Chapter Four #2
But Mrs. Bennet had decided they’d learned enough and that the funds spent on lessons were better used for other things.
Such as gowns for Elizabeth’s older sister Jane, or youngest sister, Lydia.
They, Mrs. Bennet maintained, would be the two of her five daughters to raise up the rest, and must always look the most presentable.
“You played that wrong,” Mary, seated beside Elizabeth in the stuffy parlor, said. “You skipped that bit, and that note is not the—”
“Ugh,” Elizabeth interrupted, ten keys pressed all at once discordantly emphasizing her aggravation. “Mary, you are not my instructor.”
Mary’s spine stiffened. “I do not see why you trouble to practice if you are not going to practice the piece correctly.”
Elizabeth dropped her hands from the keys. “Do you know what? I do not see why, either.” With that, she stood.
Mary swiveled on the bench to regard her. “Where are you going?”
“Walking. It is far too stuffy in here, trapped pecking at keys.” Especially with a lecturing little sister.
“But Mama said we must each practice for an hour every day. That she paid for our instruction for several years, and for this sheet music, and that you and I have little to recommend us, unlike our prettier sisters, and we must therefore seek some sort of accomplishment.”
“I know how to play every piece we have,” Elizabeth protested.
Mary gestured to the pages propped up on the pianoforte. “Then why did you play this one wrong?”
Elizabeth longed to snatch up the sheet music and run. The only entertainment that score would bring was if she folded the pages into boats and released them in the brook.
But she was nineteen. She could not behave like a thwarted child. “I played it wrong because it is so boring.”
Mary pursed her lips. “Perhaps if we combine our pin money, we could order something new to play. I have been saving for a book on French, but—”
“What a splendid idea,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Something lively and fun. Something we can sing along with, or that people may dance to.”
Mary was shaking her head. “No. We need to challenge ourselves. We need sophisticated pieces. Perhaps one best played as a duet. Something intricate and complex, to display our skill.” Mary’s too-thin lips turned downward. “We will need to practice more. Quite possibly twice as much.”
Elizabeth stared at her. Even more time stuck in this parlor while Mary carried on as if they had not taken the same lessons and did not play equally well? That sounded horrible.
Speaking the words as she made the decision, Elizabeth said, “I believe I am giving up the pianoforte.”
“What?”
She shrugged. “Giving it up. Oh, I may still play on occasion if the mood strikes me, but in a general sort of way, I am giving up the instrument.” That general sort of way being the way that required her to practice.
“But we have no other accomplishments,” Mary said quietly, her gaze darting about as if suitors hid in the draperies to overhear.
“Well, you plan to get a book on French.”
“Yes, but…” Mary trailed off. Lines of thought creased her forehead.
Elizabeth waited, even though standing there while Mary considered the idea was even more boring than practicing a piece she’d played hundreds of times before.
“No,” Mary finally said. “I will not give up what I have worked so diligently on.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I will. I am tired of this room, and these pieces, and of practicing. I am going for a walk.” She pivoted.
“Mama will not permit you to give up practicing.”
Not looking back, Elizabeth called, “She will not care, and if she does, I will apply to Papa.” Their father always took Elizabeth’s side.
Invigorated by her decision, she bounded up the broad staircase and into the room she shared with her sister Jane.
In moments, Elizabeth had her boots on, and a bonnet to shield her face from the hot summer sun.
She forwent gloves, for she did not mean to walk where she would meet anyone, and went back down the stairs.
She slipped out the front door, then paused to stand tall, sucking in a deep breath of sultry summer air.
To the right and left were little paths that meandered out to meet others, and more still.
Today, she selected ones that, with a cut across a field or two, though not across old Mr. Grason’s farm, would bring her to Netherfield Park.
Elizabeth adored the view of Netherfield Park’s great manor house.
She enjoyed imagining what sort of people might reside there, and what it would be like to be one of them.
If no one happened to be about, which was often as the owner of the property preferred to be in London, Elizabeth would sneak down and peek into the windows.
She especially enjoyed looking into the great ballroom, with its lines of sheet-draped chairs. What would the lofty, cream and gilt space be like full of people and candlelight? Of ladies in their finery, and dapper gentlemen, and laughter?
What would it be like to dance there in the arms of some charming gentleman?
One who would gaze at her with such adoration that no one else in the room mattered?
The way she’d seen more than one man look at her sister Jane.
If only the owner decided to return, or someone would let Netherfield Park, Elizabeth could find out.
She let out a sigh. That was, assuming she could ever find a gentleman who would look at her with even a tenth of the admiration most showed Jane.