15
George
was not waiting to welcome me when I arrived at Netherfield. (The horses
had been needed on the farm the entire morning and as a consequence I
did not leave Longbourn until well after midday.) And of Sam, Nonna, Mrs
Allardyce and Mr Coates there was equally no sign. The servants however
were very much in evidence attending to final preparations for the
dinner, and now Nonna’s personal maid, Smythe, came up to me and said
that Nonna and Mrs Allardyce were shut up in their apartments and not to
be disturbed, and that Mr Coates had gone out riding. And although
previously it had been arranged that I would spend the night at
Netherfield, and the bedchamber next to Nonna’s assigned to me, now
Smythe told me that no orders had been given for the room to be
prepared.
“I am
very sorry, Miss, but we’ve all been in uproar here — what with Master
Sam fancying himself sick and calling for soups and jellies and wanting
his forehead sprinkled with lavender water — you’ll pardon me for saying
so, but you are by way of being one of the family — and one minute we’re
told one thing and the next, another.”
Smythe
was my favourite amongst the Netherfield servants, being both
kind-hearted and efficient, and I was not afraid, for once, to speak up
for myself: “I will at least need a room this evening in which to change
my gown, Smythe.”
“Of
course, Miss, and I mean to wait on you myself — Mrs Rossi particularly
asked that I help with your toilet — and if you are agreeable, I will
draw a bath for you at three and dress your hair. You’ll find Master
George in the school-room, Miss.”
And so I
did. He was standing at the window with his face turned away but I
realized at once that he had been crying. I went to him directly and
took his hand and he seemed to welcome the contact though he said
nothing.
“I have
heard the news, George.” (I spoke as if to one bereaved.) “I hope it may
not be true.”
He
continued silent for several moments and then burst out: “ I knew it
could not possibly last —living in the country and all of us together.
But I did think — I hoped — it would have lasted longer than this.”
I did not
pretend to misunderstand him. “But is it absolutely certain? They are
officially engaged?”
“Oh yes,
and there was the most fearful row because Nonna and Uncle Jasper would
not agree to it being announced here this evening — and so my mother
went and asked Sir William Lucas and he has agreed to speak —”
“Sir
William! Pray what has he to do with anything?”
“He has
known Purvis forever — they were in business together.” A pause and then
he burst out afresh: “How could she though? A man like Purvis — a fat
old clown with dyed hair who talks only of profit and loss —”
“Dear
George.” I pressed his hand. “When is the wedding to be?”
“I
neither know nor care.”
After a
few moments however he said: “We are to remove to London the day after
tomorrow. He has taken a house for us in Berkeley Square —”
“So
soon!”
“You must
write to me, Mary.”
“Of
course, of course I shall.” The realization that he would be gone in two
days was making me feel slightly ill.
“Mama
says Sam and I are to have our own ponies and ride in the park every day
— trying to turn us up sweet. And Sam is such a gaby, he thinks
everything will be jolly and we will all live happily ever after.”
I longed
to put my arms about him, but he was wearing his sulky touch-me-not
look. Instead I said: “It might not be so bad, you know. Your mama has
always worried about money and now perhaps she will be happy.”
It was a
pathetic attempt to console him; I did not believe it for a moment and
his reply was justly scornful. “My mother cannot be happy for two days
together. You know it as well as I do.” He had moved away from me and
when he next spoke, his voice was not quite steady. “Nonna says she will
not go with us. She will remain here with my uncle.”
“Mr
Coates means to stay on at Netherfield then?” I had not expected this.
He was
fiddling with the window-catch, twisting it this way and that. “Mama
says it is because of your sister — she says he cannot bear to leave his
little Lizzy. She calls your sister la lucertola, ‘the lizard’ you
understand — cold-blooded and with black unblinking eyes. She was
harping on about her forever last night.”
“Oh
George. It is all so horrid.”
We stood
for a while in silence, George continuing to play with the window-catch.
I felt sick in my stomach still, unable to think calmly. The tangle of
loves and jealousies was past understanding — certainly past the
understanding of my twelve-year-old self. If Mrs Allardyce loved Mr
Coates, why was she marrying Mr Purvis? If not, why was she so jealous
of Elizabeth? And did Nonna too still love Mr Coates? Why else had she
chosen to remain at Netherfield? And what were Mr Coates’s feelings
towards both of them? What were his feelings towards Elizabeth?
George
meanwhile had pushed open the window and was now looking out intently
across the yard (the schoolroom overlooked the rear of the building,
facing towards the coach-house and stables and beyond them, the walled
kitchen garden and orchard).
“Mary,”
said he suddenly, speaking very soft. “Come and look here.”
“What is
it?” All I could see was one of the grooms leading Mr Coates’s horse
back to the stable-yard.
“Your
sister Elizabeth,” he whispered. “Cannot you see?”
I could
then (but dimly) make out the figure of a girl standing very still
beside a clump of hollyhocks in the shadow of the garden wall. “Are you
sure it is her?”
“For
heaven’s sake, Mary! Cannot you see?”
“No,” I
whispered, annoyed. “Plainly I cannot!”
He
was immediately contrite. “I did not mean to speak sharp. But it is her,
I swear.”
