Darcy's Diary (20 page)

At last the visit drew to an end. I would have stayed all day if I could, but it was impossible.

‘You will come to dine with us on Tuesday, I hope, Mr Bingley?' said Mrs Bennet as we rose to leave. She turned cold eyes to me, adding unwelcomingly: ‘And Mr Darcy.'

What did I care for her manner? I was to see Elizabeth again.

The next meeting will surely tell me whether she has any feelings for me, whether she can forgive me the grievous wrongs I have done her family, and whether she can love me.

I will be in torment until I know.

‘I thought Miss Bennet looked well last night,' said Bingley to me this morning.

‘She did.'

‘I thought she looked very well,' he said a few minutes later.

‘Yes, she did.'

‘And in spirits. She has enjoyed the summer, I suppose,' he said wistfully.

‘It is to be hoped so. You would not wish her to be unhappy?'

‘No, of course not,' he replied hastily.

‘I thought she did not look quite so blooming when we went in,' I said to him.

‘No?' he asked hopefully.

‘No. But she appeared to blossom when she saw you.'

Bingley smiled. ‘Mrs Bennet is a wonderful woman. Truly charming. And so polite. I did not expect her to ask me to dinner so soon. It is a courtesy I do not deserve.'

Anyone who can think Mrs Bennet is a wonderful woman is in the grip of more than an infatuation. He is in love! I am glad for Bingley, and I only hope my own fortune can be as good.

Bingley was ready to leave for Longbourn half an hour too early.

‘We cannot go so soon,' I said, though I was just as eager to set out.

‘We might be delayed on the way,' he said.

‘Not on such a short journey,' I replied.

‘Jennings will not want to drive the horses too fast.'

‘We will reach Longbourn too soon, even if they walk all the way.'

‘There might be a branch in the road.'

‘We can drive round it.'

‘Or the carriage might lose a wheel.'

‘We cannot go for half an hour,' I said, settling myself down with a book.

I wished I felt as complacent as I seemed. I was as anxious to go as Bingley, and yet I was reluctant to go as well. He had the happiness of knowing his feelings were returned. I had no such assurance. To see Elizabeth again! I hardly dared think about it. If she smiled, what joy! If she avoided my gaze, what misery.

Bingley walked over to the window.

‘You should do as I do, and choose a book,' I said.

He walked over to me and took it from my hands, then turned it round before handing it back to me.

‘You will do better if it is the right way up,' he said.

He looked at me curiously, but I did not enlighten him as to the cause of my distraction. Instead, I kept my eyes on the page, but they saw nothing. At last the appointed time came, and we set out for Longbourn. We were both of us silent. We arrived. We went in. Mrs Bennet greeted Bingley with an excess of civility, and gave me a cold bow. We repaired to the dining-room. Miss Bennet happened to look up as we entered and Bingley took his place next to her. Happy Bingley! I had no such fortune. I was almost as far from Elizabeth as it was possible to be. Even worse, I was seated next to her mother.

Mrs Bennet had gone to a great deal of trouble with the dinner, and it was not difficult to see why. Her constant glances towards her eldest daughter and Bingley showed what direction her thoughts were taking. The soup was good, and it was followed by partridges and venison.

‘I hope you find the partridges well done?' Mrs Bennet asked me.

‘Remarkably so,' I replied, making an effort to be agreeable.

‘And the venison. Did you ever see a fatter haunch?'

‘No.'

‘You will take some gravy, I hope?' she pressed me.

I had little appetite, and I declined her offer.

‘I suppose you are above a simple gravy,' she said. ‘You will be used to a variety of sauces in London.'

‘I am,' I replied.

‘You have dined with the Prince of Wales, I suppose?'

‘I have had that honour.'

‘Some people think that sort of gluttony genteel, but I confess I have always thought it vulgar. We do not have twenty sauces with every dish. We are not so wasteful in the country.'

She turned her attention back to Bingley, and I endeavoured to eat my meal. I watched Elizabeth, hungry for a glance in a way that I was not hungry for the food, but she did not look at me.

