Chapter 2 #3
Nevertheless, I grew accustomed, over the course of the next years, to the rounds of visits, card parties, and impromptu picnics that made up Meryton’s society.
It was during this period that Jane’s character, always mild and obliging, acquired a steadiness that I admired and attempted to emulate.
She would listen with unflagging patience to the confidences and complaints of our younger neighbours.
Her advice, when given, was gentle and sound, and her sympathy drew people to her as surely as her beauty.
Our circle was not large, but it was varied.
Occasionally, the militia were quartered in the town for a few weeks on their way south to Portsmouth or Brighton.
The officers brought with them an air of excitement that set the hearts of many young ladies fluttering, though Jane and I soon discerned that liveliness of manner was not always joined with depth of character.
There was also, I must admit, a certain pleasure in the little dramas that unfolded at each gathering: the whispered hopes of the Misses Goulding; the anxious glances exchanged between Maria Lucas and her mother when overlooked for a dance partner; the way Mary King hung breathlessly on every word from the officers.
We discussed everything—sometimes in whispers, usually with laughter—when we returned home, before snuffing our candles.
In the second year, I became aware of a change in myself, as subtle as the lengthening days of spring.
I no longer sought to distinguish myself by cleverness alone, nor did Jane rely solely on the charm of her countenance.
Perhaps, as Mama once remarked, there was more to life than a pretty face and a sharp retort.
There were disappointments, too. Jane suffered, in her quiet way, when a young officer who had shown her particular attention departed with little ceremony.
I, too, felt the sting of disappointment when a clever young man, whose conversation delighted me, proved to have more wit than principle.
I hope he still smarts from the slap I gave him when he attempted to kiss me in the shadows of the assembly hall.
Yet these trials, while painful, were instructive.
They taught us both to value sincerity over display, and to look for substance as well as style.
By the time Jane came into her majority, and I, of course, but a year behind, we were no longer the same girls who had come out at our first assemblies.
The world had grown both larger and more complicated, and so had we.
Jane’s serenity had deepened into a quiet confidence, and I, though still inclined to laughter, had learned the value of silence and the power of words unsaid.
But the real change at Longbourn came from Papa’s increasing rheumatism.
He was now almost completely immobilised, and spent his days sitting in a wicker bath chair, pushed by James, our footman.
He could hardly turn the pages of his books, his fingers were so curled.
I took to reading to him—his histories, the biographies of great men.
My Latin was sufficient to read Virgil, Cicero, and Horace in the original—though often I saw him wince at my ill pronunciation.
Certainly, I was not offended when he preferred a translation to my attempts to read Homer, Sophocles, or Euripides in my stumbling Greek.
Surprisingly, we found a common interest in Italian opera, likely because I could now perform the arias with some competence, and he would sit beside me in his chair, his eyes closed, listening to Handel and Mozart.
It was during this time that Mama became increasingly withdrawn.
She no longer presided over the household with her former energy.
I knew she felt increasingly isolated. She had never learnt languages: French, Italian, Latin, Greek.
Her education was that of the daughter of an attorney.
Her brother, Edward Gardiner, had been sent away to school.
But daughters stayed at home; her sole prospect was to seek a good marriage and make a good home for her children.
One rainy afternoon, as she stitched her embroidery by the fire, I ventured, “Mama, would you sit with me, as I play for Papa?”
She looked at me, her expression unreadable, and for a moment I thought she would refuse.
Then, she stood and took my arm. Together, we followed James as he pushed Papa’s bath chair to the music room.
Mama sat beside him, taking Papa’s hand in hers.
She gently stroked his gnarled fingers, surely remembering the very first time they had held hands during The Haymakers.
I found the music, my fingers gently touching the keys. As I began the introduction, Mama closed her eyes, letting the music talk to her. I sang I Know That My Redeemer Liveth and let the words of Handel’s masterpiece speak for themselves: victory over death, and eternal hope.
Thereafter, Mama would often sit with us as I sang or read to Papa, always holding his hand.
Nevertheless, her spirits fluctuated—some days she was brisk and practical, as she had been in our childhood; on others, she seemed lost in thought or memory, her eyes fixed on the rain streaking down the parlour windows.
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