Into Hertfordshire (12 page)

All throughout this lecture Darcy’s eyes were fixed on Elizabeth’s; she had delighted him completely with both her charming air and well-reasoned attack. He now settled himself deeper into his chair with happy anticipation: this was meat and drink to him. “Will it not be advisable,” said he with relish, “before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?”

But Bingley here broke in on their discourse: “By all means, let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size.” Bingley knew the extremes to which his friend was capable of carrying this type of argument, now he had set his teeth in it, and contention of any kind was distressing to Bingley’s feelings. “For that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure you that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening when he has nothing to do.”

“Charles! How can you speak so of Mr. Darcy? You always talk such nonsense!” Miss Bingley cast an appalled look at Mr. Darcy for fear that he was as offended as she by her brother’s incivility.

On his part, Darcy paused, then smiled ruefully as he recognised his friend’s allusion to their dinner in London; Bingley was reminding him of his over-zealousness in seeking to win his point. Regretfully he lowered his shield and capitulated to his friend’s wishes. “I see your design, Bingley,” he acknowledged. “You dislike an argument, and want to silence this.”

“Perhaps I do.” He glanced from Darcy to Elizabeth and back, as though trying to assess their respective humours. “Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me.”

“What you ask is no sacrifice on my side,” said Elizabeth, making Bingley a slight curtsey, “and Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter.” In her response Darcy found more gentility and better manners than the more powerfully expressed disapprobation of Miss Bingley, which, if anything, lent Bingley’s words more force, rather than softening them. Elizabeth kindly took upon herself the admonition to desist, thereby relieving him from his due share of the embarrassment. In this he saw a real concern for his interests and dignity; he could not be blind to that generous impulse that led her to sacrifice her dignity to spare his.

I have been drawn off again, Dearest, by a most agreeable interlude. Miss Bingley began it with another commendation of my letter, and her brother, who is, I gather, just as tired as I am of her perpetual compliments, took the opportunity to get in a dig at me to balance matters up. Miss Bingley came to my defence immediately, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet took up Bingley’s cause. I do not know where she was educated (surely not in Hertfordshire), but she is highly accomplished in debate and logic. She managed to turn a comment Bingley made on his untidy habits of thought into a testament to his humility. Now, Bingley has many excellent qualities, but on my honour, humility is not one of them: he is proud enough of his accomplishments—his natural modesty lies in the fact that he simply fails to recognise many of them. He would allow her interpretation to stand, however, being well-pleased to stand in borrowed glory. I returned his dig with interest, pointing out how deceitful false humility must be. I had him fairly cornered when his advocate came to his rescue. But she quickly outran his wit and he dropt out of the race, as his sister had done even earlier, leaving the two of us to finish the course; but, alas, in his amiability and the equanimity of his humour, Bingley does not appreciate the delights of active discourse, and felt Miss Elizabeth Bennet and I were perhaps too much in earnest in our dispute. He dissuaded me from continuing, drawing on his privilege as my friend to call a halt to the clash of our reasoning without the others’ knowledge. I obliged him, of course: even if I did not hold him in such high regard, as a guest I could never be disobliging to my host; but I confess I have never been half so well entertained in this house before. Miss Elizabeth Bennet has dismissed me to “finish my letter,” and so I shall, Dearest. I am hopeful of hearing from you soon, and I remain,

Your loving brother,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

After folding and sealing his letter, he sent his gaze around the room: Elizabeth had returned to her needlework; Hurst and Bingley were back at their game; Mrs. Hurst was alternately peering over her husband’s shoulder and turning her jewellery about to observe the sparkle; and Miss Bingley sat looking blankly about her, obviously in want of occupation. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was a study in poise, grace, and feminine perfection where she sat bowed over her work. Again he was struck by the comparison of the two ladies; the one with all the advantages and none of the substance, the other with all the resources of heart and mind, but denied the fullest expansion of them by the condition of her family.

