The Golden Apples of the Sun

by Ivy May Stuart

  “Sullen lot around here,” was Bingley’s observation as they climbed the steps to the front door.

  They were admitted to the house by a middle-aged woman, whose clumsy curtsey, large apron and rough red hands identified her as a member of the household staff. On hearing that they wanted to speak to the master of the house, she disappeared silently through a side door, leaving them to kick their heels in the entrance hall.

  Bingley wandered restlessly around the room, examining the variety of landscapes and old family portraits that hung on the walls while Darcy stood in one spot, his head lowered and his hands behind his back, ostensibly examining the worn surface of the polished flagstone floor.

  “I say, Darcy,” called Bingley softly.

  Darcy looked up. His friend was standing before a small side table, on which a pleasing arrangement of wildflowers formed a delicate center-point for a collection of framed miniatures.

  These must be the daughters of the house.” Bingley beckoned to Darcy as he spoke. Handsome, aren’t they?” he said. Then pointing at one of the silver frames, he added. This young lady is positively angelic.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t rely on those being faithful representations of the original, Bingley. Portrait painters have been known to flatter their subjects,” responded Darcy, looking cynically down at the artist’s romantic rendering of a young woman of some twenty years of age. “After all, they do need to ensure that they are paid.”

  Above them a stair creaked and Bingley looked up to catch a brief flash of blue muslin through the banisters. Smiling at his friend, he shook his head and laid his finger on his lips.

  Just then the door behind them opened and the woman who had admitted them to the house jerked her head toward the interior of the room. “The master will see you now,” she said.

  At first glance, the large room into which the two men were ushered appeared chaotic. Three of its panelled walls held shelves groaning with books and it seemed that only the existence of a fireplace and two windows prevented the fourth wall from suffering the same fate. Books were also piled upon every available surface, but nowhere was there more clutter than upon a large desk standing squarely in the middle of an ancient Turkish rug.

  Raising himself from his chair behind the desk an older gentleman with silver hair and pleasantly refined features made them a perfunctory bow.

  “Gentlemen. Welcome to Longbourn,” he said, removing the glasses that were perched on the end of his nose. “As you probably know, I am James Bennet, but I am afraid that you have me at a disadvantage. Mrs. Hill, our housekeeper, omitted to mention your names.”

  “Charles Bingley and Fitzwilliam Darcy at your service, sir,” volunteered Bingley eagerly.

  “Ah! Bingley. Yes, I remember Sir William Lucas telling me that you had recently taken possession of Netherfield.” He waved the men towards the two leather armchairs that faced his desk. “I usually have my tea about now. I’ll ring for the tray…unless you would prefer to join me in something a little stronger?”

  When both men shook their heads, he tugged vigorously at the bell pull. “Now, what can I do for you?” he asked, rounding his desk and sinking back into the comfort of his chair.

  “I really just dropped by to introduce myself,” said Bingley.

  Mr Bennet polished his glasses and then placed them back on his nose. “Very kind of you! Of course, strictly speaking, I ought to have called on you. My wife pointed that out to me just yesterday,” he said, and then proceeded to astound his visitors by sneaking a surreptitious look at the page of a book that lay open on his desk.

  “And it’s just as well that you did call,” he added absently. “I don’t know when I would have got round to it.” He looked up at Bingley, his eyes a piercing blue behind the glitter of his spectacles.

  “You will find, sir, that we are not demanding neighbours. You will not be plagued by annoying parties or invitations to dinner. In fact, you won’t see much of me or my family. We tend to remain close to home and hearth, you know.”

  “Then the young ladies are not out in company much?” asked Bingley, leaning forward in his chair.

  “No.” replied Mr Bennet, suddenly sounding more abrupt than vague. And then, as the door opened to admit Mrs Hill with the tea tray, he changed the topic, tapping at the book lying on the desk with his forefinger.

