Section I, Next Section
Chapter 1
It wasn't long after Mr. Bingley rented Netherfield that all the mammas and daughters in the neighborhood worked themselves into a fine flurry of romantic expectation by the near presence of so gallant, so young, so generous and personable a SINGLE young man.
And when word leaked out that he would be attending the Meryton assembly... Well...
It was said that the business of Meryton drapers and dressmakers increased ten fold in the first week. It seemed like there wasn't a single "girl" between the ages of thirteen and thirty who wasn't getting a new frock made in the hopes of attracting the attention of blond, blue-eyed Mister Bingley, with his blue jacket and his five thousand a year and likely more.
The Bennets were no different from the rest of the neighborhood. Well, perhaps a little more eager than their neighbors, as they had not one, not two, but five girls to marry, and - their property being entailed away on one of Mr. Bennet's male cousins - no way to provide for any daughter who failed to make an advantageous marriage.
So, Mrs. Bennet, whom the complexity of marrying all these girls had long since driven to distraction, commandeered the first services of the dressmakers, to outfit her eldest, most beautiful and sweetest daughter, Jane; her sparkling-eyed, inquisitive second-born, Elizabeth; her studious, bookish daughter, Mary; her prettyish daughter, Kitty, and her lively, enthusiastic daughter Lydia.
"All of you girls are to have new bonnets," Mrs. Bennet's sharp voice, much trained in lamentation and self-pity, rose to glass-breaking frenzy. "And new gowns. Ah, Mr. Bennet," she added to her husband who sat, reading the paper, across the fire from her in their cozy sitting room - a sitting room most inconvenient in summer, with its windows full west. "I don't know what will become of us. Why, the lace on Jane's gown--"
Mr. Bennet's paper rustled ominously. From behind it, his impatient voice was heard to mutter, "No lace, Mrs. Bennet. No lace."
Mrs. Bennet sighed. "It's just as well that such a man should come to the neighborhood. What a fine thing for our girls."
After a while the corner of Mr. Bennet's newspaper was lowered, revealing his ruddy, bewhiskered face. Twenty years older than his wife, he had white hair, and the kindly expression of a well-settled country gentleman. He looked over his reading glasses at his wife of twenty five years, with a half-bewildered expression.
Mrs. Bennet turned the page on the pattern book she had been studying. Her five girls crowded around the back of her chair, looking over her shoulder at the rather frilly concoction.
"Oh, that would suit me so well," Lydia said. She was a well-grown, fearless girl of fifteen. Her finger, pointing at the gown, trembled a little. "I like the lace, and the low cut."
Mrs Bennet nodded. "I dare say it would suit you, Lydia. I dare say it would. We shall show this one to Mrs. Terry and see if there is enough lace to make it with."
"Mrs. Bennet?" Mr. Bennet cleared his throat and rustled his paper, still intent on his wife. "Why does it matter that Mr. Bingley came to the neighborhood? Pray, how can this affect our girls?"
Mrs. Bennet sighed, a sigh that implied men could be altogether too thick. "Why, you must know I'm thinking of his marrying one of them."
Mr. Bennet's eyebrows rose on his broad forehead. "And pray, is that his intention in renting Netherfield?"
Mrs. Bennet turned the page to a gown of severe splendor, not too low cut, that she thought would fit Jane's serene beauty wonderfully. She bent the corner on the page. "Intention. Nonsense. But I think he might very well fall in love with one of them...."
"It is commonly known," Elizabeth said, in her teasing voice. "That any single man of great fortune must be in want of a wife."
"Indeed it is," her mother agreed, bending down yet another corner of another page, having found a rather plain, straightforward gown that wouldn't call too much attention to Lizzy and her quarrelsome ways. If only that girl learned to behave with Jane's demure calm.
"Well... well," Mr. Bennet said, grinning. "He might very well pick Jane, she is amiable enough. And Lizzy has a little more wit than the rest."
Mrs. Bennet found a gown for Mary. She would have it done in brown. "And let's not forget our other girls," she said.
"Aye," Mr. Bennet said. "For they've arms and legs enough between them. And are three of the silliest girls in England." He got up, setting his paper down on his broad arm chair, and stepped over to the fireplace, standing in front of it to warm himself. "Well, well, he might prefer a stupid woman, as others have before him," he said. And, turning on his heel, left the room, leaving wife and daughters to talk and fuss over the patterns.
"Ah, Jane." Lizzy sat at her vanity, combing her curly hair, while her sister, Jane sat at the edge of Lizzy's bed. "If I could love a man who loved me well enough to want me for only fifty pounds a year, I'd be very happy indeed." She paused, staring at her face in the mirror. "But such a man could hardly be sensible, and I could never love a man who was out of his wits."
Jane smiled. "Lizzy, we are not very poor."
"No, but with father's estate entailed away from the female line, we have little but our charms to recommend us to any suitor. At least one of us shall have to marry very well, and since you're quite five times as pretty as the rest of us, I'm afraid that burden will fall on you."
Jane frowned. "Ah, Lizzy, what good is my beauty. I'm almost three and twenty, and yet no man has proposed to me. Nor have I...."
"Yes?"
"Nor have I fallen in love with any of them. And, Lizzy, I would very much like to marry for love." She knit her pale brows together. "A marriage where neither party respects nor loves the other.... That cannot be agreeable."
"As we have proof daily." Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "But do not worry, Jane, you shall marry for love.... provided you take care to fall in love with a man of good fortune."
"And you?" Jane arched her brows.
"I..." Elizabeth stared at her reflection in the mirror. "I am determined that nothing but the deepest of loves shall entice me into matrimony."
Into the silence that followed, came Lydia's high, merry voice, "Lord, I'll dance with as many gentlemen as he brings with him."
Kitty's responding laughter echoed through the house.
Mr. Bingley did grace the assembly with his presence. With him came his tall, silent friend, Mr. Darcy, his two sisters, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, his brother in law, Mr. Hurst, and Mr. Hurst's younger brother, Mr. Stephen Hurst, who was reading for the law at Cambridge.
And it wasn't long into the dancing, that it became apparent that Mr. Bingley preferred Kitty Bennet above all other girls. For though he danced the first one with Jane, he was visibly put off by Jane's dignified, stand-offish posture, made all the more imposing by the elaborate dark-red and gold brocade dress in which Jane's mother had chosen to attire her and which Jane had been too sweet to protest.
So he danced the second and third one with Kitty Bennet who smiled a lot, and was light on her feet. And when, having bespoken Miss Kitty for the fourth dance, he realized that his friend Darcy was standing around in a stupid manner. Mr. Bingley approached him, peremptorily. "Come on Darcy, you must dance. I must have you dance."
Mr. Darcy sighed, running his gaze over the sitting women in the room. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley were dancing, as were all the Bennet sisters, except the two eldest, whom Darcy decided must have been passed over because local men knew something about them - because otherwise, surely, with their looks, someone would be dancing with them. Why, even the third sister was dancing, with Mr. Stephen Hurst. "Bingley, I am in no mood to give consequence to girls who were passed over by other men. Go back to your partner. Enjoy her smiles. You're wasting your time with me."
