Mary Bennet

I had been placed at Nonna’s end of the table, and during the first two courses the conversation had been both polite and predictable. But after the cloth had been removed and the table relaid with dessert dishes, my father — who was sitting on Nonna’s right directly opposite Mr Purvis on her left — began to look decidedly bored. (Not having a sweet tooth, Papa took no interest in the array of jellies and blancmanges.) In his most polite tone — always betokening danger — he started to question Mr Purvis about the latter’s acquisition of property in and around Meryton.

Mr Purvis was never reluctant to talk about property — he had earlier been holding forth about his purchase of a certain Meryton ale-house — but he did so in a peculiarly sentimental, self-effacing way; praising his many dear friends, all infinitely more clever than himself, for so kindly putting him in the way of making money.

Papa, after remarking Mr Purvis’s good fortune in possessing such a selfless set of friends, wondered whether he was not being over-modest. “You do not ascribe any part of your success to your own efforts then, sir?”

I saw that Papa had embarked on one of his cruel cross-examinations, intent on drawing Mr Purvis out and exposing him. Nonna, too, seemed keen to witness some blood sport — she had drunk several glasses of champagne and her dislike for Mr Purvis was becoming every moment more apparent. Elizabeth, unfortunately, was seated at Mr Coates’ end of the table, too far off to divert Papa or protect Mr Purvis. But Papa had reckoned without the intervention of Mrs Allardyce.

“Frederick does not boast of his own exertions, Mr Bennet” said she. “Perhaps because he has had to work all his life — unlike yourself or Jasper.” (A scornful glance up the table towards Mr Coates.)

“You do not understand nothing, Christina.” Nonna had now entered the fray.

“On the contrary.” (In a quarrel, Papa was nothing if not fair-minded.) “I fear she understands me all too well.” Raising his glass to Mrs Allardyce — a tribute to her beauty as much as to her perceptiveness.

As always, Mr Purvis was conciliatory. “Since I was a lad, Mr Bennet, I have had to sing for my supper. When I was not much older than George I was put to work in an inn at Brighton — mucking out the stables.” He smiled across at Papa. “Fortunately the landlady was a cousin of my poor dear mother, and I was treated very well, considering.”

There was a silence during which Papa — as near to being discomfited as I had ever seen him — drained his wine glass and set it down.

Mr Purvis helped himself to an especially large serving of syllabub before continuing: “And then I came up to London. That was when my real education began. I was twelve years old and working in a coffee-house — the Bedford in Covent Garden — running errands and setting out the newspapers. They said I had a talent for pleasing the patrons. And it was one of the patrons — my dear friend, Sir Stephen Rattray — who actually taught me to read.”

Papa was now eyeing Mr Purvis with a sort of sceptical wonder. “You had had no schooling until then?”

Mr Purvis shook his head, smiling. “Until Sir Stephen took me in hand, I could neither read nor write. My debt to that dear man is incalculable. And not merely to him. Several of the patrons made it their business to assist me. Mr Jonathon Monk M.P. bought me an entire new wardrobe — the first new clothes I had ever owned — new suit, shirts, smalls, shoes and stockings. And Mr Richard Riley made me a present of a gold timepiece which I possess to this day —”

“This I find extraordinary.” Nonna had been drinking steadily while Mr Purvis was speaking. “These dear kind men who help you and buy you everything — I cannot understand it. What do you do for them?”

Mr Purvis continued to smile. “I had the good fortune to meet a set of Christian gentlemen —”

He was interrupted by Mrs Allardyce. “There is such a thing as disinterested charity, Mama.”

“The Bedford had a very superior class of patron, Mrs Rossi. Had I worked in any other coffee house, I should not have received such treatment.” He turned back to my father. “The ale-house we were speaking of earlier, sir. I think of making it over into such another coffee house — a meeting-place for Meryton’s finest minds — where good conversation and fine food may be had for a modest subscription. What think you of such a scheme?”

I saw from Papa’s expression that he did not think much of it, but he seemed to be struggling to be on his best behaviour. “Meryton’s finest minds, eh?” (An involuntary glance up the table at Sir William Lucas.) “I fear the number of subscribers would make such a scheme impractical, Mr Purvis. A little market town such as Meryton —”

“But my dear sir, there must be dozens of good fellows who would welcome such an establishment. I do not mean the townfolk merely —”

Nonna turned on Mr Purvis. “You listen to what Mr Bennet is telling you. He is living here always and you know nothing about it.”

This was too much for Mrs Allardyce; she began to abuse her mother in Italian, much of which was unintelligible to me, but Nonna merely hunched her shoulder and addressed herself exclusively to my father: “It is very strange to me, Mr Bennet, how Englishmen want always to be by themselves together in the coffee-house or the club. Always they want to be without the women.”

“Ay, we’re an uncouth lot,” agreed Papa.

“My first two husbands, they were English, so I know. Christina’s papa, always he is in the coffee-house.”

There was laughter at this — although Mrs Allardyce did not look at all amused — and Nonna held up her glass to be refilled, saying: “Christina thinks I should not talk so about her papa. Always he is the perfect one and I am not to say bad things about him.”

“I couldn’t care less, Mama, I assure you.”

“My second English husband — we live together in Florence, and in Florence he is always at home. But when I go with him to London — only once I go — he is in White’s Club the whole time.” And here she called down the table to Mr Coates: “Jasper! I am telling Mr Bennet about your naughty papa.”

