A Vision of the Path Before Him

by Elizabeth Frerichs

  Perhaps his new approach might help her grow more quickly as well. Dipping his quill again, he continued: How are you doing? Are your studies progressing well? I am certain you are doing admirably. Has Mrs. Annesley continued to perform to your satisfaction?

  Miss Bingley interrupted. “Do tell your sister that I miss her dreadfully. I long to see her once more.

  Miss Bingley wishes me to convey her greetings and that she misses you dreadfully and longs to see you. You may make of that whatever you wish.

  I am doing well. Mr. Bingley and I continue to examine Netherfield. It appears to be a profitable estate—or it can be made so with a little attention. I am certain Mr. Bingley is up to the task. He has fit into nearby society with the ease he always shows among new acquaintances.

  “How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!” Miss Bingley exclaimed.

  Darcy halted, considering an answer, but found that any answer he might make would only ensure her bid for conversation successful. Yet he had sworn to himself to be polite regardless of other’s actions. What would Elizabeth have him do?

  “You write uncommonly fast,” Miss Bingley continued.

  This would not do. He refused to allow even the appearance of pride. Darcy shook his head. “You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”

  “How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!”

  “It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours,” he said shortly. What had he done the last time to halt her constant importuning? He recalled his annoyance with the woman throughout his visit to Netherfield, but only conversations that involved Elizabeth remained crystal clear, polished through repeated remembering.

  “Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”

  “I have already told her so once, by your desire.”

  Miss Bingley half rose. “I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.”

  Polite, Darcy reminded himself. “Thank you—but I always mend my own.”

  “How can you contrive to write so evenly?” she continued.

  Darcy almost laughed at the ludicrousness of the situation—the rapidity of her inquiries left him with little time to write. Though she commented on his penmanship, he had not written a word in the past several minutes. He caught Elizabeth’s eyes which were sparkling with suppressed mirth, her lips pursed against a laugh. Perhaps Miss Bingley was useful for something after all.

  Apparently deciding that he hadn’t heard her or wasn’t going to reply, Miss Bingley pressed on. “Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp, and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”

  Darcy considered asking whether she had actually seen Georgiana’s design—he highly doubted it. Georgiana required a fair bit of coaxing before she would even let him see it. However, that might be considered rude. He sent Elizabeth a glance, inviting her to share in his mirth. “Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice,” he said seriously—the mostly empty page sitting in front of him.

  “Oh! It is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?”

  Darcy almost shook his head. As yet, he had managed no more than a paragraph. If Miss Bingley considered this long . . . . “They are generally long, but whether they are always charming is not for me to determine.”

  Miss Bingley gave him a saccharine smile. “It is a rule with me that a person who can write a long letter with ease cannot write ill.”

  “That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline!” Bingley cried. “He does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”

  Darcy smirked at him. “My style of writing is very different from yours.”

  Miss Bingley waved a hand dismissively. “Oh! Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words and blots the rest.”

  Bingley smiled ruefully. “My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them—by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”

  Elizabeth set down her needlework. “Your humility, Mr. Bingley, must disarm reproof.”

  Darcy considered. In the past, he had believed Bingley was boasting, albeit indirectly—he often used his haste in doing things as a mark of interest, much as he had done this morning with Mrs. Bennet. However, perhaps it was humility to know oneself. But knowledge without change was useless. Why did Bingley write such abominable letters? It was not due to ignorance. His thoughts did seem to jump from one thing to the next. Perhaps it was difficult for him to write with care. Or perhaps he felt he could not change his writing and disliked that about himself. Darcy had seen something similar occur with some of the fellows at school. They hid shame behind a shield of boasts.

  Darcy cleared his throat. “Perhaps you merely need to practice, Bingley.”

  Bingley shuddered. “No, thank you. I had more than enough practice under my tutor Hanning.”

  “Then you ought to consider retaining a secretary,” Darcy said. “Though I appreciate the rapidity of your thoughts, those who do business with you will not appreciate the blots and missing words. Rapidity is not always valued above precision.”

  “Oh, yes!” cried Miss Bingley. “A secretary would be just the thing!”

  Darcy stared at the woman for a moment. Was she quite sane? It had never occurred to him, but perhaps she had lost some of her faculties in pursuit of a husband.

