Elizabeth was entirely unsettled and could give no explanation to her sisters for her sudden paleness and dispiritedness. Jane suggested they forgo their additional plans and return immediately to her home. Kitty protested again, but acknowledged that Elizabeth did not look well.
As they drove slowly through the congested streets to the Bingley townhouse, Elizabeth lay back her head and closed her eyes. She was mortified by her reaction to the woman, but a forceful and indisputable emotion akin to jealousy, but not precisely the same, had washed over her the moment she had laid eyes on the woman. The woman’s beauty—a beauty that had so enthralled Darcy in his youth—disconcerted her as no circumstance or person had since they wed. She speculated if it was not this remarkable beauty that was the standard Darcy had in mind when he had first seen her at the Assembly Ball and so casually dismissed her as no more than tolerable enough. A sharp and overpowering antagonism pulsated through her as she saw before her the smooth, fine complexion, the remarkably harmonious face framed so becomingly by her bonnet, the sneering smile of her perfectly formed lips, the piercing eyes looking down at her with such open contempt. Never in her life had Elizabeth felt she had a person who wilfully wished her ill, but she felt it now and it was unsettling in the extreme.
Glencora Morris was hardly the first person to have looked upon Elizabeth with dismissal or disappointment since she had begun to venture into London society with her husband. Just the prior week they had attended a very grand ball at Mrs. Bramwell’s. As Elizabeth was contentedly strolling along observing the great elegance of the rooms and the splendour of the festivities, she overheard a pair of young ladies commenting on her as she passed in front of them. They argued about her relative beauty and elegance, shared gossip concerning her surprisingly modest background, her alleged visits to an aunt in Cheapside, and her degree of acceptance within London society. Their verdict could not be mistaken for approbation. Elizabeth turned to look at the young ladies speaking so ungenerously of her and she caught their eyes, raised her brow and smiled good-humouredly, causing the young ladies to blush in embarrassment.
As Elizabeth turned away from the chagrined gossiping girls, more amused than pained, she was joined by Mrs. Anne Thorney, the wife of Mr. Darcy’s friend. Elizabeth had first become acquainted with Mrs. Thorney shortly after arriving in London when Mrs. Thorney had hosted a dinner for a select few friends.
Mrs. Thorney was one of London’s acknowledged beauties. She was of regular height, marvellously well-figured and with a clear, pale complexion, dark, auburn hair, and harmonious features not to be gainsaid; she moved with grace and charm, dressed with an indisputably winning flair. Mrs. Thorney placed no great value upon her beauty other than the sort of absolution she believed it granted her. She was certain that beautiful women are forgiven everything just short of immorality. Otherwise she despised her beauty, found it useless and apt to make people think her insipid when she was only indolent.
“Mrs. Darcy, how do you like being the envy of so many?” she inquired, taking Elizabeth familiarly by the arm and continuing with her as she strolled around the crowded room; she had heard the remarks and seen Mrs. Darcy’s gentle rebuke.
“Is that what I am?”
“You must understand that half the ladies here this evening think ill of you though they have perhaps exchanged not even a passing civility with you. Women are dreadful like that.”
“How so?” Elizabeth asked with a smile, diverted by her companion’s unapologetic scepticism; it reminded her a little of her father.
“Gentlemen do not so casually wish ill on a stranger as a lady will. They save their enmity for their friends and waste no energies on those of no consequence to their existence. Half the ladies at this ball think nothing good of you merely for your having married a gentleman they themselves likely had not the smallest chance of succeeding with; perhaps they were not even properly acquainted. I suffered the same casual animosity when I was first married to Mr. Thorney. They are of that similar collection of gentlemen, desirable for their circumstances regardless of any actual merits or lack thereof associated with their persons.”
“Was Mr. Darcy so very sought after?”
“Naturally. Is it not a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife?”
“I had heard something of the kind before,” Elizabeth replied with a smile.
“You must forgive me, Mrs. Darcy. I am a very contrarian woman and I speak things as I find them.”
“I am not sure what there is to forgive. I am not an admirer of dissembling.”
“No, you would not be or you should not have married Mr. Darcy. As you know, he and my husband are old friends. He has always been a regular visitor to our home—he is so good with my rambunctious boys. I have found that Mr. Darcy never dissembles. He also speaks as he finds, which is not always admired. The difference is I speak incessantly to relieve my boredom and he speaks only when he has something of consequence to say. So after all, what I mean to say is do not be troubled by the envious among us.”
“Thank you for your consideration. I can assure you I give the opinions of strangers precisely the importance they deserve.”
“Look, here comes your fine-looking husband now. See how all the avaricious eyes continue to follow him about the room. They forget he is now spoken for.”
Elizabeth had been entirely amused by Mrs. Thorney’s observation. The irony was great, for indeed more than one lady followed Mr. Darcy’s passage across the room with evident interest, but at the Netherfield Ball, when they had once danced together, his presence had hardly excited anticipation.
He arrived at their side and bowed very formally. “Excuse the interruption, Mrs. Thorney; I have come to invite my wife to dance.”
