure now that he had
dismissed the maid and sent Sam off to the stables on purpose to talk
with us in private, and now the idea of his apologising to me —
explaining Mrs Allardyce’s behaviour to me — was making me feel
extremely uncomfortable.
But in
response to a question from George, he was again talking about the new
horse: “She’s a lovely little creature — legs of iron and a wonderful
bold eye . . .”
During
the ensuing horsey conversation I was able to eat steadily for several
minutes — although I fancied Mr Coates was glancing at me from time to
time, and once when I dared look up he was certainly looking at me,
although he immediately smiled and left off.
It struck
me then that he was a surprisingly perceptive man, and tactful withal —
and although I could not have expressed the idea in words at the time, I
saw that he was able to give of himself — he seemed not to care about
being thought ridiculous if he could make people feel at ease. And it
helped too that he had a charming smile, down-curving and
rueful-seeming.
“I’m very
sorry about yesterday, Mary.”
The
apology came when I least expected it. One moment he was refilling his
coffee cup and telling George how to mix a linseed bran mash, the next
he had turned to me and spoken the words in an awkward little rush.
“Well.”
Mr Coates began to stir his coffee, his colour somewhat heightened. “Now
that that fence has been cleared . . .”
We all
laughed then — but I saw that George was looking uncomfortable; he
laughed perhaps because he was embarrassed.
Mr Coates
went on stirring his coffee. “I don’t know how it is in your family,
Mary, but in this household — I suppose you could say we are less
“English” in our ways and when feelings run high, we are apt to — to
vent those feelings and afterwards of course we may regret our — very
much regret that we have hurt someone or made them unhappy.”
I did not
know what to say or where to look. I was not so much embarrassed as
confused. He seemed to be taking responsibility for someone else’s bad
behaviour. And while Mr Knowles would have said that this was following
the example of Jesus Christ; still I found it upsetting. It did not suit
my child’s sense of justice.
George
must have felt as I did — it was amazing how often we thought and felt
alike — for he said quite heatedly and with his mouth full: “But it
wasn’t you, sir!”
Mr Coates
ignored this. “Let me see your hand, Mary.”
And he
reached across the table and took my left hand and for several seconds
wordlessly examined it.
“Does it
still pain you?”
“Oh! it
is much better this morning, sir, truly.”
George
muttered something in Italian which sounded like “Ma va”.
Mr Coates
released my hand. “These sotto voce remarks, George — I thought I made
it abundantly clear to you yesterday —”
“Yes,
sir. You did, sir.” George was inclining his head in a pose he
frequently struck when playing the pianoforte so that he appeared both
proud and penitent. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“If you
have a grievance, for God’s sake speak it directly.”
“Yes sir.
Very well then, sir. I think my mother should apologise to Mary —”
“Well
she won’t, and there’s an end to it!”
There was
a pause, dreadful to my feelings, with Mr Coates looking very annoyed.
Finally George picked up his knife and fork, and began to cut his meat
with a sulky sort of dignity.
I felt compelled to speak. “Perhaps it would be better if I didn’t come
here any more. For my music lessons I mean.”
Mr Coates
sat back; he was no longer looking so angry. “But you like coming here,
don’t you?”
“Oh! yes
sir, I do. I like it more than anything.”
“I’m glad
to hear it.” He was actually smiling now. “If Mary Bennet were to cease
visiting Netherfield, I for one should be extremely sorry.”
I felt
myself blushing. “You’re very kind.”
“Nonsense.
You’re always welcome here, my dear. Never doubt that.” Amazingly, he
then turned back to talk to George as if their earlier argument had
never happened: “Of what were we speaking? Linseed, was it not? Yes, you
need to boil the stuff for at least four hours before you mix it with
the bran mash. The husk is extraordinarily tough . . .”
[ This novella will be continued in
the next issue. ]
