Through a Different Lens

by Riana Everly

  Elizabeth nodded, “For one whose father was a merchant, she is indeed quick to scorn those who still rely on trade for their living.”

  The colonel agreed. “Bingley’s fortune does indeed come from trade. His father owned several prosperous business ventures in the north, and sold his interests at an exceptional price, leaving the family extremely wealthy. But despite Bingley’s admirable income, his tainted background made him a target for some less savoury types. One night, so Will tells me, Bingley was the intended victim of a crew of drunken reprobates. They have the moral fibre of the lowest of the low, but their bloodlines are pure and thus are admitted to the finest establishments. Well, Will heard their scheming and stepped in at the last minute to rescue the pup from a fleecing at the tables, and a beating afterwards.

  “Rising up like a hero from a novel to save an innocent victim is quite Will’s style; as I mentioned, he has a very strong sense of right and wrong. What was most out of character for him was asking the poor youngster to join him for a drink afterwards. From there, the friendship was formed, and Bingley now dotes on Darcy’s every word, while Darcy feels it his God-given responsibility to see the young pup right and keep him out of trouble.”

  “Oh! yes,” said Elizabeth drily, thinking back to how Mr. Bingley had abandoned Netherfield in such haste, and left poor Jane’s heart in the dirt behind his carriage, “Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley and takes a prodigious deal of care of him.”

  `Care of him! — Yes, I really believe Darcy does take care of him in those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him. At least, I believe it was Bingley of whom he spoke; he told me no specific information, for It is a circumstance which Darcy, of course, would not wish to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady’s family, it would be an unpleasant thing.”

  Now Elizabeth’s curiosity was most piqued; whatever could he mean? Most certainly, Mr. Darcy had been quite unpleasant during his visit at Netherfield, but that was all due to his discomfort with people unfamiliar to him—was it not? What might he have done, and who was the lady?

  “I am most perplexed, sir,” she whispered. “Was Mr. Bingley in some sort of trouble?”

  “Please remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley,” Richard replied. “For I really have only my guesses upon which to rely. What he told me was merely this; that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer.”

  No! Surely it could not be… Surely Mr. Darcy did not separate Mr. Bingley from her sister Jane! She had to inquire further. With a tremulous voice she asked, “Did Mr. Darcy give you his reasons for this interference?”

  “I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady.”

  These words, uttered with such carelessness, turned Elizabeth’s world dark. Every hope she had still held for her sister’s future happiness vanished, and every charitable thought she had held for Mr. Darcy disappeared as quickly.

  So it was true. Mr. Darcy, who openly entered into a close friendship with a family just one generation from trade, would dare to think that a country squire’s daughter—the child of a gentleman in possession of his own estate—was not good enough for that friend! Or perhaps it was her mother, her uncouth mother, always going on at full voice about marrying off her daughters to the richest man willing. And her sisters, silly, thoughtless, flirtatious Lydia, and dour, stern Mary with her weak voice and endless concertos. They were not, perhaps, the people one would choose for a family, but sweet, charming, and beautiful Jane was all but perfect. This was terrible! All the time she had been imagining herself to have misunderstood Mr. Darcy, he had been the proud, officious and arrogant man she had initially supposed him to be.

  “Elizabeth, are you well? You are suddenly so silent.” Richard guided her to a bench in the shade where she might sit, concern etched in each syllable and gesture.

  “I am well, but this story alarms me,” she replied quietly. “I am thinking of what you have been telling me,” said she. “Why was he to be the judge?”

  “You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?”

  Sitting up stiffly, she announced, “I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend’s inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner that friend was to be happy. But,” she continued, recollecting herself, “as we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the case.”

  “That is not an unnatural surmise,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam, “but it is lessening the honour of my cousin’s triumph very sadly.”

  “Yes, his triumph.” She sighed. “I’m afraid, Richard, I am suddenly feeling unwell. Perhaps this heat is stronger than I had expected. I had best return to the parsonage. I am well enough to walk alone,” she added, feeling unfit to continue any conversation with him. She waved off his entreaties to accompany her with the most civil words she could manage and stormed off back down the laneway in angry solitude.

  How dare he! How dare Darcy have had the impertinence to separate Bingley from sweet Jane? And after giving the neighbourhood every suggestion of a forthcoming attachment, he had not only broken Jane’s heart, but left her embarrassed in front of their society and the object of everyone’s a pity. The Bennets, the lowly Bennets, might not be suitable for the high and mighty Darcys of the world, especially with the lower connexions on her mother’s side—one uncle a country attorney, another in business in London—but surely, for Mr. Bingley to marry into the gentry was a social improvement; he clearly admired Jane almost as much as she liked him, and a marriage between the two could only be seen positively on both sides. What possible sense of superiority could have induced the man to divide two such well-suited people as he did?

