by Meg Osborne
“It seems to me,” Bingley commented, as they drew nearer to Longbourn. “That the sun always shines a little brighter when we have had a few days of rain.”
Darcy lifted his gaze to Elizabeth, and they smiled at one another across the narrow expanse of the carriage.
“I could not agree more.”
Mr Bennet Pays a Call
Mr William Bennet secretly enjoyed visiting, if the company was considered worthy of his precious time. He never owned as much to his wife, for fear that, if she knew about this quirk of her husband’s, Mrs Bennet would be still more adamant that they should forever be paying calls and receiving calls and in every way imaginable disturbing the peace of his sanctuary, otherwise known as Longbourn. In fact, Mr Bennet was not possessive of the whole house. His lady wife and five children were welcome to most of it. It was one small corner - his study - that was sacrosanct. It had been invaded one too many times of late by women. Mr Bennet! his dear wife had exclaimed, wringing her hands in an expression of abject tragedy. How can you treat us so?
It was monstrous in the extreme, his refusal to pay his respects to the newest arrival in their corner of Hertfordshire, and in so doing he was condemning his daughters to spinsterhood and poverty.
As it happened, Mr Benet was quite interested to make an acquaintance of this newly-arrived Brindley, or Birding, or whatever the young man’s name was. Not to placate his wife, of course, but merely because Meryton and its environs were rife with stupid young peacocks, and he wished to determine if this new arrival was another in this pattern or someone worthy of interest. If the latter, Mr Bennet might deign to consider him possibly worthy of one of his daughters, if any of the five struck his fancy. He was not so wedded to the idea as Mrs Bennet.
Wedded. He chuckled, certain that his wife would have the match made and agreed upon within the hour if he gave her but half a chance.
It was on account of this that Mr Bennet had fixed upon making this call alone. In fact, he had resorted to a small falsehood, telling his wife that he required the carriage that morning in order to see to a certain matter of business. When she had shown the slightest interest in what that business may entail and whether he would require her delicate, feminine company on such an errand, he had blinded her with figures, none of which made sense even to him, but they had served the purpose of repelling further enquiry, and Mrs Bennet had bid him take his mathematical nonsense away to some other gentleman who might care for it, she certainly did not wish to be so harassed, and before breakfast too! It was too cruel.
Mr Bennet beamed. It was one of the small joys of his life, being “too cruel” to his wife. If she did not react in such a manner to even the merest hint of sense, he wagered he would not find baiting her so amusing. But she did, and so he did, and they had carried on in this manner for the past two decades. He saw little point in changing things now.
The carriage drew within sight of Netherfield Park and slowed, lurching into the driveway and allowing Mr Bennet a moment to glimpse the property and make his own quick judgement upon it. It was a fine house, large and elegant, and relatively well-maintained, when one considered the length of time it had stood empty. This Bingley, for Mr Bennet was sure that was his name, now that he thought of it, was clearly savvy enough to snatch up a bargain when he saw it. That might bode well for their new acquaintance, for Mr Bennet had little enough patience for fools, and fools who frittered money were of utmost distaste to him. He had spent the majority of his life married to one, after all.
His coachman escorted him down, and Mr Bennet made his introductions to the staff, was welcomed warmly and bid to join the master of the house, his sister and a Mr Darcy who Mr Bennet had never yet heard mention of, in the parlour.
“Mr Bennet!”
The young man who greeted him bounded to his feet with enthusiasm, and hurried forward, brandishing his hand in a manner not unlike a puppy. The image prompted a smile that was taken for greeting, and Mr Bennet was already placed on the back foot, as his hand was taken and enthusiastically pumped up and down by the young man who introduced himself as,
“Bingley. Mr Charles Bingley. How wonderful to meet you! Do, please, sit down. I imagine you must be in need of some refreshment after your journey.”
“My journey?” Mr Bennet arched one bushy eyebrow. “Indeed, three miles by carriage is quite taxing on a person.”
His sarcasm was entirely mistaken for truth, and Mr Bingley’s eyes widened in alarm, as he looked around for a chair, quite concerned the poor old fellow before him was about to collapse in a dead faint right where he stood.
