Into Kent (17 page)

Wincing slightly, Darcy glanced fearfully
Elizabeth’s way, embarrassed by his aunt’s shocking want of tact; an awkward, pained look came over Elizabeth’s countenance for the briefest moment: clearly, she had felt the affront, but was too well-mannered to let it appear to the room. Darcy remembered having seen that same look on her face before—she had looked that way whenever her mother had said something of which she might be ashamed: he had seen it often enough to recognise it. He was dismayed to realise that his aunt’s lack of propriety had created the same feelings in Elizabeth as did her mother’s. He now understood somewhat of Elizabeth’s feelings at having embarrassing relations, but even more, it was highly upsetting to think that there could be any such similarity between the two women. In Elizabeth’s response to this present offence, however, so untaught and immediate, he could see the flaws in his aunt’s behaviour mirrored very clearly. To help turn Elizabeth’s thoughts away from his aunt’s unthinking affront, the Colonel directly began a new topic in their discussion.

“Mr. Collins,” Her Ladyship went on, unheeding, “What is this I hear about Haycock and Aylward?”

Mr. Collins, his countenance darkening as though he were about to announce the Judgement Day come upon us, recounted: “Mr. Haycock…who is a tenant on Her Ladyship’s estate,” this, an aside to Mr. Darcy, “has had cause to deny payment to Mr. Aylward for the shoeing of one of his horses, as the shoes hold no longer than two weeks, at best. And now Mr. Aylward refuses to shoe any of Haycock’s horses at all; it is a matter of some concern and discussion in the village.”

“One would think that after twelve years here, Mr. Aylward would know his trade better,” Lady Catherine said disapprovingly.

“Indeed, Your Ladyship,” Collins agreed solemnly. “And so says Mr. Haycock.”

“Well, I consider it a scandalous business,” said Her Ladyship, “and you may tell them both I have said so. Mr. Haycock has worked my land his whole life and is never behind in his rents; that he should be thus treated by a village smithy is insupportable.”

Darcy enquired of the parson, “How many others have had occasion to complain?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy?” asked Mr. Collins.

“Who else among this Aylward’s custom have had a similar experience?”

“I have heard of none others, Sir,” said the parson.

“And what does Aylward say in the matter?”

“That the horse throws the shoes a-purpose,” Mr. Collins said with a disparaging smirk.

Darcy considered. “How many horses do you keep, Mr. Collins?” he asked.

“Just the one,” replied the parson in an apologetic tone, as though embarrassed by such modest living.

“Spend much time in the stables, do you?”

“Why, no, Sir. Never.”

“What is it you are after, Darcy?” enquired his aunt.

“Well, Ma’am, I know the depth of your knowledge on the care of horses, but I was previously ignorant of Mr. Collins’: I wished to ascertain if he might have heard of a horse pecking, and now I have my answer.”

“Horses peck? Like birds?” Lady Catherine asked dubiously. Darcy looked around to see Colonel Fitzwilliam’s response to this, but he was wholly engrossed by his conversation with Elizabeth.

As a boy Darcy had enjoyed visiting the Pemberley stables, and especially watching the smith at work: the bright iron from the forge and the sparks as they flew from the hammer had fascinated him, and he had been impressed by the steady, unhurried manner in which the smith had got so much accomplished in a day’s time. The smith’s son, some years older than Darcy, had taken the opportunity of displaying his knowledge to the heir of the estate, and had informed Darcy, among other things, of how some horses pecked at their shoes, kicking the outer edge on the ground until the shoe loosened and fell off.

“Not precisely,” Darcy answered his aunt. “But I would wager that Mr. Haycock’s horse is given to the practice, and that Mr. Aylward is in the right; and you may tell them both I have said so,” he added mischievously. Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine looked at each other uncomprehendingly; Darcy looked around for his cousin again, but that gentleman still was not attending to anything beyond his discussion with Elizabeth.

The next half-hour Darcy spent listening to his aunt exposing her lack of understanding by speaking her mind, and trying not to listen to his cousin and
Elizabeth enjoying each other’s company. Their coffee finished, the latter two eventually moved to the pianoforte, the Colonel seating Elizabeth and then pulling a chair near her for himself. She began to play, and Darcy could feel her performance pulling at his attention; Lady Catherine listened briefly and then returned to her prattle. Darcy’s interest in Elizabeth’s performance outlasted Lady Catherine’s, in spite of his relative lack of true enjoyment and natural taste; at length, weary of his aunt’s conversation and continually attracted by the amiable sounds issuing from the direction of the instrument, he felt compelled to join his cousin and Elizabeth; telling himself that he could surely venture near her if he let his cousin attend to whatever conversation was wanted, he stood and excused himself to Lady Catherine. Making sure to regulate his features, he walked to the instrument and stood facing the two of them. Unfortunately, his intention of leaving the conversation to his cousin was thwarted by the lady herself. With the delightfully playful smile that Darcy had imagined in every room of Pemberley, she accosted him with one of those charming attacks that always beguiled him: “You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me? But I will not be alarmed though your sister
does
play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”

Darcy, on being thus the object of her charms once again, felt his all his hard-earned strength leave him in an instant, and his feelings for her swept up in a rush; his embarrassment at the suddenness and depth of his feeling was acute, and he was all too aware that his cousin was looking on; hoping his face did not reflect as much emotion as he feared it must, and very conscious of maintaining his dignity before his cousin, he engaged her thus: “I shall not say that you are mistaken, because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know, that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own.”