We both
watched, and after about a minute Mr Coates appeared, walking from the
direction of the stables. The figure straight away emerged from the
shadow of the wall (I saw then that it was indeed Elizabeth) whereupon
Mr Coates, glancing to left and right (but not, mercifully, upwards)
went swiftly to her, taking her arm and leading her — bundling her
almost — along the path to the orchard. I could barely make them out
once they had reached the cover of the trees, but George continued to
peer after them.
“Well?” I
whispered, and then in a normal voice: “Can you still see them?”
He did
not reply, so intent was he on looking.
“George?”
He pulled
shut the window and I could see at once that he no longer appeared sulky
and despairing — in fact quite the reverse. “Seems my mother was in the
right of it after all.”
“What do
you mean by that, pray?”
“Good
heavens, Mary, they were kissing! Don’t pretend you didn’t see.”
“I don’t
believe you!”
He
shrugged. “Have it your way.” I heard him mutter something in which the
word ‘blind’ was clearly audible.
“What?
What did you say?” (He had now turned back to the window and so incensed
was I that I actually slapped his arm.) “You and your sotto voce rude
remarks! What did you say, George Allardyce?”
“Oh stow
it.” He was once more intent on looking out.
I managed
to control myself from slapping him again, but the sight of his
obstinate back — so upright whilst spying on my sister — provoked me
into saying. “How dare you speak to me like that! You know that I cannot
see as well as most people, and yet you can say that to me. And just
look at you! the use you’re putting your eyes to! Oh! you should be
ashamed.”
He
ignored this, whereupon I pinched him — I confess it — but the shame of
Elizabeth’s behaviour — of his witnessing it —enraged me so. “You’re no
better than Peeping Tom!”
He turned then and grasped both my wrists — he was surprisingly strong
despite his slight build, far stronger than me — and we swayed about for
a minute or so. His face was bright with nasty excitement, and even
though his grip hurt, I was glad I had succeeded in provoking him.
“Peeping Tom,” I panted.
But then
just as suddenly as he had grabbed me, he let me go, turning back to the
window and — as if in turn doing his utmost to provoke me — opened it as
wide as its hinges would permit and leaned out to better view the
lovers.
I ran
from the room then — had I not done so, I felt I might have pushed him
headlong out the window — but on reaching the door I heard him say (in
pretty much normal tones),
“Where
are you going?”
“Anywhere!
— I don’t care — so I no longer have to endure your company.”
“I
shouldn’t go to the music-room,” he advised, still in a normal almost
friendly fashion. “The servants will be setting out the chairs.”
“That
will not bother me in the least!”
He
shrugged and turned back to his window. I was frantically thinking of
something I could say that would really hurt him. But all I could think
of was the childish taunt that I was glad he was going to London.
When he
declined to answer, I slammed the door. I did not go to the music-room,
however. I could not at that moment have sat down to play music to save
my life. Instead, I went to a small room on the first floor which a
previous owner of Netherfield had caused to be fitted up as a chapel.
The room was never used for worship by any member of the present
household, but occasionally George and I went there to play upon an old
spinet which, when shut up in its oak case, had been designed to
resemble a Bible.
I was
desperate to sit quietly, to check my murderous thoughts — the desire to
defenestrate George had not altogether left me — I needed to pray for
calm, even if I was not yet ready to pray for forgiveness. As always, it
was the psalmist’s words which brought relief: I will lift up mine eyes
unto the hills, from whence cometh my help . . .
After
reciting the entire psalm aloud, I prayed in silence for several
minutes. I sought pardon for Elizabeth — for her wanton conduct — only
to be once more overset by the shocking image it brought to mind (that a
sister should be so lost to all sense of propriety!) and by George’s
perverted enjoyment of it all. I was obliged then to repeat the psalm —
I repeated it a full fifteen times if the truth be told —before I could
finally pray for forgiveness.
When I
walked into the music-room an half hour or so later, I found everything
in perfect readiness for the concert. The sofas had been pushed against
the walls, rows of chairs set out, and the two instruments — one a grand
pianoforte recently purchased from Broadwood, the other an older square
pianoforte similar to my own instrument at Longbourn — had been placed
at the far end of the room with a great urn of greenery positioned
behind them.
So
precisely placed, so polished did everything appear that I hesitated to
sit down at the pianoforte to arrange my music. While a measure of calm
had been restored to me — I was no longer angry with George — I had
never felt less like performing. But the concert was less than three
hours away — we would be dining at five o’clock — and I had vowed whilst
in the chapel that I would play as well as ever I could. This would
probably be the last time that George and I made music together; I owed
it to him — I owed it to myself — to give of my best.
With this
resolve, I began my practice but whereas usually I could rely upon music
to rescue me from myself, now it quite failed me. All I could think of
was that in two days’ time the only friend I had in the world would be
gone, that I had squandered the precious time remaining to us — I had
insulted him and slapped him and pinched him — and that it was all
Elizabeth’s fault. She had behaved disgracefully, and I ought never to
have blamed George for spying on her — no self-respecting
eleven-year-old boy (however sensible and clever) could be expected to
resist such temptation.
And just
as I determined to go in search of him to apologize, the door opened and
Smythe (looking mildly aggrieved) poked her head around. She had been
looking for me everywhere. It was now a quarter after three and my hot
bath was rapidly cooling.
[ This novella will be continued in
the next issue. ]
