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Part 15 ~ continued
“Papa!”
Elizabeth sprang to her feet, her face crimson with anger and embarrassment.
“There now, no need to go up in arms!”
Mr. Bennet bit his tongue. The situation was rapidly becoming intolerable.
Elizabeth’s mind darted. Where did her father’s inquisitiveness stem from all of a sudden? Was it not sufficient that she must find her peace of mind gone, her confidence in her own judgment shaken and every hope of seeing, with an unprejudiced mind, if …?
“Really, Papa…”
Was it possible that…?
As much as her mind protested, the heart was quick to conclude its barely shaped, infant wishes may have found their course to maturity smooth after all.
Over dinner, Mr. Bingley found out about Devil’s Lights, and Grey Ladies, and other mysterious Derbyshire wonders, enjoyed himself thoroughly in the small family circle, and bathed in the warmth of Miss Bennet’s smiles which were brighter and friendlier by the minute. Alas, time passed, however, and farewell was imminent. Mr. Bingley could not go home ignorant on one point though.
“How long do you intend to stay in Town, Mr. Bingley?”
The weight able to compete with that of the most magnificent of the Peaks fell off Mr. Bingley’s chest as he hastened to assure Mrs. Gardiner – and everyone else present – that his plans were not as yet fully formed, still…
“I intend to return to Hertfordshire as soon as, well, that is… Until I do, Miss Bennet – I expect us to remain on the best of neighbourly terms right here in London. Shall we?”
Mrs. Gardiner cast a side glance at her husband, saying, ‘No shilly-shallying there!’ as plainly as possible.
“I shall see Mrs. Fryers about the refreshments for Mr. Darcy. Goodbye, Doctor, and thank you.”
Mrs. Annesley retreated, leaving the door to the parlour wide open. Georgiana felt herself at last able to proceed.
“I believe my brother has had… He did not comprehend where he was, for a brief moment. I understand he appeared perfectly well when he entered the house, and then…”
Doctor Bridewell adjusted his spectacles and led the young lady, now sobbing quietly, towards the closest seat.
“He had been troubled… About something, lately. He told me as much although there was no need for him to do so. And then yesterday morning, he simply vanished, not telling me or anybody – except Forsythe, I believe – where he went…”
At this point, a substantial piece of white linen bearing the initials G.R.B. made its entrance upon scene and was made very welcome. Doctor Bridewell waited until the sobbing subsided, then spoke calmly,
“Miss Darcy, I am convinced the reason for his omission of naming his destination to you was a perfectly reasonable one – perhaps he wished to avoid your being precisely in the state of uneasiness you found yourself in. He may have been delayed by his business whilst he intended to return sooner.”
“You shall,” continued the doctor kindly, “do the greatest service to yourself and your brother to cast aside any thought of it at present. When Mr. Darcy gets better, well… then, I prescribe to you as a doctor and a friend of your family, make him explain himself and scold him as much as you like. There now, sniffle at will, for I am a physician and we are not at court!”
That said, Doctor Bridewell gave a hearty laugh, promised to return to check upon the patient in two hours, and sent a much relieved sister to the sickchamber ‘to make herself useful’.
She looked conscious enough. The distress of the previous evening must have been the result of her own understanding that she had been wrong in her actions. But why let it happen that way, at all, when he was, if not enthusiastically made welcome, at least very much at leave to come to Longbourn at any time he chose? How he had managed to explain that other matter away, Mr. Bennet would like very much to know, too. His blood boiled and he was very much disposed to employ a much less diplomatic method with the man who was, apparently, to become his son. No-one should trifle with his daughter’s feelings in that manner, and make her suffer for it!
He must not rage against him, Mr. Bennet reminded himself. She must care for the man, and whatever happens, he must not lose a daughter through lack of tact and self-possession.
With a heavy heart, Mr. Bennet continued.
“I shall not lecture you, for your behaviour last night and just now shows you are aware of the impropriety of yesterday’s occurrence – as if I doubted it. Unfortunately, most of our kind neighbours in Meryton are at this moment dragging your name through the mud in consequence of one of Lucas’ servants observing you yesterday evening.”
Mr. Bennet found it quite difficult to watch his daughter collapse back in her chair and burying her face in her hands. The rascal! And where was he now? He might have come already, and confronted him as was right and proper. He should give him a piece of his mind.
Unable to find any words – and what were she to say if she did? – Elizabeth sat completely still in her chair, all colour gone from her face. It had not, till that moment, struck her, to what interpretation her yesterday’s encounter with Mr. Darcy might be open. They had met by chance; she was roaming around, reading Jane’s letter, and he must have been on his way to… Where? Where had he been going?
She had asked herself that before, yet she did not dare think…
To Longbourn? Well, he would hardly be calling upon the Lucases. Unless he had a message from Mrs. Collins. That, thought Elizabeth, was a very far-fetched and unsatisfactory explanation, for even if Mr. Darcy had stayed in Kent with his aunt – which Charlotte surely would have mentioned in her letter – how likely was it that she would employ him as a messenger? So Longbourn must have been his destination. Her mind whirled – he spoke of some business, but to suppose… She would not suppose anything! She had supposed too much already.
Nevertheless, she could not help but wonder where he was at that moment. Would he be made aware of what her father had just told her? Elizabeth dared not consider the manner in which this enlightenment might take place. Might he be accosted publicly, or dropped hints at …? Where was he staying anyway? Very probably at the inn in Meryton, for Netherfield had been closed for more than two months. If she could but acquaint him with the fact he was to find himself at the heart of a scandal thanks to a harmless walk! But that was not to be contemplated. How was she to contact him without somebody making it their business to spy it out and promulgate it as yet another proof of …? Good Lord!
“Therefore I propose to send a note to the gentleman.” Mr. Bennet’s tone could not have been more sarcastic. He continued with false detachment,
“It is of course only a matter of hastening what was to take place sooner or later and will, I as am sure you see, serve rather to clip the wings of rumour than to hurry you in any way towards… more decisive steps. There is no need even to publicly announce your, ehem, engagement. The mere fact of him coming to Longbourn shall do away with the gossip. You observe my point, do you not? Lizzy?”
* A note on the title: it is a part of a quotation from Henry Fielding’s play, Love in Several Masques, Act 4, Scene 11,“Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea.”** On the subject of aunts and how to deal with them, I take advyce from the great P.G. Wodehouse himself.
Part 16 ~ Shut the Peppergate!
Posted on Sunday, 16 May 2004
“I shall put it all down directly, and Matthews may take it to Meryton at once. I suppose the gentleman is up and about at this time of day.”
Having seen the reaction on his daughter’s face to the decisive words which had escaped him a few minutes earlier, Mr Bennet found it very difficult to examine her features in a straightforward manner that had been his custom. His embarrassment over the situation had been replaced by anger with his prospective son-in-law and, something much more painful, a disappointment with his daughter’s choice. He had never expected to exult in the fact she was to be taken away from him, but to part with his favourite daughter under such circumstances! It presented a not insignificant blow to him.
Yet it had to be done, or … Or what? Mr Bennet drew breath in sharply. They could brave it out! It had been done before. A fresh scandal would more likely as not introduce itself within a fortnight, and this particular indiscretion – Mr Bennet winced at the word as he imagined it being used in connection with his daughter’s name – would be buried in the collective memory of the small community that lived on a diet of neighbours’ faux pas and worse.
He was about to exclaim,
‘Hell and damnation, you need not have him, Lizzy, you and I shall show those witches their proper place!’ when a thought struck him – she had not protested at all.
With a heavy heart, Mr Bennet collapsed into his chair. For some incomprehensible reason, his daughter’s heart was bound to that man, and she might have bound herself in word, too… The suspicion gnawed at him – could this have been their first tryst? Heaven knows! And if there had been others…
The only way for Mr Bennet to retain sanity in this situation, was action. His hand reached for a sheet of writing paper, and without saying another word he set to his task.