But, just then, Lydia came walking up, a glass of wine in her hand. Mr. Bingley saw his opportunity and seized it. "Here, Darce, here. This is my partner's younger sister. She's very pretty too. Very agreeable, I dare say. Allow me to present Miss Lydia Bennet."
Lydia had stopped, steps away, looking up at Mr. Darcy with a vague smile.
Darcy sighed, and bowed. "How do you do," he said. And, his eyes on her low decolletage, he stammered out, "I would be very glad to dance the next one with you. If you do me the honor."
She grinned. "Oh, Lor," she said. "Why not?"
"Oh, Mr. Bennet," Mrs. Bennet said, as she rushed into the house and overtook him in the sitting room, where he sat reading a book. "Our girls were so admired. And Mr. Bingley showed great favor to Kitty, for he danced the first one with her, and then what do you think, in the third dance he got Mr. Darcy, his friend, to dance with Lydia. And then Mr. Darcy danced every one with Lydia, and what do you know, he has a fine estate in Derbyshire, and ten thousand a year. Ten thousand. And Mary, too, danced almost every one with Mr. Stephen Hurst, the brother of Mr. Bingley's brother in law, and they talked together a great deal, and I dare say she'll be engaged before the year is out, and then what do you think?"
"No more, Mrs. Bennet, no more," Mr. Bennet said, getting up with a thunderous frown, and setting his book down with a bang on a little occasional table that rocked under the impact. "I wish they'd all sprained their ankles on the first dance."
As he walked towards the door, he passed Lizzy and Jane who sat together on a sofa by the door. "Did you dance much Lizzy?" He asked. "And you Jane?"
"No, not at all," Jane said.
Mr. Bennet's frown increased, as he left the room, banging the door and muttering about young bucks without taste.
"So you liked Miss. Lydia Bennet?" Bingley asked, after everyone else had retired, when he and Darcy sat together in the studio, sipping port.
Darcy smiled, one of his rare smiles. "I tell you, Bingley, she's an angel. At first, I thought she smiled too much." He frowned at the fireplace. "But I soon realized that's just the sort of woman that suits me - pleasant and joyful, always ready to draw me out of myself and not let me think too much. Yes, Bingley, I like her very well indeed."
Bingley smiled into the fire. "I like Miss Kitty Bennet very well too," he said. He got up and poked at the log with the fireplace irons. "It's much too early to say, Darce, but wouldn't it be grand if we ended up being brothers?"
Chapter 2
Soon, all of Meryton knew of Mr. Bingley's and Mr. Darcy's preference for the two Bennett sisters. Of course, this was spread by the gossip of Mrs Bennett and her female relatives.
"Sister," Mrs. Phillips said, one day, as she rushed into Mrs. Bennett's room. "Have you heard, sister?"
She settled down in a settee, across from the chaise in which Mrs. Bennett ordinarily indulged in attacks of nerves, and where she now indulged in revery about Lydia's future. "It is said that Mr. Darcy haunts Meryton, in hopes of seeing Lydia, on her way to the shops. He is that love-sick."
"Oh, sister," Mrs. Bennett answered, with a giggle. "Why, I believe Lydia needs a new hat." Getting up, she walked to the door of her room, and called, in her shrill voice, "Lydia, child. Go down to the shops and get a new hat. Your old one is not fit to be worn." Closing the door, she came back into the room. "Not fit to be worn by the intended of Mr. Darcy, a man with ten thousand a year." And, swooning upon her chaise, she added, "Oh, sister, what jewels, what carriages she shall have. What lace. Why, a house in town. Everything that's elegant."
Mrs. Phillips leaned forward, encouragingly, "And that will throw the girls in the path of other rich men."
In Meryton, Mr. Darcy indeed, rode up and down the main street, in hopes of seeing the bewitching Miss Bennett, with her low, low cut dress.
Bingley, a good friend, rode apace with him. Besides, he wouldn't be averse to seeing Miss Kitty Bennett, though he wasn't perhaps as eager as his friend. In fact, after three or four turns down the street, he turned to Darcy. "Should we not be getting back to Netherfield, eh, Darce?"
"Why?" Darcy asked, distracted, as his gaze swept the street for the sight of the girl. "We stayed out later, yesterday."
"Well, we've been going up and down the street so regularly every morning that I believe shopkeepers are setting their clocks by us, Darce. And we haven't seen them yet."
Darcy opened his mouth to answer, but he stopped.
Because, walking up the street and waving cheerily at him was none other than his new found heart light.
"Yoo hoo, Mr. Darcy," she said, and grinned as she approached his horse.
Darcy blinked. In anyone else this gesture would have been uncouth. But Lydia couldn't be uncouth, could she? No, impossible, he could never be attracted to an uncouth woman. She was just simple and full of charming country manners.
Besides, as she approached to stand directly beneath him, as he sat on his horse, Darcy had a full view of her very low cut dress. True, she wore some kind of shawl around her neck, to disguise the neckline, but the shawl was translucent and let the rosy hue of her flesh shine through.
"We've been riding back and forth in hopes of meeting you," he said.
She giggled at his remark. "We just came to town to see you. What a good joke."
The giggle was a little uncouth, too, but then Lydia was young and naive. She'd learn better.
"We?" Bingley said.
"Oh, I hurried on ahead of Kitty."
Mr. Bingley looked worriedly solicitous, as he fixed his eyes on a moving point in the distant horizon, then set off, intent on talking to Kitty.
Mr. Darcy thought that it was very unfeeling of her to leave her sister behind like that - but then, sh was just a healthy, well-built -- he stared down through the translucent shawl -- simple country girl. What could be wrong with that?
"My aunt Phillips is having a gathering tonight. Would you like to come?"
"I would, gladly, if Mrs. Phillips invited me."
"Oh," Lydia giggled. "No one cares for such things now a days. Come along."
And though Mr. Darcy knew better and had always been known to be a stickler for propriety, yet he couldn't resist her little giggle, and the way the shawl moved up and down with her merriment.
Miss Bingley, having come to Meryton with Charles, in dogged pursuit of Mr. Darcy, had not heard the gossip of the town.
Oh, she'd noticed that Darcy danced non-stop with Lydia at the assembly, which she had found exceedingly vexing. "It's the cut of her dress," she'd told her sister, Louisa Hurst that evening. "It was all that lace. I should have a dress like that."
But Mrs. Hurst, fanning herself while sitting on the living room sofa, had shaken her head. "You can't have a dress like that, Caroline. It wouldn't be... well."
"Why can I not?" Caroline stomped her foot.
Mrs. Hurst blushed, and gazed at the area where her sister was notably inferior to Miss Bennett. "Well, it wouldn't be seemly."
"It would if it's orange," she said.
Louisa had sighed and left it at that.
And Miss Bingley had labored, over the next few days, to attract Mr. Darcy's attention, an effort only slightly hampered by his spending every morning riding up and down Meryton main street for exercise which he claimed to need urgently.
