Elizabeth worked to be civil and worked even harder to feel no discomfort upon encountering Mr. Darcy. It would be the silliest thing in the world to be uncomfortable in one’s own drawing room.
As much as Emma attempted to maneuver Mr. Bingley to Elizabeth’s side, Elizabeth thwarted her in it. This, though, led to finding herself often conversing with Mr. Darcy.
Their conversation was superficial, with the exception of Mr. Darcy speaking of his sister. If there was to be any redeeming feature in Mr. Darcy, it was the obvious regard he held for Miss Darcy.
Elizabeth supposed that no person was all bad, not even Mr. Darcy. In any case, for a gentleman who did not esteem their neighborhood or the people in it, he did appear with disconcerting regularity.
Darcy and Bingley sat at breakfast, which was generally the most pleasant meal of the day, as Caroline was in the habit of breakfasting in her room. Darcy could not fathom what Bingley wished to discuss, he could only be sure it was something. His friend had been picking up a piece of toasted bread and staring at it and setting it down again for the past half hour.
“Darcy,” Bingley said, “I am thinking seriously of, that is I have been seriously considering…”
Darcy waited to hear what Bingley was considering. As no such information appeared to be forthcoming, he said, “You do not give me much to go on, am I to guess that you are considering whether or not you will eat your toast?”
Bingley looked down at the slice of toasted bread in his hands, still as whole as he had received it. He laid it on his plate and said, “I have been thinking that there is a lady nearby that I like. That I like very much. And, I believe, my regard may be reciprocated.”
“Miss Woodhouse hinted as much,” Darcy said.
“Miss Woodhouse!” Bingley said. “She hinted to me as well, though she did not give me much detail. Then, am I to understand that the lady in question has spoken of me? That there is real indication that I might find favor?”
“Miss Woodhouse seems to think so,” Darcy said. “Though Bingley, you have just arrived and it would be precipitous to declare yourself so soon.”
“I am not yet prepared to declare myself,” Bingley said. “I only felt, as my good friend, you ought to know where my thoughts were leading me. Of course, I instantly admired the lady, who would not? I did feel, though, that her beauty put her out of my reach, such a lady as that could marry anywhere she liked. And so, to hear that the admiration might be mutual. Well. It has captured my thoughts.”
“As your friend,” Darcy said, choosing his words, “I would ask that you slow your thoughts and think of the practicalities. A pretty face does not trump everything else.”
“She is not only a pretty face!” Bingley cried. “She has grace and kindness, too!”
“Think of the various ladies you have encountered in London,” Darcy said. “Think of where their connections might take you. Miss Darnely is very well situated.”
“Miss Darnely cannot hold a candle to her,” Bingley said firmly. He appeared much relieved to make the proclamation and attacked his toast with vigor.
Darcy did not think that quite true. Elizabeth Bennet was exceedingly pretty, but she was too outspoken. He had felt the consequence of that trait himself on the night of Netherfield’s dinner. They had since had more civil conversations, though Darcy had remained wary lest Miss Bennet’s tongue suddenly strike again. Miss Darnely, on the other hand, was more mild, her dowry was sizable and she traveled in the best circles. Bingley could not do better.
“I only say,” Darcy said carefully, “that Miss Elizabeth Bennet comes with little dowry and no social connections to speak of.”
Bingley dropped his toast. “Elizabeth Bennet? I am speaking of Jane Bennet!”
“Jane Bennet?” Darcy asked, exceedingly puzzled. “Miss Woodhouse most specifically indicated that the regard was on Elizabeth Bennet’s side.”
“That cannot be,” Bingley said slowly. “I was certain she spoke of Jane Bennet.”
“Miss Woodhouse named Miss Elizabeth Bennet to me,” Darcy said. “Did the lady name Miss Jane Bennet to you?”
Bingley wrinkled his brow as if he searched his mind. He threw down his toast. “She referred to, well, she. I naturally assumed…”
“Perhaps that is the problem,” Darcy said. “Perhaps Miss Woodhouse naturally assumed you both spoke of Elizabeth Bennet and there was no need to specify. In any case, what made you think Jane Bennet admired you in that way?” Darcy asked. “I only inquire because, as your friend, I feel we hold little secrets from one another. I know that you have spoken to her often, but I had not noted any signs of attachment from the lady. She strikes me as rather unmoved. Was there something in particular I did not note?”