Sir,May I request an interview with you at Longbourn at the earliest possible time? There is a matter of utmost urgency I need to discuss with you concerning my daughter.
Yes, and if you had a shred of decency in your body, there would be no need for me to be writing this!
Mr Bennet clenched the pen tighter, and proceeded.
I am certain you had the intention of calling on me yourself in not so distant future, — rather, I hope so, for Elizabeth’s sake! — however, circumstances have arisen that require that interview to take place sooner rather than later, as you are perhaps already aware.I am, dear Sir,
Yours&tc.George Bennet
Signing his name, it was as if Mr Bennet had reached the limits of his endurance. He would see him, and welcome him as his future son, but at that particular moment, he could not bear the thought of the entire matter any longer. He folded the sheet and pushed it across the shiny surface of the table.
“There. You may read it, of course. I would only ask you to direct and seal it when you are done. Then give it to Matthews. I shall go and change these wet clothes.”
He forced himself to smile as he said,
“After all, I must appear to my best advantage when our visitor arrives.”
Cold weather and the wetness of the roads notwithstanding, Beck’s was very well populated that morning. The upcoming Meryton assembly provided an excellent excuse for the ladies to flock into that well-heated establishment, permeated by the rustle of fabric and the whirr of information.
Rosalind Whistler was among them, sent on commission by her sister, who was indisposed. Mr Beck and Mr Aloysius Beck were light on their feet, and swift in their service, yet it was impossible for them to attend to all the customers at once, and therefore, a great number of ladies were obliged to sit, wait and exchange exclamations. Miss Whistler, who was exclaimed at home, and had no particular wish to be so outside it, chose to wait her turn in the least favourable seat closest to the door, thereby exposing herself to a burst of frosty air every time the latter was opened, yet also to a comparatively exclamation-free environment.
A short, sharp gust of wind once again loosened the bottom folds of Miss Whistler’s cloak as the door opened but had quite the reverse effect with the tongues up to that moment very much at work in that very room.
Mr Hubbard, the owner of ‘The Fox and Ferret’ in Meryton, looked puzzled. Scratching his head, he turned the letter in his hand repeatedly, and shook it, as if hoping such treatment would make it confess the whereabouts of its addressee. The letter, however, persisted in resolute muteness. Therefore Mr Hubbard did the only thing he could possibly do under the circumstances. He went to find and consult Mrs Hubbard.
“You will not ask me how my evening was?”
Even if Mrs Hurst and Caroline Bingley would choose that particular moment to render a performance of dutiful sisters, they would have found that inquiry slightly superfluous. Mr Bingley’s countenance oozed satisfaction.
“Eventful, I dare say.”
Mrs Hurst’s eye met that of her sister’s. She did not intend to offer any comment or observation. Let Charles tell them how things stood. Miss Bingley, however, could not reach quite to the heights of her sister’s wisdom. She had suffered too many disappointments to be wise.
“Pray, how do tradesmen conduct themselves in social situations? I have never yet had the pleasure of ascertaining the level of gentility they may rise to.”
Elizabeth’s mind was numb. Her father’s words she had heard, the note she had directed in a clear hand, with movements exact and dependable. Her hand was steady as she wrote the name — a name she had neither seen nor put in writing before —, the wax had not burnt her fingers in the least, and her voice had been completely calm as she instructed Matthews to ride to the inn and deliver it immediately. Fortunately the man had been waiting in the hall, having answered Mr Bennet’s summons. Matthews knew better than to pay too much attention to the note handed to him – for he had all the ride to Meryton before him to inspect the missive at his leisure – and through that, and her father appearing to be the principal correspondent, or at least aware of a correspondence taking place, she was spared further embarrassment, at least before the servant.
Whether she was so in her own eyes was extremely doubtful. She had acted as if she possessed no will of her own. She did not protest against the charges of improper behaviour. She did not even attempt to remonstrate with her father when his view of the situation became clear. She sat there and sealed the note, which would rather intensify discomfiture than terminate it.
Yet one thought prevailed in her mind. She would, she must, reinstate herself in his good opinion.
The Scotch broth, when the invalid’s silent opposition to it had finally been surmounted a little after midday through his sister’s insistence, lived up to its reputation admirably. It caused the bedclothes to be soaked thoroughly by Mr Darcy’s perspiration, and lulled him into a stupor, interrupted by bouts of harsh cough which exhausted him, if not disturbed him, for Mr Darcy was apparently rendered oblivious of his surroundings and the fact that his sister had sat by his bed throughout the morning.
Dr Bridewell arrived just in time to see his advice adhered to. He frowned as he heard the cough, and wished his patient could tell him of the pain he might be suffering from. He did not share this desire with the impatient sister, and resolved to wait a while longer, before acquainting her with his anxiety.
A knife and fork had a rather rough landing on the plate; it was concluded with a loud clank, echoing liberally in the silence of the breakfast parlour.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I merely wished to inquire how you found the famous Cheapside uncle and aunt, Charles. I am brimming over with curiosity, indeed.”
Caroline Bingley’s smile for once did not find a response in her brother’s countenance. She turned to her faithful ally, Mrs Hurst. The lady of the house was just saying she needed to see her housekeeper right away.
“That will wait. I am rather in need of your attention now.”
“This must be some sort of blunder,” he said, stretching his hand out.
Mrs Hubbard squinted at the envelope, wiped her hands in her apron – for she was just supervising the production of the tea pastry, and for her, supervision amounted to doing everything herself, as she could not possibly trust anyone else to reach her standards, as experience had taught her.
“Oh, no, dear, he was in Meryton all right, only staying at Colonel Forster’s. He left this morning though.”
Her husband stared at her with a gleam of amazement in his eye. Twenty-five years of marriage had taught him much, yet every day added to his education. That his life’s companion would know where to find any misplaced sock, fork or bill, was something he had learnt to accept as a fact of life. That she should know where a gentleman she had never met was at that precise moment, was, Mr Hubbard considered, nothing short of wondrous, precisely as she had not, to his knowledge, gone beyond her own kitchen that morning. It was not his place to inquire into his wife’s sources of information, however. He took it as read they were interminable and correct.
“Where…?”
“Oh, London, I suppose. Let me see… We’d best have this taken to the Colonel’s then.”
And thus the letter, bearing the name of Mr Darcy, Esq. was duly dispatched to Colonel Forster’s house, but not before Mrs Hubbard had committed every curve and tilt of the fine feminine hand to her industrious memory.
No sound but the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall was heard. To both ladies it appeared as if the walls themselves leaned forward to hear better, oppressing and suffocating them as they did so.
“Really, Caroline,” Mr Bingley began, “it is rather beyond me how you take such a superior stand against the Gardiners? Every guinea we possess has been made through trade. Or have you managed to forget it?”
Mr Bingley’s colour heightened, indeed his cheeks burned with excitement as much as indignation. He was not inclined to speeches; mostly he could not get a word in edgewise, even if he hammered it in. Why this particular morning found him so talkative, he knew not. Nevertheless, speak he must. In an attempt to calm down, he once again took hold of the knife and fork to work them on the half-vanished kipper-dish before him. His elder sister took this as a signal that he had done. Bingley looked up, and said quietly,
“One moment longer, and then this subject is closed, I hope for good.”
Well!
Braving it was one thing, thought Miss Whistler, but this was well beyond braving anything. It was flaunting, and she blushed for the gentleman, who, utterly unaware of the scandal his mere presence caused in the respectable establishment of Messrs Beck & Son, had set foot in the same establishment with the admirable design of purchasing a pair of gloves.