To own the truth, though she didn't list to Meryton gossip, she did for a while fear very much that Mr. Darcy had found a way to meet the Bennett girl somewhere.
But, on the night that Darcy and Bingley returned from Mrs. Phillips assembly, Caroline heard something that set her mind quite at rest.
It was near on to midnight, and she should have long fallen asleep but, having forgotten a book she'd been reading - all right, skimming - in the library, she went down to pick it up. To own the truth, she might also have heard Mr. Darcy's and Charles' horses outside.
She had climbed down the broad stair and got lost on her way to the library, since all the candles were out. All right, all right, to tell the absolute truth, she heard the men's voices from the billiard room. By pure coincidence, she walked past it, and, by the merest accident, hid in the shadows just outside the door.
She didn't eavesdrop, of course. Properly brought up gentlewomen didn't eavesdrop.
But she just chanced to hear Mr. Darcy say, "Well, Bingley, we might yet be brothers after all."
After that, though she returned to her room, she didn't sleep, of course.
She lay awake in the dark, staring at the canopy over her bed, wondering when he was going to propose.
Oh, she was the happiest of women. She had to have her wedding dress sent for and soon. After all, orange wedding dresses weren't that common.
So enthralled was Mrs. Bennett with the idea of marrying off her prettier daughters, that she had not paid any attention to her middle daughter, the quiet, bookish one.
This was a great problem, for, as Mary herself would have said, in her more sensible days, idle hands are the devil's playground. Or, in this case, idle brains.
Mary liked Mr. Stephen Hurst a great deal, and their relationship had been progressing apace.
Mr. Stephen Hurst was a tall, gangly man, with a prominent Adam's apple and an adenoidal voice, but he had great appreciation for what he like to call Mary's superior powers of intellect.
With the tacit consent of her parent's indifference, she met him in the little wilderness beside the house almost every day.
They walked, and read together, and talked over life, citing important maxims and encouraging each other in memorizing sermons and books of proverbs.
It was there that Mr. Hurst told her, one morning, that he would be overcome, indeed, overwhelmed, if she'd do him the honor of sharing his life.
She agreed eagerly, of course, but there was catch.
"You see," he said. "I'm only the second son, and my family is not at all wealthy, which is why we find it necessary to stay with Mr. Bingley. Mr. Bingley is paying for my courses at Cambridge, but I haven't yet finished reading for the law. My brother has hopes of my marrying into fortune, and thereby rescuing the whole family. So, Miss Mary we must keep our engagement a secret until I finish reading for the law, this term, and then I will speak to your father."
Mary, who'd thought she'd have to wait a lifetime for someone to propose to her, agreed most readily. She did not want to end up an old maid, like Jane and Elizabeth were in danger of becoming.
"I have received a letter," Mr. Bennett announced at breakfast one morning.
"Oh, it's from Mr. Bingley asking for Kitty's hand," Mrs. Bennett said.
"No. It's from Darcy, asking for mine," Lydia said. She and Kitty broke into wild giggles.
Mr. Bennet waited until they had stopped laughing. "It's from a man I've never heard from in the whole course of my life." He went on to announce that it was from his cousin, Mr. Collins who, after his death would inherit from him and, if he wished "turn you all to starve in the hedgerows." This Mr. Collins, having taken orders and received a living from the hand of his most noble patroness, lady Catherine De Bourg, wished to make peace with the Bennett family. To that end, he would be coming to town for a fortnight, and staying at Longbourn.
"Well," Mrs. Bennett said. "He is a wretched man, to be inheriting Longbourn. But he is single, and if he is disposed to make amends, he would do very well for Jane." She looked across the table, at her elder daughter, who blushed at her mother's words. "Yes, indeed. We don't want our Jane to be an old maid."
Chapter 3
Mr. Collins arrived at Longbourn within a week.
He was a waddling, overweight man, with rather greasy dark hair that gave off a rancid smell. The main part of his not very keen wit seemed devoted to giving compliments to those he considered his betters. And, in this at least modest, he considered just about everyone his better.
It wasn't many hours of his being in the house, that his continuous fawning on Mr. Bennett's amiable daughters, on Mr. Bennett's prodigious erudition; on Mrs. Bennett's excellent arrangements - which rather reminded Mr. Collins of this or that room at Rosings, the home of his noble patroness Lady Catherine De Bourg - had driven Mr. Bennett past amusement and into permanent seclusion in his library.
The only other person in the family who found anything at all amusing in Mr. Collin's dismal prattle was the Bennett's second daughter, Elizabeth, who grinned behind her hand at his stupidity, and turned her smiling countenance way from his overwhelmingly transparent compliments.
However, Elizabeth was not amused with the preference that Mr. Collins showed to her sister Jane.
She had said as much to Jane, in Jane's room, just the night before. Sitting on Jane's white bedspread, her hands drawn about her knees, Lizzy - as the family called her - had listened to the chirping crickets in the garden outside, and watched her prettiest sister comb out her golden hair.
"I'm afraid he means to marry you, Jane."
Jane looked at the mirror and sighed. "I've come to believe so, also, Lizzy," she said, her countenance barely disturbed.
"And you don't mind?" Lizzy asked. "You mean to refuse him. Tell me you mean to refuse him, Jane."
Jane sighed again. She turned back from the mirror and stared at her sister. Jane's big, blue eyes swam with uncried tears, but her voice was still serene as she said, "I don't think I can, Lizzy. How can I refuse a connection that would give such security to all my dear family?"
"Security?" Lizzy spat. "Security. Jane, you'd be marrying the stupidest man in England. It would be so humiliating."
"Lizzy," Jane said. "You take no account of different circumstances. You're not one and twenty yet, and I'm almost one and twenty one. Every man who's ever been in love with me has faded out before proposing. Remember that clerk of uncle Gardiner's, when I was but fifteen? He walked away. He never came back. All of them have done that. Our cousin is a respectable man. He's not vicious. And, considering his connections, he's likely to give me a comfortable home." Her voice was calm as ever, her gaze even and blue. But the candle light flickered in the water in her eyes, and gave the lie to her serenity.
"Oh, Jane," Lizzy said, exasperated. "It is not true. You're not resigned. You do not love him. Beautiful as you are, there is no reason you should marry for less than love."
Jane set her ivory-handled brush down. "There is enough reason. Mr. Collins will inherit father's estate after father's death. If I'm married to him, I can ensure that he treats mother well...." She tried to go on, but her voice failed her. She rested her elbows on her vanity, she hid her face in her hands and she cried.
Watching Jane cry, Lizzy bit her lower lip. This was insupportable. Jane would be made miserable by that waddling toad of a man, but she would go to the altar like a victim to the sacrifice, for the sake of her dear family to whom Jane could deny nothing.
No.
Lizzy was not about to stand for this.
Not for nothing was she spirited, perhaps too spirited, if one listened to her mother. If Jane wouldn't save herself, it remained to Lizzy to save her.
She knelt beside Jane's chair and held her tightly, while Jane cried on her shoulder.
"All will be well, Jane. All will be well. I shall see to it."
