A Private Performance (20 page)

“Best ring for her maid, Mr. Larton. Poor thing.”

The two women changed Anne into her nightdress and tucked her in beside her husband.

“I never before sat up with a married couple on their nuptial night!” chuckled the nurse. “If his lordship wakes and gets frisky, I'll 'it him on the 'ead.”

“I hardly think there will be call for that, Nurse.”

The nurse snorted leeringly.

“There's not much for him to get a hold of, anyhow.”

The maid frowned. “I shall sleep in here tonight, to be near should Miss de—the Countess need me,” said the maid haughtily. “I shall take the settee.”

“Just as you like, dearie. I have no need of it, for I shall be on duty.”

Anne and Frederick slept the night away in each others' arms. With her fingers in her ears, the maid tossed on the hard settee, to the tuneful accompaniment of the snores of the nurse in her armchair.

 

Day followed long day at Rosings, and neither party varied in determination. Never could the dowager Lady Reerdon have predicted such a pass.

“My dear Frederick,” she pleaded, “I beg you to temper your conduct with a thought to Lady Catherine's fortune.”

“Mother, there are times in a man's life when he must stand up for what is right, without fear or favour.”

“I do not see you standing just now. Frederick, I fear you will regret this foolishness.”

“It will do the old girl good, Mother, to see she cannot have her way in all things. No permanent damage will be done, you'll see.”

“What I do see is that it has taken but two days of married life for you to forget the purpose of your marriage.”

“Well, I will not be ruled by Lady Catherine—and neither shall Anne.”

Therein lay the crux of the difficulty. Never before had the dowager found her son unmanageable. Frederick's delight in his wife beggared belief. After meeting Anne for the first time, he had groaned that a man couldn't possibly be asked to marry such a creature, and was only brought to face the necessity by having the mortgage papers thrust under his nose. Now the girl led him around by the selfsame proboscis.

 

Relations between the new countess and her mother were very strained. Anne trembled in anticipation of each meeting, but, with her husband's encouragement, steeled herself to behave with cool respect.

Lord Maddersfield agreed with Lady Catherine that Anne was behaving outrageously, and promised her to do the best he could for the family. He had a private audience with his niece, telling her he liked a lass with spirit and that he'd never liked her so well as now. If
she buckled under, after throwing off the yoke, her mother would dominate both her and her husband forever.

He returned to the drawing room and shrugged his shoulders.

“I endeavoured to talk sense into her, Sister, but she thinks nothing of the wisdom of her elders nowadays, it seems.”

 

Mr. Collins rushed to Rosings the morning after the wedding to inquire after the invalid. Lady Catherine was so steaming with rage that she was ready to talk about it, even to him.

“Yes,” he said. “It seems rash of the earl to insist that his wife sleep there. She may have rolled on the injured limb in the night.”

“What care I for his injured limb?” cried her ladyship. “I care nothing for it. My daughter and son-in-law have treated me with grave disrespect, and for that I care very much indeed.”

“Perhaps there is an explanation for their neglect of their duty to your Ladyship, to whom they owe the utmost gratitude and deference,” said Collins.

“You think there may be a rational explanation for their conduct, and they will be led to make suitable apology to me?”

“When they realise they have fallen from your Ladyship's good graces, and by their own fault, they will be overcome with remorse … desolation, may I say?”

“You, Mr. Collins, are just the person to point out their fault to them.”

“I, your Ladyship? I am most honoured by your trust in me but I cannot aspire to the belief that I might influence matters amongst those in a position so much more exalted than my own humble station.” He mopped his brow.

“Your belief is immaterial, Mr. Collins. Ring the bell.”

The countess submitted to a lecture on filial duty, then put some earnest questions about wifely duty, which rather distracted the parson from the correct line of his discourse. In fact, during the next few days, Mr. Collins performed so many volte-faces that he resembled a conversational spinning top.

Colonel Fitzwilliam begged Anne to have a thought for her
mother's years and for their coming separation. What harm could it do to apologise, even if her mother were in the wrong? In truth, he felt compassion for his aunt, terrible old tyrant though she was. He sensed what no others seemed to see—the pain behind her rage; and he feared for the loneliness of her old age.

“Dear Henry,” said Lady Catherine. “You are the only relation who has not betrayed me. Will you desert me, too?”

“You know I will not, but, my dear Aunt, Anne has been a good and dutiful daughter to you all her life. I am convinced that she is longing for your forgiveness. One affectionate word and all will be as it was before.”