Caroline Bingley, white as a sheet of paper, ran her thin fingers alongside the edge of her saucer, in a vain endeavour to feign that nothing extraordinary was transpiring. Her world shook in its foundations two days prior, when her ridiculous brother entered the parlour at a most inconvenient time, and when subsequently Mr Darcy failed to prove himself the rock on which one could lean and spite all trials and tribulations before her; in fact, he rather vanished altogether.
And now she was being reproached for knowing her place – she was reminded of the less appealing chapter in her family’s history – downright scolded, and by Charles, of all people! Caroline Bingley’s world swayed and crumbled down amidst the clatter of her brother’s cutlery.
It had been a long night, all the longer for all the drams of The Glenlivet, smuggled across the Scottish border – or so Chamberlayne had boasted, at least, whilst his friends clicked their tongues appreciatively, and hastened to offer welcome to the illegally obtained elixir. It did not do to eat on an empty stomach, Denny had said, but when their respective stomachs had been conveniently padded by a mouthful or two – or three, of the noble liquid – eating, somehow, lost its appeal.
With the assembly right around the corner, an invitation issued to all officers, and his only decent pair of gloves converted into a wisp of smoke and a scant amount of ashes through the action of Captain Chamberlayne at an undetermined point in time during the night, Mr Wickham resolved, on his walk home from this gentleman’s quarters, to acquire a new pair. He could not appear in front of his betrothed in his spare pair – because, to put it bluntly, he didn’t have one. So a visit to the Becks’ establishment was imminent.
Light-headedness long ago having been substituted by a wholesome headache, Mr Wickham found that lavishly lit space – for the fog lay low on Meryton that morning - somewhat trying to inhabit. He squinted, perceived the great number of ladies to be served before him, and decided the gloves, after all, could be obtained without dispensing with ready money, or any firm promise of same.
Chamberlayne had burnt his gloves – and seen them burn with an explosion of mirth – unaccountable explosion of mirth, considered Mr Wickham, although he had been amused by it himself at the time, for some reason. So naturally, Chamberlayne should supply him with gloves. There! Nothing more natural than that!
Courteously lifting his hat and bowing in a semi-circle with a self-satisfied smile on his lip, contemplating how he, though having generously sampled the water of life for a prolonged period of time, could hold the attention of the ladies, whilst Darcy, stiff as a poker, would not be able to secure the attention of a one-eyed cat, Mr Wickham made his exit and, his spirits much enlivened by this observation, decided he would proceed straight back to whence he came and make the appropriate demand of Mr Chamberlayne.
Elizabeth could not hold still. Anxiously awaiting Mr Darcy’s arrival, dreading it and yearning for it at once, she went up to her chamber, and paced up and down. It was too ridiculous! If anybody but knew what the so called indiscretion consisted of… Such a notion!
She smiled in spite of herself. It really was too absurd. To have something which could be best described as a dispute, interpreted as, as… Her cheeks burned.
Unconsciously, she nested her right hand in the other. She felt the warmth, the excitement of expectation linger and then flare in her limb, and ultimately engulf her.
Would he touch her hand? Would he stop there?
Such folly, worse still, sentimental folly! For once, he behaves like he should, and there he is, engaged, in everybody’s eyes. Bound to her in honour! Dreadful, dreadful thought! He must hate her. If he does not yet, if by any chance he had escaped being informed of his expected nuptials, how shall he hate her!
‘Trapped in a loveless marriage.’ The wish – albeit one based on false conclusions - to have his friend escape this fate, brought on the events which may result in it becoming his own destiny. Had she love enough for them both? Can affection born out of a feeling of guilt suffice to sustain a hasty marriage – for hasty, apparently, it need be?
Elizabeth sat on the bed and buried her face in her hands. She must be mad to be even contemplating such a step.
And yet amongst all confused, irritating, nonsensical thoughts, a conviction was oddly clear – she could love him.
Would he let her? Would she let herself?
“So give them to me, there’s a good fellow, since I can’t well go to see my darling Josephine without them.”
Mr Chamberlayne might have looked under the weather, but his spirit was rallying, apparently, for he greeted his friend’s words with a grin almost as wide as that which had accompanied the ordeal by fire the previous night.
“Wickham, old boy, you don’t seriously propose going to that house now, do you?”
Mr Wickham merely smiled at this attempt to change the topic of the conversation, and stretched out his hand purposefully.
“Come, come, out with them.”
Mr Chamberlayne looked at him incredulously.
“By God, you do not know!”
Well versed in the tactics of stalling, Mr Wickham was unmoved. “I will look for them myself, if you don’t bestir yourself presently. You are giving me a headache.”
Mr Chamberlayne mumbled something about headache and where the blame ought to lie, and drew his companion inside by the sleeve.
“Do you mean to tell me you do not know what is going on?”
Mr Wickham, on whom his friend’s dramatic tones had finally made an impression, could only shake his head. Indeed, at that particular moment, he knew not what was going on. Was that such an extraordinary effect of a night full of the water of life?
“Miss Elizabeth, you’re wanted downstairs.”
Elizabeth started, as Mrs Hill opened the door to her chamber. The good woman hardly knew where to look.
Elizabeth’s embarrassment was acute. She did not expect it; she was not ready. Had there been any sound of a bell? She drew breath to inquire, but stopped before a word could escape her. Evidently, Hill knew everything. She was in disgrace. Next quarter of an hour shall make her respectable again. Such respectability!
Tears of frustration welled in her eyes.
“I had better go then.”
Hill nodded and fled with dignity, raising her usual speed up by a couple of knots. Elizabeth lingered still. Her fingers were stone cold; her cheeks glowed. She breathed in deeply and descended the stairs.
From the library, not a sound could be heard. In fact, the entire house was covered in silence; an unusual and unnerving circumstance to Elizabeth. She reached the ground floor. Stopping and gathering courage, she was about to knock on the door, when it opened abruptly. Her father twitched at the sight of her, and Elizabeth’s nervous smile did not soften his features; in fact, he hardly looked at her.
“I was going to fetch you myself, Elizabeth. Well…”
“Will you…?”
“No, no. I thought you would welcome a moment of privacy.”
Mr Bennet spoke a hurried, irritated manner and almost passed out of the hall, when he suddenly turned, stepped close to her and said,
“God bless you, Lizzy.”
She entered. Daylight was already scarce, few candles lighted the room, and a modest fire burned in the fireplace. Elizabeth hardly dared raise her eyes as she ventured a step beyond the door. She suddenly found the door closed, and a man’s figure within a yard from her. It all happened in an instant. She looked at him, and gasped.
“Well, well… Why so surprised? I wake free, if gloveless, and go on a honourable mission of extracting the spare pair of gloves from my good friend Chamberlayne, who is in any case responsible for my gloveless state – only to find myself obliged to embark on yet another mission of honour: for he tells me I was courting you vehemently last evening in the lane yonder! Everybody knows it, everybody speaks of it, and, well, then it must be true. I have come on a friendly call, but am accepted as a family member. Sweet and tender are the bonds of love!"
Mr Wickham’s foul morning had turned into a highly promising day. To be jilted by one girl - to find himself shut out of her house and the dogs set on him (for contrary to all advice from Mr Chamberlayne, that was Mr Wickham’s destination after that illuminating visit to his friend)! And then... Then to have another matrimonial prospect, though a less wealthy one, practically forced upon him – however, what Elizabeth Bennet lacked in dowry, she promised to make up for in spirit, judging by the sparks in her eyes – well, that, even by his standards, was quite good sport.
On entering Longbourn, he had found himself expected, and was ushered into the master’s room immediately. As Mr Bennet had gone on about settlements and suchlike, Wickham put two and two together. Who else could it possibly be but ol’ Dry-bone Darcy who was after Elizabeth Bennet? For it surely hadn’t been him, Wickham. He was much too… And he hadn’t been imbibing quite so much as would have caused him to forget courting a lady in the dusk!
