Into Hertfordshire

by Stanley Michael Hurd

  Your devoted, albeit distant, brother,

  Fitzwilliam Darcy

  Georgiana’s fears, which had so consumed her, were now fled; they were but smoke and mist, cleared from her vision by her brother’s steadiness. Her relief was great, but her sense of obligation and gratitude greater still. A second reading gave her much to think about; her immediate relief past, she was able to attend more carefully to the letter’s contents, and her feelings were scarcely less moved by the force of his arguments than by his gentleness and sincerity in placing them before her.

  Georgiana was an intelligent and thoughtful young woman; but where her brother’s intellect and understanding were fixed on the world around him, hers were directed inward. Indeed, she was so careful an observer of her own actions and motivations, as to have convinced herself of many flaws that no one else could have detected. It was, in large part, this tendency towards self-criticism that had made these last months so difficult for her, as it had amplified her guilt and remorse to a degree unusual in one so young. This same tendency also caused her to be diffident with others; shy from a conviction of her flaws, rather than from a natural disinclination to company. Her father’s oft-repeated admonition to “stand tall, my dear, like a Darcy,” had failed in one respect: while she had, indeed, a very erect bearing, she had not imbibed that pride of self that had been her father’s true desire. But her reserve in company, coupled with her position, her upright and elegant figure, and her clear, intelligent gaze, had combined to give her an unwarranted reputation for pride eclipsed only by her brother’s.

  Her thoughtfulness now demanded an early answer to her brother’s letter. With a promise to herself to keep her sensibilities in check, she began.

  Pemberley

  November 15, —

  Dearest Fitzwilliam,

  Forgive me, please, for not having written this last week, but in truth I feared to do so until I received your reply. I so dreaded your censure; you may imagine my relief, therefore, when…(she struck through this last, and began again). Words cannot say how much it means to me to have your strength to support me. Thank you again and again for the kindness and gentleness of your instruction; you are the most compassionate and generous brother any one might wish for.

  What you have written reasons strongly with my thoughts, and while I am not as accustomed to using logic to guide my life as you are, of course, I own that your arguments appear to me to hold a great deal of truth. Never before had I felt the full force of life’s sorrows—not even when Mother and Father passed—but even so I knew I should survive the events of July. Even when I could not see how or why I should live, I knew that I should not succumb to my pain. Until now I had seen this as a punishment; I could not see, as you did, what it must say about eventual recovery.

  But while your reassurances are felt more deeply, perhaps, than you can know, in a way it is almost more important to me to know that some one like yourself can possess such acute sensibilities; if not for you and the dear Colonel, I must sometimes despair of there being any feeling among your sex at all. It is hard for me to believe that you and the man who betrayed me are of the same race! How one could be so cruel, yet seem so sweet, and the other be so warm and sensible, yet seem so cool-headed, is beyond my understanding. How will I ever know how to trust, if such a one as he can disguise his true nature so completely? Do we ever learn to distinguish? But no; did not he deceive Father? Oh, Fitzwilliam, tell me how I shall ever trust again!

  No; I must not let my distress distort my thoughts—pray forgive my lapse. My doubts press upon me too strongly at times, but it passes. There is truth and warmth among my fellow creatures—in my family there is, I know: you, the Colonel, dear Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Jonathan, these are my proofs. I must hold firmly to these, and barricade my heart against the rest. My family shall be my bastion and my talisman. There, it shall be so. Yes; I have my anchor, and I shall no longer be tossed about in the storm. I shall learn to be myself again, I promise you, dear Brother.

  Your idea of impoverishing the family I found inexpressibly shocking, Fitzwilliam; I am mortified by the very notion. I should not have thought it possible that you might be so sensible of my condition as to even imagine such a thing. I could never allow you to take any step that might injure our family further on my behalf. You must never think on this subject again. I am very aware of the trouble I have been, and I am ashamed to have caused you such difficulty and distress; I know it must have cost you a great deal to write on such distasteful matters without giving way to a very natural abhorrence. Your clear-headedness amazes me; I am not yet able to keep my despair from intruding into my calmer thoughts, although I am trying with each day to push it farther from me. Your composure in dealing with these matters will be my model, and I shall try with every day to gain a better mastery over myself.

  Do not concern yourself by your absence; I need reflection more than diversion. Do not, therefore, leave your friends on my account. Know, too, that I would not hesitate to call you home if there were need; but though there are times, I confess, that I would be glad of the sight of you (never more than at this moment, dear Brother), I still feel as I did before: that it is best that I have this time to myself.