Elizabeth laughed with good-humoured ease at this, saying to Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire,” said she with mock gravity, “and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out, as will shock your relations to hear.”

It had been months since Darcy had been the target of
Elizabeth’s attentions—she could teaze him as long as she wished. So long as she was teazing and playful, he believed himself safe; said he with a smile, “I am not afraid of you.”

His cousin joined in: “Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of: I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.”

With a stern look at Darcy, softened by a first, fleeting smile, the lady said with greatest solemnity, “You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances! I am sorry to pain you—but so it was. He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.”

Darcy, while thoroughly amused, recollected the evening with perfect clarity, and made her the same excuse he had made to himself that evening: “I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party.”

“True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room,” Elizabeth chided him, but the look she gave him was bright and appealing; again he was struck by the fact that she reserved this mischievous side of her conversation to him alone. “Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next?” she asked, turning to his cousin. “My fingers wait your orders.”

But Darcy could not let go her attentions so soon—and he wanted to make some kind of apology, to make her understand that his disinclination to dance that night at the assembly was in no way a slight on her. “Perhaps I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction, but I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”

“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”

“I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, happily entering with her into baiting Darcy, “without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”

Darcy ignored his cousin’s attack. As he had done once before at Netherfield, he answered Elizabeth’s teazing with candour: “I certainly have not the talent which some people possess, of conversing easily with those I have never seen before,” he confessed. “I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.” He looked at her earnestly as he spoke, hoping for understanding at the least, and perhaps even forgiveness, for not having sought her out those many months before.

Elizabeth
did not, as she had done once months before, reply to his truth with more playfulness. “My fingers,” said she, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe
my
fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior execution.”

She understood him—or so it seemed to Darcy: in divulging her own weakness she acknowledged, and in some measure forgave, his own; he was satisfied. He was perfectly aware that
Elizabeth could have been a fine performer, had she devoted herself to it; that she had not, he felt, was an indication of her superior understanding: she preferred to improve her mind, rather than her ability to charm, and had apportioned her studies accordingly. He smiled, and complimented both her choice of study and her performance, by saying, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you, can think anything wanting.” A thought then struck him—something which he believed brought their similarities into view; he added: “We neither of us perform to strangers.” Elizabeth turned her face to look at him, and Darcy believed he saw a degree of interest there, which more than rewarded his candour. Nor could he fail to notice that she never spoke with such openness to any but him: that she singled him out for her most heart-felt discourse spoke as directly to his heart as her wit did to his intellect; looking down into her eyes, he could hardly imagine how she might be improved on, in any particular.

Here they were joined by Lady Catherine, who immediately took command of the conversation, thus relieving Darcy of the need to speak at all, for which he was not sorry; it removed him from the focus of
Elizabeth’s attention, and allowed him to reclaim governance of his feelings. He drew breath, not remembering having done so for some minutes. Was this like control? he demanded angrily of himself. No sooner had he spoken three words to her than he was opening his feelings to her, and hoping for her to do the same. He railed at his weakness: Come to stand staring at her like a dog begging at table—where is your strength, man? He remonstrated with himself at considerable length, and stood thus by the instrument for as long as the evening lasted, watching her play and scolding his feelings.

Chapter Twenty

The next morning Darcy wrote again to his sister, then roamed irresolutely about Rosings after breakfast for an hour or two, having resolved that he would not wait on Miss Elizabeth Bennet that day. Finally, however, ignoring his own loud and crowding reproaches, he followed his feet to the Parsonage; the door was answered, not by the housekeeper, but by a young girl Darcy took to be the scullery maid. “Are the ladies in?” he asked, gently, because the poor creature looked terrified to find herself addressed by a gentleman. She bobbed quickly and pointed down the hallway to the drawing-room, too shy to speak. He thanked her with a smile and turned into the hall, only to hear her running feet behind him carrying her back to the kitchen.

On reaching the drawing-room, however, he was surprised to find only Elizabeth. This was a circumstance he had been half dreading, half hoping for, ever since he heard that she was at Hunsford. Although disconcerted, he recovered quickly, his manners coming to his rescue: “Miss Bennet—Good morning; I do apologise—I had thought to find all the ladies within.”

