12
“What
is it you are reading, Mary, pray?”
Mrs
Allardyce, still wearing her dressing gown, had entered the Netherfield
library just as I was turning the opening pages of Renata.
Concealment was impossible: she had already plucked the book from my
grasp. All I could do was wait, speechless and trembling, for her anger
to break. If she were to strike me now, I felt it would be no more than
I deserved.
And I
had been so certain I was safe! Mr Coates, I knew, had left for London
earlier that morning and would be away for several days, Nonna had gone
into Meryton to shop, and George and Sam were out riding. I had watched
both boys out of the house before going to the library and unlocking —
with shaking hands and pounding heart — the big breakfront bookcase
where Mr Coates kept copies of all his own works and taking out the
first of the red leather bound volumes. But now as I sat, head bowed and
sick with dread, I heard merely the rustle of swiftly turned pages and
then — incredibly — a burst of laughter.
“Good
God!” Pulling out a chair and seating herself beside me. “I had quite
forgotten —” Breaking off to read once more.
After a
minute or so of rustling silence I ventured to glance up at her. She was
utterly engrossed — nibbling the tip of her little finger as she read.
Several more minutes passed and I was beginning to breathe more easily
when she spoke again — abruptly this time, without lifting her eyes from
the page: “How came you by this? Did Jasper give it you?”
“Oh no,
ma’am!” I cleared my throat, trying to speak collectedly: “The key had
been left in the bookcase and I — I know I oughtn’t to have opened it
without Mr Coates’ leave, I know that very well. But my aunt — yesterday
my aunt spoke of the book so highly, that I ventured —”
“Your
aunt?” Looking at me intently now. “Your mother’s sister? The one who
lives in Meryton?”
“Oh no,
that is my Aunt Philips. No, I was speaking of Aunt Gardiner —
she is a great reader, my Aunt Gardiner —”
“Never
mind, never mind.” Her attention had gone back to Renata, and
soon the little finger had crept back into her mouth. She must have read
for the best part of five minutes — it seemed an eternity — and then she
laughed again but it was an embarrassed groaning sort of laugh,
such as a poor joke might elicit. And then she cast the book aside and
looked at me.
Her
look was not unfriendly. I had the impression she was quite pleased to
have an audience — a sycophantic servant would have done as well as a
docile child. She wanted to talk.
“Very
few people have read this novel, you know, Mary.”
“Indeed?”
I quavered. I thought it best not to repeat what Aunt had said.
“Jasper
sent it to a publisher just on the chance — fare un esperimento,
you understand? He thought nobody would want it. And then they offered
him a hundred guineas. That’s a lot of money, wouldn’t you agree, a
hundred guineas? Very hard to say no to a hundred guineas. And he was
just twenty years old.”
She
picked up the book again — this time respectfully, tracing the gold
scroll about the title. “He should never have accepted of course. He
should have known that people would recognize the characters, the
circumstances — everything pointed to Mama and myself — he should have
disguised all that. But it was very much a young man’s novel, very
confessionale. He didn’t consider our reputations. Of course
Mama — being Mama — declared she didn’t care.”
She
paused, frowning, and I thought perhaps her own confession had ended,
but then she went on in a very passable imitation of Nonna: “Reputation
is no matter, Christina, when a person is making art!”
I
laughed — I knew it was expected of me — and she continued: “Yes, well I
happen to think it does matter. And Jasper eventually came round to my
way of thinking — too late of course — he then had to spend a small
fortune buying up the publisher’s stock.“
“Yes,”
I began hesitantly. “My aunt did mention —”
But she
was not listening, intent on justifying herself: “We all have to live in
the world Mary, and I had my boys to consider. And I’ve no assets — no
capital — apart from my good name.” Pausing and giving me one of her
curiously disappointing smiles. “And my good looks of course.”
“Nature’s
coin,” I murmured. I was then afraid she would think me impertinent,
but she merely looked amused.
“Precisely.”
“Mr
Knowles had me learn many such aphorisms — on account of my plainness
and my sisters’ good looks.”
“No,
you’ll never be a beauty, that’s certain.” She got up and went over to
the bookcase and I watched while she took down the second volume of
Renata. “You must cultivate your talents, your music — you must
study to become interessante.” Rapidly leafing through the end
pages as she spoke: “Perhaps you will write a novel yourself one day,
who knows?”
“You’re
pleased to make fun of me, ma’am.”
“Not at
all, not at all.” She laid aside the second volume and took down the
third. “Of course it’s next to impossible for a woman to make her own
way in the world, but if I had the least little talent I assure you I’d
be labouring night and day to turn it to good account — to earn some
money for myself. As it is, I’m reduced to muddling along with Jasper.
Or marrying Fred Purvis.”
I was
astounded. “But Mr Purvis is so . . . So . . . ”
She
laughed. “So so rich, Mary! I have it on good authority he’s
worth at least twelve thousand a year.”
“But
ma’am.” The image of Mr Purvis — a fat fiftyish dandy with improbable
chestnut hair — was so strong in my mind I could not believe her to be
serious. “You would have to live with him.”
“Ah,
but not for long. I have it all planned. I shall engage an Italian cook.
And Purvis will then gorge himself. Oh! he will pop off within a year.”
I could
not laugh with her. That she should think of marrying Mr Purvis solely
for his money was bad enough but to plan his death — to joke
about it!
“What a
solemn little creature you are.” She collected all three volumes of
Renata and came back to where I was sitting. “You peer at me through
your spectacles so that I feel quite . . .” Shaking her head at me, and
then when I failed to respond: “Oh what an unforgiving basilisk
stare — you look exactly like your sister Elizabeth. But really, you
mustn’t judge me, you know. Judge not, that ye be not judged. I
feel sure your Mr Knowles has impressed that upon you. Should you like
to read this then?”
Amazingly,
she was handing me the volumes. “I really don’t think it will corrupt
you — the whole thing is such ancient history now. It may even help you
to understand us better. God knows we’re all of us in need of
understanding. Only you must not tell them at Longbourn that it has any
factual basis. And don’t let Mr Knowles see it for God’s sake.”
“No
indeed, ma’am — thank you! I shall never let it go out of my own hands,
I promise —”
“Oh, I
shouldn’t object to either of your older sisters reading it.” She smiled
down at me. “Elizabeth is a great reader, is she not? Yes, I would be
most interested to know what Elizabeth Bennet thinks of Renata.”
[ This novella will be continued in
the next issue. ]
