Lady Catherine's Necklace

  ‘She may have been different when she was younger,’ Charlotte said hesitantly. ‘Perhaps their families obliged them to marry, like—’ she stopped.

  ‘And he was very rich – and handsome too,’ Maria went on. ‘Where did his money come from?’

  ‘From the manufacture of some garment, I believe.’

  ‘So she determined to snabble him. And then she could pull down the ruins of Hunsford Castle and build herself a fine modern mansion.’

  ‘While he consoled himself with orchids and the vicar’s lady.’

  ‘We should not say such things, even in jest.’

  The doorbell rang, and after a moment or two Mrs Denny came in with a note for Mrs Collins.

  ‘It is from Lady Catherine,’ Charlotte said, reading it. ‘She asks if I can spare you for the evening, tonight, when she is expecting the Dale-Rothburns to dinner, and Sir Marmaduke Towers with his lady.’

  ‘I am to dine with them?’ Maria was hardly less appalled than startled.

  ‘Oh no, my dear! I am surprised that you should even think of such a thing. No, no, you are to go in afterwards, when they are taking tea, to play and sing for them.’

  ‘Oh, how terrible!’ Maria turned pale. ‘Charlotte, must I?’

  ‘I think you must, love. Lady Catherine would be very displeased if you declined – and I do not like to think how upset Mr Collins would be.’

  ‘But Colonel FitzWilliam will be there – and the Delavals. I shall feel like a juggler; like some sort of paid entertainer!’

  ‘Except that you will not be paid,’ said Charlotte drily.

  ‘It is so demeaning!’

  ‘You have played many times for our father’s club, at Lucas Lodge.’

  ‘Yes, but that was for Papa – quite different.’

  ‘I am very sorry for you. But you are well endowed with spirit and dignity. Your courage will carry you through, when it comes to the point.’

  ‘Now you are trying to talk me round, Charlotte. Oh, very well! You may write Lady Catherine my polite acceptance. I shall be most happy. That will not be the truth. I shall hate it and be miserable, every minute that I am there. How can I play the songs that I used to sing for him, last summer? Oh, Charlotte, it must mean something when two people have so many ideas, so many tastes and feelings in common, must it not?’

  ‘You still love him,’ said Charlotte sadly.

  ‘Oh, Charlotte, I do, I do!’

  ‘Well, you must battle against it!’ scolded Charlotte. ‘That is all we can do, you know. And we women are lucky in that respect, unbelievably lucky, that we do have so many useful and agreeable tasks in the performance of which we can divert our minds from such fruitless pains as beset us. Employ yourself. Do you want to go into the kitchen and help Bessie with the bread? You make better bread than she does. Or will you weed my rose-bed, where, Smarden tells me, the celandine is already beginning to show? Or will you walk to the village and execute some commissions for me there, and call in at Mrs Hurst’s cottage in Dumb Woman’s Lane, to tell her that Sam and Lucy may come home tomorrow, and she is to have their clothes ready washed?’

  ‘I will do that,’ said Maria. ‘And I will take Sam and Lucy for a walk down Dumb Woman’s Lane to look for primroses.’

  ‘Very well. Sam and Lucy will be overjoyed to see you. But,’ Charlotte directed a keen glance at her sister, ‘you are not going to the village in the hope of encountering Colonel FitzWilliam, are you?’

  ‘No, Charlotte. Truly.’

  ‘Very well. While you get your hat and pelisse, I will be making out a list.’

  * * *

  Hunsford village consisted of a few brick and tile-hung cottages assembled round a green, an oast house and the Hopsack Inn, a tolerably commodious establishment, thatched and weatherboarded. Once it had been somewhat marred by ill fame, spoken of as a resort of smugglers. But those days were long gone by. In the centre of the green was a quintain, or tilting-post, mistakenly assumed by strangers to be a flagpole adorned with some odd appendages; this, too, would long since have been consigned to the dust-heap of history, but Sir Lewis de Bourgh had been proud of it and had added a clause to his will providing for its annual repainting and refurbishment.

  Maria Lucas had spoken truly to her sister when she asserted that she did not go to the village in hope of encountering Colonel FitzWilliam there; she was therefore not a little dismayed on reaching the green to recognize his tall, unmistakable figure across the grass, outside the post office, beside Miss Delaval in her basket-chair. A moment later Mr Delaval joined them, emerging from the post office.

