by Jessie Lewis
Elizabeth comprehended at last. Jane’s obstinate support stemmed from some imagined affinity with him simply because he, too, had been jilted. Comprehension scarcely eased her frustration. Her sister was evidently not ready to hear any unpleasant truths—in which case, she was certainly not ready to hear about Mr. Darcy’s proposal. No doubt, she would argue his conduct had been faultless, smooth away all insult in misunderstanding, and render his contemptuous address romantic and heartfelt.
“I understand your desire to sympathise with him,” she conceded, “but I am afraid you will not convince me that your situation and his are comparable. May we at least agree he is not beyond reproach?”
To this, as well as to the appeal to preserve Miss Darcy’s secret, Jane readily agreed, after which the matter was dropped. When Longbourn’s chimneys came into view half an hour later, the sisters were returned to their usual harmony, their quarrel well and truly behind them.
***
Saturday, 2 May 1812: Hertfordshire
Kitty’s announcement that a certain gentleman was riding towards the house threw Jane into an unbearable state of suspense. Elizabeth had walked out, and in the absence of her good sense, there was little to prevent Mrs. Bennet’s hysterical fluttering or Kitty and Lydia’s wild speculations as to their visitor’s purpose. By the time Mr. Bingley arrived and the long-awaited interview began, Jane had abandoned all hope of approaching it with equanimity. She longed to observe whether he paid her any peculiar attention yet scarcely dared look at him. She longed to speak but could think of nothing to say. It seemed safest to concentrate on her embroidery and allow her mother to carry the conversation.
Though he bore Mrs. Bennet’s effusions with good humour, Jane could not but notice Mr. Bingley’s smile grew progressively more fixed. Gathering her courage, she exerted herself to enquire whether spring had much favoured Netherfield’s gardens. He answered in the affirmative and most enthusiastically, but after that, they both fell back into awkward silence.
“I recall your saying, sir,” her mother went on, unperturbed, “that whenever you were in Town, you never wished to leave it.”
“Did I? But, of course, I must have if you recall it,” he replied amiably.
“You did. Yet, here you are! You have left London in favour of the country. How ought we to account for it, I wonder? What is here that could possibly tempt you away?”
Jane closed her eyes, mortification burning her cheeks.
“I decided the country had one considerable advantage over London and that I should be much happier here.”
Jane opened her eyes again in astonishment, and he was looking at her directly. She gasped and instinctively lifted a hand to her breast, regrettably dropping her embroidery hoop in the process. She lunged after it, but too fast, for she lost her balance and toppled after it. Stifling an unladylike screech, she reached for the nearby occasional table to break her fall.
Her recovery was short-lived, for the folding leaf of the traitorous furniture unceremoniously folded, clearly mistaking the occasion for an entirely different one where its services were not required. Her hand swept down towards the ground, followed by her head and shoulders as she made unintentional obeisance to the room, the stack of ribbons atop the table unfurled in a colourful fountain, and to her utter mortification, a distinct ripping sound came from under her arm.
Her sisters erupted into laughter. Her mother openly lamented her inelegance. Mr. Bingley she dared not look at as she slid back into her seat, despairing of ever regaining his esteem after such an exhibition. It was with a palpable sense of relief that she heard the front door open and the sound of Elizabeth’s voice. When her sister came into the parlour, Jane turned away from the gathered company and mouthed to her urgently, Help!
***
Elizabeth judged the awkwardness pervading the parlour to be beyond salvation. She suggested they walk in the garden instead, and with a little help from her mother in dissuading the younger girls from joining them, it was agreed.
“’Tis well,” she assured her sister quietly, nudging her towards the stairs. “He has come this far; a dropped hoop is not likely to put him off. Go! Change your dress and take a moment to collect yourself. I shall sing your praises until you return.”
She found Mr. Bingley by the front door, and together they resolved to take a slow turn whilst they awaited Jane.
