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Authors: Stanley Michael Hurd

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BOOK: Into Hertfordshire
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“My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing?” cried Sir William, stopping her. “Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.”

Darcy suddenly found himself with much more benevolent feelings towards Sir William. What a capital old fellow, he thought. What nice ideas he has—so eager that every one should enjoy themselves. Yet when Sir William took her hand to offer it to Darcy, she withdrew hers with a rapidity that quite surprised Darcy, and hastily said to Sir William with evident sincerity, “Indeed, Sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.”

Darcy instantly understood: she was too proud to wish to appear as if she were spelling for his attention. Darcy tried to overcome her reticence, saying in his most polished manner, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I should be honoured to have your hand for this dance, truly.”

Her dignity was unshaken; to Darcy it seemed that she was more determined to resist Sir William’s overly-familiar attack and carry her point, than to refrain from dancing, as she said, “I thank you, Sir, but I have no wish to dance this evening.”

Sir William persisted: “You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.”

“Mr. Darcy is all politeness,” said she. She favoured Darcy with a faint smile. He was unsure of the meaning of that smile; was she apologising to him for having to turn him down? But there seemed to be an air of mockery in her eyes. Was it for him, or did she have Sir William’s well-meaning impertinence in view? Then again, perhaps she thought he was only playing the gallant. Did she think him merely a Society coxcomb, then?

“He is indeed,” Sir William was continuing, “but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance—for who would object to such a partner?” At this Miss Bennet only smiled again and arched an eyebrow in Darcy’s direction before turning from them with a murmured excuse. She stopped before her friend, Miss Lucas, and began a conversation while still wearing that lovely smile. Then, almost as if she had known he was waiting to see it, her eyes, sparkling with gaiety, travelled back to meet his for a moment before returning to her friend.

Darcy was lifted by this further notice, yet still he wondered at her refusal to dance; he perfectly understood her initial reticence, but why, after he had pressed her, had she continued her refusal? Was she being careful of his tastes, knowing how little he liked to dance? That was certainly possible. Or might it be that she shared his general disdain for the exercise? No, no, she had obviously enjoyed dancing at the assembly. He continued his musings while his eyes followed her, hoping that she might once again reward him with a glance.

“I can guess the subject of your reverie.” He turned to see Miss Bingley standing at his shoulder.

Darcy was inwardly amused at the idea of Miss Bingley’s reaction to his thoughts, should they be known to her. “I should imagine not,” he replied, turning his gaze back in the direction of Elizabeth.

“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner, in such society,” she said with that affectation of bored martyrdom so much in vogue among London’s fashionable set. “And indeed I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise—the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!”

“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you.” He decided to indulge in a mild bit of wickedness, and actually tell her what he was thinking. “My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”

Miss Bingley immediately dropt her pretence of boredom and asked with interest which lady might have given rise to such reflections.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he replied, knowing full well that his answer would pique her.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite? —and pray, when am I to wish you joy?”

In spite of her light tone, her eyes held a hard glitter that told Darcy his feint-and-thrust had landed. Careful to conceal his amusement, he replied, “That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.”

Taking his teazing answer to indicate that he had not been serious, her eyes softened. Slapping his wrist with her fan she teazed him back at some length, but Darcy paid her little mind; he preferred his own thoughts. He had no opportunity to speak again with Miss Elizabeth Bennet that evening, but his encounter with her had distinctly heightened his interest. He wished for more occasions to associate with her, and rather imagined that Bingley’s partiality for the eldest Miss Bennet might be of service in furthering those wishes.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Six

 

 

Darcy and Bingley met early the following morning to go shooting, and midmorning found them returning through the fields with three brace of rabbits in their bags. Darcy was pleased, as he was fond of rabbit. The morning had been fine for the season, and the two men took an easy and contented pleasure in their slow ramble back to the Hall. Their conversation ranged widely, and Bingley’s new neighbours would scarcely have recognised in his companion the same man who spoke so little in company. Yet, when he was alone with those close to him, whose numbers were exceedingly small, with whom he could put aside the polished forms and formal manners that had been drilled into him while being developed into Darcy of Pemberley, he could allow himself to be at ease.

After a period of aimless conversation, Bingley asked with some seriousness, “Darcy, you have not been yourself of late. Is there anything I can do?”

Darcy looked at his friend with affection. While Bingley’s amiability had first drawn his notice, it was his generous nature and true concern for Darcy’s well-being that was the foundation of their friendship. With Bingley, as with no other outside his own family, he could count on his friendship and trust his active and disinterested good will. “Thank you Bingley, but no. I am in no difficulties, really. It is only that…well, I suppose I would have to say that the world has weighed rather heavily on me this last year.”

“It is not…anything financial, is it? I should be happy to…that is, if you…”

Darcy stopped him. “No, no; my dear Charles, please. The family fortunes are flourishing, I assure you. No, it is just…people—you know: Society, acquaintances, one’s associates—the whole blasted breed, or so it seems to me at times. Save for a very small group—yourself included, naturally—the whole lot of them are no more than a blemish on the face of this, our fair island, and I do believe the place would benefit from a bit of a cleaning.”

They walked a little further on in silence, until Bingley said, “For the life of me, Darcy, I cannot imagine what man—or woman, for that matter—could have got across you so.” A thought struck him. “It is not Caroline, is it? I know she can be a bit wearing at times, but…”

Darcy waved him off. “No, of course not.”

“And Hurst is a bit of a wart, but we could take ourselves off to-night, and forego his company, if you wish.”