Mr Coates appeared not to have heard her — he was deep in conversation with Elizabeth — but Aunt Gardiner had been following the talk at Nonna’s end of the table. “I had no idea, ma’m,” said she to Nonna “that you were married to Mr Coates’ father.”

“Scusi?” Nonna had not been attending — she had been looking at Elizabeth and Mr Coates — and Aunt was obliged to repeat the question, whereupon Nonna started to laugh. “Oh my God — scusi! Pardon. But I am not —” (pretending to whisper to Aunt) “I am not supposed to talk about it. But there are too many things I am not to talk about — and now Christina will be cross.”

Mrs Allardyce made a mouth of impatience. “Say what you like, Mama. It makes no odds.”

“You hear that, Mrs Gardiner? My daughter, she is telling me now to say what I like. Bene. I say then that yes, we are married, Jasper’s papa and me, and I love him dearly though he is much much older person. We are married for one year only, and then he die. Very sad, si?”

I saw Aunt and Papa exchange glances at this. I was becoming alarmed: Nonna’s history was beginning to sound dangerously like the plot of Renata. And perhaps Mrs Allardyce belatedly realised this, for she leaned across Mr Purvis to speak to her mother in Italian, telling her that she had had more than enough to drink and that it was high time the ladies withdrew.

Nonna’s response was to once more hold up her glass to be refilled. And even though she continued to address my aunt, her eyes were now fixed on Mr Coates. “After he die, Mrs Gardiner, I do a very stupid thing.”

A hush had now fallen upon the table. By some mysterious alchemy, those seated at Mr Coates’s end had been alerted to the possibility of high drama. I had a confused impression of heads turned towards Nonna — of my mother’s look of avid curiosity and poor George’s red-faced embarrassment.

“Dear Mrs Rossi!” Mr Purvis touched Nonna’s hand. “I am sure that you could never do anything stupid.”

Nonna moved her hand away and continued to look at Mr Coates: “A month after he die, I do like Hamlet’s mother —”

And here my own mother burst forth: “Oh Mrs Rossi! I know what you are about to say, I can guess. I know I should lose my mind if Mr Bennet were to die—I am sure I should go distracted. And not merely because of the entail —”

Papa had closed his eyes. “Let me understand you, Mrs Bennet. If I were to die, you would marry again, would you? Within a month?”

“I should do no such thing. What an unfeeling monster you must think me, upon my word.” Turning back to Nonna who was now smiling strangely and sipping her champagne. “My husband likes to joke, Mrs Rossi. But I am very sure I should lose my wits if he died, and well he knows it.”

Nonna set down her glass. “I do not lose my wits, Mrs Bennet. I am unfeeling monster, and I marry again. A month after Jasper’s papa die, I marry Rossi.”

There was a shocked silence during which Sir William Lucas cleared his throat and addressed the table in his best mayoral manner: “Might I remind everyone that there are children present?”

“I marry Rossi and I am very unhappy. And then I meet Jasper.” (Smiling down the length of the table at Mr Coates.) “I am Senora Rossi and very unhappy, and Jasper — he does not know I am his papa’s widow.”

I looked at Mr Coates then. He was sitting back in his chair staring at Nonna and I saw that he was extremely angry.

Next moment, there came a crash of china: Mrs Allardyce had contrived to knock over a sweetmeat dish from the raised display. And while the two footmen moved quickly to pick up the pieces, Mr Coates took out his watch and spoke without lifting his eyes from the dial. “I see that our concert commences in just half an hour —”

“No, Jasper,” said Nonna. “Your watch, it is much too fast. And I have still some things I wish to say.”

Mr Coates continued as if she had not spoken: “You may go to the music room, George. You too, Mary. We will join you presently. In the meantime, the two of you may be practising.”

George and I at once jumped up and sped off before anything further could be said. The music room was still empty of guests, and in the ecstatic relief of having made our escape, we chased each other down the rows of chairs with George calling out in a fine imitation of Sir William: “Might I remind everyone that there are children present!” He had then sat down at the grand pianoforte and played thunderous chords while I took my place at the second instrument and began playing Whirligig.

After the upsets of the dining parlour, it was delightful — it was comforting — to be by ourselves and behave foolishly, knowing that it would almost certainly be the last such time. For beneath the display of childish exuberance, George must have been as fearful of the future as myself. The prospect of London in the company of his mother and brother and Mr Purvis did not bear thinking on.

I regretted then that there had ever been a secret between us — I refer of course to Renata and everything relating to that wretched roman a clef — for the secret of Elizabeth and Mr Coates, the shock of its discovery and the quarrel that followed, had only succeeded in drawing us closer together. But there was no time left for confidences. The room was beginning to fill — the servants were taking their seats in the back row — and we had both to be on our best behaviour.

When at last we began to practise a key passage from the sonata, the room was near full — although the eleven gilt chairs reserved for the family and the dinner guests in the front row were still empty, and they continued to stand empty until just before the concert was set to begin. Only then did the entire party file in (looking more like a funeral party, for there was not one cheerful face amongst them and Mrs Allardyce had unaccountably changed her gold gown for one of black).

As they positioned themselves, I saw that Elizabeth chose to sit between Papa and Aunt Gardiner and quite away from Mr Coates.

[ This novella will be continued in the the next issue. ]