Elizabeth
politely forgave his error and invited him to sit, informing him that the others had gone into the village. When she had made the usual enquiries after every one at Rosings, she was content to sit without speaking. “My gracious silence,” quoted Darcy to himself: who had called his wife so? Coriolanus—there was another poor, tortured brute, indeed, Darcy reflected: but at least he was not at war with himself—how does one win that war?

After some little while
Elizabeth broke her silence to ask after their friends in London; Darcy answered several questions from her in a desultory fashion, content to let her lead the conversation where she would, satisfied simply to be in her company; when she paused and looked at him expectantly, however, he realised that he was not holding up his side of the conversation; casting about for a topic, he began with the first thing to come to mind: “This seems a very comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.” This he knew from his review of Rosings’ books for the year preceding; it had been a substantial figure in the last year’s expense.

“I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more grateful object.”

This exhausted his ideas concerning the house; he therefore started a new thought: since arriving at Rosings he had often wondered at Mr. Collins’ substitution of Miss Lucas for Elizabeth in his affairs of heart, and he invited the history of it by observing, “Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife.”

“Yes, indeed; his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding—though I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light, it is certainly a very good match for her.”

It was not the answer he had in view, but in her unreserved answer concerning her close friend and her relation, Darcy saw an obvious indication of increasing intimacy between them; he knew not how to feel about it—or, rather, his feelings were clear, but his rational side was warning him against encouraging such communications. As was usual in the perplexing and ambivalent internal struggle in which he was trapped, neither half of him could gain a clear mastery and force a decision. He was satisfied to continue the general topic, however: it felt safe from undue emotion. He therefore observed: “It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.”

“An easy distance do you call it?”
Elizabeth demanded. “It is nearly fifty miles.”

Thinking of his own frequent trips between Derbyshire and London, a journey of more than thrice that distance, Darcy replied: “And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's journey. Yes, I call it a
very
easy distance.”

“I should never have considered the distance as one of the
advantages
of the match,” Elizabeth cried in protest. “I should never have said Mrs. Collins was settled
near
her family.”

Pleased to have finally found an opening for wit—no matter how slight—after having been the recipient of her lively teazing so many times, Darcy now teazed her in return: “It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.” Convinced as he was that she had been educated elsewhere, he was sure that the accusation of being too attached to a simple country life would pique her. He smiled his challenge at her.

The lady coloured at this and hesitated, but in her reply she avoided his challenge, speaking instead to the literal meaning of his words: “I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expense of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the case
here
. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent journeys—and I am persuaded my friend would not call herself
near
her family under less than
half
the present distance.”

Her air seemed to indicate to Darcy that there was something of peculiar meaning behind her words, and her answer seemed directed at some different meaning altogether: speaking of how a lady might be willing to settle farther or nearer her family, based on her husband’s fortune, rather than addressing her attachment—or lack thereof—to Hertfordshire. Is this for me? Darcy asked himself. It certainly seemed that she might be taking the opportunity to tell him that, had one resources such as his, the distance between Pemberley and Meryton were no object; is that why she blushed? He considered, and was inclined to think that this was indeed the case; she was taking advantage of their time alone to inform him of her interest. He was perhaps a little surprised by such a direct reference to a potential union, if indeed he had divined her true meaning, but he was by no means offended. He did not feel himself prepared to pursue so highly charged a topic, but neither did he wish for a complete change of subject, nor in the openness of their discourse; as she seemed to be willing to speak with him on diverse matters, he drew closer to her and instead took up again the question which was the original subject of his teazing: “
You
cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment.
You
cannot have been always at Longbourn.”

Darcy could see surprise and embarrassment in her face, and realised he must have pressed her too closely on her personal history—or, perhaps he had wounded her by not responding to her true meaning? No, more likely she was thinking he
was
answering her: saying that, having been out in the world, she could have no objection to living away from Longbourn, either in Town or at Pemberley, and her embarrassment then must mean that her thoughts ran along those same lines. He followed the train of logic again in his mind, and felt that he had hit the truth of the matter. Regardless, to spare her feelings, he quickly turned the conversation onto less personal topics—but he treasured up the ideas that had presented themselves during this most interesting discussion. He kept the conversation on common and indifferent subjects until they were interrupted by the return of Mrs. Collins and her sister, who were come back from their errands. After exchanging the usual civilities, he found his thoughts too much occupied with what had passed, either to offer any conversation, or to be able to enter into theirs; so, true to his promise to himself to avoid any appearance of ill-manners, with no better excuse than being in Elizabeth’s presence, he returned to Rosings.

During his return, his thoughts were of course full of what had just taken place; however, as was
usually the case with him on this subject, by the time he was half-way to the manor he had managed to convince himself that his impressions and deductions at the Parsonage were almost certainly wrong; and, even if true, were unquestionably contrary to the lasting happiness of either party; in consequence of which, his rational side, at least momentarily and in this instance, was able to declare victory. Regaining his rooms, he determinedly took up a book, that he might lose himself for an hour in some one else’s difficulties and labours.