  “All right, Darcy. Point taken.”

  “Do you believe that rapidity is a fault, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Not at all. There are times for deliberation and times for quick action.” He turned to Bingley. He mentally reviewed the conversation from Before. Had it contributed to Bingley’s desertion of Miss Bennet? Almost anyone else would have insisted upon returning and tying up loose ends. Bingley had accepted his sisters’ machinations with only feeble resistance. Perhaps he could plant a seed now in hopes of helping Bingley make a better choice later. “You told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes—and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or to anyone else?”

  “Nay,” cried Bingley, “this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment.”

  “I dare say you believed it, but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity.” Darcy considered. He desired to be careful of his friend who had shown such potential for growth. Adding to Bingley’s insecurity would be counter to his goals. Before, he had been cruel to Bingley—accurate, but disdainful of his character. How had the man borne him? “Your conduct would be quite as dependent on chance as that of any man I know. And if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley you had better stay till next week,’ you might yield to persuasion—regardless of what reason you had for leaving in the first place.”

  “You have only proved by this that Mr. Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition!” Elizabeth cried. “You have shown him off now much more than he did himself.”

  Bingley beamed at her. “I am exceedingly gratified by your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid that you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend. He would certainly think the better of me if, under such a circumstance, I were to give a flat denial and ride off as fast as I could.”

  “Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your origin
al intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?” Elizabeth asked archly.

  “I should not,” Darcy interjected. He held Bingley’s gaze. “The sweetness of your temper is indeed a strength.” He straightened. “Though I may not have always seen it so, I have learned my error.” One side of his mouth twitched up in a deprecating smile. “However, tempering your character with greater consideration would not hurt. And it would certainly stand you in good stead for the future.”

  Bingley’s eyes widened, then he inclined his head.

  “To yield readily—easily—to the persuasion of a friend is no merit with you?” Elizabeth asked.

  Darcy studied her. “To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either. I would hope any true friend would provide reason for such a delay.”

  “You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request without waiting for arguments to reason one into it.” She waved a hand. “I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”

  Darcy almost laughed aloud. He had missed the parry and thrust of their debates. “Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?” he teased.

  Bingley threw down his hand of cards. “By all means, let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size!” He turned to Elizabeth. “For that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Elizabeth, than you may be aware of. I assure you that, if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has nothing to do.”

  Was he so awful? Bingley had said he valued Darcy’s experience, but he had never asked for deference—or had he? He did not speak the demand, but he treated those who did not meet the unspoken demand with disdain. Perhaps he owed Bingley another apology. If nothing else, he would continue to work on his faults, to be a true gentleman who cared about those around him.

  Miss Bingley glared at her brother. “Charles! Whatever do you mean? I am certain Mr. Darcy is never awful. How can you talk such nonsense!”

  Darcy suppressed a shudder. Miss Bingley’s reactions were a mirror into his own previous feelings. He had been offended Before. What a wretched caricature of himself he had been! He turned to Bingley. “I see your design—you dislike an argument and want to silence this.”

  Bingley frowned. “Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss Elizabeth will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful, and then you may say whatever you like of me.”

  “Of course, Bingley. We can leave our friendly debate for a later time.”

  Elizabeth sent him a swift glance as though once more puzzling out some hidden meaning in his person. She returned her attention to Bingley. “What you ask is no sacrifice on my side, and Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter.”

  Quite right. Now if only Miss Bingley would remain silent for several minutes, he might accomplish it too. He turned back to his letter, once more taking up his quill.

  I am afraid that you will have to forgive the disjointed nature of this missive. I am attempting to write it in the drawing room, and Miss Bingley has been effusive in her comments. I do not doubt that you would see the humour in her belief that I can do no wrong. Indeed, I believe she sees wealth as an empowerment to near god-like status.

  I have also been engaged in a discussion with Miss Elizabeth Bennet on the merits of quick action as compared to greater deliberation. Though I value Mr. Bingley’s sweet temperament, I would like to see it tempered with some deliberation. Miss Elizabeth has spent the past few minutes admirably defending him. Mr. Bingley is entranced by her older sister, Miss Jane Bennet, who is currently a resident of Netherfield due to an illness. It does not seem to be any more serious than a cold, but Miss Elizabeth is staying here as well to nurse her.