  Could it possibly be that Miss Bingley was correct, and that Darcy had Bingley in mind for his sister? Was there some previous attachment between the two? But if that were so, Bingley would not have favoured Jane as he did; as much as his genial and light-hearted nature seemed at great odds with Darcy’s stern and dour mien, he was, by all accounts, an honourable man and would not have toyed thus with a young woman’s affections.

  Every positive thought that Elizabeth had entertained about Mr. Darcy vanished as a puff of smoke. He was uncompromising and perplexing, with difficulties engaging in social activities, to be sure, but had she merely misunderstood the root behind his behaviour? No, in essence, he was still the unpleasant and arrogant man he had always appeared to be. She was disgusted with him, and with herself for her efforts to help a man whom she had much rather despise! And as to that uncomfortable, unsettled feeling that troubled her soul, the sensation of a leaden block replacing her heart, what should she make of that? That must be the weight of the sorrow she felt for her sister. Surely, that’s what it was.

  With these roiling emotions of dismay, anger and disappointment vying for primacy in her breast, she stormed back into the parsonage and, claiming a headache, retired to her room.

  Chapter Nine

  A More Unpleasant Visit

  Lizzy’s headache had not much eased by the time the Collins planned to leave for the dinner to which they had been invited at Rosings, and Charlotte, seeing her friend’s pale face and obvious discomfort, reluctantly agreed that Elizabeth should remain at the parsonage to rest. Mr. Collins was decidedly unhappy with this decision—“Lady Catherine, my esteemed patroness, specifically indicated that we must all attend!”—but ultimately he too was convinced that little good could come of bringing an ill guest to faint, or worse, before the magnifice
nt Lady Catherine.

  The Collins and Maria soon departed, and Elizabeth was left in the welcome silence of the house. She soaked a towel in cool lavender and mint water and slept for a short time with the soothing cloth draped across her forehead in the hopes of easing her head. When she awakened, she was much improved and she rose from her bed and moved to the window to survey what was left of the day. The sun was now low on the horizon, bathing the surrounding gardens and distant trees in a warm and gentle golden and gilding the leaves and rooftops of the village, just visible from her room. Exhausted by her tumultuous morning and consequent headache, and revived by her rest, Elizabeth was feeling hungry and she dressed quickly before descending the stairs to seek what she might find in the kitchen.

  Satisfied with her simple meal, she retired to the small morning room where Charlotte was wont to spend her time, there to peruse once more the package of letters she had been receiving from Jane. Every letter she reread brought her thoughts back to the morning’s awful revelation by the colonel, every word further inculcated in her mind the certainty of Mr. Darcy’s arrogant hand in causing Jane’s melancholy. The letters, Elizabeth observed, contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, nor any communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been used to characterise her beloved sister’s style. The poor girl was heartbroken, and Mr. Darcy was the devil at fault.

  Her thoughts on this matter were interrupted by the door bell, and within moments, instead of Richard, whom she had half-expected to pay a visit to inquire after her health, in walked none other than the object of her unhappy ponderings: Mr. Darcy himself.

  He walked in stiffly, almost unseeing, his gaze brushing over the room, but settling nowhere, as if his eyes were looking at but not seeing the objects they beheld. His gait was rigid, and he paced the room for several moments, shoulders stiff, arms inflexible by his sides. His face was almost blank, holding only a hint of that same arrogant regard that had so quickly earned him the dislike of every member of Meryton society. In short, there was nothing left of the friendly, engaging man with whom Lizzy had spoken so enjoyably just the night before; in his place was the proud, haughty and disdainful statue of their first unfortunate meeting. If Elizabeth had been less angry at him for his imperious and cavalier hand in separating Jane and Mr. Bingley, she might have found some sympathy for him and inquired after his state of mind. As it was, in her cold fury, she merely felt justified in her judgement that her more recent opinions of him had been the true mistake, and that her initial impression was, after all, correct.

  “Miss Bennet,” he stated at last, all recent informalities forgotten, “Mrs. Collins informed us that you were ill. I hope you are improved.” His words were polite enough, but his voice suggested indifference. He hardly looked at her face, his eyes refusing to meet her own.

  Manners necessitated a civil response. “I am much improved, thank you.” Her voice was as cold as his, and she made no effort to hide her anger from her expression. But Darcy seemed to notice none of this. He paced the room again, sat down in a chair by the fireplace, then almost immediately rose again and resumed pacing.