“Unmoved,” Bingley said dejectedly. “Well, I am sure I cannot say. I suppose it was just that my own feelings were developing into an attachment and then Miss Woodhouse spoke to me, giving me real hope...”
“Am I to understand, then,” Darcy said, “that you prefer Jane Bennet and Elizabeth Bennet prefers you?”
“What am I to do?” Bingley cried.
Mrs. Bennet had very sensibly decided to give up her idea of shooting Mr. Collins on the drive. This sudden attack of rationality came over her when she was apprised of the idea that he might wish to marry one of her girls. Now, her only dilemma was which one.
“Do not train your gaze on me, mama,” Lydia said. “One day, we are to shoot the fellow dead, then the next we are to marry him?”
“One may change one’s mind,” Mrs. Bennet said, “when circumstances dictate.”
“I would not make a very good clergyman’s wife,” Lydia said. “You know I would not. I fidget in church and that is only one day a week! How on earth would I listen to sermons from a husband and spend all my time listening to people’s problems? I much prefer a dashing officer, thank you very much.”
Mrs. Bennet considered her daughter’s words, then she said, “If I am thinking realistically about it, Jane certainly will marry soon, you and Kitty will likely marry officers and that only leaves Lizzy and Mary.”
Elizabeth looked up from her sewing in alarm. Mary’s fingers slipped on the keys of the pianoforte, making a sound like something heavy falling from a great height. Emma laid her hand on Mrs. Bennet’s arm.
“Dear aunt,” Emma said, “it must be Mary. Lizzy is quite admired by Mr. Bingley.”
“Mr. Bingley?” Mrs. Bennet asked. “But I thought Mr. Bingley admired—”
“Do not fret over it,” Emma said. “All that appears confusion now shall come out right in the end.”
“Well, if that is so,” Mrs. Bennet said softly.
“It is not so,” Elizabeth said firmly.
Ignoring her daughter’s protestation, Mrs. Bennet said, “Only think, Jane married to Mr. Darcy and Lizzy married to Mr. Bingley.”
“Mr. Bingley has not the slightest interest in me,” Elizabeth said.
“You have very modest daughters, Aunt,” Emma said.
“I suppose I do,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Dear Emma, thank the heavens you are here to explain how it all is.” Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands. “So, it shall be Mary for Mr. Collins.”
Mary sat as still as a statue at the pianoforte. Lydia said, “Here that, Mary? You are to be a clergyman’s wife. It will be great fun—your husband can sermonize to you and you can sermonize right back.”
Emma sat at the writing desk in her bedchamber. She had been exceedingly gratified to read her sister’s letter. It contained much news, including the welcome information that though her father complained of her absence, he did not complain nearly as much as anybody had expected.
Isabella also mentioned that Miss Smith had been spotted on the road, speaking to Mr. Martin. Emma was of two minds about that particular news. She felt at once certain that Harriet might aim higher, but then perhaps Mr. Martin was a suitable match after all. Poor Harriet had been thwarted in love by Mr. Elton and perhaps that had put the lady off any ideas
of bettering her lot.
But then, Harriet had hinted that she admired some mysterious and altogether superior gentleman. Could it be Frank Churchill? It must be, for who else could it be?
Emma could not say she would mind it. Though she had once fancied herself in love with Mr. Frank Churchill, she had just as suddenly realized she was nothing of the sort.
Frank Churchill would be a wonderful step up for Harriet. On the other hand, Harriet’s sure suitor was Mr. Martin. Emma might be inclined to look more kindly upon the farmer if Mr. Knightley did not look quite so kindly upon him.
Perhaps most gratifying of all in Isabella’s letter was the information that Mr. Knightley had returned from London. He was purported to be shocked to find that Emma had gone forward with the scheme and decamped to Hertfordshire. He’d thought it an idea that would be much discussed, but never acted upon.