“Bingley, no!” Darcy smiled and shook his head. “Truly, it has nothing to do with you or yours.”

“If it did, would you tell me?” Bingley asked frankly.

Darcy favoured his friend with a grin. “Bingley, I am not a man known for his charitable and forgiving nature. You must face that fact with unflinching fortitude, as have I.” Bingley laughed and Darcy went on: “And you know I am not shy with my opinions. Given these unfortunate defects of character, if I did harbour such feelings, would I even be
capable
of dissembling them, supposing that I wished to?”

Bingley gave his friend a wry smile. “Perhaps not.”

“No, I should think not,” Darcy agreed. “Now, does that put your mind at rest?”

Bingley allowed that it did, but then said, “It still does not explain this mood you have been in. I have never seen you so bleak.”

After walking a bit further Darcy seemed to take up a new topic. “Bingley, do you know, I was actually rather pleased for you last summer, when you seemed so taken with Miss Grantley? If we accept that man is meant to marry, then if any one can be happy in the married state, I am sure it will be you. I know none so deserving, nor so likely to succeed. Your informed understanding and great good nature must protect you from most of the unhappiness we see about us.”

Bingley looked at him in surprise; Darcy did not make a habit of speaking his inner thoughts. “It is quite true,” Darcy assured him. “But I own that for myself I can entertain no such happy prospects. My expectations are too high and my temper too quick for me to hold out much hope for domestic felicity.” They walked on a moment without speaking, as Darcy appeared to be resolving in his mind whether to continue or not. Finally he spoke: “Do you know who set her sights on me last Season? Miss Lavinia Hartsbury.”

“No! Darcy, you must be joking! The Rabid Rabbit?” The unfortunate Miss Hartsbury, a remarkably wealthy heiress, even by London standards, was possessed of a very assertive personality and even more assertive front teeth; coupled with a weakness in her eyes that caused her to blink almost incessantly, these prominent qualities of her person were also the source of her soubriquet.

“Unfortunately, my friend, I am in earnest. After nine years in Society without choosing a wife, this attack by Miss Hartsbury forces me to conclude that, inasmuch as I have spurned the attentions of those women in our circle possessing what one would consider the conventional enticements of form, fortune, and standing, those of more marginal charms are becoming emboldened.”

“Good Lord!”

“Yes; to such depths I have fallen. I am now become suitable prey for such as Miss Hartsbury.”

Bingley laughed with perhaps more open candour than was perfectly polite.

“Well may you laugh,” said Darcy dryly. “I fear, however, that I cannot join in your amusement. From my side it was a rather more dour experience, I can tell you. If my reasoning is correct, I shall become the target for every oddity in our acquaintance. And there is worse, still. While I was the object of Miss Hartsbury’s campaign I actually asked myself, ‘Well, and why not?’”

“Darcy, no!”

“Bingley, yes. I swear to you on my honour; she is not without character, after all, and I actually asked myself whether it did not follow that, since I obviously had no interest in the women one would consider most eligible, I must be looking for something else. Empirically speaking, the question must be allowed.”

“Darcy, one cannot analyse the workings of one’s affections like a naturalist studying an insect!”

“No? I beg your pardon; I must have missed that bit at school. Pray, where is that written?”

“The heart and mind are two separate and distinct entities; you cannot examine and control the one by the other,” Bingley said with a confident dogmatism which would have better suited a somewhat younger man than himself. “I know you took a First in Philosophy, Darcy, and look upon Socrates as a mere rustic muser, but in one’s daily life, with real people, one cannot always resolve the differences between one’s emotions and the urgings of reason.”

To Darcy this was heresy: his faith in the intellect was complete, and his reliance on his own had always served him well. “Such misguided notions are just what I should expect of man of your sensibilities, Bingley,” he scoffed. “How could you possibly know what influence the mind might have on the emotions? You, who have fallen in love at least a dozen times to my certain knowledge, and never subjected your affairs to even the most cursory examination by your higher powers—if we can allow you to possess any.” At this Bingley doffed his hat and swatted it at Darcy’s head, who dodged sideways with a laugh.

“But come now,” Darcy demanded in a provoking manner, “do I understand you then to say that it is not possible to love with both the heart and the mind?”

“No! I am sure that it is possible,” stated Bingley with assurance. “It must be! That is my point; such attachments must be possible, else why would they be so much sought after?”

“Your logic is execrable, but leave that. Allowing your assertion to stand, I must again insist on having your authority for this information; my own experience is to the contrary.” When Bingley began to expostulate, Darcy interrupted him: “My own parents excepted, and you know my feelings on that, I cannot claim knowledge of any one so blest. Not only can I point to no one amongst my own acquaintance, never have I even heard of such affection, capable of combining tenderness of regard and honour of the mind. And I am afraid all of literature is against you: I defy you to name one work on the subject, either prose or poetry, wherein the principal characters love well and without conflict—either of reason, honour, or propriety.”

“Stories! What do they mean? Of course they’re full of drama and anguish; who would want to read about a quiet, happy, faithful love affair? No, we must have conflict to make a tale; but why so in real life?”

“That, I cannot say; but it does most assuredly seem so to me,” Darcy said with an air of finality. They were nearly at the Hall. Darcy shook his head like a horse bothered by a fly. “I pray you, Bingley, let us leave off this discussion; I hear it all too often echoing back and forth in my mind: I am heartily tired of it, I can tell you. What say we drop these conies off with Nicholls and get some tea? It has gone a bit chilly.”

 

BOOK: Into Hertfordshire
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