Later that afternoon he had arranged with Lady Catherine’s steward to have the disputatious farmers, Turner and Tilden, come to Rosings, as he did not know them and wished to hear from each. He thought at first to speak with the two of them out on the drive, where they would be more comfortable than inside the austere elegance of Rosings, but he had then decided having them both a bit unsure of their surroundings might be best; he therefore met with them in the library—a cold and imposing room, and one in which they could not very well be at ease.

Hollister introduced them at the door; the two men entered the library and removed their hats; the taller of the two, Turner, looked as if he were about to set his down on a large open folio, but seemed to think it would perhaps not be suitably set off in such a display: he therefore retained it in his hand. Even though dressed in their best, in their heavy woollens and stout boots they looked decidedly out of place among the gildings and filigree of Lady Catherine’s library.

“Mr. Turner,” said Darcy, addressing himself to the trespasser in the case, who fidgeted nervously with his hat, “you have been using Mr. Tilden’s pond to water your stock for how long?”

“We been doin’ that since me father’s father’s time,” the man replied, scowling suspiciously.

“And Mr. Tilden, you have never opposed this arrangement?”

“Not a-fore people starts tearin’ down of other people’s fences!” cried he with some heat.

“Call that a fence!” Mr. Turner burst in. “A sneeze would knock it down!”

“With you a-tearin’ it down twice day to water yer blessed sheep, ‘ow do you suppose I’m to keep it up?” demanded the other.

“You know I’ve got to ‘ave that water, or I’d lose ‘alf me stock!”

“It’s bad enough you use my land for free…”

“Free! T’ain’t free—my granddad give your granddad two full acres o’ good land for the right to use that pond.”

“Where’s yer proof o’ that?” sneered Tilden.

“Proof! I’ll gi’ ye proof!” Turner began rolling up his sleeves.

“Enough!” Darcy shouted, slamming his palm on the desk to get their attention. The two farmers looked over at him, as if surprised to see any one sitting there. “Let me to remind you gentlemen where you are standing. Mr. Turner, are you planning to start a brawl in Lady Catherine’s library?” Turner looked about him, his face becoming terrified as he realised the probable outcome of the course he was about to follow.

Darcy turned to face Mr. Tilden. “Tilden, did your family receive land in return for the right for the Turners to use your pond?”

“Well, Sir, that’s always been me understandin’, but I never seen no…”

Darcy cut him off. “Right. Now, Mr. Turner—the fence you damaged belongs to Mr. Tilden. I do not care if it was made of straw, or was a line of chalk he used to mark his lands: you had no right to damage it.”

“Well, Your Honour, Sir, I never meant to, and I’d ‘ave fixed her when I could ‘ave got the tools out there…”

Darcy stopped him short, saying briskly, “This is what is going to happen. The two of you are going to build a proper gate…”

Both farmers started to protest: “‘Oo’s to pay for that?” cried Turner.

“I got better things to do wi’ me time…” began Tilden.

Darcy stood to his full height from behind the desk, glowering fiercely; the two farmers, neither of whom were overly large men, fell silent. “Turner, you will provide the tools, and you will apologise to Mr. Tilden for the damage done his property.” He turned to the other man, who, misapprehending him, cried out, “See ‘ere, you don’t mean as I’m to buy…”

Darcy cut him off again. “I could certainly make the case that you should,” he said sternly, “Your family was to provide access to that pond; if you did not provide a gate, how else could Turner get to the water but by taking down the fence? But you will be required to provide only labour, you and Turner, both—Lady Catherine will supply the materials.” To Darcy it seemed that if Lady Catherine wished to insert herself into the affairs of others, it was only fitting that she should help carry the burden of their resolution.

The men digested this for a bit. “All right with you, Bill?” asked Mr. Turner cautiously.

Mr. Tilden nodded slowly. “I don’t see anything wrong with it—you?”

Turner shook his head, then stuck out his hand: “I’m sorry I took on so, Bill—it’s just that when you threatened to cut off the pond…”

“Now, Tom, you know I never meant that, did I? That pond ain’t no use to me—nothin’ but hardscrabble around there: couldn’t raise a goat on my side o’ that fence.” The men shook hands. “Buy you a pint?” asked Turner. “I’ll get the next,” agreed Tilden, and the two turned to walk out of the library, remembering to stop at the door and tip their hats to Darcy.

“Get on with it, gentlemen,” he admonished them brusquely. “If it is not finished within two weeks’ time, I shall have left, and you will have Lady Catherine to deal with.” The two looked at each other apprehensively, and nodded. Doffing their hats to Darcy again, they took their leave.