“Is your sister well?” he enquired.
“Perfectly well, thank you, sir. She is changing into something better suited to walking.” It did not seem to placate him overmuch; thus, in an attempt to give him heart, she added, “We are all exceedingly pleased to see you returned.”
“It is exceedingly pleasant to be back.”
“And were there one person’s opinion you particularly cared for,” she added with a sly glance, “I daresay you may be confident of a warm welcome there also.” The hope overspreading his countenance was all she could have hoped for on Jane’s behalf.
“I thank you sincerely for your assurances. I hoped, from what Darcy said, that you would be my ally.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “He spoke of me?”
“Oh yes, he confessed everything. I know it all.”
“All, sir?”
Perhaps it was the tremble in her voice that bade him look at her with such concern. “Pray, be not alarmed that his disclosure was in any way improper. I know you did not see eye to eye with him, but I assure you Darcy is a very good sort of man—and exceptionally loyal. As soon as he realised his actions had injured me, he felt obliged to confess his mistake. I know of his misjudgement of your sister’s affections, his concealment of her presence in Town this winter, and your assertion of her regard—all of it.”
“I see.” Elizabeth could only hope the omission of any mention of his proposal was indicative of Mr. Bingley’s ignorance rather than his discretion.
“I apologise if mentioning it made you uneasy.”
“No, not at all. I am only relieved my interference was not seen in a mistaken light.”
“On the contrary, I cannot thank you enough for speaking up. I am quite in your debt.”
She smiled distractedly, consumed by a sudden and compelling desire to hear more about his friend. With as much disinterest as she could feign, she enquired whether Mr. Darcy would be joining him at Netherfield.
“Not on this occasion,” he answered. “He has been particularly busy these past weeks—rarely home to callers and unwell to boot.”
“He is unwell?” She endeavoured to ignore the cloying sensation of guilt, for surely even with her vanity, she could not take credit for an ague.
“Oh, nothing serious—only a persistent cold, I think. Ah! Miss Bennet, you have joined us at last. Wonderful!”
Elizabeth gladly ceded possession of his arm to Jane and fell in behind them as they meandered Longbourn’s paths. She made a poor chaperone, for all her thoughts were focused nearly thirty miles away in London on the man who had gone against all his professed scruples to reunite two people in love. Mr. Darcy would never wish to see her again, she knew. Nevertheless, though still not sorry for refusing him, she felt a burgeoning regret for not allowing herself to see him properly when she had the chance.
***
Monday, 4 May 1812: Hertfordshire
84 Gracechurch Street, London
May 1
Dear Lizzy,
You left us only yesterday, and already the children are wild for company. I, too, am sorry your visit was cut short, but I console myself with thoughts of our trip to the northern counties this summer—and so must you.
If your mother’s raptures are to be believed, Mr. Bingley will have offered for Jane by now. Though, since he has proved himself the most whimsical of creatures, I am all anticipation for your next letter telling me he is gone off again and your sister is inc
onsolable. I trust you to keep me informed.
You will be most surprised to hear whom I encountered at Mrs. Featherstone’s house yesterday—Mr. Craythorne! I declare the man is as hopelessly infatuated with you as ever. He would not be satisfied until I told him all your news, though I think he was only interested in whether you were yet married. When I told him you had planned to attend the soiree with me, he fair swooned. You cannot go through life making men love you so, Lizzy. It is most cruel. Did not Mr. Greyson also come perilously close to declaring himself last summer? And how could I forget Mr. Collins? No indeed, you must take pains to make them all despise you lest you invite any more unsolicited advances.
In all seriousness, while I am on the subject of gentlemen’s advances, I beg you to be on your guard for Jane. If Mr. Bingley truly has returned to Hertfordshire for her, he may be keen to demonstrate his affections. Need I remind you of how Mr. Craythorne’s affections manifested themselves? Mark my words—men who fancy themselves in love have improper thoughts. I caution you to be vigilant.