  Dearest, I hope you are well. When I left, you were still suffering from guilt and heartbreak—or at least it seemed so to me. I have recently discovered the value of a well-learned lesson in my personal life. I hope one day you can look back on the summer’s events with gratitude for the strength they have given you.

  Darcy paused. Georgiana herself had hinted at such an occurrence Before. Opening communication in that direction might help his dearest sister to move past her grief and guilt more quickly. At the very least, she should know that he did not blame her.

  I know that I am partly to blame for not taking you to Ramsgate myself and for treating you as though you were too young to need wise counsel in matters of the heart. Though I am the last person to have experience to share in this area, I have learned the hallmarks of women who care only for my money or my status. They rarely listen to my opinions or, if they do, they take them up as their own—I believe I could say one thing and, at our next meeting, espouse the exact opposite view and certain people would agree as eagerly both times. In short, they are more interested in the contents of my pocketbook than the contents of my thoughts.

  A smile played about his lips as he contemplated Elizabeth. She had never shown him such deference. Indeed, she was far more interested in his thoughts, and twisting them into an opportunity for debate, than in his money. She would have accepted his proposal if she cared about money, but, even in the face of nearly certain poverty, she had refused him. He sobered. Had she wished to undo her choice after the loss of her father? Had she been afraid, or had she faced the loss bravely? Perhaps she had done both. He himself had been terrified upon his father’s death but had done his best to remain brave in the face of his terror. A vision of Elizabeth’s lifeless body flashed through his imagination, and his gaze flew to where she sat working on her needlework.

  She was alive, he reminded himself.

  Not dead. Not in a carriage accident. Not buried.

  Alive.

  He took a deep breath and returned to his letter.

  We have never spoken of this (because I felt it premature), but I hope you have never felt pressured to marry. You are welcome in my homes for the rest of your life should you choose not to marry. I am determined to give you away only to a man who sees and values you for the wonderful young woman you are. Regardless of the values society and Aunt Catherine possess on the qualities of a worthy match, you are a pearl beyond price and you deserve a man who can see that—not a marriage to some rich (or poor) gentleman who values your money above yourself.

  Should you wish to discuss this further, I remain your humble servant. I have been unwilling to see you as a young woman, but I am working to change. I love you very much, Dearest.

  Your loving brother,

  Fitzwilliam

  Darcy sanded, folded the letter, and sealed it. However, now that he was finished, Miss Bingley immediately began trying to reclaim his attention. Thus, he requested the ladies indulge them with some music. Miss Bingley stood and rushed toward the pianoforte before halting and asking Elizabeth to play first. Elizabeth demurred, allowing her hostess to proceed and, moments later, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst began an Italian opera piece.

  Elizabeth moved to the music books on the instrument and began sifting through them.

  Darcy studied her. What ought he to do now? He had only tonight and tomorrow before she would leave. He could not afford to waste a moment,
however, he did not wish to cause Elizabeth pain. How could he show her that he had changed? What would she have him do in this situation?

  A true gentleman would not ignore the performer, however, neither would he give rise to false hopes. Any attention to Miss Bingley would be instantly construed according to her heart’s desire, regardless of any facts to the contrary. Miss Bingley glanced his way, her gaze seeking him even while her voice strained to reach the high notes.

  Darcy suppressed a frown. She was singing a rather—warm love song, and he had no intention of sharing such a moment with her.

  His gaze drifted back to Elizabeth. She was so beautiful, lamplight glinting off her hair, curls springing free as though they had no choice but to escape the confines of society’s strictures and display their owner’s beauty. How could he have thought her a passing fancy? How could he have treated her as a horse to be purchased—one whose pedigree did not meet his exacting standards? He had treated her abominably. And yet, he had the opportunity to do it all over again and to do it right this time.

  He would not waste tonight. He would ask to turn pages for Elizabeth or something—some indication that he cared for her. He would not hide his love the way he had done in the past, so successful that not even the object of his affection was aware of his intentions.

  After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm with a lively Scotch air. A smile curled about Darcy’s lips as he recalled his conversation Before with Elizabeth. He drew near to her. “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Elizabeth, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”