The regiment of militia of the ----shire had come to town, and girls and women were given fresh hopes somewhat dashed by Mr. Bingley's and Mr. Darcy's preference of the Bennett sisters.
Meryton assemblies gained considerable sparkle from the presence of so many young men. Visions of red coats and weddings with a guard of honor with sabers drawn danced in female heads.
This should not have affected either Kitty or Lydia, practically engaged women as they were. However, the fact is that the younger Bennett misses were driven more by a competitive instinct than by any sort of infatuation. And, seeing the other girls compete for the officers attentions, they had to join in.
As such, they often found excuse or occasion to go into Meryton, in search of fresh gallants to smite with their charms.
This happened the day after Lizzy's and Jane's talk related above.
All five daughters had been in the garden, occupied with their different pursuits, while Mr. Collins and Mrs. Bennett walked in the garden, absorbed in some private conversation that looked to be of great import.
When Lydia approached her mother and asked if they might all walk into Meryton, Mrs. Bennett had smiled, confidently, and said, "Oh, yes, of course. And I think Mr. Collins would like some exercise as well."
Mr. Collins, seizing the hint and grasping the moment by its straggle of hair, as it ran past, had immediately made so bold as to ask his amiable cousin Jane for her company.
Jane dropped her gaze, and blushed, and her lips trembled, but before she could say a word, Lizzy advanced. "Oh, Mr. Collins. I was hoping for the pleasure of your company. I wanted to discuss with you a point in Fordyce's sermons that I can't make out at all."
Mr. Collins looked puzzled, the puzzled expression peculiar to very stupid people who always feel as if the world were putting one over on them.
Lizzy smiled, a dazzling smile, heart and soul in it. She batted her eyelashes, and sighed, looking at Mr. Collins unprepossessing figure. "You must help me, sir. You must. It's of great doctrinal importance."
Mr. Collins impression of being taken for a fool seemed to increase, his eyes narrowing to a small pinpoint of suspicious. In his experience, pretty girls had never thrown themselves at him. (Though a couple of them had threatened to throw themselves in rivers if he came any nearer.)
And yet, Miss Elizabeth Bennett smiled so enticingly, and her eyes promised such delights - not that Mr. Collins had ever viewed the female form as a source of delights of a grosser nature, something he was sure his bishop would disapprove of - that he couldn't help but stammer, "Yes, yes, of course. If it is so."
"You are all kindness, sir," Elizabeth said, taking his proffered arm.
Mr. Darcy, having spent a couple of days shooting at the game, felt confined and tired by the unvarying society of Miss Bingley who had, all of a sudden, become solicitous enough that Mr. Darcy had contemplated jumping into a river to avoid her. Or even better, pushing her into a river.
He dragged himself away from an image of a bedraggled Carolyn, her feathered head-gear all wet, with the stern admonition that it was not gentlemanlike, and, looking at Charles Bingley, he said, "Charles, how would you like to ride into Meryton?"
Charles agreed readily, and it wasn't long before they were riding down the main street of Meryton amid carters and passerby.
It also wasn't long before they spotted the Bennett sisters. All five of them clustered around three men in regimentals. Two of them were somewhat known to Darcy, from his dinner's with the officers. They were Denny and Carter, annoying but otherwise inoffensive young officers. But the third....
Mr. Darcy drew in breath, in horror and shock.
Wickham.
He was the son of the late steward of Mr. Darcy's father, and the two had grown up together, almost like brothers, at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy's vast estate in Derbyshire.
But Wickham had turned out very wild, running into gaming debts and debauch wherever he went.
There were other reasons why the sight of him should be painful to Darcy but the most poignant was, perhaps the one that should have affected him less.
The last time they'd crossed paths - after Mr. Wickham's almost successful attempt to convince Darcy's younger sister, Georgiana, to elope - Wickham had told Darcy that if only Darcy hadn't been so proud and thought himself above everyone, perhaps their friendship would have subsisted and perhaps Wickham would have had that moral support and guidance for the lack of which he'd become a villain.
From the way Wickham had flung the words out, Darcy was sure he had not the slightest idea of their being taken seriously.
But, in fact, they had haunted Darcy every day since then. He could see in his own aunt Catherine De Bourgh an impression of what unrestrained pride might do to the personality that let it run wild, like brambles upon fertile ground.
Seeing it, knowing it for a blemish upon his own character, Darcy had, since then, sought to husband it.
He thought he'd done well enough at it. The old Darcy would never have glanced at Lydia Bennett, seeing only the lack of restraint, the country manners that would have put him off.
But the new Darcy saw the innocent charm, the enthusiasm behind the manners, and felt drawn to that enthusiasm like a moth to .... well, to a flame, only not as fatally, Darcy hoped.
Only, right now, his flame's enthusiasm was turned, with smiling face and intense dark eyes to Mr. Wickham.
Bingley, approaching the group, had engaged one of the Miss Bennett's - not Kitty, but the self-contained blonde one - in conversation, now and then casting hopeful looks at Kitty who was engaged in a laughing tete-a-tete with a smirking Denny.
Darcy could not bring himself to join in the conversation, could not approach a group of which Wickham was part.
He took his hat off at the ladies, and bowed.
As he rode away, he heard Lydia's loud, unrestrained voice say, "Oh, Mr. Darcy is fine enough. But he would look better if he were in the militia. I think a man looks nothing without a red coat."
Darcy rode away, puzzled by the sort of mind who thought the master of ten thousand a year and vast estates in Derbyshire should enlist in the militia.
Who did she think would look after his estates, then?
Young, he told himself. Young. She was only fifteen, younger even than Georgiana. No doubt, time would teach her better sense and better restraint. But, until then....
He shook his head. No, that would be the attitude of the old Darcy. The old Darcy would have written Lydia Bennett off without a second glance. The new Darcy must be more understanding.
He'd give her another chance.
The box had arrived by special parcel post - as tall as a woman (Carolyn Bingley) and as wide as an armoire, it was covered in orange flowers and tied with a gigantic orange bow.
Charles Bingley watched his sister receive it and call for the help to carry it upstairs.
"Carolyn," he said. "I thought we'd agreed you'd not order any new dresses for the season, since we are in the country and no great elegance is required."
Carolyn grinned at him. "I shall have a new dress at my wedding," she said.
Charles looked taken aback. "Your wedding? Your wedding? Is there...." He hesitated. "Has someone spoken to you of marriage. Have you accepted...." He looked visibly embarrassed. "I understand I'm only your brother, but I am the head of the family. Shouldn't my consent have been applied for?"
Carolyn waved the idea of consent away, while two footmen, groaning under the weight of what must be a vast amount of ruffles and lace, carried the dress upstairs. "Oh, you'd never refuse your consent to your oldest and dearest friend."
"My oldest, dearest--" Bingley looked speechless.
Carolyn turned to follow the box.
"Am I to understand Darcy proposed to you?" Charles managed to ask.
Carolyn turned back, with a sly grin. "Well, not exactly. Not yet. But he undoubtedly will." She smiled indulgently at her brother. "Come off it, Charles. I heard your talk with Darcy in the library, about how you shall soon be brothers."
