Into Hertfordshire (7 page)

Chapter Seven

That next Saturday morning Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley were to be at home to the ladies of a number of the local families; the two eldest Miss Bennets were to be amongst the company. The attendance of the gentleman was not, strictly speaking, required, but neither of Bingley’s sisters were surprised when he arrived in the drawing-room, dressed very smartly indeed, a quarter-hour before the first guests were expected. But that Mr. Darcy should also appear was a source of surprise and comment. Even Bingley took notice, and his thoughts certainly were not centred on Darcy at that moment.

“What! Has the leopard changed its spots?” said he to Darcy. “Have you become a member of Society at last, then? Let me caution you: a man of your advanced years must avoid these sudden shocks to the system, lest you be overset.” Bingley, being six years’ Darcy’s junior, enjoyed reminding him of that fact.

Miss Bingley would not allow this slight to Mr. Darcy to go unchallenged. “Charles, what nonsense! Mr. Darcy knows very well what his duties are as master of Pemberley and our guest; he knows better than you, I dare say, how important it is to observe the conventional civilities in a country society.”

Bingley defended himself with feeling, going even so far as to remind his sister of his seniority and of his incontestable right to banter with a friend. When she saw that Darcy was leaning towards her brother’s side of the affair, Miss Bingley abandoned her position and demurely accepted his as being proper and correct; as she did so, however, her eye was on Darcy. He noticed her careful observation of his reaction, and interpreted it correctly: she had divined by some means that her occasional lapses of correct behaviour grated on him, and she was assuming this guise of diffidence to curry his favour. His eyes hardened at her calculated dissemblance, but he said nothing.

The argument between the two of them did serve to move the focus of conversation away from him, and that was just as well; the question of what had compelled him to come down was one he could not very well have answered. It certainly was not, he assured himself, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was expected. With a train of logic worthy of Bingley at his finest, Darcy assured himself that he was safe from any serious interest in her direction, as her connections made any alliance unthinkable, and he was not one to dally with a lady to satisfy his own conceit. And surely, merely to be in her presence was insufficient reason to subject himself to an almost exclusively female society for hours on end. So, while entirely certain of the reasons that did
not
bring him to the drawing-room, he would have been hard pressed to explain the reasons that
did
.

Nevertheless, he did subject himself to such society, and, to those who knew him well, he did so with the appearance of perfect composure—even enjoyment. The only ones in the room, however, who were sufficiently intimate with his ways to be able to observe this were Bingley and his sister Caroline. Bingley’s attention, of course, was completely consumed by Miss Bennet; Miss Bingley, on the other hand, was so given over to watching Darcy, that several of her new neighbours wondered at her distraction. Yet there was very little for her to see: he spoke but seldom, and never at length; nor did he appear to have a particular object singled out for discourse. She did observe, though, how often his eyes strayed to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and how he stilled his own conversation whenever she spoke in his hearing.

Therefore, when, in the course of the following Tuesday morning, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were discussing how they were to manage to exist another day in the country and Miss Jane Bennet’s name was put forward as a means of diversion, Caroline was careful to exclude Miss Elizabeth Bennet from her invitation.

The invitation to Miss Bennet was a happy one, for it began to rain heavily just before noon and the sisters would be forced to stay indoors all day. The men had taken the coach into Meryton in the late morning, and were to have dinner with the officers under Colonel Forster, so the two sisters would be sorely in need of additional conversational resources.

The men’s business in Meryton, being a matter of no less importance than that of procuring Mr. Hurst a new snuff box, was soon over, and they spent a pleasant afternoon watching it rain over tankards of ale in the principal inn of the village. The ale there was not the best to be had in Meryton, but the inn did afford the finest view of the square and therefore the most diverting scenes of people scurrying about their business through the rain. The highlight of the afternoon was the sight of a very rotund and prosperous-looking gentleman, who, descending incautiously from his chaise, sat down heavily in a puddle. The expression on his face was humorous as he sat where he was for several moments without moving, as if unable to believe the position in which he found himself, as was his obvious disgust as he laboriously extricated himself. Mr. Hurst, particularly, was amused by the gentleman’s predicament, and laughed heartily when the gentleman lost his balance a second time as he sought to regain his feet.

This episode, with proper embellishment, was retold at the officer’s mess with great success. The dinner conversation in general was good, spiced with bits of little-known intelligence on the war with France, caustic wit at the expense of the Government, and the occasional ribald jest. The three gentlemen were feeling very mellow as they returned through the storm to Netherfield.