Well, well, well… Come-uppance indeed seemed to be the word of the day.
“Come, Miss Bennet… Elizabeth!”
He clutched his heart with one hand, and reached for her with another.
“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, you know.”
A tug at the mattress woke her. Georgiana lifted her head off her brother’s bed. It was moments before she fully comprehended where she was or what was happening around her. The shadows of the fire now subdued to a small flame barely emanating any warmth at all, fell upon the room and cast distorted shadows on the walls. The two burning candles in a candelabra on the writing table opposite the window contributed to the effect. Unmistakably, they drew a silhouette of a man above the fireplace.
A cry stopped short in her throat as she was overcome by fright. With a step — two — three she was by the window, feeling the blast of icy air in her face as he opened the window. Embracing her brother round the waist, she whispered, “Come, come, William, get thee to bed,” remotely aware he himself was saying something. The cold on her face blended with oppressing warmth of his feverish frame. His shirt had been drenched through.
“Come, come,” she repeated fearfully, aspiring to achieve by entreaty what she could not with bodily strength of which she was hardly possessed. Another pair of hands was required. She could not hold the invalid, and close the window through which now a cloud of snowflakes was swept in.
William did not hear her; he was not listening. Somebody else should hear her. She cried out.
The door burst open and for a split second, a powerful draught swept through the room and almost blinded Georgiana. Next moment, she felt it subside and heard the windowpanes rattle as they were being shut. Her grip on her brother softened, and she swayed as her legs betrayed her.
A note on the title: There is a Cheshire proverb, “When the daughter is stolen, shut the peppergate.” This is founded on the fact that the mayor of Chester had his daughter stolen as she was playing at ball with other maidens in Pepper Street. The young man who carried her off came through the Pepper-gate, and the mayor wisely ordered the gate to be shut up, agreeable to the old saying, “When the steed is stolen, shut the stable door.” – J. Halliwell, Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words (1855).
Part 17
Posted on Monday, 14 June 2004
She required his support as much as his fever-stricken body needed her backing to propel it back onto the bed. Once relieved of her burden, she lost her balance and found herself prostrate with exhaustion.
“Two sufferers where one is expected? This will not do, Miss Darcy. I refuse to be tricked like that. I prefer my patient quota within limits of reason: one per household shall suffice unless a very bad epidemic sweeps the country, and I see none coming.”
Doctor Bridewell had taken the stairs with the agility which afterwards amazed himself, Forsythe hard at his heels.
Georgiana, who only needed a steady hand rather than any real doctoring, was perfectly in control of her limbs once safely deposited in a chair next to the door. Of her feelings she was less of a mistress and before she had an opportunity to answer the good doctor in a manner corresponding to his jocular reproach, a croaky voice reached her from the bed.
“Is she all right? Georgie, are you all right?”
Of the nature of the scene that followed, suffice it to say that it involved three people brimming over with joy; one expressing it rather more profusely than the other who took refuge in the tasks of his profession, and another, who knew time had come for him to make a soundless exit.
Bingley straightened himself up and proceeded boldly,
“As soon as a suitable occasion arises, I intend to ask Miss Bennet to become my...” – here Bingley’s voice faltered somewhat – “...my wife. I expect of you to extend to her every courtesy imaginable, whether she consents to my proposal or not. Though I rather think she is not disinclined...”
It took Charles Bingley a moment or two to compose his thoughts which tended to scatter in the recesses of his mind, especially when all but supplanted by the contemplation of the possibility of his future bliss.
“However, that is a matter solely between Miss Bennet and myself. I shall not have—”
Bingley was astounded at his own daring.
“...any remarks about it pass your lips in her presence. That is…”
Bingley cleared his throat and attempted to mollify his words.
“I would appreciate it very much if you were to abstain yourselves from them.”
By that time, he had rather expected his head to have got acquainted with the celebrated firmness – yet refinement! – of the Hursts’ china. No such acquaintance was made. Encouraged by the fact he was apparently to emerge unscathed from the interview, he felt compelled to press his point further whilst he could. What was it again that he had wished to say?
If the serenity of the moment and his position would at all allow it, Mr Bingley would then indubitably opt for a brief yet comforting, if not exactly helpful, scratch on the head above his left ear. As it did not, he resorted to a momentary contemplation of his beloved’s infinite superiority. Miraculously, the effect by far surpassed Mr Bingley’s expectations. Yes! That was it.
“If consideration for my feelings does not make you approve of my intentions, then remember she is your friend, and as you said on several occasions...”
Mr Bingley at that point reluctantly sustained from shaking his own hand in a congratulatory manner for the precisely same reasons he had previously refrained from scratching his head.
“I seem to recall your words clearly, ‘A dear sweet girl’. I expect no less from my sisters.”
“He simply walked in?” Mrs Whistler asked for the umpteenth time. For the umpteenth time, Miss Whistler assured her of his having done precisely that.
“Well, well; whatever next? Rosamund, I ask you, whatever next?”
Miss Whistler knew not whether her sister’s repeated exclamations were to be regarded in the light of a genuine inquiry, or perhaps Mrs Whistler had merely been underlining her infinite shock at the occasion of one gentleman’s brazen attempt of purchasing, well, something.
In the former case, Miss Whistler hardly ventured to speculate as to the extent of profligacy that could be brought about by such behaviour, and in the latter, she knew the best response was none whatsoever, for Mrs Whistler was horrified and appalled to the best of her ability without any assistance.
“Kindly assume a less familiar tone, sir!”
The stages of shock, utter disbelief and finally, disgust, all of them clearly displayed in the animated features of her countenance, had a most unexpected impact on Elizabeth. She was shaken out of the lethargy paralyzing her wits until that moment; an effect occasional bouts of nervousness and uncertainty had hitherto failed to produce.
To expect, and welcome another, only to face the man personifying everything she abhorred in his stead! It brought again before her eyes the sheer scope of her unfortunate prejudice and flawed reasoning. To think she could have been charmed by a Mr Wickham! The superiority of the other could not be more firmly established.
Where was he then? What was Mr Wickham doing there, and why did her father not send him about his business but apparently – Elizabeth’s blood froze in her veins – agreed to their marriage?
But all these baffling issues could be resolved presently; first, she had to extricate herself from his embrace. For Mr Wickham, carried on the wings of triumph over the companion of his youth, had manipulated his limbs in a rather possessive manner about her person.
Matters thus having exceeded simple overfamiliarity of address, Elizabeth was accidentally presented with a plausible theory regarding this utterly astonishing behaviour. Other factors in the grotesque chain of events she had hitherto been witness and an unwilling participant, she for the moment ignored but much could be explained by the odour of the gentleman’s breath, in which Elizabeth clearly identified eau de cologne, and lurking behind it, the unmistakable aroma of another liquid.
“Sir... Mr Wickham!”
Elizabeth finally disentangled herself from his arms and took refuge behind her father’s desk. Never before did she wish as strongly that her family had not been forced to reduce expense wherever possible or that her father had not been the most frugal family member, for a single candlestick would not serve her purpose as well as a five-piece candelabra could.
As far as Mr Bingley was concerned, that day’s work had been completed, and with admirable success. His sisters needed to be told, after all, and well, if he had told them some other things, it was nothing they didn’t need to hear. Or so he said to himself as he closed the door of the breakfast parlour behind him swiftly and paused to establish whether a rather unfortunate saucer would follow him.
Having ascertained that there were no casualties to report, Charles Bingley marveled at the apparent calmness with which his sisters accepted his speech. He now felt completely at ease and even to a greater degree justified in shaking his own hand than previously. He was about to do so as an over-zealous footman crept upon him. Subsequently, Bingley hastily let go and acted as if his right jacket sleeve was in dire need of vigorous brushing.
