13
Strange
to say, once Renata was safely in my possession I no longer felt
so eager to read it. I had begun the first chapter that same evening — a
lengthy account of a rough channel crossing, it was all cresting swells
and creaking masts and the narrator’s growing nausea, the stuff that
boys delight in. Afterwards, having consigned the volume to the depths
of my bureau drawer, I was not impatient to take it out again. (At the
same time, I was not about to let Elizabeth read it either.)
But in
the days that followed, the secrecy of the whole business began to weigh
on me. While I had grown used to concealing my thoughts from the members
of my family, I was not at all comfortable hiding anything from Mr
Knowles — still less from George. But if I were to confide in Mr
Knowles, I was afraid I would never be permitted to go to Netherfield
again. And I could not, in conscience, unburden myself to George: I was
certain he could know nothing of Renata’s real-life origins. This
then was the end of the perfect confidence that George and I had
enjoyed. Now, when we were practising together in the music room, I was
in constant fear of Mrs Allardyce walking in. She would invariably ask:
“Well Mary, and how are you progressing?” And such was my shame at
having to prevaricate — knowing George believed her to be alluding to
the Mozart sonata — I could not answer without blushing and stammering.
Scarcely
a day passed that I did not feel a degree of anxiety. Images of the
three red leather volumes in my bureau drawers (wrapped now in
petticoats and covered with a cunning latticework of handkerchiefs)
began to surface in my dreams. Indeed, I am convinced that the
melancholia which was to afflict me in later years had its roots in this
experience. But once again, I am getting ahead of myself. At the time
and for the most part I was cheerful enough. I continued religiously to
practise the Mozart sonata, both with and without George, and
undoubtedly the nature of the composition itself (perfect, Godlike)
helped to preserve my peace of mind.
Meanwhile,
the Musical Evening was drawing closer, and some five days before, Mama,
in a rare show of interest in my affairs, bethought herself to enquire
what I was to wear. “Here it is Sunday and your concert is on Friday. I
doubt there’s time to have a new gown made up. What think.you, sister?”
(Aunt Gardiner, Mama and I were on the point of setting out from
Longbourn to walk to church — Papa and my sisters having gone on ahead.)
“Oh I
think it might be contrived,” said Aunt. “If Jane and Lizzy were to
help.”
The two
of them went on to discuss materials and patterns, but I paid little
attention. It was a beautiful September morning, the air very still and
faintly chilled from the night before-- the first breath of autumn.
Rounding a bend in the path, we had a clear view of the church, and I
could see a group of people assembled on the verge outside, all talking
to a man on horseback.
At such a distance it was impossible — for me at least — to make out who
they were, but presently I heard Mama say to Aunt that the horseman was
Mr Coates. And I could then see that it was indeed he and that he was
talking down to Papa and my four sisters and to Charlotte Lucas.
“So that
is Mr Coates, is it?” (Mr Coates had been in London during the early
part of Aunt’s visit and for one reason or another they had not met
after his return.) “He certainly is a remarkably fine young man.”
“Oh to be
sure, yes, very handsome.” For once, Mama was not interested in talking
of Mr Coates; her mind was running on straw-coloured taffeta.
(“Precisely the shade for someone like Mary with a sallow complexion.”)
Mama
continued to talk on as we drew nearer the little group which was now
beginning to disperse — Jane having taken Lydia and Kitty by the hand to
lead them towards the church, followed shortly by Charlotte Lucas and
Papa.
Only
Elizabeth lingered. She was patting the horse’s neck and smiling up at
Mr Coates, quite unaware of our approach. That was when I saw it, plain
as day: Mr Coates had reached down and covered her caressing hand with
his own. It was the action of a moment, over in the blink of an eye. My
mother, I was certain, had not seen it, but whether my aunt had not I
was less sure.
Elizabeth
had immediately turned away to follow the others into the church, and Mr
Coates was about to ride off when Mama hailed him. “You are not going to
church then, sir?”
“Mrs
Bennet!” Startled, he checked the horse. “Good-day to you.”
He was
smiling but his expression — his pleasure at seeing us — seemed forced.
He apologized for not dismounting, explaining that he was in a hurry to
return to Netherfield. But when Mama went on to introduce Aunt Gardiner
(“My brother Edward’s wife — of whom you’ve heard so much.”) his face
relaxed; he began to look more like himself.
“Yes
indeed, how do you do, ma’am? I have been looking forward to meeting
‘Aunt Gardiner’ for a great while.” He then reminded Mama that the
Bennet family was to come early to Netherfield on Friday evening to
approve the arrangements for the concert. “And Mrs Gardiner too of
course.”
I had
hung back a little during this exchange, but now he touched me lightly
on the shoulder with his whip. “Mary. You have not been practising too
much I hope? ”
Mama, as
usual, answered for me: “Oh she never stops, Mr Coates — she is forever
at her instrument. And I trust her performance will not disappoint,
although —” (in a stage whisper) “Mary is nervous, you know — she takes
after me in that respect — she is a nervous child. But while I cannot
answer for her performance, her appearance at least will
not disgrace you. I shall be taking her into town tomorrow to have her
hair cut, and Sister and me will be making up a new gown of straw
coloured taffeta —”
Thankfully
— perhaps out of pity for my scarlet cheeks — Mr Coates cut her off at
that point. Declaring that he had every confidence in my performance, he
touched his hat and bid us all a hasty farewell. Mama watched him go
complacently, admiring his excellent seat. Aunt, however, contemplated
his receding figure with a more thoughtful air.
And that
same evening whilst measuring me for my new gown, I heard her say in a
low voice to Elizabeth: “You and Mr Coates appear to be very good
friends, Lizzy.”
Elizabeth
was bending over the long breakfast room table, unrolling a bolt of
straw coloured taffeta — Mama having on hand a quantity left over from
covering a sofa — and perhaps the colour in her face flowed from this
exertion. “Oh! Mary is far better acquainted with everyone at
Netherfield than I am, Aunt.”
I said
nothing but I could not help reflecting that as far as Mr Coates was
concerned, this was not strictly true. I might have been in his company
more often, but his mind was open to Elizabeth in a way it could never
have been to me. He was clearly fascinated by her — he talked to her —
she must know his character more thoroughly.
But at
that point Mama and Jane entered the room with pins and pattern-cards
and several recent copies of The Ladies’ Monthly Museum, and Aunt
— now kneeling before me with the measuring tape — did not pursue the
subject.
[ This novella will be continued in
the next issue. ]
