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CHAPTER NINE

Elizabeth

W ith relief, Jane and I sought sanctuary at the home of our aunt Madeline and uncle Edward. They lived in the City, in Cheapside, close to Uncle’s business. My aunt kept a lively and fashionable home, and she was young enough to share interests with my sister and me.

The day after our arrival a doctor came to see me.

I expected a round, grey-haired gentleman, and upon welcoming a tall, thin young man with a shock of red hair and lively blue eyes, I felt slightly discomposed to give myself over to his examination.

My aunt stood in the room, and Jane sat on a chair beside me.

I was propped up in bed on top of the counterpane, dressed but without shoes or stockings. My bare feet I hid under a shawl.

The child , as I thought of him despairingly, introduced himself as Mr Bromley.

He smiled and received Aunt Gardiner’s kindest greeting along with her explanation of my injury and her concerns.

Jane too seemed disposed to be charmed and smiled openly when Mr Bromley looked at her.

I, however, greeted him with barely concealed suspicion.

He was too young to know anything, for one, and I was disinclined to like doctoring of any kind for another.

Then came the moment for his examination, and before my eyes the amiable young man sharpened into an intensely focused instrument of science.

With a frown of concentration, he manipulated my good and my painful ankle.

He felt, poked, and pushed here and there, and then looked me over head to toe and back again with the eye of a mathematician.

“This is a simple case of over-use, Mrs Gardiner,” he said.

“Your niece,” he turned and included me in his conclusion, “does not appear to me to be a lady who sits idle. The joint cannot heal if it is repeatedly put under pressure. You will not like this, Miss Bennet, but I shall sentence you to two weeks at the very least of only the lightest use.”

“I am to be bed bound, sir?” I asked irritably.

“You are to be bed bound for as many hours as you can tolerate. You may sit in a chair if you are meticulous in putting your ankle on a stool and never put weight downward onto that foot.” He now looked much older than fifteen as he spoke to me in a firm voice of authority, and upon glancing at Jane, I saw her eyes had drifted up to gaze at him.

“And the ankle will heal?” Aunt Gardiner asked.

“If Miss Bennet is scrupulous in resting it, yes.” He turned back to me.

“As I said, you appear a very active lady, and I can assure you that if you take my advice, you will be just as active as you like after a few weeks. However, if you insist upon testing the joint, or think that use before it heals will make it stronger, you will find yourself frequently in pain and susceptible to injury for a very long time if not the rest of your life.”

That pronouncement frightened me, and I could think of nothing to say.

“Thank you, Mr Bromley,” Jane said to cover my silence. She rose and with my aunt saw the man out while I laid back with a sigh.

Two days later, I sat fretful and cross and wondered whether a person could go mad from inactivity.

For some reason, my relatives decided I should be treated not only as a stationary object but a sick one.

I was cosseted with trays in bed, oceans of quietude, and whispers of compassionate solicitude.

Fearing I would soon scream aloud, I wrote to my father.

Dearest Papa,

I have seen a doctor, and I am chained to a bed!

I must have help down the stairs, which I am allowed to do once a day, only to be hustled up them again after half an hour and tucked up with a posset.

I have been a drain on your purse already, and I know sending Mama and my sisters to Bath was an expense, but if you can spare it, I ask for some funds with which to hire a music master.

I mean to learn to play better if I cannot do anything else, and my doctor has given his conditional approval after explaining how I may sit at the instrument.

If lessons are not possible, then I shall endure, hopefully without committing violence on the next person to put their hand on my forehead.

My father’s reply came with a note to Uncle Gardiner about the expense of a music master, and a week later I sat at the pianoforte performing for my tutor.

As I played, he listened gravely to ascertain my level of skill, and then we began to work in earnest. Having nothing better to do, I practiced diligently, and when he came for the second lesson, I had mastered what he asked me to do in the first. My progress pleased me, but the master, Mr Finch, expressed only mild approval.

However, over the next few weeks, he pushed me to take on more demanding pieces.

One day, after I had demonstrated my scales to warm up my hands, I decided to engage him in conversation.

“Do you have many pupils hereabouts, Mr Finch?” I asked.

My music master was a small man with a sharp nose and overlarge ears. He looked to be forty years old, was neat as a pin, and regular as a clock. I began to like him very much, for he was predictable and possessed of a comfortable evenness of temper.

“Not many, Miss Bennet. At this time of year, some of my pupils go into the country. I made time for you because a young lady I have instructed for years went to Derbyshire.”

A little bell rang in my mind. “I hear much of Derbyshire lately. Have you been, Mr Finch?”

“I have been fortunate to travel, yes. Last summer I was invited to Pemberley, an estate in that county, to work intensively with my pupil.”

“Pemberley!” I cried. “You teach Miss Darcy, then?”

He looked startled and chagrined. “I make it a habit not to mention names, Miss Bennet. I have perhaps said too much.”

“I have met Mr Darcy, sir. I do not intend to gossip,” I reassured him, but of course I wished he would fill my head with tittle tattle about the Darcys. In consequence, I pressed very lightly for more from him on the subject. “Miss Darcy must be very accomplished?”

“She is indeed a proficient.”

“I am sure she is. I have heard as much from Miss Bingley. Might you unbend just an inch, and tell me if Pemberley is as grand as I am told?”

“I do not believe there is a more beautiful estate, Miss.”

“My word! Have you been to many such places then?”

He glanced at me with an expression of mild indulgence. “I do not care to say, Miss Bennet.”

Ah well. I had to be content with this teaspoon of information, and setting Miss Darcy’s proficiency as my ideal, I applied myself with renewed vigour to my studies.

I had performed at Lucas Lodge in the presence of Mr Darcy—a simple country tune I had well-mastered that neither embarrassed me nor impressed anybody.

There would never be an occasion for me to exhibit in front of the man again, but I could imagine his surprise—his comeuppance—to hear a middling country girl play with true finesse.

My efforts received mixed reviews, however. I knew I had gone wrong one evening when Jane, who sat knitting while I practised, said, “Lizzy, to what end is this war with the pianoforte?”

“War?” I asked in surprise. Indeed, I had just conquered a Mozart piece and was feeling smug.

Jane was as mild tempered as a flower, but she can sometimes speak bluntly. “Your playing begins to remind me of Mrs Hurst.”

“Mrs Hurst plays at a very high level,” I replied with dignity.

“She does, I grant you, but there is an air of flaunting in her style, do you not agree?”

I frowned and opened my mouth to argue but could not defend against what my sister said.

Jane was right! While the fingering, complexity, and lack of errors were all laudable in Mrs Hurst’s playing, her execution was in the order of a statement of superiority that was not pleasing to the humble ear.

At last I said, “You are very right, Jane. I have been practicing as a form of revenge, and the result is—well, what is the result?”

“Your music is angry. I preferred your natural ease, your delight in a simple tune.”

“Perhaps I can climb off my high horse and improve my playing without losing myself. I thank you for correcting me.”

“But Lizzy, who are you angry with? What is the revenge you speak of?”

“I have been trying to wipe the eye of the Darcys and the Bingleys of the world, Jane. Nonsensical, I know, for I doubt I shall ever have the chance to do so in reality. They made me feel inferior, or perhaps they made me wish to be superior.”

I laughed at knowing myself better and tried the Mozart again in a sweeter state than I had begun.