The ladies withdrew. The gentlemen sat over the port. I took no interest in the conversation. The iniquities of the French did not interest me. The Prince of Wales's follies could not hold my attention. I glanced at the clock, and then at the other gentlemen. Would they never stop talking?

We rejoined the ladies and I went towards Elizabeth, but there was no space near her. The dinner party was a large one, and as she poured out the coffee I could not get close. I tried nonetheless, but a young lady who will be for ever blighted in my eyes moved close to her and engaged her in conversation.

Did Elizabeth look vexed? I thought she did, and the thought gave me hope. I walked away, but as soon as I had finished my coffee, which burned my mouth, so quickly did I drink it, I took the cup over to her for refilling.

‘Is your sister still at Pemberley?' she asked.

She seemed cool, aloof.

‘Yes, she will remain there till Christmas,' I said.

She asked after Georgiana's friends, but said no more. I did not know whether to speak or whether to be silent. I wanted to speak, but I had so much to say I scarcely knew where to begin, and on reflection I realized that none of it could be said in a crowded drawing-room.

My silence drew notice from one of the ladies and I was obliged to walk away, cursing myself for not having made more of my opportunity.

The tea-things were removed and the card-tables placed. This was my opportunity! But Mrs Bennet demanded my presence at the whist-table and I could not refuse without giving offence. I nearly gave it. I nearly said: ‘I would much rather talk to your daughter.' What would she have said? Would she have told me that she had no intention of inflicting such a disagreeable man on Elizabeth, or would she have been stunned, and fallen blissfully silent? I was tempted to try, but I could not embarrass Elizabeth.

I could not keep my mind on the game. I lost repeatedly. I looked for
an opportunity to speak to Elizabeth before I left, but I could not find one, and I returned to Netherfield in sombre mood.

Bingley, by contrast, was brimming with happiness. I have decided that, tomorrow, I must tell him that Miss Bennet was in town, and that I kept it from him. He will not be pleased, but the deception has gone on for long enough.

‘Is Miss Bennet not the most beautiful girl you have ever seen?' Bingley asked me this evening as we played billiards.

‘She is.'

‘I think there might be hope,' he said.

‘I am sure there is.' I hesitated, but I had to speak. ‘Bingley, there is something I have to tell you.'

‘Oh?'

He looked at me in all innocence, and I felt guilty for the part I had played in deceiving him.

‘I have done you a great disservice. Last spring, Miss Bennet was in town.'

‘But I did not see her!' he said in surprise.

‘No. I know. I should have told you, but I thought you had forgotten her. No, let me be honest, I hoped you had forgotten her, or would forget her, if you did not see her again.'

‘Darcy!' He was hurt.

‘I am sorry. I had no right to meddle in your affairs. It was impertinent of me.'

‘So she followed me to London?' he said, forgetting my deceit in the happiness of thinking that she had followed him.

‘She went to stay with her aunt and uncle, but she tried to see you. That is, she wrote to Caroline.'

‘Caroline! She knew of it, too?'

‘Yes. I am ashamed to say that Caroline cut Miss Bennet, and that I encouraged her.'

‘Darcy!'

He was vexed.

‘I behaved very badly, and I beg your pardon.'

‘If she agrees to be my wife, you will have it. But perhaps in the future you will consider that I can manage my own affairs.'

‘I will, and better than I manage mine.'

He looked at me enquiringly.

I said no more. I cannot speak of my love for Elizabeth until I know it is returned.
Unless
I know it is returned.

I have been obliged to return to town. How long I stay for will depend on circumstances.

I had a letter from Bingley this morning, evidently written in haste. It was blotted and so badly written as to be almost illegible. But at last I made it out.

PS I forgot to ask. You will stand up with me?

C.B.

I wrote to him, sending him my heartiest congratulations and telling him that of course I will stand up with him. I was tempted to return to Netherfield and give him my best wishes personally, but Georgiana is unwell and I intend to remain in town until she is better.