He became aware that his eyes had rested overlong on Elizabeth, and hastily looked away. His glance lit on the pianoforte, which brought to him the happy thought of asking her to play. In that way he would be satisfying himself on two counts: he would have the pleasure of her performance, and he could indulge himself in the observation of her without fear of offending. Of course, to single her out in this request would slight the other ladies, so instead he spoke generally to the room, “Might we indulge in some music? Bingley, Hurst, you would not mind?”

The gentlemen waved him on, but Miss Bingley had got in ahead of him. She, having by that time already got to the pianoforte and opened it, hesitated just long enough to ask Elizabeth to precede her, before seating herself with the air of one who means to play forever. Miss Bennet murmured a polite negative, even though it was already apparent that her hostess had no thought of relinquishing her position at the instrument. Mrs. Hurst stepped over to join her sister, as the two ladies were fond of singing together, and they began a duet. Elizabeth returned to her work, but would look up now and again to observe the performance.

This arrangement was not to Darcy’s liking. Miss Bingley was often looking his way to see how he was enjoying her recital, and it would be immediately obvious to her if he were to give his attention to Elizabeth. He therefore rose and stepped over to the fireplace, from which vantage point he could better observe Elizabeth, and at the same time stand slightly behind Miss Bingley. Elizabeth, however, chose that moment to put aside her work and wander over to the pianoforte to look through some of the music laying on it. Darcy was satisfied: he could now indulge in a modest observation of Elizabeth while seeming to attend the entertainment.

He held his post with perfect contentment through several selections, until Elizabeth, having perused the music books available, stepped to the end of the instrument and looked about the room. Her eyes caught his, and he was moved to take a step he had never before in his life undertaken: to ask a woman to dance because he wished to be near her.

Miss Bingley was at that moment playing a lively Scotch reel, which, of all dances, was Darcy’s least favourite, but that seemed a minor obstacle to him now as, with slow and wondering step, he approached Elizabeth. Taking firm rein on his emotions and his manners, he asked, “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?” He was amazed at his own voice speaking the words.

Elizabeth, however, made no reply. She turned her face up to him with a brief, pensive smile, then turned back to the performers. Darcy was surprised and perplexed: he knew she had heard him, but what was she playing at? For he was certain that this was yet another turn in their game of wits. Knowing from long observation, however, that teazing behaviour in a woman meant that its object had her approbation, he was encouraged to continue:

“I say, Miss Bennet,” he repeated, “do not you feel the inclination to dance?”

“Oh! I heard you before,” said she, “but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.”

Darcy quite nearly laughed out loud; she had diddled him properly. With no way either to agree with her or contend with her, he could only admit defeat, collect his wounded, and retire from the field. Smiling, he bowed and said respectfully, “Indeed, I do not dare.”

Holding his delight to him like a rare gem, he sat down again to reflect on her performance. Never had his acquaintance been graced by a woman whose turn of mind gave him such pleasure. Never, in fact, had he met any one of either sex whose wit so closely complemented his own. And further, as he looked over at her where she again leaned on the pianoforte, the light of the fire highlighting her form, he had to admit that she had charms for him beyond those of wit and lively discourse. His delight turned slowly to a bemused wonderment: this must be how Bingley so often felt about
his
companions amongst the fair sex. If this were London instead of Hertfordshire, Darcy felt he must be in some danger of losing his independence. He rather thought that if Elizabeth had possessed the standing and connections of the women who belonged to his acquaintance in Town, he would be in danger, indeed.

Chapter Twelve

The morning following his debate with Elizabeth, Darcy was forced to conclude that he must have been too obvious in his attentions to her, as Miss Bingley was more cutting than usual in her attempts at humour, and devoted a considerable amount of time to imagining and describing his future felicity with Elizabeth. She abused the Bennet family in more ways than Darcy could have imagined, at times even offending
him
, simply by the ill-spirited bent of her invective. Moreover, she and her sister were so uncivil to Miss Elizabeth Bennet that Darcy felt the sting of it more even than Elizabeth seemed to. It occurred to him for the first time that Miss Bingley might regard Elizabeth as a rival of some significance. This was absurd, to his mind, on two counts: first, Miss Bingley did not now possess, and never would possess, the power to attract his addresses; second, Elizabeth was entirely safe from his addresses, due to the insurmountable difficulties posed by her family. Notwithstanding the absurdity of Miss Bingley’s misconception, he warned himself to be more guarded in future—he had no wish to cause Elizabeth pain: either directly, by raising any hopes of his own addresses, or indirectly, by exposing her to Miss Bingley’s jealousy.