“How charming! James never invites me to dance any longer; he dislikes the amusement. I will go find some impressionable young gentleman, tap him on the arm with my fan and insist he take me to dance, though I am a married woman. Young men are always pleased to have a pretty face to look at for a quarter of an hour regardless of what the actual woman thinks of their coxcomb ways.”
She left them and Elizabeth laughed, fascinated. “What an extraordinary woman your friend’s wife is,” she remarked.
“Indeed, but I am more interested in the woman standing before me. Will you honour me with the next dance, Mrs. Darcy?” he inquired taking her hand gently into his own.
“I did not think you liked the amusement either! You did not appear so pleased with the activity when we first danced together at Netherfield,” she teased.
“Ah, but then I was a man struggling against his own heart. Whereas now, what a pleasure, what a delight to never again need disguise my preference, to have the world know my affections are secured and they need not disturb me any longer with their empty flattery. Dance with me, my dearest wife.”
They had danced together and laughed away between them the misapprehensions of that earlier dance. She had even teased him about his dismissive words when he had first seen her at the Assembly Ball, and when they were returned home he had with passionate resolve rectified that first unwitting incivility. It had been a splendid evening, and the pettiness of strangers could indeed have no impact on Elizabeth’s happiness.
Yet now, as she sat in her sister Jane’s drawing room, the beautiful face of Glencora Morris was sharply before her, playing meanly with her ease. It was a discomfiting recognition; Glencora Morris was no harmless, gossiping stranger to easily dismiss; she wished Elizabeth ill and Elizabeth felt certain she would proceed to action at the first opportunity.
Chapter 17
Warnings and Impressions
Elizabeth and Jane could not be more content; they had the entire afternoon to themselves. When Aunt Gardiner had learnt from Elizabeth of her father’s intentions for Kitty, she felt her niece could do with some prior education on acceptable behaviour and expectations when she found herself a long-term resident with
her sisters. She therefore had her to Gracechurch Street for a few days, ostensibly to assist with the children. Kitty went happily, for she was sure to find in her uncle and aunt’s home relief in an atmosphere more to her taste. Bingley was idling away his afternoon at his club and Elizabeth had suggested to her husband that Georgiana might enjoy an afternoon in which she need not share the attentions of her brother. Family happily disposed of, they settled in for a long afternoon of intimate conversation.
They spoke together on all matters large and small, delighting in the restoration of each other’s company, and cognizant of the precious brevity of the same, for they would be together in London but a few weeks. The Darcys would return to Pemberley for Easter and the Bingleys to Netherfield, and it would be the warm days of summer before they were all together again in Derbyshire.
They determined between them a course of action for Kitty’s betterment. “Miss Darcy is such an exceptional young lady and they are so close in age,” Jane opined. “Her influence must be salutatory for Kitty when we are all together at Pemberley this summer. Kitty was always so easily influenced by Lydia. Why could Georgiana not have similar influence?”
“Let us hope, but I will not have Kitty if she does not learn to hold her tongue. I will not have my husband disrespected in his own home, and I will not have his sister witness to such discourtesy again. You must make Kitty comprehend this, Jane. If she cannot comprehend such basic civility, she will never be any better than Lydia.”
“You are very unforgiving, Lizzy.”
“Am I? Would you tolerate Kitty’s disrespecting Bingley whilst sitting in his very drawing room? Truly Jane, you are too forgiving and never exhaust your patience towards anyone. I am not so noble and serene.”
“I think perhaps you give me too much credit. I confess there have been times these past months when I have felt myself too near to some and too far removed from others. It is very ungenerous and unkind of me to hold such thoughts.”
“Hardly! You have more patience than you ought. I have read your letters with your tales of daily visits from Mama and Aunt Philips and all our well-meaning but no less meddlesome neighbours. I am recalled to a peculiar little conversation Mr. Darcy and I once had—at least it seemed peculiar at the time, now it seems so obvious that I wonder at my lack of perception. We were discussing whether it might be possible for a woman to be settled too near her family. I am now of the firm conviction that it is and you should not be ashamed to acknowledge it. I have no scruples in acknowledging it better for all that it be you and Bingley, with your complying natures, who are settled three miles from Longbourn and that it be Mr. Darcy and I who are settled three days from Longbourn.”
“Some days the visits are perhaps too many and too long, but I confess I take great comfort in all the familiarity of our neighbourhood. You do not ever feel yourself very far from home? That everything is too new and unfamiliar?”
“I should like to have you closer, Jane, but I cannot with honesty claim any longing to be nearer to Longbourn. I am sure Mr. Darcy and I would not be so happily settled if we lived so close. My husband’s regard would surely not so easily withstand such daily incursions of Bennets as can your husband’s!”
Jane furrowed her brow at what she considered a too cutting jest. “Charles is still astonished that he could have been so blind to his friend’s regard for you, but then Mr. Darcy did keep his regard carefully concealed from general observation.”
“I am sure that Bingley was far too concerned with determining your regard to be overly attentive to others,” Elizabeth laughed. “Most of us do not have the ability to see beyond our own interests, after all; even when we most adamantly claim the contrary our own interests inevitably colour everything we think and feel.”