“It will never be as it was before, but I am ready to forgive her when she acknowledges her fault. I have ever been renowned for Christian charity.”

 

Lady Catherine did not get the opportunity to practise her Christian benevolence, for how can one forgive a wrong for which there has been no humble apology? Anne was brought to say she was sorry her mother felt pained, but she would not say she was sorry for the grievous crimes of sleeping in her husband's bed on their wedding night and saying she did not care what her mother thought about it. She followed the Collins Method, as she saw it; she was respectful towards her mother, but with a new under-layer of confidence. Lady Catherine saw her meekness for the performance that it now was.

Two weeks after the wedding, Lady Catherine sent for her attorneys. On her death, her daughter, Anne, was to be left with investments and property amounting to less than a third of her mother's total fortune. Future inheritance of Rosings and its estates, with all its rents from farms and cottages, was made over irrevocably to her ladyship's beloved nephew, the Honourable Henry Fitzwilliam. Her attorneys' urgent advice, that she not take so drastic and final a step, went unheard.

The injured mother of the bridegroom swept into the invalid's chamber, where her juniors looked at her in trepidation.

“I warned you, Frederick, from the beginning. Why did you sign the marriage articles without ensuring Anne's inheritance?”

“I know not, Mother. She glared at me so.”

“I begged you to temper your behaviour, although I never imagined a result as disastrous as this!”

“A gentleman's honour, Mother, is a … um, gentleman's honour.”

“Your honour was bought rather high. Pray do not look so frightened, Anne. We will simply make the best of the situation.”

“You are very kind, Countess.”

“Kind I always endeavour to be, but you are the countess now, my dear. I have sent for the physician to ascertain the earliest possible date for our departure.” She left the room.

Silence deepened around the two. Reerdon was sunk in thought, and gave a sigh. Certainly, Anne's dowry would release his houses in Surrey and London from mortgage. His income was free now for the overdue refurnishing of Cumberwell House. Yet the loss of Rosings was grievous. He sighed again. Anne's eyes stung, and hot tears spilled over. A little sob escaped her.

“There is no gain in shedding tears over money, Anne.”

“They are not for the money. I only feared … feared that you married for it and now …”

“I married you for your fortune? What put that idea in your head, you odd girl? Come and give me a kiss.”

Various promises were made and tears wiped away. His lordship rather enjoyed the power of making unhappiness flee, and her ladyship rather enjoyed—well—power.

A
YEAR HAD PASSED SINCE
Elizabeth's marriage and the groves of Pemberley began to take on their winter aspect. The north wind came down the valley a little unkindly on the day the Bingley party descended from their carriage. Miss Bingley shuddered as she glanced over the park.

“I have previously seen Pemberley only in summer. I had quite forgotten the northern winters,” she said.

“I hope you will not be too troubled, Caroline,” said Charles, happily. “I daresay it is even colder at Rushly.”

He handed down Jane with great care. Kitty took the footman's hand and jumped down. She clapped her hands and cried: “Oh, dear, dear Pemberley. How lovely it looks.” She hid from Elizabeth's teasing look in a quite fervent embrace.

They moved into the warmth of the winter parlour. Gathering around the fire, the visitors passed on news of their journey and of their friends in Hertfordshire.

Mr. Darcy suggested they all be up a little earlier than usual on Sunday to attend the morning service at Kympton.

“Splendid,” said Bingley. “What is the name of the vicar there? Do I know him?”

“Mr. Turner,” Darcy replied. “You have made his acquaintance.”

“What a memory I have! What does he look like?”

Darcy turned to Kitty.

“What was your accolade, Catherine, after your first meeting? ‘Hideous' was your choice of expression, I believe.”

“I am sure I said no such thing!” cried Kitty, with a creditable attempt to stare her brother-in-law down. “Lizzy, I did not speak so, did I?”

“I cannot lay claim to my husband's precise memory of the conversation, Kitty, but I do recall you were not impressed by Mr. Turner's charms.”

“Why should I be? I scarcely knew him.” Kitty hoped she looked less confused than she felt.

“Like many of us he improves upon acquaintance,” said Jane. “He is a very kind and gentlemanlike man. Once one understands him, his character makes a far stronger impression than his slight tendency towards plainness.”

“Certainly,” said Darcy. “One day some young lady will see him as a veritable Adonis on account of this phenomenon.”

Caroline trilled, “Mr. Darcy, how very amusing you are! However, we might remember that Miss Kitty has merely promoted Mr. Turner from ‘hideous' to, perhaps, ‘not exactly hideous'.”