All in all, a very satisfactory morning, and one remarkable for the amount of vexatious tasks to have been performed in it.
It suddenly occurred to Mr Bingley that one other person needed be told of his intentions, and his courage, admittedly, wavered to some extent.
He might have been suffering from having indulged to excess, and there may have been other reasons why Mr Wickham was light-headed, nevertheless, he could not fail to discern a certain reluctance on the lady’s part to embrace both his person and the opportunity of joining his fate with his.
However little known to him of the nature of this reluctance, Mr Wickham was by no means willing to attribute it to any aversion to himself that was not created by that long-faced spoilsport whose sole purpose in life appeared to be, to spoil his, Wickham’s, sport in particular. No such luck this time. Determination gleamed in Mr Wickham’s eye as he swung himself over the desk.
“Oh no, you shall not,” were the last words he both heard spoken and spoke. His were uttered in an energetic exchange with Darcy transpiring in his mind, and Elizabeth Bennet’s expressed her earnest opposition to being clasped to his bosom afresh.
Darcy!
There was no knowing what line would Darcy take on this matter. Whatever line it would be, Mr Bingley decided, he need not necessarily take it that very day. Better still, what if he was to employ a similar tactics as with Caroline and Louisa?
Mr Bingley saw it for what it was – an admirable scheme, worthy of putting into motion.
Nevertheless… No need to treat one’s best friend quite as a family member and spring such decisions on him out of the blue. No. Give Darcy a chance to acclimatize to the idea of being wrong. Quite.
Mr Bingley in his remarkable consideration was prepared to extend the acclimatization period a little. Darcy to be best man. Ring purchased. Darcy pushed into a carriage on the day, a nosegay ready. And before he knew it, it would all be over.
His fidgeting at the prospect of facing his friend would make a pea on a hot shovel blush with envy. One did not simply go and tell Fitzwilliam Darcy he was mistaken, and if one did, it was not one Bingley was acquainted with. But what is not done in the name of love! Just as he had nearly summoned the nervous courage to proceed to Park Lane and perform the unspeakable, a new argument presented itself to Charles Bingley, in the light of which a stop in Gracechurch Street was particularly desirable.
It was not, after all, entirely improbable that the bride-to-be would wish to be apprised of the developments.
Only the regard for her sister’s feelings prevented Caroline Bingley’s hurt pride to seek compensation for the wounds inflicted by her brother’s babble by means of supplying an item of Mrs Hurst’s tea service with the opportunity to exhibit its stealth – yet refinement! – against the skull of her brother’s head.
Miss Bingley was now more piqued by Mr Darcy’s absenteeism than ever. Then it dawned on her, with remarkable clarity, that if the mountain, that is, Mr Darcy, would not come to her, she might go to the mountain. Although perhaps, none such metaphor was used by Miss Bingley, for any mention of mountains or herself going anywhere near them was unlikely. For Caroline Bingley, mountains were indistinguishable shapes on the horizon, and there they were perfectly at leave to remain. Mr Darcy’s whereabouts, however, she was determined to get on top of.
“Aaaaaaaaa-aaaa!”
With this rather inarticulate exclamation, originating from its ground floor, the Bennet residence was delivered of the uncharacteristic silence which had prevailed in it the entire morning. It was as if the household had waited only for that very signal to explode into its customary bustle.
Lydia and Kitty, never discouraged from leaving the house, had thought that morning a second Christmas had descended upon Longbourn, for Mr Bennet presented each with some ready money, correctly presuming they would go out of the way to spend it all that very day. And so they did; after a thorough search of each other’s wardrobe, they decided that the acquisition of a yard or two of ribbon was essential.
As Kitty knew very well that Lydia would try and borrow money from her to purchase two yards of her own choosing, she decided to call on Maria Lucas and more or less bully her into either herself being the lender, or at least into being a reinforcement to her opposition to Lydia lest she should have her way.
Their day indeed turned out as Kitty had expected, and the two sisters, now each possessed of her yard of ribbon, and swearing by those very ribbons they should never go shopping again in each other’s company as long as they both lived, burst into their family home.
The library door was ajar. This was an extraordinary enough occurrence in itself, rendering it wholly impossible for the two youngest Bennets not to steal a peak at the habitually inaccessible retreat of their father’s. And what they encountered there made them forget the ribbons for as long as a quarter of an hour together.
Lying on the floor face down was a man! A man in a red coat!
Gracechurch Street indeed proved welcoming. Even the fog fled when it observed Mr Bingley’s enthusiasm; for when he arrived to the area that exposed a disturbing gap in his sisters’ education, a clear winter sky hailed him. Mr Bingley could not but be strengthened in his conviction that Gracechurch Street had been a good choice of a destination for a call as surely Park Lane would have sprung bitter cold and cutting wind on him.
Regretfully, Miss Bennet was out. She went to the park with the Misses Gardiner. Will the gentleman...?
The gentleman would like to run after her in his zeal and lay his heart – and, given the state of the roads, more likely his entire self, perchance not even in one piece – at her feet at once. Still, the name Gardiner reached his hearing organ through the haze of his passion and he did. Express his wish to wait, that is.
Mrs Gardiner gave him a warm welcome, and did not betray any wonder at the gentleman’s expeditious reappearance in her home after she had given him a wholesome dinner the night before. She merely expressed her delight at seeing Mr Bingley so soon again. This struck the gentleman precisely in the manner in which it had not been intended.
In his fervent state of mind a fortnight might have passed since the charming evening at the Gardiners’. Mr Bingley recollected his visit might be viewed as unusual. This confused him as his resolve had already been tried severely that day; it practically melted away in face of potential disapproval from the quarter where approbation would have been far more desirable.
“Err... Yes. I thank you for your hospitality, madam. It was most kind of you to accept me so... kindly,” he stuttered.
The straightforward approach, which bore such satisfactory result with his sisters, was hardly befitting this situation. Exasperated, Mr Bingley directed his glance through the window as though the key to his dilemma might have become visible on the horizon. Instead, the sky seemed to close over him.
Being completely unpossessed of aunts of any description – a trait not entirely unattractive in a young man, but leaving Mr Bingley sadly handicapped in the predicament in which he found himself – he naturally was in no position to know that aunts tended to startle people and that in doing so, did not necessarily restrict themselves to their nephews or nieces. If Mr Bingley had had an aunt, this indeed might have prepared him somewhat for what was to follow.
“I take it you have come to see my niece, Mr Bingley.”
Mr Bingley owned that it was indeed so, rejoicing at this turn in conversation.
“Any… particular occasion for your visit?”
Mr Bingley’s stutter now returned with full force. He stood in awe of Mrs Gardiner’s perceptiveness and was stupefied by the absurd transparency of his own intentions.
“You are not by any chance leaving Town within hours, are you, sir?”
Before Mr Bingley’s vocal organ had time to recover, Mrs Gardiner added,
“You seemed so fond of the country when we discussed it last night. Though you did not always cherish Hertfordshire as much as you do now. You left it rather abruptly in November, I believe?”
Elizabeth, too, was acutely aware of the presence of a red-coated man on the floor of her father’s library. Perhaps this was, in her case, brought about by the fact that she had not fled the said room before she had a chance to observe how reliable her hand was.
The absurdity of her situation struck her anew. It would indeed be most amusing, if one had read about it, granted, but to be in midst of such peculiar goings-on did not impress her as particularly entertaining. Most of all, she was shaken not by the absence of Mr Darcy, not by the appearance of Mr Wickham, but by her father’s willingness to give credence to whatever tale the latter had woven. If he believed her capable of that...
Elizabeth stopped short in her tracks. Before that morning, her father gave her no reason to suppose she had sunk considerably in his opinion as well. When and how did it happen then? Had Mr Wickham intercepted her father’s note? Why did Matthews let him?