Emma paused to imagine Mr. Knightley as he might have stood in Hartfield’s drawing room, taking in the news. Yes, indeed, Emma Woodhouse had not been aimlessly wandering round Highbury, waiting for his return. Emma Woodhouse had packed her bags and set off with nary a glance behind her. Well, perhaps she had glanced behind her, but Mr. Knightley had no need to know it.
Isabella had ended her letter with the loveliest line of all—Mr. Knightley had said Hartfield was dimmed without the bright light of Emma Woodhouse.
Emma had always privately felt that Mr. Knightley took their friendship for granted. He congratulated himself on all the directives he issued for her benefit, but failed to see what benefit he, himself, received by her company. She expended great amounts of effort to lighten his spirit as he could be prone to over-seriousness. She encouraged him to interact with his neighbors far more than he would be inclined to do if left to his own devices. She saw to it that he might feel welcome to walk into Hartfield at any time and was always welcome to dinner. She even arranged that cook never fail to prepare his potatoes the way he liked them. Now, he must feel it all. He must experience the lack of Emma Woodhouse.
Emma had already written to her father, and then to Mrs. Weston. Mrs. Weston was told of her matchmaking triumphs, or soon to be triumphs. Now, she would write to Isabella, mindful that Mr. Knightley was certain to read it the same day it was delivered.
Dear Isabella,
I am very well here and hope the same is true for all at Hartfield. Since my last letter, there have been so many diversions. We have been on walks and to town for ribbons and have attended a grand dinner. It was held at Netherfield, a very great estate not far from here. Mr. Bingley and his sister, Miss Caroline Bingley, have the house. The guests included a titled gentleman and his family—Sir William and Lady Lucas—so you see I am traveling in rarified circles just now. Mr. Bingley is very well off and a lively sort of person, most pleasant to converse with. His houseguest, Mr. Darcy, is of some renown, I think, as he is the master of a great estate called Pemberley. He is a handsome, single, gentleman and well educated, with perfect manners. I rather think that you, coming from London yourself, might have heard of him. We had such an interesting conversation last evening, I will not bore you with the details, only to say that his opinions are exceedingly intelligent. He is one, I believe, whose judgment might be relied upon.
Since then, the inhabitants of Netherfield and Longbourn have found ourselves much together and more than a few invitations to dinners have already been issued—we are to host a dinner here ourselves! I do so miss all of you, but it has been illuminating to travel outside of my own sphere and I could not otherwise have met with such charming people.
Do give a kiss to the boys and our father for me.
Emma
Emma sanded the letter and read it over. She wished to allow Mr. Knightley to understand that her company was much sought. That those in Hertfordshire, including Mr. Darcy who could so easily out-grim Mr. Knightley, held her in some esteem. She was supremely satisfied that she’d done just that.
Meryton had once been a sleepy sort of place. Before the regiment arrived, Elizabeth and Jane might wander down the road and only see a few people here and there. Now, it was not only the many officers milling about, but all the various tradesmen that had followed them.
The Bennet sisters, sans Mary who rarely could be compelled to walk to town, led Emma down the busy thoroughfare.
Lydia suddenly called out, “Denny! Wickham!”
The two officers walked on the far side of the road. They immediately began to make their way over.
Elizabeth blushed at her sister’s boldness, though she was not sorry to encounter Mr. Wickham again. Mr. Denny was a bit forward for her liking, but Mr. Wickham displayed a more proper respect. He was a handsome man who looked well in a uniform and had a very pleasant way about him.
Both men bowed and accompanied the ladies as they continued their stroll.
“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Wickham said, maneuvering himself next to Elizabeth. “I trust you are well.”
“Very well, Mr. Wickham.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Mr. Wickham said. “I understand you were a part of the party that attended the much talked of Netherfield dinner. I suppose you found Mr. Darcy in his usual imposing state?”
“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked. “Do you know the gentleman?”
“Indeed, I do,” Mr. Wickham said. “I have known him since childhood. He has a unique ability to impress where he chooses, though others often do not perceive his real opinions. He likely was all courtesy, though I can assure you he views himself as one this neighborhood should regard with awe.”