Enough gravity. I shall end now. Please be a dear and send a sketch for Anna, for she is woebegone without her “Li’beth.”
Yours most affectionately,
M. Gardiner
With her cheeks aflame, Elizabeth folded the letter and looked up to where Mr. Bingley walked a short distance ahead with Jane. Not for a moment did she believe him the sort to behave improperly. She wished her aunt had not put the notion in her head, for she had no desire to think about his baser imaginings—and particularly not Mr. Craythorne’s or Mr. Collins’s or indeed any man whose improper thoughts involved her.
She stopped walking abruptly. The heat in her face spread to suffuse her entire person as it occurred to her for the very first time that Mr. Darcy had wished to bed her.
***
Bingley ambled down the lane with Miss Bennet’s hand resting gently in the crook of his arm, attempting prodigiously hard to enjoy the moment—and failing. Not one for excessive deliberation, he had not given much thought to how he might salvage their understanding once he got here. This was their third encounter, and he was no nearer to knowing her feelings towards him than before he left London. Yet, regardless of how vexing his total want of progress was, he had abandoned her once and would not do so again unless he heard from her lips that he should. He allowed his gaze to wander as he cast about for something to say, and he was met with the sight of a ridiculously large bull energetically copulating with a complaisant cow in the adjacent field. He looked away peevishly, refusing to be jealous of cattle.
“It was kind of Miss Bingley to call on me in January,” said Miss Bennet.
“Caroline called on you? In London?” This was shocking news indeed! Darcy had implicated no other party in the concealment of her presence in Town.
“You did not know?”
“I am sorry to say she did not mention it. I assure you, had I known you were in Town, I should have called on you myself.”
He counted it a victory to see her almost smile and pressed his advantage by expounding on all the balls and dinners he should have liked her to attend with him. She responded with a précis of her time in London. That mostly consisted of shopping and morning calls, however, neither of which could long hold his attention; thus, his gaze soon wandered again. It fell, to his consternation, upon a pair of rabbits, vigorously obliging one another amongst the daffodils. Determined that not all God’s creatures should outdo him, he let go of Miss Bennet’s arm and slipped his hand about her waist, disguising the intimacy as an attempt to steer her around a muddy puddle. He threw a petulant look at the rabbits, but they were gone, and his inattention caused him to misstep, splashing mud on his boots and Miss Bennet’s alike.
He was surprised to hear her laugh—a sparkling sound wholly devoid of censure—but soon realised his mistake. It was not she who was diverted but her sister, who was somewhat flushed and out of breath, having hastened to catch up with them. Bingley had to agree with Darcy’s estimation that her prettiness was quite delightfully emphasised by exercise.
“Pardon me,” she said, “I ought not to laugh, only had either of you been more willing to part, you might have walked either side of the puddle.”
There was an encouraging thought! It even drew a modest smile from Miss Bennet. All gratitude, Bingley offered Miss Elizabeth his free arm, but she declined.
“Would you mind very much if I did not go the rest of the way with you?”
“Of course not, Lizzy,” Miss Bennet replied. “Are you unwell?”
“Not at all. I would reply to Aunt Gardiner’s letter before I forget all my wittiest retorts.”
Bingley was rather disappointed to see their party diminished but was encouraged when Miss Bennet did not object to continuing alone. They had the distance to Lucas Lodge, where they walked to collect one of the younger Miss Bennets, in each other’s sole company. He hoped that, in private, he might glean a better idea of her receptiveness to his attentions, and if he was unsuccessful there, he hoped at least he would receive no more reminders from nature as to what little advancement his courtship had made.
***
Elizabeth regretted her dishonesty but could hardly acknowledge the true reason for her discomposure. She bade Jane and Mr. Bingley farewell and turned homeward, forgetting them almost instantly as her thoughts returned once again to Mr. Darcy.
