Into Kent
Authors: Stanley Michael Hurd
Kindle edition
© 2013 by Stanley M. Hurd.
All rights reserved, including reproduction in whole or in part, in print or electronic media, except by Amazon and its affiliates for the purposes of marketing the work through their online program.
This is a work of fiction, and all characters, character names, places, and events were created as such to meet the needs of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, or any locale, or any event, is purely coincidental.
Publisher:
Stanley M. Hurd
First
Kindle edition, published 2013.
Cover design: J. E. Hurd
I must again thank my family for their support through this undertaking; it could never have happened, save for you.
And I also wish to single out two Jane Austen devotees whose detailed knowledge of the original work, and whose sharp editorial eyes and insightful readings have made this a much better book: J. Rutter and S. Clement—my most sincere thanks.
FOREWORD
Darcy’s Tale
is presented in three volumes, as was the original
Pride and Prejudice
200 years earlier; this has been done both for reasons of historical accuracy and because the story naturally divides itself into three major sections.
For those interested in such matters, this work is set in 1799-1800, rather than the more commonly accepted 1811-1812. The reasons for this lie in a detailed analysis of the times and dates given in the original, particularly around the Easter sojourn into Kent. The argument is convoluted and laborious, so will not be presented here, but it has compelled the author to accept the earlier dates as being the correct ones.
The letters written by Darcy and his sister are included in their entirety in the Appendix, as certain letters had no place in the events of the book. They have been included to allow the reader to follow each letter as it was written, without the shifts in time and circumstance which occurred during the intervals between writings. In an age when communications took weeks to complete, letters held their own internal chronology, quite independent of external events; the reader is invited to enjoy this more stately rhythm of life by following the correspondents’ individual stories as described in their letters, in the order in which they were exchanged.
To my beloved daughters, my excuse for existing, and my brightest hope for the future.
Volume II
Chapter One
The next week was one Darcy would have been well pleased to forego. It had begun with a journey back to London in the company of the Hursts and Miss Bingley, without the alloy of his friend’s influence to elevate the tone and vary the content of the conversation. As the Hursts sat together, he was placed next to Miss Bingley, and found that there was no portion of the seat, no matter how small, which left him entirely free from contact with her person. And, throughout that four-hour durance, it weighed very heavily on his mind that he was returning for the express purpose of ruining all his friend’s present hopes of happiness.
When the carriage was little more than an hour away from Grosvenor Street, Miss Bingley once again claimed his attention—as she did with some regularity; speaking in accents of warm sincerity, and emphasising her sentiments by placing a hand on his arm, she said, “Mr. Darcy, let me say again how very grateful we are that you are willing to go to such lengths for Charles; you are a true gentleman and friend.”
Having already compressed himself close against the side of the carriage, Darcy could not avoid the hand; he wondered whether Miss Bingley were reading too many novels, or not enough: her trite and formulaic terms of approbation, no matter how earnestly articulated, always sounded false in his ears; only when castigating her acquaintance did her words ring with the pure notes of heartfelt sincerity. He merely replied, however, “Thank you, Miss Bingley; I see no other course open to me.”
“But it is precisely that which makes your actions so honourable, Sir: only a true gentleman follows the dictates of his conscience in spite of anything!”
Decidedly too many novels, Darcy judged. To Miss Bingley, however, he merely bowed his head in acknowledgement.
“Whatever shall you say, when once you have arrived?” Miss Bingley enquired with concern, turning to face him more directly and unwittingly bringing her knee to rest against him.
Hunching in on himself and crossing his legs, Darcy turned his back to the side so he was pressed against the utmost corner of the seat; he answered, “I have no idea; I shall just have to let the moment decide, as the subject does not allow for any clear-cut, logical progression. I shall tell him why I have come, then follow where reason and his responses might lead.”
Sitting back and folding her arms in disgust, Miss Bingley cried: “This is just like Charles! He is for ever landing himself in trouble of one kind or another.” Mrs. Hurst, seated opposite her, added her concurrence with a prim, disapproving nod.
Darcy unwound himself from his position with relief, as the cold draught from around the window was icy down the back of his neck. “He is a man of good heart,” he said. “He will perceive no fault in his feelings for Miss Bennet: that is my chief concern in determining how to dissuade him from his present course.”
“Well, it is most inconvenient; he never thinks what trouble these affairs bring to his friends.”
“He could have no idea that we should feel the necessity of removing from Netherfield, surely,” Darcy said reasonably. “and we cannot compare the slight inconvenience of an early removal to Town, whence we would have gone in any event within days, with the great pain your brother must undergo, on having his cherished hopes with regard to Miss Bennet snatched from him.”
