A Private Performance (19 page)

A
T
L
ONGBOURN
, some weeks later, Mr. Bennet quite failed to appreciate the drollery of his new title of grandpapa. He tossed the letter on the breakfast table.

“Our daughter has excelled herself, Mrs. Bennet.”

“Of which of the girls do you speak, Mr. Bennet? Is it my darling Lydia?”

“Certainly. This letter is from Mr. Wickham, and very pleased with himself he sounds.”

“What news, Mr. Bennet? Is it a boy then?”

“Two boys, Mrs. Bennet, and Wickham has not even the sense to be alarmed by the excess.”

“My darling Lydia. Twins! What a clever little thing she is.”

“If this is a variety of genius, Mrs. Bennet, perhaps it is as well she is so productive. Her husband may not be able to provide for these sons, but they are proof at last of her talent. Their names are George and John.”

“George for their father and, I am sure, John to honour their grandfather.”

“If they have twenty sons and name them all for me, I will give them no money.”

“O, Mr. Bennet!”

“I am determined. Would you have Kitty or Mary think she may marry as foolishly and then call upon her father for assistance?”

“I believe,” put in Mary, “that favouring a wayward child is not regarded with approval by the church.”

“Hold your tongue, girl! Find Kitty and prepare yourselves for a visit to Netherfield. We must pass on the news!”

 

The Bingleys had arrived home with Kitty two weeks before and had found the courage, after several days, to announce their plans to remove to Yorkshire. The depth of Mrs. Bennet's grief was
demonstrated by a fit of hysterics, and hard words were spoken to Jane, the sweetest-natured of her children.

The following morning, all was forgotten.

“My, Jane, how well you look! This is the best time for a woman's appearance, four months or so before her confinement. I have come with news about Lydia. Your father had a letter from dear Wickham this morning. Can you guess his news?”

“It can only be a boy or a girl, I suppose?”

“There you are wrong, Jane. She has two boys—twins! She has a start upon her sisters!”

“I am very happy for her.”

“I shall send her a little extra money. I promised to pay for the child to be put out to nurse this next twelve-month. It will cost more now.”

“Why does she not care for them herself?” asked Mary.

“Lord, no! What an idea! Lydia was not brought up to play the nursemaid.”

“She may as well hire a nurse to care for them,” said Kitty.

“How can you be so foolish, child?” said Mrs. Bennet. “What did you think? That Wickham's as rich as Croesus?”

“I knew not that they were so poor as this.”

“How will she manage without my help when I die? Her father will give her nothing, I know. He has a heart of stone!” said Mrs. Bennet. “There will be no officer for you, my girl—unless he has a private income.”

“You seemed to like the officers very well, Mama, when they were encamped in Meryton. You said you loved a red coat when you were a girl.”

“Yes, I liked them well enough but when it came to marriage, I took your father, a man with a good fortune.”

Mrs. Bennet became happily immersed in talk of small clothes.

Kitty sighed. The time was passing, not too slowly, for she made a certain impression in Hertfordshire nowadays. She blushed to recall how she and Lydia used to shout across the street to a group of officers; and how Aunt Phillips would call out from her drawing
room window to young gentlemen of her acquaintance to come in and take refreshments with her nieces. Such behaviour had been good enough for the drawing rooms and assemblies of Meryton, but time spent in Elizabeth's house had given her polish. She had an air that had not been there a year before. There was a modesty in her demeanour, attractively spiced with naive-sounding remarks and large-eyed gazes. In short, she had learnt more ladylike ways to play.

She had a fondness still for a scarlet coat, but she remembered also a time when she had stood quite close to someone in a black coat, and their fingers had touched fleetingly as he put a little chick in her hands. Her nose had flinched a little at the smell of the poultry. She could still hear the clucking of the hens, and the squeaking of the chick. She felt again its fluttering warmth in her hands, and the sensation of his fingers brushing her own. She started as the door opened to admit Miss Bingley. This young lady greeted Mrs. Bennet and her daughters with all her customary warmth, and said to Kitty:

“You were a great success at the assembly, Miss Kitty. I recall you always did have a way with the gentlemen of Hertfordshire.” There was something in the way she pronounced ‘gentlemen' that may have needled Kitty's mama, were she not in such an excellent mood.