Clenching fists as if grabbing the unreliable servant by the collar of his jacket, Elizabeth had a good mind to head straight for the kitchen where the culprit, she believed, was to be found. But as abruptly as it occurred to her, the thought was dismissed.
Matthews was not the quickest of men, and Mr Wickham might have got the better of him by some trick or other. Likewise, she found it prudent not to draw any unnecessary attention to Mr Darcy’s name and person. If he had not received the note – as disagreeable the thought of it was, she nevertheless could not dismiss the possibility of it – then nobody need know it ever existed. If he had, on the other hand...
That the gentleman’s position was horizontal and his manner rather inert, did not discourage the youngest Misses Bennet in the least. Even before giving consideration to methods to be applied in order to re-establish the gentleman’s verticality, the two ladies thought it imperative his identity be ascertained lest they should at length discover themselves assisting one of the less worthy gentlemen of the regiment. They were soon gratified in their efforts by a resounding groan.
The vagaries of English weather would not be able to capture Mr Bingley’s attention at that particular moment under any circumstances. The iciest of hailstorms might have been unleashed right above his head, he would not have noticed it nor would it succeed in removing from his cheek the crimson glow which Mrs Gardiner’s words occasioned.
The air of decisiveness about him so clearly discernible earlier that day had quite vanished. He had the air of a guilty man. His hasty departure from Hertfordshire indeed could be interpreted as a sign of lack of just appreciation of Miss Bennet – a dreadful thought in itself – or worse.
The phrase libertine behaviour could indeed come to mind. Bingley acknowledged that, as much as his friend was in the wrong, he was himself to blame for acting against his fondest wishes. What remained was the hope that his actions had brought pain only to himself, though this was unlikely if Miss Bennet’s feelings were such as he wished them to be.
These musings were swept aside by a more immediate concern; that was, how precisely he was to communicate his regret to Mrs Gardiner – unfurrow her brow, as it were – in the small amount of time he hoped there remained before Miss Bennet’s return.
If Mrs Gardiner’s brow had been furrowed upon closer examination, the unforrowing of it would be a task for a man with a Saint-George-like disposition; but though an aunt of formidable discernment, we would not wish to compare Mrs Gardiner to a dragon.
As it was, the word libertine had not occurred to Mrs Gardiner to be the correct word to describe the visitor’s behaviour toward her niece. The word she did have on tip of her tongue, which defined it perfectly, began with a ‘sh’, and she had, also in the fair reader’s presence, observed it to be a worrying trend among young gentlemen. However, this young gentleman was on a very good way to mend his ways. It was, Mrs Gardiner concluded, her duty to support and aid him.
“Papa!”
Mr Bennet recognized his second daughter under the layers of wool that were approaching him over the frost-covered lawn where he repaired in an attempt to assure she and Mr Wickham would have some privacy which was hard to come by at Longbourn. This commendable intention had been further encouraged by the disturbance the events of that day had caused to Mr Bennet’s customary equilibrium. It was for the same reason he quite failed to discern the reproachful tone in Elizabeth’s voice.
“Papa, how could you – how did he persuade you that I intended to marry him?”
Part 17b
Jane Bennet left 48, Gracechurch Street that morning to accompany her cousin in the quest for the remains of the snow which London had been endowed with the previous night. The carriages and footsteps had long obliterated it, most unfortunately, from the street surface, but Anne was very hopeful regarding the park.
Little Sophy wailed ruthlessly upon hearing news of this quest, for she was barred from it on account of having a cold. She felt the injustice of it and had been expressing her deprivation most vehemently the entire morning. This strain on her vocal chords could not and indeed did not go unnoticed by any member of the household, least of all by Sophy’s cousin.
But what could, given the soluble nature of the snow, be done? Perhaps… Perhaps there was some snow left on the roof?
The accessibility of the latter strongly put into question, a glance at Mary, the maid, revealed the solution to both the aunt and the niece simultaneously. Minutes later, Sophy was delivered with a handful of snow in the nursery. A part of the roof hosting a meager patch of whiteness proved to be reachable through the window of the maid’s chamber, though the operation was somewhat precarious.
Sophy was appeased, although she thought in private that snow was not worth the fuss, as it was only white water with which one could not comfortably play. But as she found herself in superior position over her elder sister who was yet obliged to go out in the cold and look for it, she was well satisfied and kissed her cousin with earnest gratitude.
Anne, on the other hand, was convinced that a little pursuit made an all the worthier cause, and so to the park the two young ladies went, and were successful. And snow, was discovered, could not merely be touched, tasted, or shaped into missiles and hurled; no, it was found absolutely vital that it be shared thoroughly not only with one’s company but also with one’s clothing!
Consequently, Jane Bennet, when she reappeared on the doorstep of her uncle’s home, did so in a pleasant state of wetness. On her curls, rather less impeccably coiffed than before she ventured outside, the proof of Anne’s steady hand – which apparently ran down the female line in this family – lingered and glistened. Her face shone with the success of a triumphant explorer, and her cheek was flushed with the change of temperature.
It is truly remarkable to what extent a well-aimed blow can contribute to clearing a man’s head. The relative lightness of the latter consequently presented itself as a mere trifle, especially in view of the comfort he was likely to derive from the attendance of two giggling young ladies, none of which was his candlestick-propelling intended spouse.
Mr Wickham reflected that in this light, it would perhaps be advisable to take his matrimonial plans under some consideration.
Mr Bennet was constantly finding himself unprepared for whatever news or information was sprung upon him. The conversation he found himself taking part in at present moment proved no exception in this respect. The only conviction that persisted clear in his mind, very probably for the reason that it was the sole one in accordance with everything he took as read, was that his daughter was not to become Mrs Wickham.
Further than that, his mind did not venture, being too occupied by restoring the foundations of Mr Bennet’s world – a world in which officers were not prospective son-in-laws but individuals of gaudy dress sense and unconstrained manner, best to be kept at a distance.
Still, a voice belonging to his daughter Elizabeth did not fail to rouse him.
“Papa, how could you – how did he persuade you that I intended to marry him?”
He rather wondered of that himself. How could he, with all his knowledge of his daughter’s character, be so quick to believe the worst? Or to contemplate it even conceivable? Mr Bennet was not particularly proud of himself.
He took Elizabeth by her hands and said,
“Do you know, Lizzy, it appears to me now that I was doing whatever was done by way of persuasion? He hardly said a word.”
Mr Bennet recollected Wickham’s countenance.
‘It is as settled as far it can be settled, sir.’
As if manna from heaven had fallen straight into his arms.
Which did not strike Mr Bennet as a misplaced feeling at the time, as he privately considered his second eldest but little short of this description. But now…
‘May I be permitted a few words in private with Miss Elizabeth, sir? In present situation…’
‘Present situation my foot! You shall stay here, sir, and explain yourself!’
This was what he should have said, he knew that now; but he did not, and now he must look into his daughter’s eyes and demand an explanation of her.
“I… I… It was an act of a coward. I have regretted it these past three months, and especially since it has been my good fortune to meet Miss Bennet again, and what with being so kindly received…”
He stumbled down the list of his blunders in a characteristically erratic order. Not trusting his own judgement – Darcy never known to be wrong – unworthy of her affection, nay, her notice! - convinced trying for her hand was fruitless!
Mrs Gardiner nodded sympathetically throughout this flood of self-accusation and remorse. Amongst all exclamations the one bearing on Mr Darcy’s infallibility baffled her momentarily, yet even an aunt cannot be expected to tackle two young men at once. So gradually, she endeavoured to steer the one present towards the statement of the obvious.
“In short, Madam, nothing could contribute to my happiness further if Miss Bennet would consent to unite her future—”
The statement could not have come at a better moment.
“Mamma, we found it – look!”
Anne could not but share the pleasure of the snow with her mother of whom she caught a glimpse between the parlour door and Cousin Jane’s back. This was her chance to exhibit!