  “Excuse me for glancing at this as we speak. It’s a copy of Cowper’s Iliad that I’ve just received. Most interesting… So far I have mixed feelings about his approach: in places the translation is really superb but I find the verse a little jerky here and there…some pauses a little unexpected. Are you much of a reader, Mr. Bingley?”

  “No. There I defer to Mr. Darcy’s superior knowledge, I’m afraid.”

  “That is a pity. But then we can’t all be scholars. Do you have a large library, Mr. Darcy?”

  “I do, sir. I am a great collector of books, as was my father before me,” said Darcy, sipping at his tea and eyeing their host speculatively. He noted that the man had been quite dexterous in diverting the conversation away from topic of his daughters.

  “And what is your impression of the library at Netherfield, sir?”

  Darcy put his half empty cup down. “I haven’t had the time to make a study of it,” he said tactfully. “There are several empty shelves. I am sure that, with time, my friend will remedy any shortcomings there might be. For myself, I am down from Derbyshire for a few weeks only and Bingley has invited me specifically to help him make an assessment of the possibilities, agricultural and otherwise, of the estate during my time here.”

  Mr. Bennet raised his brows. “Ah! If you have expertise in that area, I must warn you that there will be a demand for your sort of advice here, Mr Darcy. Be prepared to be dragged out here, there and everywhere should the local landowners get wind of your talent,” he said, looking thoroughly repelled at the thought.

  “As I’m sure you know, we are largely corn farmers in Hertfordshire, but many of us are looking to diversify: especially now that the end of the war is in sight. There is a great deal of concern about the possibility of falling prices.” As he spoke, Mr. Bennet’s sidelong glances at the book on his desk were increasing in frequency and as his abstraction grew, his voice began to fade.

  “Of course it would be my pleasure to assist in any way I can,” responded Darcy politely. And, as Bennet looked down at his book once more, Darcy looked at Bingley significantly and, in one smooth movement, rose to his feet.

  His friend gulped down the remainder of his tea and said, “Thank you for your time, Mr Bennet.”

  The older gentleman prepared to raise himself from his chair but Darcy lifted a hand in protest and said politely. “No, please don’t disturb yourself, sir. We can find our own way out.”

  ____________________________

  They were out of the gates and riding between the rows of cottages, when Bingley observed, “What a strange fellow.”

  “Agreed! Not only does he behave like a recluse, but he ensures that his family are kept away from company as well. Far from wanting to marry off his daughters; he as much as warned you to have no expectations where they are concerned.”

  “Yes. As he said, there will be no ‘annoying’ invitations from him. And in fact, the whole time we were there – except for that noise on the staircase – I saw no sign of anyone else. Had we not seen those portraits on the table, I would have been hard pressed to believe that the old man had any family at all.”

  Not for the first time that day, Darcy found himself sorely tempted to share his experience of the morning with Bingley. Had his friend’s nature been more like his own he probably would have done; but he knew that Bingley would find the fact that he had chosen not to declare his presence in the woods distinctly odd, and he would be hard put to defend himself on the matter. It was a pity, because Darcy would have loved to hear Bingley’s observations on a young lady who chose Arthur Young’s ‘General view of the Agriculture of Hertfordshire’ for recreat
ional reading. Especially when that same young lady hid the book under a hedge so that no one in her family should discover her choice of reading matter.

  For his part, he thought that she must be a very strange creature indeed.

  _______________________________

  At that moment, the ‘very strange creature’ was curled up on her bed, her eyes alight with mischief as she watched her elder sister impatiently jab pins into her hair as she sat at the mirror.

  “We now have it on the best of authorities that you are ‘angelic’, Jane. So I don’t want to hear any more complaints. Your hair is perfect just as it is. One of the gentlemen downstairs thought so anyway.”

  “Oh, Lizzy! What nonsense! You don’t even know that he was referring to my portrait. It could have been yours.”

  “No one has ever referred to me as angelic, Jane. In fact, when we were young, I do believe that I was more familiar with the term ‘Limb of Satan’. That was what Cook used to call me, if you remember. Angelic is usually reserved for those amongst us who have blonde hair, blue eyes and a saintly expression. No, my dear, I’m a mere mortal; the crown is all yours.”