“Please forgive my brother,” a catlike voice came from Mr Bennet’s left. “As new arrivals in Hertfordshire, he is eager to make friends, and rather too enthusiastic for most, especially at this time on a Tuesday.”
Miss Bingley smiled stiffly at Mr Bennet, and her words were enough to prompt her brother to relinquish his hold on his hand so that everybody was free to take their seats.
“This is my sister, Caroline,” Mr Bingley said, still relishing his role of host. “And that fierce looking gentleman over in the corner is our friend Mr Darcy.”
Mr Bennet glanced up and noticed a third person, who he had not recognised at first, haunting the dark corner of the parlour. He held a book aloft, affecting to read, though at this comment he at least had the good manners to lower it and nod, disinterestedly, in Mr Bennet’s general direction.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“And I, yours,” Mr Bennet replied, archly. Fierce was a right enough adjective for the man. Mr Darcy could not be less like his friend if he tried, for he was dark, where his friend was fair, glowered where the other grinned and was a picture of stillness by contrast to Bingley’s irrepressible animation.
A servant appeared with a heavily laden tea tray, and Mr Bennet was pleased to note a generous selection of pastries accompanying the elegant tea service. This new arrival seemed well versed, at least, in how to best welcome a guest. That was a point in his favour.
“Well, Mr Bennet, we are delighted to get to know you, being new in Hertfordshire,” Mr Bingley said, enthusiastically swallowing half of his tea in one scalding sip and hurrying to engage his guest in conversation. “You must tell us all about you. Have you lived here long? And your family, what are they like? Remind me of the name of your estate?”
“Longbourn,” Mr Bennet began, stirring his own tea, and swallowing a low sigh. He enjoyed visiting, and that was right enough. He was rather less fond of inquisitions...
CAROLINE BINGLEY SIGHED and glanced over to the window. Mr Darcy was still sitting in the chair he had claimed as his own that morning, still holding that blasted book he found apparently more engaging than speaking to either Charles or her. She turned her attention back to her brother and wondered why he was trying to desperately hard to make Mr Bennet like him. Or, and here she rather felt that she understood the matter plainly, he was exhibiting the energy of friendliness, and making Mr Bennet like him without trying. Caroline wondered what it was about her brother that drew people to him so effortlessly. Or, no, it was not without effort. She fancied her brother actually enjoyed the effort. He never made perfunctory conversation, or never appeared to. Everything was of interest to him, everything demanded not only his attention, but his enthusiastic attention. Even quizzing the cook on their plans for dinner provoked as much interest as planning for a shooting party, and made her brother seem as young as a boy, and not two years her elder.
“Daughters?” Mr Bingley had seized upon the word, and the interest in his voice brought Caroline sharply to attention. “You suggest more than one!”
“Indeed,” Mr Bennet remarked, drily. “I have five.”
Five daughters? Caroline’s eyes rolled skywards. Five young ladies living but three miles away? They would be forced into friendship if Charles had his way. Her heart sank. She never did find it easy to befriend women and had often wished she had but one-tenth of that spark that see
med to have passed only to Charles that made him make friends wherever he went. She seemed solely capable of making enemies, when she found anyone worthy of her time at all. Five poor daughters of a weary gentleman did not bode well for the possibility of there being a kindred spirit among them.
“Why, you ought to have brought them with you, sir! Our house is so large and empty it could do with a little conversation to liven it up!” Charles laughed, and Caroline felt certain that his comment was aimed in some way at her. She darted a glance at Darcy and saw his lips turn down, almost imperceptibly. There, she thought, with triumph. Something we can agree on. She, like Mr Darcy, but unlike her brother, was fond of the quiet.
“There are but three of you here at present?” Mr Bennet asked, reluctant or unwilling to be drawn to further intelligence of his myriad daughters.
“Five,” Caroline offered, feeling that she ought somehow to insert herself into the conversation, or Charles would end up inviting the entire Bennet brood to dine with them, regardless of her opinion on the matter. “My eldest sister and her husband are out in Meryton today, but usually they would be here with us.”