"But--" Charles said. "But--" He could not bring himself to say anymore. He could not, in cold blood, dash his sisters bright expectations of happiness.
Feeling like a worm, a spineless worm, he covered his face with his hands, while his sister grinned.
"Oh, I daresay it was very wrong of me to listen," Carolyn said. "But, Charles, you were talking about me."
Charles bit his tongue. Bless him, if he knew how to get out of this bind.
"Pray, tell me," Wickham said, sitting beside Lizzy in the love seat in her aunt Phillip's house. "Have you known Darcy long?"
Lizzy muttered something about his being the suitor of her sister Lydia and, other than that, her not having any opinion about him one way or another.
With which opening, Wickham preceded to pour into her ears the story of how Darcy, contravening his father's will, had refused to give Wickham the legacy of a living which had been the elder Mr. Darcy's intent that Wickham should have.
Shocked, shaken, Elizabeth stared at him. "But," she said. "No wonder he chose not to attend this assembly today because you would be here. The man is a monster. He deserves to be publicly exposed."
"He will be," Wickham said, his eyes following the younger Bennett sister, whom Elizabeth had said was Mr. Darcy's intended. "He will be. But not by me. As long as I remember the father, I could not expose the son. And besides," he continued, raising his voice slightly, as Lydia edged closer. "I am happy enough. I have employment - I can't bear to be idle! - and now I find myself in as pleasant a company as I'm likely to be in. So, you see, I forbid you to feel sorry for me."
"Lizzy," Lydia said, drawing close. "Why should you feel sorry for Mr. Wickham?"
"Because.... Because...." Wickham looked up, his eyes bright. "Because I haven't had a dance these three weeks."
"Oh, Mr. Wickham," Lydia said, faced finally with a plight that she could understand. "Well, you shall have one now. "
And, shouting instructions at Mary to play something jolly, Lydia dragged Mr. Wickham away to dance.
Lizzy watched them go, with a pensive look.
Mr. Wickham was very dashing. Very pleasant she dared say.
But she was more worried about Mr. Darcy. Should her father be acquainted with Mr. Darcy's villainous nature before he gave his consent to a match between Mr. Darcy and Lydia?
Seeing Mr. Collins making a bee line for Jane, who stood talking to Charlotte, Lizzy hurried to intercept him and - she blushed in doing something so crass - beg him to her partner in the next dance.
Through the dance that her boldness earned her, while Mr. Collins punished her by threading on her feet, Lizzy felt as if saving her sisters from themselves were getting more and more complicated by the hour.
Part 4
Kitty had to miss the assembly the next week. She had caught a dangerous cough that forced to stay at home, lest it should turn putrid.
Darcy watched, bemused, as his friend, Charles Bingley, seemingly forgetting all about Kitty after initial enquiries about her health, devoted himself to amusing the elder Miss Bennett.
True, Miss Bennett was very beautiful. Darcy could tell that. For this assembly, obviously not trying so hard as the first time, she wore a muslin dress ornamented with little green sprigs. It made her look very young and innocent and not nearly so inapproachable as the previous concoction of velvet and brocade.
Still, watching his friend flirt and talk with Miss Bennett, Darcy reasoned that she must be less approachable than Miss Kitty Bennett. Judging by the serenity of Miss Bennett's countenance, her heart was not likely to be easily touched.
Which was just as well, considering Charles Bingley's mutable interests. In the last year, he must have been in love with a good ten girls.
However, Darcy must confess that he didn't feel quite as sanguine about his choice of Miss Lydia, himself.
She had been dancing most of the evening, and she couldn't seem to talk to him for more than five minutes without their running into some topic that divided their opinions.
Darcy expressed his frustration with this to Charles, on the way home. "When I asked her if she knew Shakespeare, she told me that she scarce knew anything of Derbyshire society and I couldn't expect her to know all of my acquaintance until I introduced her to them."
Charles Bingley chuckled. He looked flushed and happy.
"And then," Darcy continued, "When I asked if she were putting me on, or if she truly had no idea who Shakespeare might be, she asked me if he looked good in a red coat."
Charles' chuckles had turned to guffaws. "I think you might have shot amiss this time," he said. "Really, Darcy. You cannot establish a friendship, much less love, with a woman who does not understand you." He sighed, and his eyes twinkled. "Now, the elder Miss Bennett...."
Darcy's turn to laugh. "Oh, come off it, Charles. Only a week ago, you were in love with her sister."
Bingley smiled, with the serene look of a man contemplating childhood folly. "Ah, the pretty Miss Kitty. As time went on, I found her conversation somewhat vapid and vacant. Now, Jane, there's a woman I could listen to forever."
Mr. Darcy sighed. "And no doubt you'll be in love with Miss Elizabeth next week. You should thank the Bennetts they had so many daughters."
But Charles frowned. "Miss Elizabeth? Oh, you mean the curly-haired one? I think not. She seems quite infatuated with that repulsive cousin of hers. But for that, I might have considered her a woman of taste and sensibility."
Darcy nodded. Thinking back on the party, he felt a tinge of regret at the thought of how Miss Elizabeth deported herself. "Yes, yes. No woman who pursues such a man in so determined a fashion can be a sensible woman."
Back at Longbourn, the two sisters gathered for a talk in Lizzy's room.
Jane sat on Lizzy's bed, while Lizzy brushed her hair at her vanity. Lizzy took the opportunity to tell Jane everything that Mr. Wickham had told her about Mr. Darcy.
Jane looked nonplused. "But, Lizzy, I can't believe him to be so very bad. I mean, to not respect his father's dying wishes, he would need to be a complete villain. I can't think so badly of him."
Lizzy sighed, setting the brush down - it never did much good on her unruly curls, anyway, and she was afraid it might become permanently attached to them. "I can. I can more easily believe Mr. Darcy to be a villain than I can believe Mr. Wickham to have made up such a story. He gave me every particular. All the details..."
Jane smiled and said, with what was for her a most wicked twinkle, "I believe you like Mr. Wickham, Lizzy."
Lizzy blushed. "Indeed, I like him. I don't see how anyone could not like him. There is something very open and honest about him."
But Jane's face had resumed its serious cast. "But I can't believe Mr. Bingley would be friends with such a man as Wickham describes Darcy."
Lizzy grinned. "And I believe you like Mr. Bingley, Jane."
"Oh, I do. I consider him...." She sighed. "The most agreeable man of my acquaintance."
Lizzy looked at Jane, her face all serious. "Take care, Jane. Don't forget, last week he was courting Kitty."
Just then, Kitty's voice was heard, from downstairs, "No, Mr. Collins. I do not wish to hear about the fireplace in the great room at Rosings."
Lizzy and Jane flinched and shared a commiserating glances.
In her mind, Lizzy tagged all the problems that she must solve.
First there was Mr. Collins. Distracting him from Jane was all very well, but Lizzy had no intention of marrying him. Much as she prized Jane and Jane's goodness, there was a limit to what she would sacrifice for her sister's happiness.