“This is hardly the first time Charles has formed such an attraction,” observed Miss Bingley unsympathetically. “I have no doubt he will recover without any great difficulty, as he has always done before.”
Certainly Darcy hoped that this might be so, although he had never seen his friend show such deep attachment to a young lady before. He nonetheless agreed: “I, too, hope his heart will heal quickly.”
At this point, having exhausted his ideas on how to avoid Miss Bingley’s conversational sorties, Darcy recalled their trip down to Hertfordshire, during which Bingley had feigned sleep to evade his sister’s discussion with Darcy; he did not think he could very well pretend to sleep, but he saw no reason why he might not sleep in earnest; indeed, it seemed a rather better use of his time. Excusing himself to Miss Bingley, he tucked his hands into his coat sleeves and dosed off, not to rouse until the coach began to clatter over the cobbles of London’s streets.
After depositing Miss Bingley and the Hursts at Mr. Hurst’s house in Grosvenor Street, Darcy continued across the Thames to Southwark, to recover Bingley from his hotel. As the coach rattled over London’s streets, Darcy tried to prepare for the coming scene. His first wish would be to have nothing to do with any of this; but he knew his friend’s propensity to leap into situations without heed of consequence, and he had not forgotten how ready Bingley had been to help him when he had imagined Darcy to be in difficulties. And, as he often did when considering some action or encounter, he recalled his father saying, “In our position, it is always best to act, Fitzwilliam: to withhold one’s hand is an act in itself, and the only one that is doomed to universal failure.”
Arriving at the hotel, he was shown up to Bingley’s rooms; his friend had naturally been exceedingly surprised to see him in that part of London, and even more surprised to hear what had brought him thither.
“You came all this way to speak to me about Miss Bennet?” Bingley enquired in astonishment, when Darcy had announced his reason for coming. “Whatever for? —Darcy, say she is not ill!”
“No, no, she is well,” Darcy said reassuringly; but there he hesitated. There could be no way of softening the blow, so he braced himself and said directly, “In all truth, Bingley, I have come to dissuade you from marrying the lady, which, I suspect, is your intention.”
Bingley looked at him in disbelief, then gave an uncertain laugh. He said doubtingly, “You are not serious.”
“I fear I am, although I very much wish I were not,” Darcy assured him earnestly. “I find myself compelled to speak on the subject because, even though she is all that is amiable and lovely, I cannot help but think you have failed adequately to consider what having such connexions would entail.”
“You
are
serious,” Bingley said with great bewilderment. “Surely you cannot believe that I would find her silly relations any reason to give Miss Bennet over.”
“My dear Bingley, I know very well you would not; but that does not mean that you would not come to regret it.”
After a moment’s hesitation, his friend said, “You have me at a loss, Darcy. I know you cannot believe that I could be so insensible of my own interests. Is this some elaborate jest—part of our teazing about how easily persuaded I am?”
“No, not at all; on my honour, Charles, I should never take any such liberties with your feelings. I wish I did not have to say these things—it distresses me exceedingly. But I watched the two of you with a most exacting diligence; I was forced to conclude that Miss Bennet, while an indisputably excellent young woman, does not return your affections on an equal footing; that being the case, I feel I cannot stand by and let you enter into an alliance with the Bennets that cannot be justified by the depth of the lady’s feelings.” As he finished, Bingley was holding a measured gaze intently on Darcy’s countenance; Darcy could do no more than return his regard with an open, unguarded one of his own.
Bingley remained silent a moment, his brows furrowed in thought. He had great faith in his friend’s judgement, more so than in his own, in truth, and Darcy’s assurances were sufficient reason for him to distrust his own thoughts on the subject. “How can you be certain?” he asked at length, his face troubled. “Can there be no mistake? I was in no doubt she was beginning to have feelings for me.”
Darcy sat down wearily. “I watched the two of you at the ball, almost without interruption from the third dance on, all through the evening—while you were standing out of the dance, during supper—while I could easily perceive
your
warm regard, I never saw the slightest indication from her side that you were more than a pleasant companion; and, you may believe me, I looked for it quite purposefully. Compare in your mind the difference between Miss Bennet’s countenance and air, and that of Miss Grantley, for example, when you were in company with each: I am sure you will easily perceive a marked dissimilarity between them. And I hardly need mention, Charles, but you know you could never accept the hand, were the heart not given as well; nor would you, I know, tempt the lady with the choice, where there was any doubt as to her affections.”