“Kitty is in great demand since she came home from Derbyshire,” cried the proud mother.

“Of course Kitty meant to be kind, but it is not absolutely needful to stand up with a physician.”

“Mr. Walsh never forgets his place!” snapped Mrs. Bennet. “When there is a shortage of gentlemen for the assembly, we are happy to include him.”

Caroline sniggered quietly and turned to her sister.

“Dearest Jane!” she said. “Allow me to assist you. You will tire yourself excessively over that sweet little dress.”

Caroline made herself very useful in this phase of Jane's life by having an opinion on everything and being ready to scold any servant whose performance was not up to her standards. She missed the position of mistress of the house and sometimes thought wistfully of Mr. Houlter's wealth.

‘Did I do right in refusing his marriage proposal?' she wondered. She recalled their meetings, in the streets and drawing rooms of Scarborough. All along, she had intended accepting him but when he seized her hand she had been so filled with revulsion that she had changed her mind at once. She recalled the gracious terms in which she couched her refusal: her ‘deep respect', her ‘high esteem' and the devotion of which he was ‘so deserving'. In a matter of weeks she would again be in London, where she would waste no opportunity to secure an eligible establishment of her own.

While she embroidered small garments, Mrs. Bennet talked of the grandchildren she now had and the little Bingley to come. She thought of Lizzy, who had proved she could do her duty in producing an heir for Mr. Darcy. If only she would get on with it! She knotted her thread with a jerk and snipped it off sharply.

She desired the young women to tell her all about Scarborough and was startled when informed it was to the east of Derbyshire. Gracious, she had quite thought it to be westerly.

Was it near Newcastle then, where dwelt her darling Lydia? Not so very near? How far off Newcastle must be!

“I suppose Mr. Darcy was not inclined to allow Lizzy to join you in Scarborough,” she said. “How dull poor Lizzy will be feeling. I shall write her a nice long letter to cheer her up.”

A
T
P
EMBERLEY
, the last days of summer had passed very pleasantly, with the solitude interrupted only by visits from the Gardiners and from Mr. Bennet, who delighted Elizabeth by arriving unannounced, just as he had in London. Apart from exploring the park with his daughter and touring the farms with his son-in-law, Mr. Bennet spent many blissful hours in Darcy's library. He had asked Bingley for details of the collection and the young man had told his father-in-law everything he knew, which was that Darcy had a fearful number of books. He had returned to Longbourn with a supply to last him until he next saw them.

 

Every season that Elizabeth spent at Pemberley became her new favourite. She loved to walk in the groves with scarlet and gold leaves swirling about her. She kicked up the debris; she ran along the paths with the wind blowing in her face.

She had never spent so long a time with so little society. They entertained only the local clergy, for the immediate district offered no families of their standing. They did not miss society. They had each other. Of course, they had Georgiana, too. Elizabeth asked her if it were too dull for her, but, no, she did not want society.

There was but one cloud on Elizabeth's happiness. She had never read Lady Catherine's reply to Darcy's announcement of their engagement; but, be it ever so offensive, she did not like to be a cause of his quarrelling with his relations. Lady Catherine had had some cause for anger with her nephew, in feeling that her daughter had been thrown over—and for a girl whom all society must see as beneath him.

Elizabeth wished him to heal the breach.

“Fitzwilliam, shall you write to Miss de Bourgh on the occasion of her marriage?”

“Certainly, I shall write this week. Have you any message to add?”

“Tell her I look forward to seeing them both at Pemberley.”

“I will be most surprised if we ever receive her here. We may not even receive a reply, Elizabeth. You will take no offence, I hope.”

“I would not fly into a huff. However, Lord Reerdon will surely wish her to reply, as his mother is a particular friend of yours. If she does, we will find our capacity for forgiveness untested.”

“Anne is her mother's creature.”

“Fitzwilliam, this might be an appropriate occasion to write also to Lady Catherine. What say you?”