There, however, they found a mild flurry of activity underway. First off, Bingley received the information that his sisters had invited Miss Bennet to visit in his absence, which he resented as a most invidious stratagem. And secondly, he was informed that she had become ill after her arrival, perhaps as a consequence of having come on horseback through the rain, which made him wild with concern. The apothecary had been sent for, and Miss Bennet had been taken to bed. Bingley ran off to find the apothecary to hear his diagnosis first-hand. It struck Darcy as odd that a country miss should have been so imprudent, as he was himself, after all, Country-bred and thoroughly aware of the probable result of such injudicious behaviour. Had she been a member of London’s Society, he would have been tempted to think it had been done intentionally in order to secure a stay at the Hall: a gambit in her bid for Bingley’s attentions. But this did not at all fit with what he believed Miss Bennet’s character to be; he might readily believe such of Miss Bingley, but Miss Bennet’s gentle nature did not seem consistent with the use of arts and cunning in a try for a man’s heart.

Once the first fit of activity and concern had subsided, Bingley was, of course, very much the thoughtful host, and nothing was spared for Miss Bennet’s comfort. In the morning, as she was no better, Miss Bennet requested that a note be despatched to Longbourn to give her family notice of her illness and to say that she would remain at Netherfield for the time being.

Miss Bennet was too ill to join them at breakfast, but when Darcy was reading the paper over his second cup of coffee, the footman entered to announce “Miss Elizabeth Bennet
.
” Bingley immediately jumped to his feet and cried, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I am
so
glad you have come! Your sister, I am sure, will be very relieved to see you.”

Darcy, with tolerant amusement at his friend’s effusive, if somewhat unpolished, greeting, rose and said with a perfectly correct bow, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet; it is a great pleasure to see you again. I am very sorry that your sister’s illness should be the occasion.” Her modest curtsey in return pleased him, showing as it did that she shared his appreciation of proper behaviour. Hurst barely sketched a bow from his chair and turned his attention back to his sausages. While Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst added their greetings, Darcy took the opportunity to enjoy the picture presented by Elizabeth. She had obviously walked the three miles from Longbourn: her face flushed and eyes shining, and with some wind-blown curls having escaped to frame her face like a wild dryad’s, she made a portrait worthy of a master’s brush. Part of him wished he had been with her; an hour’s walk through the Hertfordshire countryside with her would have been charming, indeed. His practical side wondered, though, at her coming: surely Miss Bennet was not
in
extremis
; there could be no need for the family to attend her. But the sisters were very close, he knew; therein must lie the reason. He honoured the warm heart that would impel her to make such an effort to comfort a sick sister.

She was shown up stairs directly and Darcy returned to his breakfast. His attention wandered, though, and he laid the paper aside. While the ladies clattered on about the news from London, he could only stare out the window and let his coffee grow cold.

Chapter Eight

After breakfast Bingley and Darcy had spent half-an-hour in the library, where Darcy had set up to review Netherfield’s books and school Bingley in the duties of a landowner. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst went up stairs to entertain and care for the invalid. The apothecary having arrived while the two friends were still at their books, he came to them to announce that Miss Bennet had a severe cold and a fever, and that he had prescribed her some draughts. The palpable obviousness of this pronouncement brought to Darcy’s mind one of Voltaire’s exercises of wit on physicians: “Doctors pour drugs of which they know little, to cure diseases of which they know less, into human beings of whom they know nothing.” Bingley, however, was quite distressed, plying the man with question after question regarding the care and ultimate prognosis of his guest. Darcy was forced to admit to himself that the man handled this inquisition with both good humour and a very appropriate degree of earnest attention. He himself was ready to bite off his friend’s head before it was done, and he was not the one having to invent a dozen ways to answer the same question. Mr. Jones assured Bingley repeatedly that Miss Bennet was in no great danger, and he at length released the man. Shortly after the apothecary’s departure, the two men took to horse to inspect some outlying barns and fields.

In the afternoon they stood looking at some trenching while Darcy was attempting to explain to Bingley some alterations to the system of ditches that he had employed successfully at Pemberley, but Bingley was not attending. “Bingley, where are your thoughts? You have not heard a word I have said.”

“I do apologise, Darcy,” his friend answered, contritely. His next comment, though, revealed the subject of his preoccupation: “Do you suppose she is going to be all right?”

Darcy shook his head at his friend. “Good Lord, man, she has a cold, not the pox. Country girls are hardy; she will recover admirably, I assure you.”

“But her fever—what if it should worsen? I feel I should be doing something more for her.”