Elizabeth was struck by Mr. Wickham’s assessment of Mr. Darcy. It was exactly right. Had she not overheard him at the assembly, she would not have the first idea of Mr. Darcy’s real opinions and he did set himself up as higher than the inhabitants of the neighborhood.
“I believe I am all too well-acquainted with Mr. Darcy’s real opinions, Mr. Wickham. He does not view our little society here in any esteem at all.”
Mr. Wickham appeared incensed to hear it. “That is very like him. His father brought him up to be too proud and he considers few people worthy of his notice.”
That, Elizabeth was well aware of. “How unhappy for you, Mr. Wickham, to be so long known to him.”
Mr. Wickham was silent for some moments, as if he reflected on Elizabeth’s words. He said, “It has been an unhappy circumstance. I suppose I can only consider myself fortunate that the acquaintance is at an end.”
“An end?” Elizabeth asked. “Had you a falling out?”
“Mr. Darcy has been guilty of many transgressions that I have forgiven him for, but there was one against myself that changed the course of my life. That, I will not forgive.”
Emma joined Elizabeth to her right side. “I could not but help overhear Mr. Darcy’s name, Mr. Wickham. He is well-regarded, is he not?”
“He certainly manages to seem so,” Mr. Wickham said. He bowed and made his way across the street.
Elizabeth was vexed beyond measure. There was little she liked less than a half-told story. She was certain Mr. Wickham would have told her all if Emma had not interrupted.
Of course, she could not blame Emma for it. Her cousin was not to know and had only innocently inserted herself into the conversation.
What had Mr. Darcy done to change the course of Mr. Wickham’s life? And for the worse, too. Mr. Wickham said that Mr. Darcy was guilty of many transgressions, and one that changed the course of his life. For a charge as serious as that, Elizabeth supposed one transgression would be enough.
“Well!” Emma said. “Mr. Wickham has run off very abruptly and you appear most pensive. What is this mystery?”
“I do not yet know the whole of it, Emma,” Elizabeth said, “but I believe that Mr. Darcy has in some way wronged Mr. Wickham.”
“Mr. Darcy?” Emma asked in surprise. “That cannot be, I am sure. Mr. Darcy very much reminds me of Mr. Knightley, do not you note it? Can you imagine Mr. Knightley wronging a person? No, whatever the circumstance,
it is sure to be a misunderstanding. Gentlemen will misunderstand each other. It is their pride that gets in the way, I think.”
Emma’s opinion gave Elizabeth pause. There was something of Mr. Knightley in Mr. Darcy—a feeling of rigid adherence to society’s precepts, or perhaps an overly formal demeanor. Elizabeth clearly remembered Mr. Knightley lecturing Emma about failing to visit Miss Bates while the Bennets were in residence. He had paced before her and laid out the rules like a schoolmaster.
They had gone to see the lady after his prodding, and Elizabeth instantly understood why Emma had sought to put it off. Miss Bates was a dear sort of lady in reduced circumstances who should command everybody’s kindness and attention. However, the visit was excruciatingly long, as it involved the reading of all sorts of letters from a lady named Jane Fairfax.
Mr. Knightley scolded Emma on too many topics, but she could not imagine the gentleman setting out to wrong a person. Could she imagine Mr. Darcy might have done so? She supposed she did not know him well enough to make that judgment. That he was overly proud and far too concerned with rank was not a question, but whether he would seek to materially damage another was yet to be discovered. Still, if it were not so, why should Mr. Wickham claim that it was? Mr. Wickham could not have any reason to claim a thing was done to him that was not done.
Darcy walked the gardens, pondering his conversation with Bingley over breakfast. Regardless of what Miss Woodhouse relayed to him about Elizabeth Bennet’s regard for his friend, he should have seen for himself that Bingley was growing attached to Jane Bennet. That Jane Bennet did not return Bingley’s regard was obvious. Darcy supposed Bingley would have noted it and yet, he had not.
If Georgiana and the Colonel were not set to arrive on the morrow, he would urge Bingley to give up this place and return to London. What was the use of pursuing a lady who would not be caught? As if that were not a hopeless endeavor, there was the further complication of the lady’s sister having some sort of developing feelings in the matter. It was all too uncomfortable.
Cousin Emma Page 8