  At length, he moved towards her and spoke once more, in that same inscrutable voice. “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

  The words, at first, made no sense to her; her astonishment was beyond expression. She had never solicited his good impression, never hoped for or even considered his affection. If they had developed a particular friendship, that, she supposed, was only to be expected between a capable tutor and a willing student. She had, at no time, even entertained the possibility of anything more. The pain she felt was surely just in sympathy for dear Jane, and anger at having been so misled by Mr. Darcy’s appearance of good. Further, in light of her discovery about his true nature, she was quite satisfied not to have encouraged any such affection. But now this odious, prideful man was speaking of his love and passion. She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. Mr. Darcy was asking her to marry him!

  Mr. Darcy spoke well, but without emotion, most strange considering the content of his speech. He must, some part of Elizabeth’s mind realised, have prepared and memorised his presentation, knowing that he would find the words eluding him should he try to offer them spontaneously.

  It was clear that he had also not considered the emotional response of his audience whilst preparing his speech, for there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. In his wonted manner of categorising the world as he observed it, he enumerated the objections to their union, which he sought to disregard.

  “I have long considered the chasm which separates our stations in life, and whilst my own societal prestige will assuredly be lessened by the connexion with your family, I am prepared for the disapprobation of society. Likewise, I have considered the lamentable behaviour of your younger sisters and your mother’s lack of decorum and genteel manners—and even your own father’s lapses in managing his estate and dealing with his family—and have reflected on the consequent disruption of the expectations of both myself and my family. Most troubling are the unwelcome connexions with relations in the merchant class, which is a lowering of everything to which I have been raised to aspire. And yet, despite all of these disadvantages, I find I have come to love you and wish to have you as my wife.”

  Elizabeth listened in shock, unable to accept what she heard as he listed these obstructions to his goals, over which he had triumphed, and which ought therefore to be remarked upon with horror, and his victory over them lauded. Worse, he seemed quite unaware that such emphasis on the faults of his beloved was unlikely to recommend his suit. How very like him, in all his arrogant superiority, to think so entirely of his own situation and nothing of that of the woman he was attempting to woo.

  To offer such insults would be reason enough to refuse him; when added to her fresh ire at his meddling in the affairs of Jane, and even Mr. Wickham, they removed from Elizabeth any desire to even soften the blow of her rejection. The full fury which had grown within her breast since the colonel’s unwitting revelation that morning expanded even more, and soon she was unable—and unwilling—to contain it further.

  At last, when he stopped to draw breath, she stood and strode purposefully towards him. “Stop now, Mr. Darcy. It is customary, I believe, to express gratitude at such a declaration and offer, but I cannot—I have never desired your affections, and you have certainly bestowed them most unwillingly. I must deny your wishes. I shall not marry you.” Her voice was icy, and she barely was able to control the tremor produced by her rage. She turned to leave the room, but Darcy’s horrified voice stopped her. It was the first sign of emotion she had heard from him since he had entered.

  “Not?” The very notion of being refused seemed quite unexpected, and he actually stepped back in shock. “And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! And yet—I had thought we were friends. I believed your behaviour towards me to be encouragement. You must have been aware of my intentions!”

  Elizabeth turned towards him and glared into his moss-green eyes, which she refused to allow to turn away. “Look at me, Mr. Darcy. Listen to my voice. What do you see? What do you hear?”

  He blinked, surprised at her demand. After a moment, he spoke. “Your voice is hard, each syllable clearly enunciated, almost clipped. There is no gentle elision between sounds, and I hear the result of tension in your vocal cords. Looking at your face, your whole stance, I see you are tense in your entirety. Your posture is inflexible and rigid, your shoulders held slightly higher than usual. Your chin protrudes slightly, and your jaw is tense. Your eyes are narrow, and there is a furrow between your brows and high on your forehead.” He shook his head slightly as if unwilling to accept what he was seeing. �
�You are angry!” The revelation was clearly a complete surprise to him.

  “Not angry, Mr. Darcy. Furious. You would do well to recognise the difference.” The words fell like hailstones between them. “Now please do me the favour of removing yourself from my presence.”

  Darcy did not move for a moment, but quickly regained some of his control and dignity. “I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.”

  “I might as well enquire,” replied she, her anger radiating through every word she spoke, “why, with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil?

  “But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man, who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”

  At this, Darcy froze in his place, his face drained of colour, but he quickly regained his composure, returning once more to the unfeeling and imperious man of her first acquaintance. Elizabeth paused and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.

  “Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.

  With assumed tranquillity he then replied, “I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.”

  So it was true! Elizabeth felt her knees weaken. She had not understood this as yet, but until this moment, some part of her had hoped that Richard had been mistaken, that Mr. Darcy was, in fact, innocent of any misdealings between her sister and Mr. Bingley. Upon his confirmation, not only of his hand in the matter, but of his satisfaction with the results of his unwarranted meddling, proved to be a betrayal of Elizabeth herself as much as of her sister.