Second, there was Mr. Darcy. She suspected he might be getting ready to offer for Lydia. Before that, Lizzy must make sure to talk to her father about him and his dubious character. Lydia might be a flighty young girl, but nothing could be won by tying her to a black-hearted villain. In this, Lizzy knew she would be going against her mother, whose heart's desire would be to close quickly on the offer of such a rich man.
Why, even now, Mrs. Bennett was browsing through leaflets and books about elegant weddings, planning the union of her youngest daughter with the richest man in Derbyshire.
Then there was Mr. Bingley. If he continued the way he was, Lizzy was sure that Jane would soon be very much in love with him. But he had favored Kitty not so long before. How could Jane find happiness with such an inconstant man?
Miss Bingley waited up, against Mr. Darcy's return from the assembly. She had tried on her wedding dress and it looked well enough, though maybe a little pale with its white feathers and lace. She must order a nice orange bouquet to go with it.
But first, she must secure Mr. Darcy's offer and find out where the wedding would be taking place, whether at Pemberley, as it was proper, or in London, where they had the most friends.
Really, having spoken of marrying her so many days ago, Mr. Darcy should have offered by now. However, as Caroline remembered from Louise's own courtship, sometimes a man tarried and needed to be given a hint that his proposal would be well received.
After all, Mr. Darcy was a very proud man - all of the ton thought so - and he might not wish to expose himself to ridicule by having his proposal refused.
She sat in the library, and flipped through books she had no interest in. She always saw Mr. Darcy reading them, but she couldn't understand what he found so fascinating in such dull subjects: Greek Philosophy, indeed. The Punic Wars - as if there weren't enough modern wars to worry about. The Chronicles of Julius Caesar, as if anyone cared what those Italian people did. AND Shakespeare. Shakespeare. Two hundred years old.
When Caroline became Mrs. Darcy, she would have to introduce Mr. Darcy to more modern and relevant playwrights.
Finally, as her eyelids grew heavy, she heard the carriage draw up front.
Hastening towards the entrance hall, she heard Mr. Darcy say he would go to the library for a book before retiring. She expected this, as he did it every evening.
She waited, just out of sight of the front hall, while her brother said goodnight and hastened up the stairs.
Then, as Mr. Darcy entered the narrow hallway to the library, she emerged from the shadows. "Mr. Darcy."
Mr. Darcy jumped, startled, but recovered his countenance like a true gentleman and bowed to her. "Miss Bingley."
She giggled, as if he'd said something very funny. Which, of course, he hadn't, but she had trouble containing her happiness at how happy she would make him by letting him know of her true feelings for him. "Oh, Mr. Darcy," she said. "You will forgive me talking to you this late at night, but really, there is an urgent matter we must discuss."
"There is?" he asked, staring at her as if he had no idea at all what she could be talking about.
She took his arm and started leading him to the library. There were things she would not wish to say in public. After all, there was no reason for the servants to know that Mr. Darcy had to be prodded into proposing. Let them think he'd asked her first.
After all, what business was it of the servants, anyway?
She pulled him to the library, with its gloomy shelves of leather bound books, its single candle, its dusty smell. Not the place she would choose for her proposal, but it would have to do.
Tomorrow, she could always make him repeat it in the rose garden, and that would be the proposal she would tell everyone about.
"Mr. Darcy," she began. "I know it's not proper to ask, but really, if we are to make arrangements, I must know - Where would you like to have the wedding? At Pemberley? Or in London?"
"The wedding?" Mr. Darcy looked at her, eyes wide open, as if he could scarce understand a word she was saying.
"Oh, come, Mr. Darcy," she said, and smiled. "You know. The wedding."
He raised his dark eyebrows. "Whose wedding, Miss Bingley? I do not have the pleasure of understanding you."
She stomped her foot. "OUR wedding, Mr. Darcy. " She looked away and blushed, as she admitted, "I confess I heard your conversation with Charles, and your wish that you should be brothers. I understand you have not made me a formal answer, but...."
She paused, modestly, waiting for him to jump into the breech with protestations of ardent love and admiration.
When silence lengthened, she looked up.
Mr. Darcy stood where he was, and looked very odd indeed, as if he were about to have a fit of coughing, or perhaps .... but no, he could not be overcome with a desire to laugh.
However, his cheeks went in and out, and his lips trembled. At length, he seemed to get himself under control, and when he spoke, his voice was cold, "Miss Bingley," he said. "You presume too much. You are the last woman in the world I would ever marry. I couldn't make you happy and I know you couldn't make me so. Good night."
And on that, without further explanation, he bowed, and left the library.
Caroline stood, rooted to the spot, unable to understand the sudden collapse of all her hopes and dreams.
Darcy could not have said what she thought she'd heard. It must all be a terrible nightmare.
Early morning, steeling herself to the task, Lizzy knocked at the door to her father's study, and went in.
Having announced that she meant to talk about "this business of Lydia's," she proceeded to pour out her misgivings and what she'd heard of Darcy.
Mr. Bennett, forced to put his book down for this, listened with a skeptical look. "How good of Mr. Wickham to entertain you with the stories of his misfortunes," he finally said. "With such stories, who needs novels?"
Lizzy stopped, shocked. Ever before now, she'd considered her father such a sensible man. She stared. "But father, I really believe Mr. Darcy treated Mr. Wickham abominably."
"No doubt he did," her father said, and smiled. "No doubt he did, Lizzy. But Mr. Darcy might turn out to be no more of a black hearted villain than any rich person who insists on having his way."
"But Father, you cannot imply that you would consider his offer for Lydia."
"IF he offers for Lydia, yes, I shall consider it most happily. Only think, Lizzy. Lydia is a very silly girl, and she shall not rest, until she has money aplenty for pins and carriages and dresses. A respectable marriage would be the best way for her to attain such status."
"But Father, to marry such a man--"
Mr. Bennett resumed his book. "Please leave, Lizzy. I believe it will all turn out well."
Mrs. Bennett received a gold-edged invitation that day. She read it aloud to her girls, "If you'd do us the honor, la dee da, la dee da, of bringing your most charming family, and Mr. Collins also to a ball at Netherfield tomorrow evening." She grinned across the lunch table at her youngest girl but one, "Oh, Kitty, this is a compliment to you, you know."
She didn't notice that Kitty ducked her head and looked doubtful.
"And you shall all have partners girls," she grinned at her brood. "You must have new dresses as soon as possible."
Lydia giggled. "Oh," she said. "New dresses. And hats."
Mr. Collins looked to Lizzy and Jane. "I shall look forward to this ball," he said, and leered.
"But should you go, sir?" Lizzy asked. "Would it be quite proper? Would your Bishop approve?"
"Your scruples do you credit, Cousin Elizabeth," he said, and turned the full stomach-churning intensity of his leer on her. "Indeed. But I cannot believe that ball of this kind, given by a respectable man to well-meaning people can have any evil tendencies. In fact," his leer achieved insulting proportions, "I am so far from objecting that I'll ask for the hands of all my fair cousins for the dance. And I'd like to request yours in particular, Cousin Elizabeth, for the first two." He finished with little hissing sniggers.