As he considered these points, Bingley’s expression first began to bear witness to a grave misgiving; his eyes drifted aimlessly about the room as he thought back, comparing his relations with the two ladies. At length he turned a pained expression to Darcy. “Fitzwilliam, are you completely sure? I can hardly…I certainly…” shaking his head, he sank down into a chair and sat staring down at his feet.
At length, after a silence of some minutes, he tried to rally, saying, “I believe you to be in earnest, Darcy, but in my heart I know you are in error. I am certain my regard for Miss Bennet is returned—perhaps not equally—but sincerely.”
“I believe you do; indeed, that is what makes this so difficult. Without question, if one could open another’s heart and peer inside, many of the world’s ills would be mitigated. But, given how hard it is to read another’s thoughts and feelings, do we have a better measure than their behaviour? And by that gauge, I can swear the lady does not meet your regard with like return. I should never have hazarded this entire undertaking, otherwise.”
Again Bingley was silent; after a long moment, as his doubts worked on his natural diffidence, an anguished look passed over his features, and he looked away from his friend. Darcy watched him sympathetically without speaking, knowing that words were insufficient to supply what Bingley needed; only time and care would cure him. The two gentlemen held this tableau for a long minute before Darcy stood and went to his friend. Placing his hand on his shoulder, he said, “Come, Charles; you shall stay with me to-night; I cannot have you staying in an hotel; not now.”
Bingley shook his head, but still did not look at his friend. “I shall be
well enough, Darcy,” he said, though his despondent manner belied his words. “There is no need of that. I was planning to leave in the morning, at any rate, as my business is over.”
“I have no doubt of your resources, or your strength, Bingley; I know you will be
well. But, truly, I had much rather have you come home with me, rather than stay here amongst strangers, if only because I am in Town, now. Do let me persuade you, Charles—there is nothing to stay here for.”
Bingley considered for a moment, but what Darcy said was reasonable; in truth, he seemed relieved to have something to do, and his arrangements were quickly made; the two were off in half an hour. The ride to Grosvenor Square was largely silent. Once there, Darcy poured Bingley a brandy, and one for himself. On taking a seat, Bingley made another attempt to rescue his hopes, although it seemed his protests held less assurance than before, “Darcy, I know Miss Bennet does not much display her feelings, but I was sure that in her smiles, there was a particular warmth towards myself.”
“But Bingley, do but recollect: one of the very first things I noted about her was how she smiles at every one; as I watched at supper, I paid most particular attention to
how
she smiled at you, and contrasted it to her smiles towards her other neighbours. In spite of my most especial attentiveness, I could discern absolutely no difference between her smiles to you and to any one else. Nor was I able to detect any distinguishing traits in her behaviour to you, at any time during the evening: did she ever lay a hand on your arm, to emphasise a point? Or laugh more than she might at some foolish jest? Did she ever slap your shoulder with her fan, if you said anything teazingly? Perhaps brush against you in a crowd, to avoid contact with some one else? These are things I looked for; yet nary a one could I find. I swear to you, Charles, for all I could see she might have been in company with the Bishop of London.”
Bingley’s eyes left Darcy as he carefully reviewed his time with Miss Bennet at the ball. At length, shaking his head sadly, he allowed: “You are right, Darcy: I cannot think of any such things, myself. My feelings would persuade me she has a regard for me, and would have me believe she might come, in time, to match the strength of my esteem.” He paused here, then, shaking his head again, he concluded: “But you are right, of course: I could not bear to force such a choice on her, where she might be tempted to do what her heart might learn to regret.” His shoulders drooped, and he lapsed into silence again. After some little while, he told his friend, “I shall just go on up, if you would not mind, Darcy.”
“Of course, Charles,” said Darcy with sympathetic complaisance. “Only let me know if you need anything; I shall see you in the morning.” His friend left the room with heavy steps; Darcy sat a while longer, quietly finishing his brandy; trying, if anything, to bias his memories in favour of attachment, he reviewed yet again all his careful scrutiny of the couple: he still could not bring to mind anything which would effectively contradict his arguments.
He thought, too, of his partner for
his
one dance; he retained many lingering and conflicting emotions concerning Miss Elizabeth Bennet, which confounded him: he could not understand why he was unable to bring them to a resolution—a simple, coherent conclusion—and be done with them; he had made up his mind, after all, and it was not his habit to revisit decisions, once made. The situation was clear enough, but each time he thought he had got rid of the matter, around it came again, refusing to sleep in his memory. Eventually he, too, took himself to bed.