“I trust I am the last man to embroider upon such flimsy evidence, Miss Bingley,” he replied. “Although, speaking generally, young ladies have been known to say things such as, ‘You are the last man I would ever be prevailed upon to marry.' Then within months they chastise the poor fellow for his tardiness in renewing his suit.”

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” trilled Caroline again. “What abominable things you say! You know full well we ladies could never be so cruel. What say you, Mrs. Darcy?”

“I think such a lady would be exceptional,” Elizabeth replied.

“She would surely be exceptional,” Darcy replied, “for him to hazard further punishment.”

“He would be courageous!” cried Bingley. “I should crawl under a stone, if I were so used.”

Kitty laughed with the others, relieved to have the conversation diverted from Mr. Turner. If she had called him ‘hideous', what of it? He was very plain, but she would like to see him again. She would tease him a little, then skip out of his reach again, just as she did in the summer.

 

It must have been the anticipation of this fun that caused Kitty to take special care with her appearance on Sunday morning. She wore a new muslin gown prettily embroidered on the sleeves, and a new coat, fur-trimmed about the neck and cuffs.

A little stir always enlivened the Kympton congregation when the Darcy pew was occupied. On her previous attendance at the church, Kitty had enjoyed the sensation. This time, as their party entered the church, she was scarcely aware of it, occupied as she was with the strange irregularity of her heartbeat.

In the vestry, Mr. Turner knew nothing of that stir.

After the collect, the vicar turned to the kneeling congregation and said: “God spake these words …”

He saw her, one whom he had not seen since her last visit to Kympton, too many weeks before. The silence lasted two, three seconds. She lifted her eyes, in a wide gaze, then lowered them. Others looked up too, but he did not see them. He looked away and recited firmly:

“God spake these words, and said: ‘I am the Lord thy God: Thou shalt have no other gods but me.'”

The rest of the service was got through, with varying degrees of patience.

Once again, Mr. Turner invited the whole party to breakfast.

As they passed out of the dining room, Kitty found herself next to the vicar, and, looking up, she sweetly said: “How do your chicks fare, Mr. Turner?”

“They are chicks no longer, Miss Bennet. Would you like to see them?”

As it happened, she thought she might as well; and the others, feeling less urgency in regard to avian welfare, stood about in the hall.

Kitty was startled. “Why, they are grown large! In so short a time!”

“You call it a short time. It has been fifteen weeks since last you were here,” he said, his voice very soft. She seemed to find his waistcoat interesting.

“I had no idea it was so long,” she said.

“I have been counting the days, and the weeks, until I despaired of your return.”

“You scarcely know me,” she said, with a flash of wisdom.

“I would wish to remedy this.”

He tried to see her down-turned face beneath her bonnet. He took her hand, put it through his arm and led her out of the fowl-house. They were sheltered from view by the hedge.

“Miss Bennet.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know that I love you?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Here is my hand.” He held it out to her. “Will you take it? Will you be my wife?”

“Mr. Turner, I …” Her voice died away, and her little gloved hand was laid in his.

“Kitty. Kitty.”

She looked up, and, in a childlike way, she offered her cheek to be kissed.

 

Mr. Turner may have wondered if Miss Bennet were the kind of girl his family had in mind for him. Did he recollect his mother's hope that he marry a young woman of fortune, good breeding and culture? Maternal hopes have only so much power against passion. When he wrote to his mother, seeking not her permission but her blessing upon a union already arranged, she knew she was forestalled. She comforted herself with the value of the connection with the Darcys.

Elizabeth was pleased with the match, but wondered whether Kitty had the maturity of understanding to make so important a decision. She talked to her about the duties of a clergyman's wife. A man such as Edward Turner, who took so active an interest in his parish, had a right to expect the support of his wife. Kitty had a fit of sulks and flew to her room. Elizabeth found her, face down upon her bed. She sat up on her sister's entrance.

“You think I am just a silly baby, when I have tried ever so hard to please you!” cried Kitty. “He could have married one such as Anna Edgeley if he were so eager to have a dull wife. She is as clever and serious as can be, and would have got him if she could.”

“Kitty, that is unkind. You know nothing of Miss Edgeley's feelings, and should not speak so if you did.”

“I should not, had you not made me do so with your disapproval. Why are you not happy for me?”

“Naturally, I am happy for you, Kitty. I am merely taken by surprise. You and Mr. Turner differ so in your tastes.”