Finding himself in need of respite after a morning spent with Miss Bingley and the other inmates of the house, Darcy took himself off for a stroll in the shrubbery; he had not been out for a quarter-hour when Miss Bingley came to find him. “There you are, Mr. Darcy! Come out to enjoy the country air, have you? Once you are married, you will doubtless have many such walks with your dear bride, and her mother—and, of course, her younger sisters; —and the officers, too, I shouldn’t wonder.” She finished with a knowing laugh intended to charm.

“Miss Bingley,” was Darcy’s notably subdued response. “I am pleased you are here; I wished to tell you that, with your permission, I shall be spending the afternoon in my own rooms.”

“You are not unwell, I hope?” asked Miss Bingley with real concern.

“No, no, I am quite well; merely…fatigued…and as I have some necessary business to attend to, I fear my energies would be too low to make me good company.”

Miss Bingley linked her arm through his, saying, “Of course, —although you could never be unwelcome company, under any circumstances.”

“I must also ask to be excused from this evening’s entertainments, as I have some reading I promised myself I would attend to while here in Hertfordshire. I trust you—and Mr. Hurst—will take no offense?”

“Certainly not, I assure you. You must do just as you please, Mr. Darcy. I am sure none of us would mind in the least.”

“I thank you.” Darcy then attempted to release her arm from his, but the lady did not seem to notice, and continued walking along the path with him more or less in tow.

Looking about the countryside, she said, “Do you really not mind Country life then, Mr. Darcy? I should have thought you would find it excessively dull.”

“I find that it is the people, not the place, who make for dull surroundings—or the reverse—Miss Bingley.”

“Do you not find these people dull then, Sir? You must, I am sure. How you must long for your more sophisticated acquaintance in London, as do I.”

“I confess that I have been happily surprised here; while nothing to brag about in general, I have found more here than I could have expected before our arrival.” Miss Bingley studied him through carefully veiled eyes, but said nothing.

Darcy did not manage to escape until some time later, when Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth joined them in their stroll; the party whole broke up shortly thereafter. On regaining the house, Darcy followed his avowed intentions, and spent the afternoon hours quietly in his rooms, attending to his affairs and his correspondence.

Netherfield Hall, Herts.

November 15, —

Dear Edmund,

Pray excuse my long silence, Cousin; one so often lets the days pile up without noticing. You will, I know, wish to hear how Georgiana does. She continues much as she has been, although I have recently detected a greater openness, which encourages me to hope that the worst is past.

Thank you again, both for having gone out of your way to be at Pemberley, and for being so obliging as to leave it again so soon after your arrival. If it had been my first choice, you know I would rather you had stayed, but I did feel, and still do feel, that we ought to allow ourselves to be guided by Georgiana’s wishes to a reasonable extent. She has written me again after an hiatus of over a month’s time, and requested my correspondence; I hereby ask that you might also favour her with yours, even if she is dilatory in returning it. She holds you very dear, I know, Edmund, and she would be most gratified to receive your thoughts and good wishes.

As for myself, I am finding Hertfordshire diverting; at least, more so than I had anticipated. Bingley’s place, Netherfield Park, is a pleasant little estate, and the weather has been favourable for sport. The company here in the country is, as country neighbourhoods always are, rather limited, but still, it is more varied than we can hope for in Kent this Easter: fortify your spirits well this winter, Cousin, for you know what follows.

I trust your duties in His Majesty’s service are not too arduous, and that you are contriving to keep the ladies of our acquaintance from pining overmuch for the want of male companionship until the Season opens. My plans for the Christmas holidays are unchanged; if yours are the same, then we shall look forward to seeing your esteemed parents, your brother (if events allow), and yourself, at Grosvenor Square on or about the nineteenth December.

Yours, &c.