Her triumph was about to be considerably increased by the approval of the nice gentleman who had been to dinner the previous night, and was considered particularly welcome at that moment in the light of her exploits.
Her shawl spread out on her lower arms, and these stretched out in front of her, she slipped past her cousin and ran towards Mrs Gardiner.
It all happened in a flash. Before she knew it, Anne was led to the nursery by her mother’s firm hand, for her clothes were very wet and she needed changing. It did no good to point out Cousin Jane’s were much wetter – Mamma only said that Cousin Jane was not likely to catch cold on this day of all days.
Anne really could not see why not.
Mrs Gardiner was led in her actions not merely by the concern for her child’s welfare but also, as may be surmised, by an earnest desire to contribute to the welfare of the two occupants of her parlour.
They stood still for a moment; as if transformed miraculously into a more solid variety of what existed in traces on Miss Bennet’s hair and shawl – but that was soon over.
Namely, it occurred to Mr Bingley that he would do very well to repeat the sentence he failed to finish just as its primary addressee suddenly appeared – with a slight substitute of the very formal ‘Miss Bennet’ with a rather more personal ‘you’.
And when moments later, he was addressing her merely as Jane, she did not protest, and as Mrs Gardiner anticipated, she did not feel the dampness of her attire.
An ointment was applied to the patient’s chest, whereupon the latter was enclosed in a protective cocoon of several towels, which had been previously warmed by the fire. The fever had not broken, but as not much time had passed since the onset of the disease, Dr Bridewell was disposed to take a favourable view of the progress. His concern for Mr Darcy’s lung was by no means diminished but the following day or two should indicate whether it was justified. Until then, all was to be done to make the patient comfortable.
In this, he had a strong ally. Georgiana had taken fright that afternoon – judging by what she saw, her brother had been on the verge of flinging himself through the window! She blamed it on the fever, especially as William could not remember the incident at all. Furthermore, for him the incident was her falling down – he had been most anxious on her behalf.
If it would bring her brother permanently from the obscurity of semi-consciousness, Georgiana was ready and willing to yield to the principle of gravity as often as needed. However, as Darcy again drifted into sleep after regaining the grasp on his immediate surroundings and being assured repeatedly of his sister’s well-being, no immediate sacrifice of this kind was called for.
“Shall I get you some tea?”
“Tea? Tea? What are you thinking?”
Kitty, who was thinking of nothing but of alleviating the gentleman’s suffering, did not comprehend that she had gone about it the wrong way. Her sister’s eyes flashed.
Who would have thought of suggesting tea in such circumstances? When did tea do a man any good?
“Well… Perhaps…”
Mr Wickham really did not care for any refreshment, especially not for one which would potentially effect a prolonged stay at Longbourn. In that respect, he was inclined to agree with Miss Lydia; tea would not do him any good. The prospect of it being served into his lap made him confident of it. He nevertheless mustered the presence of mind to thank Miss Kitty just before she fled the room in what could rightfully be called ‘a state’.
“You always know best, don’t you, don’t you? Never mind I am older and have more experience as a hostess,” – at which her younger sister smirked. “No, you are always right, are you? Well, do as you please, and see if I care!”
Mr Wickham therefore found himself in the sole care of the youngest Miss Bennet.
James’s exasperation grew by the minute. It was bad enough he had to go and answer the door, but to see Miss Bingley on the threshold had the suggestion of a cataclysm about it. Once she was on the same side of the door as he – which was brought about not as much by his inviting her to do so as with her inviting herself – the suggestion was dangerously near to an actuality.
“Oh, do not persist in these absurd statements! Of course she is at home, where else would she be? Do not say they have gone visiting – it is not their day!”
Miss Bingley would not be deterred from entering the house, and once in it, she would not move lest her eye caught glimpse of a Darcy.
As it happened, both the footman and Miss Bingley were in luck.
“Lizzy, shall we go inside? And then, perhaps…”
He was unable to complete this particular sentence. He started afresh.
“Forgive an old man who’s had too much excitement in one day. How did all this come about? For my dear, I hardly know what to think.”
He examined his daughter’s face closely. Her eyes were red, but this may be attributed to the unsettling wind, which battered them as they stood in the garden.
All in all, her behaviour was essentially identical to the one which had baffled him that very morning during the highly embarrassing exchange, or rather, soliloquy of his in the library. But his comportment now was much less hurried, and uneasy; he would not draw hasty conclusions. He could hardly bear looking at her before; now he did not shrink from scrutinizing her freely as was his wont.
“I knew it – my dear, this…”
Miss Bingley threw a glance at the rapidly retreating footman, searching for a term capable of replacing ‘wretch of a creature’, which was hardly appropriate, settling finally on…
“… man kept insisting you were not at home. Preposterous, as if you would deny yourself to me!”
Georgiana smiled feebly and greeted Caroline Bingley.
That she had things to tell was evident. Mr Bennet braced himself best as he could, and again suggested retreating into the house.
“I am not likely to enter the house again whilst Mr Wickham is in it, Papa.”
It again fell to Mr Bennet’s lot to be astonished.
“But, Lizzy – I do not understand. Have you not sent him away?”
“Not in so many words. I was nevertheless clear in advising him that neither his present company nor his… proclaimed affections were wanted. Unfortunately, after I had made my communication, he was… Unable to relieve me of his presence.”
Mr Bennet was subsequently brought abreast of the burden the carpet in his library bore.
How was she to explain to her father something she hardly understood herself? How much could she reveal, to what could she commit herself, without communicating to her father the story of her dealings with Mr Darcy?
It disgusted her to think she had defended to his face the very same who stooped to such obvious violation of dignity and propriety.
‘Obvious, yes! It took much for me to perceive it as such!’
She folded her arms on her chest, stroking her upper arms as she did so, as if in an effort to expunge both the memory and the fact of Wickham’s touch.
“Ill?”
“Yes, Miss Bingley, I am afraid so.”
“But he was in perfect health the last time I saw him! Ill! Well!”
Miss Bingley did not expect this to betide her. Absence, aloofness or complete disregard of her person she could and would deal with, but disease was something she did not anticipate.
Briefly, before her eyes unfolded the picture of herself as a watchful bedside attendant but this was naturally impracticable. Not only was it out of the question on account of propriety – but Miss Bingley of the mental image was not a Miss Bingley but a Mrs Darcy in any case; her imagination was of an exceptionally rapid kind. There was another obstacle, however. Illness in any form, to Miss Bingley’s mind, could not be associated with the companion of her life.
“I suppose he could not help it.”
Her attitude made it increasingly difficult for Georgiana to provide any kind of response. Pointing out that her brother certainly did not choose to fall ill would hardly do, so she kept silent. Which was all very well with Miss Bingley, as the notion of her bedside attendance in the role of Mrs Darcy persisted to raid her mind.
It was only in this light that any kind of physical infirmity in Mr Darcy would not be viewed by Miss Bingley as her bête noire.
Did a door in this house ever open in a manner suited to one of its kind?
By contemplating thus the supposed proper behaviour in a door, Mr Wickham very probably had in mind how welcome it would have been if the opening of one would prove in some way announced, or expected. If the door in question had behaved in the manner he had trusted it would, he perhaps would not have flinched, and his right hand would not have jerked and attempted to assume the appearance of casual, innocuous manner.
Be it as it may, any such performance would have been lost on Mr Bennet. Claiming right on his favourite daughter had not sufficed to this pitiable excuse for a man – no! He had the presumption to behave in a very familiar way to his youngest as well!
For Lydia, who had just left her position on the right arm of the armchair with a squeal of fright, had indeed been subjected to Mr Wickham’s customary lack of reserve with good-humoured young ladies. His recent unfavourable experience with a lady notable for lack of warmth towards his person only added to the latter.