“I think not, Elizabeth. Her behaviour was unpardonable and I shall not pardon it. Until she apologises, I shall never communicate with her.” She rose and came across to where he sat. She stood beside him and bent her head to touch his.

“‘Never' is so long a word. Her ladyship grows old and will be soon alone.”

He took her hand, held it to his lips, then said: “This is something you must leave to me, dearest.”

 

Lord Maddersfield wrote to his nephew from Rosings, where he was staying with his sister, Lady Catherine. He wrote of the excellence of the match and continued:

A few days later, this letter was followed by one from Darcy's cousin.

(This gush of affection may have startled Darcy less had he seen that Lady Reerdon was perched upon his lordship's pillow as she wrote.)

“I had no notion of what a sweet cousin you had been to Miss de Bourgh!” said Elizabeth.

“I feel she is rendering history more interesting. As children we hated one another with utmost vehemence. Once my probable matrimonial fate dawned upon me, I subsided into doomed silence. It has been years since she said much more to me than ‘Good morning, Fitzwilliam' or ‘Good night, Fitzwilliam'.”

“Of course you endeavoured to draw her out.”

He smiled. “Perhaps not. At all events, you are vindicated, my love. She has not only replied, but with an unexpected cordiality.”

“You are more than a little curious?”

“Not at all,” he said. “It is no business of mine what occurs in the privacy of another's home.”

“I am curious, although you are not. Your stance is highly moral, and I shall respect it by not breathing a word to you on this subject, should I find out more.”

“It is a wife's duty to confide in her husband.”

“Wonderful news! Let us say, then, when we gossip, that I am being dutiful, and you are being … what?”

He smiled.

 

Events at Hunsford justified curiosity, and their effects were to be felt in the family.

With Anne advantageously engaged, and the Collinses fully reinstated as pet sycophants, life at Rosings had continued with all the pleasantness that was customary there.

As the time of Anne's marriage approached, Lady Reerdon returned to stay again at Rosings, bringing her son that he might pass a period of courtship before the wedding.

In no time at all, Lady Catherine began to feel a certain disquiet.

Firstly, a disagreement sprang up about the young couple's destination after the wedding. Lady Catherine had decided upon Bath. Lord Reerdon had the presumption to cry, “Not that dull place!”

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” said Lady Catherine.

“Ah,” he replied, and thought perhaps he'd let it go; but he felt he was getting off to a poor start.

Lady Catherine also objected to the way Reerdon had taken to addressing his intended. One morning, when he came into breakfast, he chucked Anne under the chin and said: “Good morning, my little sparrow.”

“Good morning, Frederick,” she simpered.

“Humph!” said Lady Catherine.

Lord Maddersfield gave one of his snorts, which he knew so irritated his sister.

Lord Reerdon sat down and whispered to Anne: “When we are married, I shall dress you up in bright colours and make you my little parrot instead.”

“What did you say, my lord? I will not permit conversations in which I have no part,” said Lady Catherine.

“I said nothing worthy of repetition, ma'am, but I shall now say whatever you like.”

“Ha! Very handsome offer,” called Maddersfield. “You cannot complain about that, Sister.”

Anne smiled up at Frederick. How brave he was; and how exciting to think that her clothes would soon be chosen by someone with an eye to colour! Her mother had always chosen rather dull clothes for her.

Further evidence of Anne's erratic behaviour was seen one evening when Reerdon asked her to show him the whereabouts of the dictionary. This was obviously a pretext to get her out of the room. As they came back in, a little smirk on the face of each aroused her ladyship's suspicions. Yet the way he tripped on the edge of the carpet, and all but sprawled on the floor, somehow put her mind at rest.

(Anne was not exactly permitting liberties. He did kiss her, on her lips, but she told him he was naughty. He answered her with the intriguing smile of a man of the world. She felt breathless and fluttery, a little faint. She wanted, but she knew not what.)

Her ladyship began to heartily look forward to getting the wedding out of the way.