This gave Darcy pause. His thoughts flew to Georgiana; he hadn’t had a letter from her in a month. “Sometimes the best a man can do is wait,” he said quietly. He drew himself up and studied his friend’s anxious face. “It
is
getting late,” he allowed. “Perhaps we should return?” Bingley agreed in a relieved manner and they rode back to the Hall.

They found, when they arrived, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was not to return home that evening, for her sister’s fever had, in fact, worsened, and Miss Bennet had not wished her sister to leave her. This news heightened Bingley’s concerns, and he rushed off to “do something.” The news was also of interest to Darcy, although for different reasons, but his attention was quickly turned aside by the arrival of a footman with his post: in it was a letter from his sister.

Pemberley

November 10, —

Dearest Brother,

Please forgive me for not having written before. I know I am not the correspondent I should be, but please do not think me unappreciative of your letters. My spirits have been low and I have lacked the energy to write; but I have read and reread your last, for the comfort I find in it is my only support. I carry it with me; indeed, at times I cling to it as a drowning man clings to wreckage.

But you must not think me desperate, and thinking of doing myself an injury. No—I see well enough that those are childish, romantic notions, and I no longer feel myself a child. I have died once for love—it will not happen again. One who has truly known pain would never seek to inflict it on oneself.

Music is my distraction, and Mrs. Annesley recommends that I ride more; I am trying.

Please, dear Brother, write again soon.

Your sister,

Georgiana Darcy

This short missive created in Darcy an immediate need for a response: this being the first time she had actually written of her feelings, given him an inkling of what she suffered, it was the first opportunity she had given him to assist her in any way. He was greatly relieved that she had at last found the ability to give expression to her emotions; surely this was the first step towards recovery. He sat down immediately to compose his reply, sending Perkins down with his apologies to Bingley.

Netherfield Park, Herts.

November 13, —

My dearest Georgiana,

I promise I shall write to you every day, now I know you wish for my correspondence…

After two swift paragraphs he paused, uncertain how to go forward: did he offer counsel, did he simply reassure her of his own devotion and tell her to trust to time, or did he adhere to the mundane as a means of diverting her? The answer, he decided, was to do all three. He had always made a point of discussing matters with his sister, not merely issuing directives; she had rewarded his efforts by giving him her confidence, and had always deserved his, by virtue of her good sense. Although her senior by more than ten years, he had always thought of her more as equal than dependant, and had tried to maintain their relationship on that footing; since their parents’ deaths they had become very close. As her brother, he felt a deep desire to support her and help her to heal; as the guardian who had failed in his office, he felt it even more his duty to do every thing in his power to assist her. Commanding himself to neither evade the issues nor wander into the merely maudlin, he entered into the most important issue:

Though I have no experience with a betrayal as deep as the one you have suffered…

After much thought and effort he felt he arrived at the right tone for what was a most difficult piece of writing on the topic of her grief; it had cost him something even to broach the subject at all. But if one wishes to be truthful at all times, then one must be truthful when it is difficult; the greater difficulty was in being truthful without doing harm. At least in writing there was time for reflection, and one might choose one’s words carefully. He wished he had his mother’s guidance, or some lady on whose good will and good sense he could rely, with whom he might confer on this subject; he wanted help to navigate these waters, for they were dangerous. But that was his burden to bear; he brought his thoughts back to Georgiana, and the reassurances he owed her.

So, given time, you must heal. Not to the degree that you will ever be exactly the same…

When this part was finished he felt it perhaps a bit excessive, that he had expressed himself too openly; but he could not say less and still say what was in his heart. He would trust to her good will to excuse him for writing so feelingly. The rest was easy.

Now, let me tell you the news from here…

The final draft took him a great deal of time to complete, and there was just enough time to change before dinner. He entrusted his letter to Perkins to be posted, then went down to the drawing-room.

“Darcy…is all well?” Bingley enquired as he entered.

“Quite well, yes, I thank you,” he replied. “A letter from my sister, that is all, and I wished to answer it while it was fresh in my mind.”

“‘Fresh in your mind’? When would it cease to be ‘fresh in your mind’? You have taxed me with minutia from
my
letters a month and more later,” his friend berated him with good humour.

“Perhaps that is because
your
follies are more striking than most,” Darcy returned. After nearly two hours of sombre effort, he was ready to find pleasure and release in some affable contention with his friend. They continued their banter while they waited on the ladies to appear. The Bingley sisters and Mr. Hurst came down shortly, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet followed soon after; every one moved towards the dining-room on her entrance.