“How nice,” Mr Bennet said, with a bland smile.
They lapsed into silence again, and Caroline watched the surface of her tea ripple in the late morning light.
“You plan to attend the Meryton Assembly in a few days, I presume?”
“Of course!” Charles answered, before either Caroline or Mr Darcy had a chance to draw breath. “That is, we did not yet know of such a thing!” He laughed. “An assembly! How jolly.”
“Yes,” Mr Bennet said, wearily, and Caroline’s interest lifted. He sounded as enthusiastic for the evening’s entertainments as she was. Not that she disliked dancing or society, it was only that...compared to London, she did not anticipate there being much of merit in either dancing or society in the depths of Hertfordshire’s countryside.
“I do not doubt you will be a popular addition, and your sisters and friends, too,” Mr Bennet said. “It has been some time since there were newcomers hereabouts, and your arrival is sure to spark interest in the young ladies and gentlemen.”
There was a harrumph from the corner, and Caroline did not need to look up to glean that Mr Darcy’s opinion of being expected to “spark interest” in the young people of Hertfordshire matched her own. Why could we not stay in London? she thought, already wearying at the thought of the long months that stretched ahead of them in quiet Netherfield Park. It had been at her insistence that Mr Darcy had joined them at all, and had taken rather more persuasion than she had anticipated. It rattled her that the mere announcement that she and Charles were to quit London for the country had not been enough to entice Mr Darcy to join them. She had had to suggest the idea to Charles, who in turn offered an invitation to Mr Darcy. Even then it had not been accepted with the enthusiasm she might have hoped for. His having often been in their company, Caroline had begun to imagine that he thought well of her, perhaps even considered her a possible candidate for marriage, for surely the master of Pemberley would be in want of a wife, and who better than the sister of his oldest friend? But it had not been until she confided in him her fear for Charles, and mentioned his tendency towards low spirits, which would certainly plague him as a stranger in a new home without the bustle of London or companionship of close friends with him to bring him out of himself...
Caroline swallowed. It was a falsehood. Charles had never had a day’s low spirits in his life, and if he did she doubted the dour presence of Mr Darcy would be enough to cheer him out of them. But the ruse had worked, and he had consented to join them until Christmas. Caroline’s lips lifted in the ghost of a smile. Christmas was months away, which gave her plenty of time to win Mr Darcy’s affections. Perhaps, when viewed alongside the dowdy offerings of Hertfordshire’s less than elegant daughters and sisters, Mr Darcy would realise what he was missing, and she, Caroline, might secure his heart at last. She was surely the only young women in five miles worthy of being mistress of Pemberley.
“I do not know anything about the assemblies at Meryton, Mr Bennet,” she said, her voice syrupy and encouraging. “Pray, are there many young ladies in attendance...?”
“I DO NOT KNOW MUCH of gardens, myself, other than what looks pleasant, but my friend assures me that the grounds of Netherfield are a marvel. Darcy ought to know, for he possesses an estate all his own, away in Derbyshire,” Mr Bingley remarked. He had invited Mr Bennet to take a turn of the gardens, as the weather was clear, and despite his suggestion being refused by both Miss Bingley and the elusive Mr Darcy, who remained faithful to his book, Mr Bennet had accepted the invitation with grace, although his age and energy dictated they walk at a pace rather slower than Mr Bingley might have assumed alone.
“They are quite fine and very extensive,” Mr Bennet remarked, politely. Ordinarily, such an admission of ignorance by Mr Bingley would have been met with irritation by Mr Bennet. He would be frustrated to find yet another wealthy young man from London coming to play at being a country gentleman and serving only to upset the balance of things.
However, despite himself, Mr Bennet could feel himself warming to the young man. Charles Bingley was entirely guileless - not like that sister of his. She had added little to their conversation, and what she had said had not been without intention. And as for his friend! Mr Bennet’s eyebrows knitted reflexively. He is certainly a self-contained fellow. Mr Darcy had scarcely joined in their conversation at all. Oh, he had been polite, to the letter of politeness, in fact. But there was no interest or affection in him. Idly, Mr Bennet wondered how on earth he and Mr Bingley had had the misfortune of becoming friends, for two less alike fellows he could not imagine.