  Tell me more of Mr. Bingley’s ‘country miss,’ and her sister—I have never heard you speak so of a lady; she must be beyond amiable to have earned your approbation. You approve of her conversation and countenance, but what is she like? Is she kind? She is there to care for her sister, so I assume she must be good-hearted. What are her accomplishments? What is it about her that has won your good opinion? You must write more fully.

  In closing let me thank you again, Brother dear, not so much for your letter as for being yourself. I feel most fortunate, yet so undeserving, to have your love and care.

  Yours, most truly,

  Georgiana Darcy

  That the reassurances of those we love are efficacious in overcoming adversity is well known, and their effects are nowhere seen as clearly as in the untroubled sleep of an unburdened soul. Georgiana slept well that night, for the first time in many weeks.

  Chapter Ten

  Mornings at Netherfield Hall were quiet, with that soft and serene quiet found only in the country. Darcy enjoyed the early hours of the day, before the rest of the household was stirring; savouring the calm, taking his first cup of tea or coffee in the empty breakfast salon, and watching the morning unfold. There was the paper to read, correspondence to attend to, or even just one’s own thoughts to engage one’s mind while the faint stirrings of birds and wind from out of doors blended soothingly with the muted comings and goings of the servants. And, agreeably, his friend would usually appear downstairs just at the time when he had finished sorting through his thoughts and began to think of occupation.

  That morning when Bingley came down he was in better spirits than he had been since Miss Bennet had been taken ill; he informed Darcy that she was showing signs of improvement, but that “poor Miss Elizabeth Bennet” had spent almost the entire night by her sister’s side. Darcy, whose father’s death had left his own sister in his care when she was but eleven years of age, thought of times he himself had sat up with her when she was ill, and all his sympathies were with Elizabeth.

  But he heard with consternation that, in spite of Miss Bennet’s amendment, Mrs. Bennet’s presence had been requested, for Elizabeth apparently wished her mother’s judgement on her sister’s health. On hearing this, and fearing all the discordant noise she would bring with her to shatter the tranquillity of the morning, Darcy immediately proposed to take himself out for a ride, until this matriarchal visit should have ended. But Bingley beseeched Darcy so earnestly not to abandon him, that Darcy allowed himself to be persuaded.

  Mrs. Bennet arrived with her two youngest daughters very shortly after breakfast. A brief calculation convinced Darcy that they must have been uncommonly quick in responding to the note that had been sent, and he deduced that they were as eager to be at Netherfield as they we
re to see the invalid. They were taken up stairs directly to see Miss Bennet. After some time, Miss Bingley brought them down to the breakfast parlour, accompanied by Elizabeth, whereupon Mrs. Bennet made three things clear: she was quite content to forego the pleasure of her daughters’ company at home yet a while; she wished the family to know that she was profusely grateful for their hospitality; and she highly approved of the furnishings, views, and general splendour of Netherfield. Her conversation was dizzying in its inconsistency: flitting from topic to topic, she never staid with one long enough to say anything of consequence. She would start a dozen ideas in half that many sentences, without so much as a pause for breath in between.

  Speaking of the care her daughter had received, she expressed herself thus: “I am sure, if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to her. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over the gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease.”

  Darcy shook his head slightly, trying to conceive what sort of mental processes could give rise to such a verbal tangle. Her thoughts called to mind a moth fluttering around a candle; circling it up, down, and sideways, but never reaching the objective it strove for. Mrs. Bennet’s principal object, however, was clear enough; she wished to promote Bingley’s attentions to Miss Bennet, and his general contentment with the neighbourhood, by any and every means in her power.

  Bingley, picking up only the very last subject of her torrent, replied: “Whatever I do is done in a hurry, and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here.”

  “That is exactly what I should have supposed of you,” said Elizabeth teazingly. Darcy thought she looked quite well this morning, in spite of her long night, and admired her for having the energy even to appear in company, let alone contribute to it by exerting her social powers.

  Bingley and Elizabeth amused themselves in a light badinage on how open was Bingley’s character, and how easy to comprehend, until her mother broke in scoldingly: “Lizzy, remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home.” Elizabeth’s eyes took on a pained expression: to be reprimanded in such a public manner for holding such an innocuous and amiable conversation! Darcy could not tell whether she was more ashamed of having received the rebuke, or of her mother for having uttered it.

