Chapter 17 The Affair of the Netherfield Piano
The Affair of the Netherfield Piano
It began, as so many calamities do, at a party.
Jane and Bingley had gone to town for a few weeks, and Miss Bingley was to have accompanied them for part of the Season, but her sister was ill and she was obliged to stay with her.
In order to cheer herself up, she held a small party at Netherfield.
I was there, of course. She could not avoid inviting us, for we were family now.
Pike was there, too. From the moment he arrived he danced attendance upon me, bringing me drinks, sitting at my card table, and, when the crowd separated us, staring at me from across the room.
Miss Bingley was visibly displeased. Pike was of no interest to her—he had money, but as his fortune was even more recent than her own and smelled more strongly of commerce, there was nothing he could give her.
However, she did not appear to like seeing a handsome, rich young man pay me attention, and under the guise of being an attentive hostess, she spent much of the evening addressing remarks to me that could not strictly be called insults.
“Oh, Miss Mary—I mean Miss Bennet!—Is it very strange to go from one of five to the only daughter yet at home? I hope you are not lonely! Do not be discouraged, things may soon change—the ladies of your family find husbands with such prodigious suddenness that you may wake up any day and find yourself a wife to someone or other.”
“Miss Mary, what think you of this vase? Does it not remind you of the china vase in the portico of Pemberley? Oh, you have never been there? Well, I am sure no insult is intended in their overlooking you. There are so many Bennets, after all. Your turn will come.”
“Miss Mary, that is such a becoming gown! It suits you much better than it did Miss Kitty last season.”
I never know what to say when this sort of thing comes my way.
It is not that I did not recognize the intent.
I could hear loathing dripping off every sweet word.
But nothing was ever overt enough to be countered, and I am no good at these poisoned verbal daggers, so I generally just stammered out some barely relevant quotation and then fell silent as everyone stared at me.
Mamma, of course, noticed none of this—she has no subtlety herself and never detects it in others, and in any case, she was so proud to have the Bingleys as relations that she assumed anything they said indicated a great fondness for all things Bennet.
Papa did notice, and for once he was actually quite kind—he actually squeezed my hand after one swipe of her claws—but his attention was mainly focused on his attempts to persuade my mother to let us leave early.
Pike noticed, or at least he noticed that I was upset. I felt his eyes on us, saw his jaw tighten. He said nothing at the time. I hardly expected him to. A man who only recently relearned to talk can hardly be expected to engage in repartee.
I soldiered on, doing my best to ignore her insults. But she would not be ignored. When I happened to draw near the piano, she pounced.
“Oh, Miss Bennet, you must play for us! You are the most accomplished young lady in the neighborhood, and your taste accords so perfectly with mine.”
I froze. Her smile put me in mind of a dog’s snarl.
“Come, you will play for us?” she coaxed. “I know you will.”
I sensed a trap. Of course I did. But I really do like to play before company if I can do it well.
I always feel as though I can make up for the awkward things I’ve said and done over the course of the evening if I can at least play something nice.
Then, perhaps, they will be glad they invited me instead of sorry.
I allowed myself to be drawn to the instrument.
A mistake. As I arrived, she set a piece of music on the stand. “I know how you adore Herr Gluck. You must play this one, I’ve just got it.”
I drew back. “Oh no, I have never played this piece before.”
“Surely the most accomplished young lady in the neighborhood can give us a bit of sight reading? Come, we’re all friends here.”
I saw she would not give in. I am not a bad sight reader, in fact, so I thought it might be all right.
It was not. It was another aria, but far more complex even than the one I’d played that awful night, and worst of all the vocals tripped at the far high end of soprano.
My rather husky voice could not reach the high notes, and I saw more than one face around me concealing a wince as my voice broke or fell flat.
I tried as I went to transpose the vocals lower, but of course I could not do it on the fly. I sounded awful.
I stopped in the middle of the piece. “I beg your pardon. I will not make a hash of it any longer.” My face flaming, I fled the instrument.
Pleading a headache, I joined forces with Papa and we prevailed upon Mamma to leave.
Part of me wanted to stay, for leaving was such a clear admission of defeat—but the headache was no lie.