  The very last thing Maria felt inclined for, just then, was light-hearted conversation with the Delavals in company with the colonel; she had not greatly taken to the brother and sister, and wished they would put an end to their visit and quit Rosings. But Miss Delaval’s ankle seemed to provide them with sufficient reason for indefinitely prolonging their stay.

  Before they could recognize and greet her, Maria turned down Dumb Woman’s Lane, a small byway leading to the mill, and knocked at the door of Mrs Hurst’s cottage. The door was opened by Mrs Hurst’s widowed sister, Mrs Hobden, who shared the cottage with her, and at present played the principal part in the care of the parsonage children.

  ‘Oh, come in, miss, come in, do! Mester Sam and Miss Lucy’ll be main pleased to see ye! They’m out at the back – young Joss fettled them up a see-saw. He be out there with them now; ’tis his breakfast hour. Come through the house, won’t ’ee; I’m this minute a-washing their shifts and shirts, ye won’t mind the steam.’

  The house consisted of one room and a back kitchen, and a ladder leading to the upper floor. From visits to cottages at Longbourn, Maria was instantly familiar with the sour smell of damp brick floor, damp, much-used rags, potatoes boiled in their skins, damp lath-and-plaster walls and stuffiness from windows that were never opened. She passed through the lean-to back kitchen, which held little more than a copper basin of laundry perched in a brick housing and heated over a fire of twigs and rubbish. Mrs Hobden gave the steaming wash a stir with a stick as she passed by, then called out of the back door:

  ‘Miss Lucy! Mester Sam! Here’s your auntie come a-visiting!’

  The joyful shrieks outside grew louder. Maria stepped out into a small, hedged-in space enclosing a patch of worn grass, a vegetable bed with two rows of cabbages and a muddy hen-run where a flock of brown poultry pecked at cabbage stalks. On the grass a see-saw had been constructed by the simple process of laying a plank over a massive section of tree trunk turned on its side; tumbling off this, muddy and joyful, were Charlotte’s two elder children. With them was a tall, brown-faced boy whom Maria recalled seeing sometimes at work, in the grounds of Rosings House. He was, she knew, a nephew or cousin of Mrs Hurst, and lodged with her.

  He touched his forelock and gave Maria a friendly grin.

  ‘I’ve come to take them for a walk,’ she said, ‘but perhaps they’d rather stay and play on the see-saw with you.’

  ‘Nay, miss, I’m bound to get back to work. I’ll walk with ye part of the way, then take the kitty-corner cut over the meadow.’

  They set off down the lane, the children swinging on Joss’s arms till he begged for mercy.

  ‘How will I ever do my digging if ye pull my arms out o’ their sockets?’

  As they walked, they talked about the shocking forthcoming improvements at Rosings.

  ‘By my way of thinking, ’tis a shame to cut down the cherry orchard,’ Joss said. ‘That ’ud furnish a-plenty cherries for years yet.’

  ‘It does seem a pity,’ agreed Maria.

  ‘And as for putting those two poor gentlemen out o’ their home – that’s downright wicked! (Ye won’t mind what I say, missie, ye won’t tell Lady Catherine?)’

  ‘Which two poor gentlemen?’ said Maria, startled. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Hadn’t ye heard, then? ’Tis Owd Tom and Young Tom – Mester Finglow and Mester Mynges, the painting g
entlemen. They’ve been handed notice to quit after thirty-odd years!’

  ‘Oh, good gracious,’ said Maria. ‘That’s terribly sad. But why?’

  ‘So Lady Catherine can put up a gazey-boo there, so ’tis said. A Grecian temple. They say poor Mester Finglow – Owd Tom, as we call him – was so palsy-strook when he heard that, he fell down in a swound. He’s mortal ill, you know, missie, he bain’t long for this world.’

  ‘No, I didn’t know,’ said Maria. ‘That is really dreadful. But perhaps when Lady Catherine hears how ill he is, she will change her mind.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Joss. ‘Perhaps carrots will grow on treetops.’

  He swung over a stile, waved to the children and set off across the fields.

  ‘Come, children,’ said Maria. ‘Let’s go and look for primroses.’

  She took their hands and set off down the lane with a heavy heart.

  Before reaching the mill, the lane passed through a patch of hazel known locally as the Dilly Woods, because of the wild daffodils that grew there. A small brook, babbling between low ferny banks, made its way through this wood and down to the mill, passing under an arched stone bridge where it met the track. Here the children were happy to spend many minutes dropping twigs into the water on one side, and then hastening to make sure that they emerged on the other. Maria, sitting on the parapet, watched them and thought her own troubled thoughts.