  “I did not know before,” Bingley put in quickly, trying to pass over the mother’s interruption, “that you were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study.”

  Elizabeth brightened again and replied, “Yes, but intricate characters are the most amusing. They have at least that advantage.”

  Darcy knew from experience that, while the country had its charms, the number of subjects available for such study was very limited. He had himself been struck forcibly by that realisation when he entered University: the range of ideas and characters he had encountered there had been a revelation. He had suspected early on in their acquaintance that Miss Elizabeth Bennet had not spent her entire life in Hertfordshire, as thoroughly as her understanding was developed; perhaps she might offer a clue if the current topic were continued. He said, “The country can in general supply but a few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society.”

  “But people themselves alter so much,” Elizabeth replied reasonably, “that there is something new to be observed in them forever.”

  Her reply did not give Darcy the information on her history he sought, but he was on the verge of agreeing to her point when Mrs. Bennet rushed in with: “Yes, indeed. I assure you there is quite as much of that going on in the country as in Town.”

  There was a moment’s silence as a general embarrassment prevented comment. On his side, Darcy was not certain he even understood to what she might be referring with this assurance, but her manner was clear enough: she was attempting to affront him, and doing so with a degree of malice he found quite unaccountable.

  Insensible of the company’s common discomfort, Mrs. Bennet sailed on: “I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?”

  “When I am in the country,” replied he with equanimity, “I never wish to leave it; and when I am in Town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either.”

  “Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman,” she indicated Darcy with a curt nod, “seemed to think the country was nothing at all.”

  “Indeed, mamma, you are mistaken,” cried Elizabeth in an earnest attempt to erase, or even simply to ease, the open censure under which Darcy suffered. “You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in Town, which you must acknowledge to be true.” Darcy was gratified by Elizabeth’s defence of him, even though it was scarcely necessary; his disdain for her mother left him indifferent to her attack.

  Mrs. Bennet continued: “Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families.”

  The absurdity of this statement gave the Bingley sisters some little amusement, and Bingley himself could do no better than stare fixedly ahead; even his powers of affability were overcome. In London there might be thrice that many couples at a simple dinner party. Darcy, too, was shocked at such an amalgamation of ignorance and conceit, and had she been other than she was, he might have had something to say in response to her; but as it was, to speak one’s disapprobation would be rather like starting an argument with a barking dog: merely an annoyance to both parties. He therefore schooled his temper and held his tongue. This was a skill in which his father had tutored him: allowing those of lesser abilities or positions to speak, without feeling the need to contend with them—although he had seldom before been so challenged in the exercise of that skill.

  Elizabeth, in hopes of turning aside her mother’s thoughts, asked if her friend Miss Lucas had been to visit in her absence. “Yes, she called yesterday with her father,” replied her mother. “What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley—is not he? So much the man of fashion!” This comment sent the Bingley ladies into a perfect spasm of suppressed laughter. “So genteel and so easy! He has always something to say to everybody. That is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter.” This was spoken quite pointedly at Darcy, and Miss Bingley stared wide-eyed, first at her, then at Mr. Darcy.

  Good Lord! thought Darcy. Your idea of good breeding, Madam? What could you know of good breeding? He turned away to the window. If one learnt nothing else at Oxford, the art of the cut was practised most assiduously by all students. Darcy knew from long experience that a cool, uncaring dismissal was the most effective answer to spleen; to argue was to lend unwanted significance to the other person.

  “Did Charlotte dine with you?” Elizabeth asked then, trying desperately to keep her mother on a neutral topic.

  “No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work; my daughters are brought up differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think Charlotte so very plain—but then she is our particular friend.”

  �
�She seems a very pleasant young woman,” said Bingley.

  “Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain.” Darcy shook his head as he stared out across the park. There it was again, that willingness in a woman to malign her nearest acquaintance; even as the thought crossed his mind, however, it occurred to him that he had never heard Elizabeth do so. Mrs. Bennet went on: “Lady Lucas herself has often said so, and envied me Jane’s beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane—one does not often see any body better looking. It is what every body says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my brother Gardiner’s in Town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were.”

  “And so ended his affection,” Elizabeth intervened in a determined manner. Darcy pitied her the necessity of having constantly to create diversions to deflect the conversation around her mother’s want of sense. “There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!”