Elizabeth was left in grim contemplation of the best method of reinforcing her dance slippers with steel. It was either that or be crippled for life, after two dances with Mr. Collins.
Louisa Hurst had not seen her sister, Caroline, at breakfast.
Since Caroline was usually an early riser, Louisa very much feared that she might be ill. Therefore, after breakfast, Louisa knocked on Caroline's door.
She was answered by disconnected grunts and mumbled words.
Now, this was quite normal when Louisa knocked at her husband's door. But NOT Caroline's.
"Caroline? What is wrong?"
More grunts and murmurs.
Could Caroline be drunk? No. She didn't drink. More likely in a fever.
But, trying the handle, finding it unlocked and opening the door, Mrs. Hurst found that her sister was only in a fever of packing.
All ten of the clothing trunks that Caroline had brought with her to Netherfield stood open, and into them Caroline was throwing dresses, hats, plumes and jewelry, in complete disregard of the famous volume The Art Of Good Packing, by Lady Catherine De Bourgh.
"Caroline. What's wrong?"
"Thinks he can- Of all the- Honestly- He shall not have- Give him the pleasure of seeing me- What have I done with my orange scarf? Ah, there it is. He shall never- Never been so humiliated--"
"Caroline, you must tell me what's wrong," Louisa said, alarmed. Her sister's face was marked by recent tears and she looked like she'd spent the night awake. In her fireplace was an enormous mountain of ash. "What have you been burning?"
"Wedding dress," Caroline said.
"Which wedding dress?" Mrs. Hurst asked, fearing her sister had gone distracted. "Whose wedding dress?"
But Caroline only shook her head.
"And why are you packing?" Mrs. Hurst asked. "Surely you don't mean to travel."
But Caroline looked up, and spoke in a very determined fashion, "I have a great desire to be in London tomorrow. I hope you and Mr. Hurst and Mr. Stephen Hurst will escort me. I'll make it worth your while."
Now, here, a parenthetical remark must be made about the relationship between the two sisters. Though they were fraternal twins, yet Caroline had always held the ascendant over Mrs. Hurst, who found it very hard to deny anything to her stronger- willed sister. To that was added the inducement of making it worth Mrs. Hurst's while.
Louise's dowry had long since been drunk by her husband. But Caroline, by shrewd investment -- she was nothing if not a shrew -- had so far grown her own portion of her father's estate, that she could indeed make it worth Louisa's while to cooperate with Caroline's schemes.
All Louisa could do was drop on Caroline's still-made bed and object in a thread of voice, "But, we can't go today," she said. "You know Charles counts on us for the ball tonight."
The argument swayed Caroline only slightly. She dropped the lid of the nearest trunk, and set on it, to squash her finery into submission. "We'll leave directly after the ball, then."
Louisa nodded, wondering how Mr. Hurst and Mr. Stephen Hurst would take these news. Mr. Stephen Hurst had seemed so fond of that insipid girl, Mary Bennett.
Chapter 5
Fitzwilliam Darcy couldn't have said what he was feeling, or what had made him dance with Elizabeth Bennett.
He couldn't say, except that he had stood there long enough, all alone - Miss Bingley not being in talkative mood, Bingley being engaged in conversation with the bewitching Miss Bennett, Mr. Hurst being in rather poor spirits (or rather, having had a lot of spirits) and Mr. Stephen Hurst being nowhere in sight - to start noticing that the second Miss Bennett had a lovely figure and a sparkling pair of dark, dancing eyes.
From such thoughts to asking her to dance was a small step, such as one takes, in the dark, without thinking, and that lands one in a room quite different from that in which one fell asleep.
He started realizing his mistake as he led Miss Bennett to the dance floor. She was so light, so perfect, her steps so graceful. And her hand in his felt like a feather.
Her other attributes too, nicely encased in a tight lace dress, were no less admirable than those of her younger sister. But in Miss Bennett's case, Darcy found himself admiring more than the fact that she was rounded in places. Her smile, for instance, and the way her eyes sparkled. [ Though right then her eyes sparkled in a way that he didn't know would often be employed by B-grade movie makers a couple of centuries in the future.] But she wasn't smiling.
After they danced in silence for a while, she made some slight observation on
the dance. He replied, and was again silent, wondering at his own feelings and the lightness of her step, and how he could easily allow himself to fall for yet another Miss Bennett and how this time it might be serious.
After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with:
"It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy.-I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples."
He smiled - her banter was certainly more interesting than her sister's -- and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said.
"Very well.-That reply will do for the present.-Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones.-But now we may be silent."
That was more like it, the sparkle in her eye more like flirting. Knowing himself in danger and fearing to fall, yet he couldn't prevent himself from tempting fate. He grinned at her, "Do you talk by rule then, while you are dancing?"
She seemed to mull it over. "Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together, and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible."
He sensed something odd, as though Miss Bennett were deliberately insulting him. But why should she do that? What had he ever done to deserve her disdain? All right. He'd courted her younger sister. But it should have been obvious to anyone - except perhaps Miss Lydia and her Mama - that he wasn't serious.
In a trembling tone, he asked, "Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?"
"Both," replied Elizabeth archly; "for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds.-We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb."
"This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure," said he. "How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say.-You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly."
"I must not decide on my own performance."
He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance, when he, at a loss for friendly conversation, asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton.
She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added, "When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance."
Wickham. She'd been meeting Wickham. She was obviously pleased with Wickham. Darcy stared at the lovely dark eyes, wondering how it would be to have them smile on him. Wickham, no doubt had experienced that.
Wickham with his ease of address, his way of making friends wherever he went. Wickham whom Darcy had thought to emulate, without succeeding in doing more than almost becoming engaged to a hoyden. And yet Wickham, with his common touch, had sparked interest from Miss Lydia's obviously more deserving sister. The world was not fair. "Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends-whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain."
"He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship," replied Elizabeth with emphasis, "and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life."
After that, Darcy could not account for the rest of the conversation. Hell, this obviously intelligent woman preferred Wickham to himself. What could he say for himself? He had lands and titles and exceedingly snobbish relatives, but what did all that matter, if he could never - as a snob or as an easy-going man - attract the attention of worthy women?
He returned Miss Bennett to her place, and bowed to her, all in a confusion of misery.
Miss Bingley caught his eye and, for a mad moment, he considered just asking her to marry him. She wasn't wonderful, but she was probably the best he could ever get.
However, even miserable, Darcy was not that suicidal that he didn't know what life with Caroline Bingley would be like. And, Lord knew, he might not have the good fortune to go deaf at an early age. Besides, Caroline would make Georgiana miserable and that Darcy could never allow.
Instead, he snatched a glass from the tray of a waiter who'd been headed towards Mr. Hurst. He drank it down in a single gulp. Then he drank another.
Sometime later, in an alcohol induced haze, he heard Mrs. Bennett say, "Ah, when Lydia marries Mr. Darcy, there will be a marriage. And that will throw the girls into the path of other rich men."