  Presently she was roused by the sound of footsteps and saw the figure of a man approaching through the trees. FitzWilliam! was her first startled reaction, and then she excoriated herself for her stupidity; had she not seen him in the village, going precisely in the opposite direction? Besides, this was a shorter, slighter man of wholly different build, nothing like the colonel. As she drew closer she saw that it was Ambrose Mynges, whom she had met with Charlotte when returning a borrowed book to the two painters.

  He looked sad and harassed, and she did not wonder, remembering what the boy Joss had told her.

  She bade him good morning, trying to put all she could of friendly sympathy into her voice.

  ‘Mr Mynges! Good day to you.’ She saw that he hardly recollected her, and added, ‘I am Mrs Collins’s sister from the parsonage, taking my niece and nephew for an outing.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Miss – Miss Lucas, is it not? I am, that is, I am on my way, but perhaps – I wonder if you can possibly help me?’

  ‘Of course! If I can. What may I do for you? How can I be of assistance?’

  ‘My friend Desmond is very ill. Mr Willis the surgeon is with him now. His condition is acutely serious: cordials, compresses, bleeding, clysters, cupping – no efforts have been spared, but none has been of any use. Mr Willis is of the opinion that only skilled nursing can save him now. There is a Mrs Hobden, who, according to Willis, might be the very person, if she is available.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I know Mrs Hobden,’ said Maria at once. ‘We all know Mrs Hobden, do we not, children? She has been looking after this pair. But I will take them home directly and ask her to come to you. I am sure she will be glad to do so. Pray do not trouble yourself any further, Mr Mynges; go back to your friend. I will deliver your message to Mrs Hobden, and I am sure she will be on her way to you within the hour.’

  ‘Can you really do so?’ His gaze had been directed at the ground, frowning, preoccupied; but now he looked straight at her, and she saw how full of suffering were his dark eyes.

  ‘Yes, sir! I promise faithfully. And if Mrs Hobden, for some reason, is unable to come, I will see that she finds somebody else, of equal skill. Go back to your friend,’ Maria repeated. She added, ‘I heard – I have been told of what happened – of the bad news that caused your friend’s collapse, and I was more shocked than I can say, shocked and sorry. But I will keep you no longer. Good day! Come, children, we must hurry back to Mrs Hobden.’

  ‘But we haven’t picked any primmy-roses,’ objected Sam.

  ‘No; we are going to do something even nicer than that; we are going to collect your toys in a basket from Mrs Hobden, and then I am going to take you home to Mamma. How about that?’

  ‘Oh, yes! Home to Mamma!’ Both children began to dance and caper.

  Involuntarily Maria smiled over their heads at Mr Mynges, but he had already turned and was hastening back down the path along which he had come.

  Poor man, thought Maria, walking back with the children along Dumb Woman’s Lane. His troubles are far worse than mine.

  * * *

  On their way back to Rosings House Colonel FitzWilliam and the Delavals encountered Lord Luke Sherbrine, taking a gentle stroll along the gravelled driveway.

  ‘Ah, my dear Fitz! So there you are! I was wanting the favour of a quiet word with you. Felt a touch of my old trouble coming on, thought it best to get matters settled before, in case I was obliged to retire to my bed – devilish inconvenient that would be – not knowing your plans, when you wish to return to Derbyshire – hey?’

  ‘Oh, my plans are unfixed at present, sir,’ replied the colonel. ‘I am entirely at your disposal.’

  ‘Lucky Lord Luke!’ remarked Miss Delaval, with her elfin grin.

  ‘Ah – just so!’ Lord Luke’s pale eyes surveyed the lady, then rested on the colonel.

  ‘I will take my sister into the house,’ said Delaval, and to his sister: ‘You must repose and refresh yourself for this evening, you know, my dear, when you will be expected to shine amid the company.’

  ‘Oh, yes! And we are to hear the gifted and delightful Miss Lucas play and sing.’ Miss Delaval glanced at the colonel, who reddened and looked away. She added pensively, ‘What a pity I did not bring my harp with me on this excursion. Then I could have lent my assistance to Miss Lucas.’

  ‘You forget, my love,’ her brother pointed out, ‘you would not have been able to play the harp. Your ankle…’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, my ankle. What a poor honey I am. Take me into the house, Ralph.’