Already I was seeing bright spots flashing before my left eye.
Mamma, who has no ear for music, scolded me for not finishing the piece.
I went to bed and put a pillow over my hot face.
I told myself that I had much bigger problems than a little public humiliation, and eventually believed it enough to fall asleep.
The next morning Mamma shook me awake. “Cook says there is trouble at Netherfield,” she said. “Come, Jane’s sisters may want us, poor lambs.”
It was early, but I allowed myself to be dressed and bundled into the carriage—“We are family; we needn’t stand on ceremony,” Mamma claimed—and we set off for Netherfield. I had serious doubts that either of the “poor lambs” would want us, but I was curious, too.
As we rounded the bend, a pillar of smoke rose beyond the hill. Mamma called for the coachman to go faster.
As we approached Netherfield, we found its elegant drive marred by a large, sooty bonfire.
It was half on the gravel drive, blackening its elegant white-gray stones, and half on the lawn, scorching the normally impeccable grass.
It was as though someone had taken the elegant painting that was Netherfield and deliberately slashed tar across it in the ugliest place possible.
“My!” said Mamma. “What on earth can have happened?”
I frowned. “Burning old furniture, perhaps?” That made little sense, but I could think of no other explanation.
But no, I saw, as we drew closer. This was not some pile of broken footstools. This was the piano from the east parlor of Netherfield. The one I’d played so disastrously the night before.
Miss Bingley stood outside, having hysterics.
When she saw me, her eyes widened and her screams rose in volume and pitch so much that they could no longer be understood.
She actually lunged toward me, but Mamma intercepted her with a motherly hug.
Mamma has rather strong arms, and Miss Bingley’s claws fell well short of my face.
Mamma stroked her back and made soft maternal murmurings as Miss Bingley glared at me over her shoulder.
I turned and regarded the fire. The piano was the finest one at Netherfield—the finest in the neighborhood, really. I couldn’t imagine how this had happened.
Eventually, against her will, Miss Bingley was calmed enough that she remembered her manners. She invited us in through gritted teeth, and Mamma, never one to take a hint, immediately accepted. Soon we were sitting in the south parlor with tea.
“Now, my dear Miss Bingley, tell me everything,” Mamma said, patting her hand. “We are the only family you ladies have in the neighborhood, you know.” She ignored Caroline’s flinch.
“I scarcely know more than you do,” Miss Bingley said, drawing her hand away from Mamma’s. “The butler awoke me before dawn this morning to say there had been a burglary.”
“A burglary!” cried Mamma.
“So we thought. The french windows were smashed open.” She smiled thinly. “That was before we realized that the piano only traveled as far as the front drive. It was already well alight by then, and efforts to extinguish the flames were in vain, so it was decided to let it burn itself out.”
“How dreadful!” said Mamma. “Do you feel quite safe here, my dear Miss Bingley? You and the Hursts are quite welcome at Longbourn. Mary’s room makes a very comfortable guest room. Why, Cousin Henry died there.”
Miss Bingley’s nostrils flared. “I thank you, but we will be quite well here. I have sent for my brother, and he will return today, I am sure.”
Mamma shook her head in wonder. “Who on earth would want to do such a thing?”
Miss Bingley had, since regaining her faculties, behaved as if I was not there. Now her gaze swiveled to me. “I am sure I know no more than you,” she said.
Presently we went to inspect the damage.
Mamma, quivering with curiosity and the honor of being the first of the neighbors to see the disaster, soon outstripped us.
Once she was out of earshot down the long hallway, Miss Bingley gripped my arm so tightly it hurt.
“Your mother says we are family and we must not stand on ceremony,” she hissed in my ear.
“So I shall speak plain. I know this was you, Mary Bennet. I know not how you did it, for you would have needed at least three strong friends, and everyone knows you haven’t a single one.
But you did it, you horrid girl, and I hope you get what you deserve. ”
“I-I didn’t,” I stammered. “How could I—”
She scoffed. My weak protestations seemed to confirm my guilt. I pulled my arm away and ran out the front door. This could not have anything to do with me. Could it?