As I sit with her, I cannot help thinking of Elizabeth. The two of them would be friends if Elizabeth consents to be my wife. It is in every way such a longed-for conclusion of everything that has happened, and yet I am apprehensive. I have seen no sign in Elizabeth's words or manner to make me think my feelings are returned. And yet I saw nothing to make me think she is irrevocably set against me. I am almost afraid to return to Longbourn. Whilst I am with Georgiana I still have hope, but once I return to Longbourn it may be dashed for ever.

Colonel Fitzwilliam called to see how Georgiana was getting on. She is much recovered, and I will be able to return to Netherfield in a few days' time.

‘You have been to Netherfield, I understand?' he said.

We were eating in the dining-room. Georgiana, still listless from her illness, took dinner in her room.

‘Yes.' I told him of Bingley's engagement.

‘And do you mind?'

‘No. I am very happy for him. I am happy for them both.'

‘Did Miss Elizabeth Bennet speak to you about your letter? Has she accepted that you did not ruin Wickham?' he asked hesitantly.

‘She has said nothing, but I think she has accepted it.'

‘And has it softened her feelings towards you?'

I did not know how to reply.

‘These affairs are painful whilst they last, but they should not be allowed to last for ever,' he said. ‘It is time you looked to the future again, Darcy. You should marry. It would be good for Georgiana to have a woman in the house.' He took a mouthful of turbot, then said: ‘Anne has been expecting your proposal for several years.'

‘Anne?' I asked in surprise.

‘Come now, Darcy, you know Lady Catherine has regarded your marriage as a settled thing since you were in your cradles. I was surprised you offered your hand to Elizabeth, but as it was none of my business I held my peace. Now that she has rejected you, however, I think you should formalize your engagement to Anne.'

‘I have no intention of marrying Anne,' I said.

‘But Lady Catherine expects it. She and your mother betrothed you and Anne in your cradles.'

‘She is not serious in that? I have heard her say it many times, but I took it for an idle fancy, such as: “When you were a baby, my sister and I decided you would go into the army”, or “When you were a child, I decided you would go into politics”.'

‘I do assure you, she means it.'

‘And Anne?' I asked.

‘Yes, she too expects it. It is why she has never married.'

‘I had thought it was because she was so young …'

‘She is eight and twenty, as you are. Have you forgotten that you were in your cradles together, and that all three of us played together when we were children?'

I had forgotten. She used to trail after my cousin and me. No, not trail after us. She could run almost as fast as I could. My cousin, being five years older, could outstrip us both.

‘Do you remember how she beat us to the top of the oak tree?' he asked. ‘She was not meant to climb it. She tore her frock, and was confined to the nursery on bread and milk for a week.'

‘I remember. I also remember how you took her a cold beef sandwich and slice of pie, wrapped up in a handkerchief. I thought you would surely fall as you climbed across the roof to her window. Did you ever get caught for stealing from the kitchen?'

‘No. Mrs Heaney blamed it on the dog.'

‘Poor Caesar! I had forgotten about Anne's exploits. She was much more lively as a child, when her health was good,' I remarked.

‘And when she had Sir Lewis to defend her. He found out about Lady Catherine's orders that she be confined to the nursery, and he went there himself to give her half a sovereign.'

‘Did he indeed?' I said with a smile.

I could imagine it. Sir Lewis had always been very fond of Anne, and she in turn had been very fond of her father. It had been a sad blow to her when he had died.

‘I have often wondered …' began my cousin.

‘Yes?'

‘Have you noticed that her cough is always worse when her mother is by?'

‘No.'

‘And not only her cough, but her shyness. She is much more spirited when she is with me.'

‘She is never spirited with me,' I said in surprise.

‘But then, she is in awe of you.'

‘Of me?'

‘You are quite a figure, Darcy, particularly when you are out of sorts. Let the weather be bad, and your boredom turns you into an ogre.'

I was about to tell him he was talking nonsense when I recalled Bingley saying something similar.