They wondered together on those days when they had first become acquainted with their husbands, reflected on the disappointed hopes of one and the misapprehensions of the other. It had all seemed impossible to ever be favourably resolved. “If you are half as happy as I am, Jane, then we are both very fortunate women,” Elizabeth observed.
“I cannot measure my happiness against your own, Lizzy. We each have our own character and so we have our own manner of happiness. Yet I suspect that we are both happier than we ever imagined we could be when we would sit together at night and share our dreams.”
“And lament our prospects!” Elizabeth added wryly. “It is all very remarkable when you consider it dispassionately. Who should have ever thought? How perceptive and witty I thought myself when we were all first acquainted and I so resolutely despised Mr. Darcy. It is very hard to discover what one thought one’s cleverness was no more than petulance. Yet look at me now. The gentleman who I once so openly disdained has become the very centre of my happiness. All I would require for perfect happiness would be to have you near.”
“Are there truly no other shadows upon your happiness, Lizzy? You need not disguise them from me if there are.”
“Whatever do you mean, Jane?”
Jane blushed, but persevered, for she had heard enough from her husband about Mr. Darcy’s relations—with whom he himself had in fact almost no association—to be concerned on her sister’s behalf. “Charles has suggested that Mr. Darcy’s relations would never be sincerely reconciled to your marriage. In your letters you have said you are quite satisfied with your reception, but Lizzy, I know your optimism and aplomb. You always defy intimidation. Are you truly easy with his family? Truly at home?”
“Dear Jane, you are the sweetest of creatures. I can assure you that I speak in earnest when I tell you that I am more than satisfied with my reception amongst his larger family circle. Georgiana is the dearest girl, and as for the rest, such easy friendship as Georgiana and I have discovered is simply not a requisite for my happiness or that of my husband. Indeed, I am more fortunate than you. My husband’s family has received me with honesty and I never need wonder where I stand with any of them. I know to whom I am a source of consternation or resentment, to whom I am a source of indifference, and with whom there are possibilities of real regard and friendship. What is more, whatever their feelings may be, they are all far too proud to ever speak ill of me in a manner which might impact my reputation, and in consequence that of Mr. Darcy. Even Lady Catherine, I am sure, keeps her lamentations confined to her drawing room; and then, as Mr. Collins is her family now, if only very distantly, she cannot be said to be carelessly gossiping. You cannot say the same about Bingley’s duplicitous sisters,” she added in defiance.
“I did not wish to offend, Lizzy. Forgive me. I only insist because I know what an affectionate and warm-hearted person you are. You could not be truly happy where there is no warmth of affection. Do you truly have all the affection you require?”
“Jane?” Elizabeth inquired with surprise. “What are you implying? Do I not seem as happy as I claim to be? Say what you will, Jane.”
Jane hesitated before responding, but at last her deep love for her sister and her sincere wish for her happiness conquered her native modesty. “I know your husband loves you, Lizzy. It is entirely evident when he looks at you, and yet, well, do forgive the forwardness, whilst he is attentive, I have not seen that he is excessively warm in his attentions and you are such an affectionate, loving person. Can you truly be happy with such reserve?”
Elizabeth laughed openly, and took her sister’s hands into her own. “Never has a concern been so kind and so utterly needless. My dear, sweet Jane! It is true that Mr. Darcy is generally reserved whilst in larger company; he does not overflow with mirth and open affection before all and sundry as your husband does. You shall never witness him walk into a room full of people and call out ‘where is my angel,’ ‘where is my sweetheart’ as your husband daily does; a discreet smile or a brief pressing of the hand is more likely. But when we are alone, oh Jane! When we are alone he is all tenderness, affection and candour.”
“Truly?” Jane insisted.
“You need not be concerned with the sincerity
of my expressions of felicity. Indeed, there are many days I awaken and I cannot believe my good fortune. I think I must have dreamt it all. The excellent husband, the beautiful grounds at Pemberley, the elegant rooms and the house in town. Then I turn my head and see my darling husband sleeping at my side and I am returned to the reality of my great fortune.”
“Does he always sleep with you then?” Jane asked softly, surprising herself at the inquiry.
“Yes, Jane, he does. And he is as tender and warm and passionate as a husband and lover ought to be.”
Jane blushed deeply at her sister’s forthright response. “Forgive me, Lizzy. We should not be discussing this.”
“Why ever not? It is only between you and I. Now you must confess; do you not feel as though you love Bingley more now than when you married him? As though with each new day you feel your heart expanding from the love that overwhelms it, from that beguiling concoction of peacefulness and passion? Do you not feel that when he touches you, oh, just so, there is nothing finer in life?”
“Not precisely.” Jane smiled sweetly, amused by Elizabeth’s ardent expression. “I have always felt the same constant regard for Charles; I cannot say that it has altered. Your friend Charlotte always said that you were the romantic one and you would laugh at her, but you must acknowledge that she was correct after all. We both feel deeply and faithfully, Lizzy, but you have always been more passionate and I more serene in the carrying out of the same.”
To Teach the Admiring Multitude Page 18