Elizabeth, Darcy noted, wore a gown of a becoming colour, favouring her eyes and her figure, and he could approve her taste in its simple elegance, even though her attire would never pass for fashionable. He spoke his compliments to her and hoped for some part of her attention, but his greeting was mingled with those from the rest of the party and she did not distinguish him in any way. Bingley, of course, wanted to hear immediately how Miss Bennet fared. “Is your sister at all better?” he asked hopefully, before she had even taken her seat. The ladies echoed his concerns and Darcy gave Elizabeth his polite attention, but she had no very favourable reply to offer. She reported that her sister remained in a very feverish condition, and her head ached so badly that she, Elizabeth, had been forced to keep the curtains drawn most of the afternoon to spare her sister’s eyes.

“Oh, I know, the poor dear,” cried Miss Bingley. “I despise a cold, and to have a headache and a fever as well!”

“Oh, yes!” echoed her sister. “A headache is a most distressing affliction. I cannot abide it, can I, Mr. Hurst?” Hurst glanced up for a moment without comment before returning to his soup. His lady did not seem to mind, or indeed, even to notice, his lack of reply: she went ahead without hesitation: “I become quite a baby. I won’t leave my bed until it is gone.”

“It grieves me more than I can say that she should have fallen ill after braving that storm on horseback just to be with us,” Miss Bingley said. A faint air of contempt for such a low form of transportation suggested itself in her comment.

“Yes, poor dear, she was quite soaked through,” put in Mrs. Hurst. Picking up her spoon she concluded, “It is
such
a shocking thing to have a cold.”

“Shocking is the very word,” agreed Miss Bingley. “An excessively shocking thing, it is.” They then dropt the subject and largely ignored Elizabeth, and her sister’s health, for the rest of the dinner.

Darcy listened with mild disgust as these repetitious nothings swirled about the table. He wished he could add something of more substance, but he had little opportunity, as Elizabeth was seated on the same side as he, and Miss Bingley was positioned most inconveniently between them. Elizabeth sat facing Hurst, and Darcy knew from experience that he would have little conversation to offer her.

Against the incivility of his sisters, whose regard for Miss Bennet evaporated the moment food touched their lips, Bingley’s continued enquiries stood out in marked contrast by their solicitude and obvious sincerity. Indeed, Darcy felt he was having to do too much, and would have taken some of the burden of polite concern off of his friend’s shoulders, except that each time he leaned forward to address Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Miss Bingley would lean forward as well with something to ask Mrs. Hurst, who sat across from Darcy. The second time this happened he felt the stirring of suspicion, but when it happened a third time, and even the fourth, he made sure she was acting wilfully to hamper any conversation between Elizabeth and himself. Piqued, he did his best to counteract her ploy, but her manœuvre, while simple, was effective at frustrating his attempts. He toyed with the idea of using one of the elaborate coils in her coiffure as a handle to hold her back in her chair so that he might have an unimpeded word with Elizabeth, but he forbore with a sigh, and ceded Miss Bingley her victory.

For her part, Elizabeth did her best to enter into the conversation, but seldom received more than a condescending nod from the sisters in reply. For want of better, she finally addressed Mr. Hurst. That gentleman, who rarely found himself called on to respond to any enquiry, fell back on one of the two topics over which he had any mastery, food and cards, and asked her how she enjoyed the ragout. He, being gourmand rather than gourmet, enjoyed those foods combining strong flavours and heavy texture. Elizabeth answered politely that she generally preferred a plain dish of perfect freshness and natural flavours to the “creations of man’s ingenuity
.”
Hurst looked at her as he might have done had she replied that she preferred adders’ tongues, and spoke no more to her.

Darcy was determined to speak with her after dinner, but she, perhaps as a result of the incivility she had met with, returned immediately up stairs to her sister. To Darcy’s annoyance, Bingley’s sisters began their attack on her as soon as her steps were heard upon the stairs.

“Louisa, have you ever seen such manners? She hardly spoke a word, and then only to contradict.”

“Indeed, Caroline, her manners are very bad. She combines an entirely baseless pride with impertinent opinions, and scruples not to inflict them on others.”

“My very thoughts; and her appearance! What
was
that garment she had on?”

“Oh! Quite,” Mrs. Hurst exclaimed, “I believe I saw one like it some ten years ago; but the poor woman who wore it disappeared from all polite society immediately after.”

“She has no style, no taste, no beauty…”

Her sister interrupted with a superior laugh: “She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild.”

“She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must she be scampering about the country, because her sister has a cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!” At this Darcy nearly lost
his
countenance; he had retained an altogether different impression of her appearance. He contented himself with directing a whimsical face, compounded of consternation and amazement, at his plate. It passed unnoticed by the two ladies.