‘I am sorry for it. But Anne need suffer no further. I will visit Rosings and tell her that a marriage between us is out of the question.'

‘There is no need. Lady Catherine is in London, and Anne is with her. I saw them both this evening, before I came here. Lady Catherine means to call on you before she returns to Rosings.'

We finished our meal, and after sitting with me for an hour Colonel Fitzwilliam left. He is remaining in London for the next two weeks, and has promised to call on Georgiana every day to make sure she is well and happy.

Lady Catherine called this morning, bringing Anne with her. I was about to enquire after their health, when my aunt began without preamble.

‘You must put an end to this nonsense at once, Darcy,' she said, as soon as she had seated herself.

I did not know what she was talking about, but before I could say anything, she went on:

‘I heard from Mr Collins that you were about to propose to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Sit down, Anne.'

Anne promptly sat down.

‘Knowing such a report to be a grotesque falsehood, I visited Longboum in order to have Miss Elizabeth Bennet deny it. The audacity of the girl! The perverseness! Though what else can one expect with such a mother and an uncle in Cheapside? She refused to give the lie to the report, though I knew it must be false. I have never met such an impudent girl in my life. She trifled with me in the most vulgar way. When I told her that she must contradict the report, she replied only that I had declared it to be impossible, so it needed no contradiction. Of course, it is impossible. You are too proud a man to be drawn in, whatever arts she employed. To ally yourself with such a family! And through them, to ally yourself with George Wickham, the son of your father's steward. He, to call you brother! It is not to be thought of. To put an end to her schemes, I told her you were engaged to Anne, and do you know what she said to me?'

‘No,' I said, not knowing what to make of Elizabeth's speech, but hoping – for the first time having reason to hope – that she was not firmly set against me.

‘That if it was so, you could not possibly make an offer to her! She is lost to every feeling of propriety. Honour, decorum and modesty all forbid such a match! And yet she would not tell me the rumour was false. She thought nothing of the disgrace she would bring to a proud name, or the pollution she would inflict on the shades of Pemberley. Pemberley! When I think of such an ignorant girl at Pemberley! But of course it is impossible. You and Anne are formed for each other. You are descended from the same noble line. Your fortunes are splendid. And yet this upstart, without family, connections or fortune, would not give me an assurance that she would never marry you.'

My hopes soared. She had not decided against me! If she had, she would have told my aunt. Then there was still a chance for me.

‘Well?' Lady Catherine demanded.

‘Mama—' began Anne timidly.

‘Be silent, Anne,' commanded my aunt. ‘Well, Darcy?' she demanded.

‘Well?' I asked.

‘Will you assure me that you will never ask this woman to be your wife?'

‘No, Aunt, I will not.'

She glared at me.

‘Then you are betrothed?'

‘No, Aunt, we are not.'

‘Ah. I thought not. You could not be so lost to what is right and proper, and to all common sense.'

‘But if she will have me, I mean to make her my wife.'

Her silence was awful, and was followed by a torrent of words.

‘You need not think you will be welcome at Rosings, if you marry that upstart. You will not bring such shame and degradation on my own house, even if you are absurd enough to bring it on your own. Your sainted mother would be appalled to discover what woman is to succeed her at Pemberley.'

‘My mother would be glad I had chosen so well.'

‘You have a fever. It is the only explanation,' she said. ‘If you marry that girl you will be cut off from family and friends. They will not visit you, nor invite you to visit them in turn. You will be ostracized, cast out. I will give you a week to come to your senses. If I do not hear from you in that time, saying that you have been wholly mistaken in this preposterous plan, and if you do not beg my forgiveness for sullying my ears with this objectionable nonsense, then I will be aunt to you no more.'

I made her a cold bow and she swept out of the room.

Anne hung back.

‘I am sorry,' I said to her. ‘I never knew you took our marriage as a settled thing until my cousin told me of it, or I would have made sure you knew that I did not regard myself as betrothed to you.'

‘There is no need to be sorry. I did not want to marry you,' she said.