 

The many blessings of Lady Catherine's patronage were never far from the mind of Mr. Collins. Few clergymen have the honour to officiate at such a ceremony as the marriage between Lord Reerdon and Miss Anne de Bourgh. After an excellent breakfast, all that was lacking was that the young people drive away. Anne was handed gallantly into the carriage by her husband. Through the window, she glanced once more at the austere face of her mother. Their eyes met and the bride felt a delicious sensation. Her new commander, Lord of the Ascendant, leapt for the carriage step. He missed it.

Thus on his wedding day was Frederick Lester, ninth earl of Reerdon-on-Adswater, carried back into his mother-in-law's house, whence he ought to have been carrying his prize away. He should have looked first. He had only himself to blame.

He was placed in his room and the surgeon called. The wound was certainly untimely, but the fracture of a degree that should easily mend.

“Anne,” said her mother, “you will return to your old room.”

“I fear not, Mother,” said she. “Frederick has requested that I sleep in his room. Perhaps a small bed might be carried in for me.”

“Preposterous!” cried Lady Catherine. “You shall sleep in your old room.”

Anne's mouth pursed up, and she tried to hold her mother's stare. She looked down. Lady Catherine smiled.

“You are yourself again, I see. I will disregard this outburst, Anne. You will go now and lie down for an hour.”

“Yes, Mama.”

She crept up to her room and found it prepared for her. She lay down upon her bed, intending to think very hard, and promptly fell asleep. When she awoke, the hour had passed. She trotted along to Reerdon's room.

The very sight of her valiant lord lying back pale, his eyes dull with pain, filled her with remorse for her cowardice.

“Oh, Frederick dear, Mama will not allow me to sleep in here, and I so want to be near you.”

“Never mind, little sparrow. I would be no use to you, with my leg like this.”

“Frederick, I thought I could be of use to you. I thought you wanted me here.”

“So I do, but what's to be done? I would soon straighten the matter out, if I were well.” The firmness of his tone sent a shiver through her.

“Are you cold, poppet? Sit up next to me, then. Good gracious, you weigh no more than a will-o'-th'-wisp.” She felt the movement of his muscles through his nightshirt. He pulled her close. He kissed her, quite differently from that time before. She could feel his hand pressing against the spot under her arm where her heart beat, so fast. She knew not if she wished or feared that he might reach a little further. He groaned.

“What did they give me, Anne?”

“Laudanum.”

Someone knocked sharply at the door and opened it so quickly that she had only time to sit up primly on the bed. Lady Catherine strode in, followed by Lady Reerdon. Anne slipped off the bed and faced them. Reerdon squinted, his vision out of focus, and he made out a fierce old lady glaring at his poppet.

“Go to your room, Anne,” said her mother.

Anne shook with a feeling of which she did not know the name. Breath came to her with such a struggle; she was suffocating. The words burst out:

“I shall only leave if my husband bids me go.”

It was long since her mother's eyes had looked at her like this, with a chill that scorched her. Her blood was pounding in her ears; her stomach churned. One thing could save her. She must throw herself on her knees and beg her mother's forgiveness, grovel, cry and clutch the hem of her gown.

But … rising through the fear was something new.

“My dear Anne—” began Lady Reerdon reasonably.

“She stays,” slurred Reerdon. “You hear me.”

Anne straightened. Her eyes twitched as she tried to hold her mother's stare.

Like icicles on a frosty night, the ever-dreaded words dropped from her ladyship's lips: “Anne, I am most seriously displeased.”

Anne's lips trembled so that she knew her fear could be seen. She put her shaking hands behind her.

Then twenty-three years of a feeling, so deeply buried she had scarcely known it was there, surged up hotly through her. It was rage. Fury beat in her ears and in her head.

“I care not!”

Her face a mask of hatred, Lady Catherine swept from the room.

“You plucky little love,” mumbled Reerdon.

“You pair of fools!” hissed his mother and hurried after her hostess.

“Give me a kiss, Anne,” muttered the bridegroom, and he lost consciousness.

 

Later, Reerdon's valet ushered in the hired nurse. The patient was sunk in deep slumber and, her tear-stained face next to his on the pillow, lay Anne, fast asleep. As the nurse began to lift her in her meaty arms, the bride stirred, reached out and clasped a handful of Frederick's nightshirt.