He had himself claimed she was not handsome enough to tempt him; thus, she had assumed he offered for her despite her looks. Could it be that his opinion of her beauty was, in fact, quite the opposite? It ought not to matter, for though she had never been insensible to his striking looks, ever since he denounced hers, she had resolved to be indifferent to them. All the same, the discovery of his admiration rather begged her to dwell upon the merits of his person—his indisputably pleasing figure, the thick, dark hair that curled over his collar at his nape, his dark, deep-set eyes that appeared almost black on occasion, his rare but becoming smile, the vertical crease that formed between his brows when he frowned…
She laughed incredulously. Oh, yes, very indifferent! Admit it, Lizzy. He is the handsomest man of your acquaintance.
It seemed improbable that she should have impressed him, yet her aunt had said men who fancy themselves in love have improper thoughts, and he was the only man ever to profess actual love.
She gasped and almost stumbled. Her heart pounded. Of all the things he had said to her in the course of his atrocious proposal, she had given the least credence to that—his declaration of love. It had seemed incredible at the time. She had dismissed it as a passing fancy. Yet, she ought to have known Mr. Darcy did not suffer passing fancies. Every report she had of him, including his own, showed him to be a man of profound sensibility with feelings immutable once formed. An avowal of ardent love from such a man could not have been lightly given. He had truly loved her, and she had refused him—nay, spurned him.
She, who took pride in her natural inclination to compassion, had been hateful in her rejection. She had hurled unfounded and appalling charges, defended the monster who almost ruined his sister, mercilessly vilified his character, and acknowledged his heartfelt declaration only insofar as to tell him he ought to have no difficulty in overcoming it. When Mr. Darcy was at his most vulnerable, his heart lain open, she had shredded it and thrown it back to him in pieces. She left the path, unable to bear any more guilt and certain anyone she encountered would immediately perceive what she had done.
Had he suffered as Jane had? Did he suffer still? She trudged disconsolately through the woods, wondering sadly who had comforted him in his distress. The bluebells beneath the trees blurred into a murky blue puddle as tears welled in her eyes. She supposed that office ought to have fallen to his wife. He had wanted her to care for him, to love him. Instead, she broke his heart. Her tears spilled over at last. She wept—out of shame for herself
and pity for the man she had used so ill—and did not return home ’til all her crying was done.
“Lizzy! Whatever is the matter?” Lydia exclaimed from the sitting room as Elizabeth passed it, thwarting her hope of going into the house unnoticed.
“Nothing, Lydia. I am well.”
She came to the doorway. “There must be something. You look awful. Your eyes are all puffy, and your face is a fright. Is it your monthlies?”
Elizabeth huffed a small laugh. “Really, there is nothing the matter.”
“I am not that silly. It is clear you have been crying. Though, if it is a tricky problem that requires a clever answer, then I suppose you had just as well not tell me, for I am sure I shall be no use to you at all.”
Lydia owned it—she was not the sort of girl in whom one confided. Nonetheless, very quietly and quite to her surprise, Elizabeth found herself speaking. “I have made a terrible mistake, Lydia. I have wronged somebody most grievously.”
“Oh, then nothing is so easy! You must apologise.”
***
Thursday, 7 May 1812: London
In his bed, asleep; at his club, drinking; on his horse, hurtling across the countryside; or here, at his uncle’s table, surrounded by pomp and speciousness—it mattered not where Darcy was or what he was doing. Nothing eased his misery. On the contrary, everything seemed designed to make him miss Elizabeth more. No one to whom he talked was quite as witty. No one with whom he danced was quite as vivacious. No one to whom he expressed an opinion ever challenged it. Life was muted in her absence.
Darcy had little inclination to eat, and his scant reserves of composure waned further still as dinner dragged on. He became overly conscious of the din of cutlery scouring china and the ghastly way the woman opposite scraped her teeth on her fork. He raised his hand to run it over his face, but caught himself in time and reached for his drink instead.