  “And much good may it do me. I will never meet the gentleman in the hallway or anyone else,” said Jane, laying down her brush despondently

  Lizzy lay back on the bed, her hands behind her head. She was younger than her sister and retained some of the whimsicality of extreme youth. A dreamy look settled on her face. “You never know, you might pass him in town. Imagine if he recognised you from your portrait and contrived an introduction. Or let’s say that you meet him at Lucas Lodge. Perhaps Lady Lucas will invite the Netherfield gentlemen to dinner one evening and ask us to make up numbers. You will see each other across the room and immediately fall in love...”

  Jane harrumphed, interrupting her sister’s romantic flights of fantasy. “Yes, I’ll fall in love with his crossed-eyes, disgusting table manners and the saliva that occasionally sprays from his mouth when he talks. We don’t even know what he looks like, Lizzy. Admit it: you only saw the top of his head. You don’t know much beyond the fact that he has fair hair.”

  “And a cultured voice,” corrected her sister.

  “Anyhow,” Jane pulled the corners of her mouth down impatiently, “by the time we get to meet him – if we ever do – he will have learnt about Lydia and will undoubtedly ignore us.”

  At this Lizzy’s shoulders drooped. “I know. It’s hopeless, isn’t it? I don’t expect to marry but I always thought you would. Now it seems that once Papa dies, all of us are doomed to live out the rest of our days as spinsters in a tumbledown cottage with Mama: where we will no doubt starve like rats and go mad from her complaining.”

  Jane shivered. “Well, a cottage would be better than the hedgerow of Mama’s imagining. But why have you been so sure that you will never marry? Don’t tell me that you still carry a torch for John Morris?”

  “No. That was ages ago. I think I was only thirteen or fourteen. It was a ridiculous, girlish fantasy and it only began because he had a noble profile and everyone thought that he was so flawless: the perfect gentleman. And then he was invariably amiable and well-turned out. Just the opposite of me, really. Of course I was far too young anyway. He didn’t even notice me; but I don’t recall him showing a preference for any of the ladies in the district either. Were he still alive today, I would probably think him a bit of a cold fish.”

  “When you think back, there was something just a little unnatural about him,” said Jane thoughtfully. “But to return to our conversation before you went to see who was downstairs: you were saying that you might have found a possible solution to the problem of the entailment.”

  “Yes. I have thought quite a bit about it since we last spoke and I worked out that just another two thousand pounds ought to allow us to live independently: provided that we are extremely careful and that Papa’s heir allows us the use of the Widow’s Cottage after his death. After all, Papa says that he is a man of the cloth. Surely we only need point out that it would be his Christian duty. We can chase out the bats and mice, do some repairs, plant a vegetable garden and keep a cow. We will have Mama’s money and I calculated that we four and Mama could just manage to live off the interest earned on seven thousand pounds.”

  “And who is to milk the cow?” retorted Jane, raising her eyebrows comically.

  “Not me. I’ll be hoeing the garden. Anyway, milkmaids traditionally have fair hair, don’t they? I think you should consider yourself appointed.”

  “Be serious, Lizzy. How are we to earn the extra two thousand pounds? It’s hopeless!”

  “It is hopeless if you throw up your hands and do nothing. But look at it like this: Papa is still healthy. We still have control of the estate and hopefully the time to change things for the better. I have tried to speak to him about it but, as you know, he has no real interest in anything besides his ancient Greeks and Romans. Obviously, I have to be able to offer him a constructive suggestion, so last week I borrowed a book on the latest farming methods from the circulating library. I’ve been reading about recent advances in fertilizers and crop rotation until I’m cross-eyed. Nevertheless there is a great deal more to learn before we are in possession of all the facts and can proceed.”