Mr Bennet was, to say the least, nonplussed, but reacted quickly. Lydia was told to go upstairs and stay there until she was called down. Mr Wickham looked as if he wished his fate were to prove similar, and Mr Bennet would have liked nothing better. But his non-intervention had gone on for long enough. So he raised his voice and let the offending individual before him know he had realized what he was about, wishing profoundly at the same time this were true down to the very last detail.
Nevertheless, Mr Bennet compensated for in resolve what he lacked in information, and Mr Wickham was seen leaving Longbourn that afternoon with his tail between his legs, as it were.
Two days later
Mrs Phillips was in a state of gloom. Even her daily talk with her cook had become a chore, and that said plenty, for Mrs Phillips had hitherto derived considerable pleasure from the conference. Quite the reverse could be said of the cook’s attitude towards these talks – her sturdy frame positively shook, first with distinct aversion to enter what Mrs Phillips called ‘morning room’, and which transformed itself miraculously into a parlour when visitors arrived, and upon closing the door of this marvel of a room after the interview, the cook’s ample cheeks would wobble with ill-suppressed rage and she would mutter into her chin how she would not bear another day in a house where her work was continually exposed to suspicion and scrutiny.
However, the past few days even Evelyn the cook had breathed more freely, as Mrs Phillips’s sails had been robbed of wind. She said not a word of the poultry, which seemed to have fled the larder instead of resting there in peace, and offered no advice how the consumption of ale in the kitchen should be reduced to an acceptable amount, which would ideally limit to zero.
Mrs Phillips might have succeeded in showing a brave face outside her home, she might have wondered at her sister Fanny’s liberal upbringing of her offspring…
“I would not breathe a word against my sister, madam, but if I recall how often I told her, ‘A girl’s reputation is more than her fortune, and your girls have no fortune, my dear’! But did she listen? Did she pay any heed to my warnings? No!”
Such were Mrs Philips’s litanies, but did they bring her the favour of that pillar of virtue, Mrs Constance Flowerdew?
Alas, they did not. Mrs Flowerdew listened to Mrs Phillips’s emissaries – for truth be told, the fact they could reach Mrs Flowerdew and she could not, was the only reason behind Mrs Phillips being even willing to enter upon the distressing subject. Mrs Flowerdew listened, and occasionally, she would even nod, but not a word escaped her.
Mrs Phillips thus could not make it known to the highest moral authority how she, too, as every other inhabitant of Meryton, had deeply distrusted Mr Wickham’s motives behind his courtship of Miss King, and how peculiar she had found the fact that her niece Elizabeth took it so lightly. By now of course, the entire Meryton knew what she had suspected, no, comprehended long ago, namely, that it was all smoke in the eye of Mr Bennet, who would have never consented to the marriage. Elopement was a word Mrs Phillips would never let pass her lips – but her friends were obliging enough to let it pass theirs instead.
Nevertheless, this distressing situation did not leave Mrs Phillips utterly destitute. She might not be admitted into the sanctum of chastity that was the Flowerdew residence, but she had a ready enough welcome elsewhere, especially as she was practically the only one – but for those thoughtlessly compassionate Lucases – whose right and duty was to visit the home of the trespasser.
Their conversation appeared in his mind as if his memory had been taken away from him, and he had but vague clues as to how the few remaining pieces of the puzzle fitted together. As by rule, the pieces at hand appeared to be minuscule and sharp about the edges.
‘One who has treated one’s childhood friend so abominably…’
His cheek burned as he recollected her tone and the pang in his chest, for once, stemmed not from his illness.
‘…could hardly be expected to shrink from hurting one who is but common acquaintance to him –’
There is a fine motive to have attributed to one’s actions. But little else is to be expected of one as unscrupulous as I, I suppose!
His anger with her – how could she deem him capable of such falsehood? – blended with the same feeling regarding himself. In fact, the latter has rapidly been becoming much more prominent, and to such an extent that it soon utterly obliterated any memory of the former’s existence.
His reflections on the abrupt visit to Hertfordshire and its conclusion gradually swerved into the direction of scrutiny of his own behaviour.
Wickham had influenced her considerably, but for such an intelligent woman to give credence to so finely spun a yarn, took slightly more than charme – at this point, Mr Darcy ground his teeth so forcefully as to thoroughly alarm Mr Forsythe who was at that very moment unfolding a crispy fresh shirt for his master to change into.
If that fellow’s abuse of his jaw is considered ‘charmant’, then ‘charme’ is as overrated as I had always suspected.
It was true, he reflected, that in her company his own ability to make himself agreeable had been even more modest than in other circumstances.
Make myself agreeable! I might as well perform as Jack-in-the-box. More successfully too, I should not wonder.
He did manage, once or twice, to present himself to some advantage at least. As for the remainder of the occasions they were in each other’s company…
Better to be forgotten. No, not that. Not dwelling on them should do.
There was, of course, their first meeting.
Intensely mortifying. Also, quite possibly the most remarkable demonstration of the heights human idiocy can reach. Followed closely by the verdict of ‘unattached’ in the Bennet-Bingley case.
‘… common in more than one aspect, in your opinion, I dare say, Mr Darcy!’
At this, he was as dumbfounded as at that moment in a Hertfordshire lane when he heard her say it.
The mere word, common, allegedly attributed to her sister, and as such, associated with Elizabeth herself, Darcy would never use. Naturally, the connection between the term and her own person was absurd – as he had stated, he thought, plainly. However…
There are people amongst my close acquaintance who would have thought it a remarkably accurate portrayal of the family… Confound them!
He bit his lip in bitter recollection that he perhaps would have had to face more than an amused smirk or two from people he did not really care about. They, after all, could be glared into keeping their disapproval to themselves. This could hardly be the case with his Aunt de Bourgh. Lady Catherine, after all, was very well versed in being on the giving side of a benumbing glare.
What good it did, pondering on and bracing himself for his Aunt’s reaction, when it was clear enough that her ladyship would have no occasion to disapprove of a prospective niece?
She made that very evident.
Should he be surprised? He winced at the thought.
Should I? Ultimately, I had ruined the chance of her sister’s happiness, sabotaged the prospects of a man whom she
– he halted – held in her esteem, and nicely rounded my doings by the censure of her entire family.
And yet…
She could have sent him away at any moment that afternoon four days ago. She did not. She stayed and listened to him.
Whatever the implication, what am I in position to do about it?
It hardly mattered what her feelings for him were after that singular interview, for he was strictly forbidden to leave his bed for another fortnight, and after that, as Dr Bridewell said privately,
‘No gallivanting all bedraggled on horseback for you, my lad, for a while! Whatever or whoever may your woe be, you shall stay put and be waited upon. It will as soon as find you, or at the very least linger about until you are well again.’
Mr Darcy considered the case in the exactly opposite light. He was perfectly fine, at the very least strong enough to take care of his affairs.
Or rather, the doctor surmised that his affairs were what Mr Darcy was capable of attending to, for hacking cough, Mr Darcy’s faithful companion ever since he and fever had parted ways to mutual satisfaction, deterred him from concluding the sentence.
Dr Bridewell remained unmoved. Did Mr Darcy wish to make a full recovery? Then Mr Darcy would stay confined to his bed.
I am not even allowed to recline elegantly on a sofa and make a proper nuisance of myself to all. Instead, I am to pester but the chosen few.
“But – my letters?”
Dr Bridewell eyed his patient questioningly. Surely one could read lying down?
“I meant writing them,” Darcy croaked gruffly.
Another such perfectly sensible question and I shall be proclaimed in compos mentis.
“I see. You really should not strain your chest by sitting up, sir. It would not do. Miss Darcy will be delighted to be of service there, I am sure.”
Somehow, that was not precisely what Mr Darcy had in mind.