This time, when he intercepted the waiter, Mr. Darcy took the bottle and, in a way that would have made his aunt Catherine disown him forever, retreated to the corner to drink directly from the cut-crystal bottle.
In all his life, he'd prized sobriety. Maybe it was time he made some changes.
For Miss Mary Bennett, the evening had scarcely been less bewildering.
Upon arriving at the ball - quite proud in her new silk gown, and for once sure that she had someone to dance with her - she was immediately met by a nervous looking Mr. Stephen Hurst.
He danced the first one with her, and the second one too, and then he suggested they go out into the garden to take in the fresh evening air.
Mary agreeing, they soon found themselves amid the shrubbery.
"Miss Mary, I have to tell you something," Stephen finally said.
The way he said it was such that Mary's heart sank, believing he was about to withdraw his earlier protests of affection.
Instead, he squeezed her hand with his sweaty one, "We are leaving for London tomorrow," he said. "And I fear I shall never see you again."
"Leaving?" Mary asked, scarce comprehending it. "For London? But, Mr. Bingley can hardly leave his house so soon after the ball."
"Not Mr. Bingley." Mr. Stephen Hurst shook his head. "Not Mr. Bingley at all. Miss Bingley, and her sister, my sister, Mrs. Hurst, and my brother. My brother and sister are being paid to go with her. Miss Bingley is in some heat to leave Netherfield. I do not know why." His voice had degenerated into a whine and there was a glittering suggestion of tears in his eyes.
Mary felt strangely calm and composed. Perhaps because she had never really expected romance, she'd never quite believed it was true. It was all the easier to see it dissolve now. "I see," she said. "I see you did not mean your earlier protestations to me."
"Oh, Miss Bennett, Mary. Oh. I did. I mean them. You are the woman I wish to spend my life with."
"And yet you'd go to London without me, and perhaps never see me again."
Stephen turned feverish grey eyes to her. "What else can I do? I am a second son. And even the first son has no great fortune. How am I to live? Where am I to stay, if I don't go to London."
But Mary's mind had revived. His voice, the tone of it saying he loved her, the despair of it, as he explained his circumstances. She must - MUST - secure him. This was true love, like Romeo's and Juliet's. She would allow no one to separate them. Of course, she also didn't approve of suicide. Poison and a dagger. So very messy. And silly really. There were other ways around things. And Miss Mary, who read so much, found herself thinking through her problem with a lawyerly calm. "If we were married," she said. "Then perforce your brother would accept me. And Mr. Bingley would probably continue to support you in your studies. You saw how much he fawns on my sister Jane. Why, chances are we'd be doubly related. He'd not allow you to starve."
Mr. Stephen Hurst stared at Mary, uncomprehending, "Yes, but how are we to get married, like this, with no consent, no--" he stopped and his eyes widened further.
Because Miss Mary was smiling. "I think I have just enough saved," she said. "To hire a carriage to Gretna Green."
"Mary!" he said and blushed. "But, reputation in a woman is as beautiful as it is fragile. You cannot be too guarded towards the undeserving of the other sex."
But Mary smiled and took his arm. Her lace dress rustled seductively. And even she could tell that all of Stephen Hurst's resistence melted as she whispered in his ear, "Aw, Stevie, you're NOT undeserving."
Darcy woke up.
The room was dark and empty. Well, empty of all save Bingley, who paced back and forth across the ballroom's polished floor, his steps echoing with the force of little explosions.
Darcy's head ached. The room smelled of stale wine and sweat. "Bingley," he croaked. "For the love of God, stop that infernal noise."
"Oh, there you are, Darce. I wondered where you'd got to." Bingley stopped pacing two steps from Mr. Darcy. "What noise?" he asked.
"That," Darcy waved weakly. "Stomp, stomp, stomp."
Bingley looked puzzled. "Were you drinking?"
Darcy managed to open his eyes - a hard feat as someone seemed to have set a large stone on each eyelid, and poured sand between eyelids and eyes - and gave Bingley a blood-shot glare. "It's no business of yours."
Bingley cackled. "By God, you were."
Darcy scowled. "I don't see why this amuses you."
Bingley grinned, his smile brilliant enough to light a thousand such rooms. "Because perfect Darcy, Darcy the model of morality has got himself stinking drunk. Tell us why, Darce? Did the lovely Lydia refuse you? I noticed she left halfway through the ball."
"Lydia?"
"Miss Lydia Bennett. The girl you like."
Darcy's head pounded. He wasn't sure he'd ever like another human being again. Right then and there he viewed them as noisy, inconsequential creatures put in the world in order to aggravate his headache. "Don't be ridiculous," he sneered. "I'd have nothing to do with that family. Their uncle is in trade and their mother- Their mother!" He remembered her tirade at the ball and shuddered.
But Bingley recoiled from his words, and stepped back. "Well," he said, stiffly. "Miss Bennett - Miss Jane Bennett - is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld and an angel of patience and modesty and.... and I want her to be my wife."
Darcy laughed, though it made his head hurt. "Your wife? Charles, you fall in love with a different woman each week. Only last week you worshiped her sister."
"It is quite forgotten," Bingley said, stiffly. "It never happened. Didn't even Romeo forget Rosalyn when he met Juliet." He grinned. "I never saw true beauty till this night," he quoted, then cleared his throat, self-consciously. "Actually, of course, I knew her long ago, but--"
Darcy managed to pull himself up, unsteadily, and stand, glaring down at his friend. "You will not propose to this Miss Bennett," he said, ill tempered. "You will not propose to any Miss Bennett. I will not allow you to do this."
Bingley started a little, or perhaps just stepped back from Darcy's alcoholic breath. But he squared his jaw. "I can't see where it's any of your concern, Mr. Darcy," he said.
"Of course it is my concern," Darcy said. "Because.... Because.... Because...." Normally, in his sane and sober state, Darcy would have been able to come up with plenty of reasons. But just then, his stomach realized he was standing up and, startled at the change in position, jumped full force towards his throat.
It was all Mr. Darcy could do, to make it to a window, before he was most undignifiedly sick.
As he recovered, he heard Bingley say, behind him, "I don't quite see how you can give advice on anyone's conduct. I don't see why I should take your opinion. In fact, I think I'll go ask for Miss Bennett's hand now."
"Now?" Darcy croaked. "It's the middle of the night."
But Bingley had a mad look in his eye. "Now. Right now. True love chooses not its hour."
He ran out of the room, screaming for his steward to saddle his horse.
Strange, Darcy thought. I'm the one who drinks and Bingley the one who acts drunk.
But all this was beyond him. He crept up to his bed and had just fallen into uneasy sleep when he was briefly awakened by the sound of Caroline's trunks being dragged downstairs by three sleepy man servants.
He heard the thumping and the men's complaints at the weight, and it all resounded in his head like shots of pain.
Covering his head with his pillow and moaning, he fell into an oblivion not totally devoid of images of Miss Elizabeth Bennett dancing light and poised, like a spirit of the air - so perfect, so beautiful, so unattainable.