by J P Christy
As Darcy watched the companion exit the dining room, he thought, Would that my aunt had that lady’s graciousness.
Noting Darcy’s regard, Lady Catherine said in a mocking tone (for she was confident no attachment existed between her nephew and Mrs. Jenkinson), “Do not tell me, Darcy, you have developed a tendre for my employee.”
“No, madam, but I have developed a respect for her.”
Oh dear, Mama will not like that, Anne thought. “What Darcy means is your dismissal of my companion was not very kind, but she bore it well. I assure you he gives her no consequence, and she has no interest in him.” Signaling the footman, she instructed, “Please make certain Mrs. Jenkinson has wine, dessert, coffee or tea—whatever else she likes.” At her mother’s frown, she made a slight shrug. “I am merely trying to be useful, Mama, as you have taught me.”
Darcy was still pondering Anne’s remark. Why did she presume to tell me what I think?
Fitzwilliam, however, knew that if Lady Catherine perceived Mrs. Jenkinson to be an impediment to her plans for Anne, the companion would shortly find herself out of a job. He said, “Mrs. Jenkinson has been good for you, Anne. At first, I had my doubts because of her youth. But you appear to be in better health and better spirits since she came to Rosings. When you go in search of a husband who is superior to Darcy here, those qualities will serve you in good stead.”
“Yes, Christopher, you would praise my daughter’s companion,” Lady Catherine sneered. “You have spent an excessive amount of time this visit with females beneath your station, such as Elizabeth Bennet. Apparently, you have a fondness for creatures of her ilk. But do not think for an instant that anyone in our family would countenance such a match!”
“My dear Aunt, you have a vivid imagination,” Fitzwilliam said, trusting that his smile masked annoyance. As of tomorrow, I can put your overbearing self behind me for another year.
“Insolent! All of you!” Lady Catherine declared. Frowning, she added, “I have not given up on you, Darcy—nor you either, Anne. I will not be crossed in this matter.”
“Simply put, this idea of a union between Anne and myself is a fiction of your own making, Aunt.” Darcy stood and tossed his napkin onto the table. “No dessert for me, thank you. I believe I shall retire.” After bowing to the ladies, he left the dining room.
Fitzwilliam rose quickly. “As we are leaving tomorrow, I shall bid you goodnight as well.” He gave a shallow bow and exited.
≈≈≈
When Darcy heard a light knock on his bedroom door a short while later, he opened the door quickly. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said as Fitzwilliam entered with the brandy and two glasses.
“Mrs. Jenkinson is a marvel. The decanter has been refilled, and it was back where it belonged in the billiards room.”
“Did you know they play billiards?” Darcy asked, taking the decanter and one of the glasses.
“As do we. I cannot understand why some people persist in believing females are intrinsically less intelligent than males.”
Darcy filled his cousin’s glass and then his own. “What did you think of the conversation?”
“Aunt Catherine heard you, but it remains to be seen if she accepts what you have said.”
“Whether or not she accepts it will have no bearing on me!”
“I only hope things will not become unpleasant here for Anne.”
Darcy realized he had given no thought as to what Anne might endure now that Lady Catherine’s plans had come to naught. As much to assure himself, he said, “Anne has Mrs. Jenkinson.”
“Yes, for now. Although I caution you not to praise the lady, else our aunt will send her packing. So, when you return to London, will you do what you said? Will you look for a wife?”
“Of course, I will,” Darcy said. I will—I must! It is time I married.
“Your hosts and the other guests at those social events will expect you to converse and perhaps even dance.”
After a silence, Darcy asked, “How do you do it?”
“Surely you are not asking me to teach you—”
“What I mean, Fitz, is how do you get through an evening of husband-hunting ladies without, oh, I don’t know, doing something inappropriate? Say, firing a pistol at the ceiling during dinner. Everything is so predictable, so dutiful, so dull!”
“I have heard you described in exactly those words. However, as a second son, I am far less appealing than the master of Pemberley. And no matter what someone else expects of me, I am not required to meet those expectations. Thus, I converse, I dance, I give every lady equal consequence, and then I go home.”
“Or out elsewhere for the evening,” Darcy joked.
Imitating Lady Catherine’s voice, Fitzwilliam said, “Do not force me to explain the options available to those of our station who perhaps require company beyond that which their respective spouses can or are willing to provide.”
Darcy laughed, but his cousin’s remark echoed in his thoughts: I give every lady equal consequence. “About Mrs. Jenkinson.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever had a conversation with her beyond, ‘Do you think it will rain today?’ or ‘How is Anne’s health?’”
“Mrs. Jenkinson is a very interesting woman. Her brother, by the bye, is a solicitor. Apparently, she helped him with his studies, and you’ll find she has a keen analytical mind. If you have not bothered to converse with Mrs. Jenkinson, you are a fool.”
“Is she interested in a second son such as yourself?”
“Mrs. Jenkinson has never given me any indication of interest, although I do wonder what keeps her here. Surely a woman of her quality could do better than to spend her days under the thumb of our imperious aunt. Still, the lady has a genuine fondness for our cousin, and I am grateful—Anne gets little enough kindness and attention from her mother or us.”
“When I went to bed the other night, I had a very specific view of the world and my place in it. Now, it all seems topsy-turvy. I find myself questioning what had seemed unquestionable.”