She smiled, and I was taken aback. There was no timidness in her smile, and as she walked up to me she looked confident and assured.

‘Am I then so terrible?' I asked.

‘No, not that. As a friend and a cousin I like you very well – as long as the weather is fine, and you are not forced to remain indoors – but I do not love you, and the thought of marrying you made me miserable. I am glad you are to marry Elizabeth. She is in love with you. She will tease you out of your stiffness, and we will all be friends.'

‘She is in love with me? I wish I could be so sure.'

‘One woman in love recognizes another,' she said.

She smiled again and then followed Lady Catherine out of the room.

I am once again at Netherfield. I arrived here with more hope than I have ever felt, but still I dare not take Elizabeth's love as a settled thing. Bingley and I left Netherfield early and soon arrived at Longbourn. Miss Bennet was full of blushes and had never looked more becoming. Elizabeth was harder to understand. She, too, blushed. I wish I knew the cause!

Bingley suggested a walk.

‘I will fetch my bonnet,' said Kitty. ‘I have been longing to see Maria. We can walk to the Lucas's.'

Mrs Bennet frowned at her, but Kitty did not notice.

‘I am not a great walker, I am afraid,' said Mrs Bennet, turning to Bingley with a smile. ‘You must excuse me. But Jane loves to walk. Jane, my dear, fetch your spencer. That man, I suppose, will go, too,' she said, looking at me as though I was a disagreeable insect.

Elizabeth blushed. I ignored the remark as best I could, and thought that only my love for Elizabeth could induce me to set foot in that house ever again.

Bingley looked helpless.

‘Lizzy, run and fetch your spencer, too. You must keep Mr Darcy company. I am sure he will not be interested in anything Jane has to say.'

‘I am too busy to walk,' said Mary, lifting her head from a book. ‘I have often observed that those who are the best walkers are those who lack the intellectual capacity to instruct themselves in the serious matters of life.'

‘Oh, Mary!' said Mrs Bennet impatiently.

Mary returned to her book.

Elizabeth and her sister returned, having put on their outdoor clothes, and we set out. Bingley and his beloved soon fell behind. Kitty, I knew, would soon leave us to go to visit her friend. Would Elizabeth go too? I hoped not. If she remained with me, then I would be able to talk to her. And talk to her I must.

We reached the turning to the Lucas's.

‘You can go on by yourself,' said Elizabeth. ‘I have nothing to say to Maria.'

Kitty ran off down the path, leaving Elizabeth and me alone.

I turned towards her.

Elizabeth
, I was about to say, when she stopped me by speaking herself.

‘Mr Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours.'

I felt myself grow cold. All my hopes now seemed like vanity. She was going to wound my feelings. I had been wrong to read so much into her refusal to deny the report of our engagement. It had meant nothing, except that she would not deign to deny an idle report for the benefit of my aunt.

She was obviously finding it difficult to continue.

She is going to tell me never to come to Longbourn again, I thought. She cannot bear the sight of me. I have given her a disgust of me that is too great to be overcome. I have not used my opportunities. I have visited Longbourn with Bingley and said nothing, because I had too much to say. Yet none of it could have been said in front of others. And now it is too late. But I will not let it be too late. I will speak to her, whether she wants me to or not.

But then she went on, even as those thoughts were going through my mind.

‘I can no longer help thanking you—'

Thanking me? Not blaming me, but thanking me? I scarcely knew what to think.

‘—for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister.'

Unexampled kindness?
Then she does not hate me! The thought made my spirits rise, though cautiously, for I did not know what she had heard of the business, or what else she was going to say.

‘Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.'

Gratitude
. I did not want her gratitude. Liking, yes. Loving, yes. But not gratitude.

‘I am sorry,' I said, ‘exceedingly sorry, that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs Gardiner was so little to be trusted.'

‘You must not blame my aunt,' she said. ‘It was Lydia who told me of it, and then I asked my aunt for greater detail. Let me thank you again and again,' went on Elizabeth, ‘in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them.'