Kitty slipped off the bed, and stood looking at her sister. “Yes, we do.” An expression came over her face that Elizabeth did not at all like. “Lizzy, you think Mr. Turner an excellent man, do you not?”

“Well … yes, I do.”

“You wonder what can he want with Kitty? Pray do not look so shocked, Lizzy. You cannot even deny it, can you?” Kitty walked across the room. She turned to face Elizabeth, who stood unmoving. Kitty went on: “You do not know what it is to be Kitty. Do you know what my feelings have been, when every day of my life, my father says: ‘Kitty is foolish, Kitty is ignorant, one of the silliest girls in England?”

For a moment, Elizabeth could not speak for shock.

Then she said, “He does not mean it, Kitty, not in his heart.”

“If he does not, how am I to know it? You can forgive him his faults for you are safely enthroned in his affections.”

“I was hardly a favourite with our mother.”

“No, she loved you least of all her children, Lizzy, but did you care?”

“I have never forgotten my duty to our mother.”

“Your duty? Of course you did not forget that, although Mama may have wanted something warmer from you.”

“Mama may have wanted something warmer from me?”

Kitty put her hands on her hips. “Never fear, I do not need to be reminded of your perfections. My mother can do that. Oh, yes, nowadays it is ‘Lizzy this … Lizzy that … my daughter, Mrs. Darcy … ten thousand pounds … marchioness'.”

Elizabeth's voice trembled. “Kitty, no good can come of this. Let us be friends.”

Kitty crossed the room and kissed her sister.

“I shall please Edward, Lizzy. I know I can. He loves me.” She danced a little dance over to the mirror and back again. “It was not at
all difficult, Lizzy. In the beginning, I was not even trying. I saw how he liked to be teased.”

“Kitty!”

“Don't pretend, Lizzy. Just as Mama has always said, if you want to catch a husband, you must use whatever means are at your disposal. We had little money to bait our traps with, but look how well we do!”

“Jane won Mr. Bingley's regard with her goodness and dignity.”

“You forgot to mention her beauty, dear.”

“She did not use it consciously!”

“She did not need to. Lydia slipped a little in being too generous with her charms but was luckily rescued.”

“I do not in the least approve of using such cunning!”

“Say what you like, Lizzy. Our mother says that there must have been some moment when you realised Mr. Darcy admired you. Most girls would have picked up their skirts and run after him, and his admiration would have turned to disdain. You, no doubt, turned up your nose and laughed at him. He is so used to having whatever he wants that he made up his mind that you would not get away.”

“I like to believe there was a little more than that to promote our union.”

Kitty shrugged. “What does it matter? I do not see Mr. Turner as an Adonis, as Mr. Darcy predicted some young lady will, but his looks are not so very bad. Is that promising of love, do you think?”

Elizabeth laughed. “Bless you, dearest, I wish you all the happiness in the world.”

 

In Hertfordshire there were no such reservations. Mrs. Bennet was ecstatic over her daughter's success and instructed her to come home at once to order her wedding clothes. However, Kitty was pledged to go to Rushly Manor for Christmas and, as her Edward was included in the invitation, she could hardly drag herself away just yet.

Mr. Bennet cloaked his pleasure in exclamations over Turner's folly in choosing, as wife, one of the silliest girls in England. At least, he said, she used to be so, but lately she appeared to be merely as silly
as most other girls in England, and had thus lost what little distinction she had.

As for Lydia, on hearing the glad news, she wrote at once to her sister. Kitty opened her letter in Elizabeth's sitting room, where her sister was going through the month's accounts. Elizabeth looked up to see Kitty's eyes filled with tears. She crossed to the sofa and sat by her.

“From whom does this letter come, Kitty?”

Kitty handed her the letter.

“Thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia,” said Elizabeth. “Throw her letter into the fire, Kitty.” She thought, ‘So Lydia plans to come here. She will miss us this time for we will be in London, but we cannot evade her forever. What an unpleasant thought!'

 

In a poky sitting room in Newcastle, there had been a scene when Lydia gaily told her husband about her humorous letter to Kitty.

“What possessed you to write such a thing!”

“We did laugh, George. You said it was the greatest joke you had ever heard.”

“I did not write so to her. I cannot comprehend your stupidity!”

“Kitty will know it is just my way of joking.”

“She writes so slightingly of me, does she?” he asked.

“I should be very angry with her if she did!” exclaimed Lydia stoutly.