  Jane opened her mouth to speak but Lizzy held up her hand, “I know what you are going to say, Jane: you’re going to tell me that farming is not woman’s work. But I’m not going to plough the fields; only apply my mind. When I’m finished the research, I will present Papa with the results and then we’ll see what he says.”

  Despite her intention to appear cool-headed, Lizzy couldn’t stop herself from adding excitedly, “Just imagine if we could put the latest methods into practice and increase the size of our harvests! Papa would be able put money aside each year – provided that Mama can be kept from spending it as fast as it comes in. But it all depends on him hearing me out. When I present him with all the facts, I think he just might decide to make some changes.”

  With renewed determination she sat up, pulled out the book that lay hidden under her pillow and, running a finger through her hair began twirling several long strands around her finger as she read.

  Chapter 3

  “Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.”

  George Bernard Shaw

  It had been a warm day but now in the shadow of the house the air felt surprisingly cool as the two men crossed the driveway to Netherfield Hall. They talked companionably as they mounted the stairs and then paused just inside the entrance hall door.

  “Will you join me in a brandy, Darcy?” said Bingley gesturing towards his study.

  “Perhaps in an hour or so, after I have changed for dinner,” replied Darcy, who had just spotted his sister’s hand on a letter lying on top of a pile of others on the hall table.

  Preferring to read it in privacy, he picked it up and took the stairs up to his room two at a time. Once at his desk, he was surprised to see that his hands shook slightly as he broke the seal and smoothed out the paper. He hadn’t realised just how much he had been hoping to hear from Georgie.

  Georgiana, Darcy’s sister, was the one person in the world with whom he could be almost completely natural. In the rest of his personal correspondence, he struggled to express emotion, frequently leaving off writing to pace the room as he wrestled with an acceptable way to convey an idea that he found either too elusive or self-revealing. Here, he and his sister differed. She never seemed to search for words. He had watched her writing on countless occasions and it always seemed as if her thoughts and emotions flowed effortlessly onto the page. With her, it seemed there was no need for filtering.

  Now, looking down at her handwriting, Darcy realised how much its flow suggested her personality: each rounded letter speaking of youthful innocence, intelligence and a dedication to absolute perfection.

  Pemberley

  July 1812

  Dear Brother

  You have been gone a mere four
days and while I miss your presence, I have surprised myself by finding some clarity of thought since you left.

  I know that you struggled to understand my continuing sadness. I couldn’t understand it myself: after all, as you pointed out, I did not really love the man, just the false idea that I had formed of him. But even so, something continued to weigh upon me that I couldn’t identify and made it impossible to explain my feelings to you.

  However, on my morning walk yesterday, things suddenly resolved themselves and in the most mundane way. I had noticed two newly hatched chickens pecking at the dirt around their mother’s feet and it suddenly came to me that I had been like them: protected and watched over by you almost from the moment of my birth. As I looked at them, I thought that, just as they could become a tasty morsel for the stable cats if they ventured too far from the protection of their mother, so I had become vulnerable to Wickham the very first time that I ventured from your side.

  In other words, the fact that I was preyed upon by him does not say much about me; but everything about the way that the world works. Now, this does not mean that you should come home immediately to protect me from lurking evil - far from it - for now I know with certainty that I am over Wickham and so much wiser. What I had been mourning was not the loss of his love, but the loss of my innocence. It was the wickedness of his intentions that saddened me. I wanted the world to be perfect, like the beautiful gardens around Pemberley. But it is not - is it, Brother?

  So it is decided, no more of the simple life for me. I know now that I have a duty to be vigilant. I have had my blinkers removed in a rather nasty way; but while I am a little disillusioned, I see so much more now than I ever did before. I even begin to think that Wickham may have done me a favour and shocked me into growing up at last.

  As soon as I came to this understanding of myself and my reaction to the whole affair, I felt that I had to write to reassure you that none of it was your fault. I know that you have been sad, thinking that you could have somehow prevented what happened. But, if there was any fault on your part, Brother, it was only that you loved and protected me a little too much. I think that I needed a little shaking up and dusting down.