“Well, Mr Bennet,” Mr Bingley said, as his carriage came into view. “I hope you will permit my sisters and I to call on your family tomorrow?”
“Ah, then I might meet the famed Mrs Hurst!” Mr Bennet remarked, with rather less feeling than he professed. “Will you bring Mr Hurst and Mr Darcy with you?” He did not like to imagine the effect not one but two eligible bachelors - and a third already married, although that could hardly be helped - would have on his dear wife’s nerves, and was just deciding how best to raise the matter.
“It shall just be my sisters and me, I expect,” Mr Bingley said, with a grin. “Mr Darcy is not fond of paying calls.”
“No, indeed.” He is not fond of much, if the past half an hour is any indication, Mr Bennet thought, with a grimace.
“Yet he is my oldest and dearest friend, and shall, I am sure, make a fine impression at the assembly.” He smiled. “I am glad you mentioned it, for I fear we would not have known of it otherwise, and what a pity to have missed it!”
“I doubt that would have happened!” Mr Bennet remarked, grimly. “Once word reaches the local ladies of your arrival you shall be inundated with invitations and visitors. Fair warning to your friend Mr Darcy that he must practice making himself scarce if he does not wish to be the focus of so much female attention.”
Charles roared with laughter as if Mr Bennet had made a joke, and after a moment even he deigned to offer a slight chuckle. The image of stoic Mr Darcy in the centre of a flock of excitable women was indeed an amusing one, and Mr Bennet almost felt a flicker of sympathy for what lay in store for the poor young man. Then he recalled his stern brow and perpetual frown he wore and felt certain that Mr Darcy was more than capable of defending himself, no matter how many women sought to converse with him.
“Well, Mr Bingley, it has been a pleasure,” Mr Bennet remarked, as he climbed into his carriage. “You and your party are most welcome to call at Longbourn any time. I warn you now that my daughters are liable to talk you to death, and my two youngest, Kitty and Lydia, are quite ridiculous, but the elder three are relatively sane and interesting creatures, so on balance, I imagine you will survive the trial.”
Mr Bingley laughed again, taking Mr Bennet’s semi-serious comment for yet another joke. Mr Bennet drew his lips toget
her in a grim smile. He would wait and see how that young man would react when his joke was proved true. Half an hour in the presence of Mary’s sermonising would be sure to drive him back to the solitude of Netherfield Park, and then poor Mrs Bennet would be back to square one in her scheme to marry each of her daughters in turn to the first available bachelor she could possibly find, willing or otherwise.
With one final wave and one last glimpse of Netherfield Park in all its splendour, Mr Bennet set out for home, sinking back into the plush interior of his carriage with a contented sigh.
He was not a bad fellow, that Bingley. A mite too simple for Mr Bennet’s tastes. Oh, he did not doubt the man in full possession of all of his faculties. In fact, he had made a comment or two that suggested him to be rather clever and certainly well enough informed in matters of politics and business. But there was no wit, no subversion. He took everything at face value and being a kind, good-hearted fellow himself, could not conceive of anybody ever being otherwise. He is not at all worldly! Mr Bennet mused. In the hands of the wrong woman he could come to dreadful harm, and Mr Bennet was surprised to feel a paternal flicker of anxiety at such a thought. He needed someone as sweet and good-natured as he was. Someone like...Jane. Jane! Yes, his eldest daughter would be the perfect fit for Mr Bingley. Oh, they would be innocent as lambs and taken in by every ne’er do well who crossed their paths. But they would be happy, provided they cared for one another. It would not be so very hard to engineer their caring for one another either, he thought. Jane was pretty, and Mr Bingley handsome, and if they were to meet at the assembly...well, he himself was a testament to the effect of beauty and dancing on a man’s heart. His own Mrs Bennet had snared him, so, and they had embarked on their own version of wedded bliss after just such an occasion.