Fitzwilliam Darcy

*****

Netherfield Hall

November 15, —

My dear Georgiana,

I have ensconced myself in my chambers this afternoon, as I feel a need for solitude not unlike your own. Even when one is genuinely fond of one’s companions, there are times when nothing is better suited to a contemplative nature than a period of quietude and solitary repose. Little has changed since my letter yesterday, except, perhaps, that Miss Bingley has been more trying than usual. I have told you before that I suspected her of entertaining hopes of becoming mistress of Pemberley, and my stay in Hertfordshire has, if anything, added to that conviction. She has, on numerous occasions, attempted to increase the intimacy of our acquaintance to a degree I could never allow. I shall give you one example, although there have been many, as this instance struck me with particular force: on the occasion of an assembly here in the village, Miss Bingley actually sent her maid to Perkins with directions as to my attire, that I might match her own. I can imagine your surprise at such impertinence, and I heartily agree—I was never more affronted; beyond that, however, I see in this presumption of privilege an attempt to persuade either herself, or me, or all parties concerned, that we are on terms. That I have never given any hint of willingness to be on terms with Miss Bingley goes without saying, yet here is my dilemma: how can I dissuade her and bring about a cessation of these intrigues and machinations without causing pain or offense to my friend? You know my feelings on deceit and the evils it brings: I hereby add guile and duplicity to the list of things I abhor.

In addition, it was borne in upon me to-day that Miss Bingley might harbour some feelings of jealousy with regard to myself; and towards Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of all people. I freely admit that I admire Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s wit and humour, but there can never be more than that between us, obviously. The pain afforded to Miss Bingley by this jealousy would count for little, as it is of her own making, but she is disobliging and ill-mannered to Miss Elizabeth Bennet as well, which, to my mind, shows an unconscionable lack of good breeding. The manner in which ladies contest with their tongues I find most vexatious; although I will say that Miss Elizabeth Bennet never stoops to any such sign of ill-breeding—at least, she has never done so in my presence, and Miss Bingley has offered her numerous opportunities for such a display of pique. But perhaps I am too severe on my fellow creatures. Men are more formally civil than women in their dealings with one another, I believe, for among men harsh or disobliging words lead to anger and swift blows: the matter is either settled directly, or it may, in extreme cases, be necessary to resort to a challenge. But women, having no such ready release for their antipathies, must find other means of contestation. Or, looking at the same phenomenon from an entirely different viewpoint, perhaps we men are simply more easily offended than women, and in our contumacious natures we have no restraints to keep us from violence, so we practise civility the more diligently simply to keep ourselves from each other’s throats. It is an interesting question, and I am sure it would take a wiser man than I to resolve it. What I do know with certainty is that if any man had behaved towards me the way Miss Bingley has towards Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I should have no alternative but to call him out.

The weather here has been seasonable and there has been some sport, but much of our time has been spent within doors. I am beginning to believe it is time that I thought of returning to London, and thence home to escort you to Grosvenor Square for the winter Season. Bingley contemplates giving a ball within a fortnight, so I have that much more reason to absent myself from Hertfordshire.

Well, I have, I believe, bored you with my small affairs long enough, and so I shall close, Dearest. Know that you are always in my thoughts, and that I remain,

Your loving brother,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

The weather had been unsettled all day, and now spits of cold rain were hitting the windows. After writing a short letter of instructions to his steward at Pemberley, Darcy spent the remainder of that quiet afternoon sitting before the fire, his thoughts drifting. They turned often to Elizabeth: wistfully, on his own behalf, but he was more deeply saddened for her sake, when thinking of the life she could look forward to. In his mind’s eye he saw her as she might have become, had she been born to greater wealth and less exceptional relations: amongst the gaiety and variety of London, she might have become one of Society’s leading lights, had she wished it, or found endless delight in its constantly changing society, its broad intellectual horizons, and its many diversions and entertainments; but this vision contrasted sharply with what he foresaw for her in her present circumstances, where her talents would be squandered on those of lesser abilities, and ground dull by drudgery and disuse. He passed the afternoon away thus, alternately watching the rain and wishing from his heart that things might be different—certainly for Elizabeth—and, perhaps, for himself too.