  The lady was wheeled away.

  ‘Humph! What d’you make of them, really – hey, Fitz?’ inquired Lord Luke, when the Delavals were a safe distance away.

  ‘A charming pair, do you not think so, sir?’

  ‘Charming riff-raff! I’d give a monkey to know what they are saying to each other at this moment. Would not you, Fitz? You had best watch out for yourself, my boy; one word over the line from you and she’d have you in the matrimonial noose. I know that breed – mark me!’

  ‘Oh, no, sir, you are quite out there. I’ll lay she knows my rent roll to the last sixpence. She is after bigger game. But what did you wish to say, sir?’

  ‘When my sister has left for Morran…’

  ‘You are quite certain that she will go, sir?’

  ‘Oh, yes, my boy. She don’t show it, but she is in a regular ferment over the thought that Adelaide might leave her fortune away from the family. She won’t rest till she has done her possible best to see that money safely bestowed on somebody of her own recommendation – on Anne, if she can.’ FitzWilliam sighed. ‘Why sigh, my boy? Then the cash would end up in your pocket, you’d be a man of means – no bad thing, hey? But that ain’t to the purpose. What I want is to have at least three weeks here at Rosings before Catherine returns.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘That’s my business, my boy. But I’ll let you into my confidence so far as to tell you that I was devilish displeased when Catherine – without a by your leave from the family – pulled down Hunsford Castle and clapped that flat-fronted monstrosity in its place! Crumbling the castle may have been, draughty it certainly was, but it had dignity, it had quality, it had antiquity and tradition, whereas that object – pah! I’d as soon look at my snuffbox – sooner!’

  ‘Why didn’t you protest when it was done, sir? You were a friend of Sir Lewis – why didn’t you say something to him? Or to my father?’

  ‘Pooh – your father: he has no time for affairs here. Up to his ears in politics. Besides, I was in India at the time. I had enough to do, earning my
living. When I got back to England, the thing had happened. There were not two stones of the castle still standing. And, what’s more, I had property, belongings in Hunsford Castle – dammit, Fitz, it was the family home where I grew up. Half my life had been spent there. Now where is all that stuff, where are all those things?’

  ‘Well,’ said FitzWilliam, ‘where are they?’

  ‘Do you think I didn’t ask Catherine that question? Oh, she says vaguely, a lot of old rubbish was thrown away. Some things were put up in the attics. Yes, there are attics in Rosings House, it seems. May I look in the attics? No, certainly not! Look in the attics, what next? What would the servants say, to have you rummaging about up there? What do I care what the servants say? I want time to go through those attics, box by box, parcel by parcel. And Catherine will never permit that. But when she’s off in Great Morran, arguing with Adelaide – d’ye see? Hey?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I think I begin to see.’

  V

  Letter from Maria Lucas to Mrs Jennings

  My dear madam,

  The spring in Kent is very beautiful. I can well understand why this county is called the Garden of England. The trees are covered in young leaves and white blossom, the woods and lane banks are carpeted in white violets and anemones. Longbourn in Hertfordshire cannot compare, and though I am sometimes homesick I am happy to be here with Charlotte, who has always been my favourite sister. Mr Collins is still absent, for his legal business at Longbourn Manor is not yet completed. Lady Catherine is very indignant about this, and roundly scolds poor Charlotte, but Mr Delaval remains at Rosings, and conducts the Sunday services with the curate, Mr Lawson, so she has no real grounds for complaint, especially as Mr Delaval has become a great favourite with her. (I do not myself greatly care for Mr Delaval.) In any case, Lady Catherine herself sets off, three or four days from now, to pay a visit to her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Anglesea. (The Duke is not there; he is off commanding various regiments in Spain.) Mr Gregory Stillbrass, Lady C.’s attorney from Canterbury, has been here so that she could grant him a power of attorney while she was away from home. (I believe her brother Lord Luke, also visiting Rosings, was very offended that the power was not assigned to him, but Lady Catherine has no great opinion of his capacities.) They are a strange family, indeed. I was able to observe them the other evening when I was summoned to play and sing for guests who were invited to dinner. (I wore the pale rust-pink muslin that you were so kind as to give me, dear Mrs Jennings.) I sat in the music room, which adjoins the great blue-and-gold salon, and the double doors were open wide, so I was able to see and hear much that went on. Col. FitzWilliam was sometimes so kind as to turn the pages for me, but in general I might have been a block of wood, for all the notice that was paid.