Fitzwilliam gave him a puzzled look. “I do not have the pleasure of understanding you.”
Darcy sighed. “I do not have the pleasure of understanding myself.”
≈≈≈
April 27, 1811
The next morning, Fitzwilliam and Darcy walked to Hunsford Parsonage to say their farewells. When Fitzwilliam greeted Charlotte Collins, her sister Maria, and Elizabeth Bennet, his demeanor was that of an old friend. Darcy, however, would have preferred to forego the visit, feeling both unready and unwilling to face the woman whose rejection tormented his soul. Thus, beyond expressing the barest of social niceties required, he was silent.
After calling for tea, Charlotte said, “My husband has gone to visit Lady Catherine. Perhaps you passed him on the way.”
“Alas, no, madam. We were at the stables checking on our carriage,” Fitzwilliam said. He did not mention their detour to the stables had occurred only after they heard a whistling Collins headed in their direction.
“My husband said your visit was longer than usual; I hope all is well.”
Fitzwilliam glanced at Darcy. “Other than a minor issue regarding drainage in one of the pastures, Rosings is in fine shape.” Turning to Elizabeth, he said, “I am happy to see you, Miss Bennet. I feared you might be out walking when we came to pay our respects.”
“I did not wish to miss you in the event that you honored us with a call. Thus, I will take my walk this afternoon.”
Observing Elizabeth as she spoke with his cousin, Darcy hoped to find some hint of contrition in her expression but saw none. Instead, she and Fitzwilliam had a cheerful discussion about their favorite paths at Rosings and the pleasures of a fair-weather ramble. When she glanced suddenly at Darcy, he felt nervous, excited, wary, and defensive all in the same moment. However, they both looked away so quickly, neither saw the other’s blush. After their shared look, Darcy regretted that he had not taken the opportunity to exp
lain himself so she would know he had not acted with malice toward her sister Jane or his own friend Bingley.
During the short visit, Fitzwilliam thanked the ladies for their good company, insisting this was the pleasantest time at Rosings he could recall. As the gentlemen left, Charlotte and Maria watched from the porch, but Elizabeth followed the men to the gate. Clasping her hands behind her back, she farewelled Fitzwilliam with a curtsy and wished him a pleasant journey.
“I hope we shall meet again, Miss Bennet. Hertfordshire is not far from London.”
“I assure you, Colonel, I would be delighted to show you the place which is very dear to my heart.” At her words, Darcy felt a flash of jealousy. Now knowing her true feelings, he realized she had never spoken to him with such friendliness.
Sensing that the lady wanted a private word with his cousin, Fitzwilliam tipped his hat and started up the lane. When Darcy turned to follow him, Elizabeth said, “And farewell again to you, Mr. Darcy.” Reluctantly, he faced her, and she offered her hand.
Surprised, he nonetheless accepted her hand as she added quietly, “I regret the tenor of our last conversation.”
A smug smile replaced his stern look. An apology, of course! Given her rude behavior, how could she not apologize? Perhaps she thinks I will propose again. Foolish girl! Still, I applaud her courage, her willingness to face me and speak her regret.
As Elizabeth eased her fingers away, he felt her press a square of—was it paper?—into his hand. “I bid you good day,” she said and hurried into the parsonage.
≈≈≈
Scarcely half an hour later, although to Darcy, it seemed much longer, his carriage was loaded, and the driver was guiding the horses along the lane that led to the main road. Sitting opposite his cousin, he silently willed him to take a nap. You always nod off in a carriage, Fitz, so, please, please, please go to sleep now!
Alas, Fitzwilliam was annoyingly awake. “What do you think of Miss Elizabeth?”
“I do not think of Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy declared.
“Oh, come now! She is a gracious, intelligent, and witty lady.”
“Yes, and in addition to those qualities, she is unsuitable—for either of us!”
Surprised, he asked, “Why is she unsuitable for you?”
Darcy grimaced. “Her family is vulgar and loud, and Mrs. Bennet is as mercenary a mother as any we have met in the ton. The youngest daughters are unrestrained—indeed, shameless—in their pursuit of attention. Even Miss Elizabeth is embarrassed by her family; I have seen it in her expression. “
“Still, she is a gentleman’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Then why is she unsuitable for me?”
“I cannot picture her following the drum. Can you?”
“I do not plan to be in the army forever; I have been saving to buy a small estate of my own. Nor does Miss Elizabeth strike me as either the mercenary type or as a lady who longs to spend her life among London’s fashionable set.”
“No, I cannot claim she is mercenary,” Darcy admitted. Suddenly, his thoughts were filled with an image of Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam clinging to each other in a passionate embrace. The idea made him shift uncomfortably, so, eager to change the subject, he asked, “Did you sleep well?”
“Well enough. You, however, look quite done in.”
“Thinking about dinner with Lady Catherine kept me awake,” Darcy said. I am a liar! It was my thoughts of Elizabeth and whether I am the gentleman I believe myself to be that deviled me for so much of the night.
“Very well. This conversation is at an end; you are free to nap.”
Darcy yawned. “Yes, I think I shall.” He closed his eyes and waited. He could not have said how much time passed before he was certain Fitzwilliam was asleep. Eyes closed, Darcy occupied himself with mental images of Elizabeth as she was (bantering, charming, impertinent) and how he wished her to be (clinging firmly to him in a passionate embrace). Thus, when a soft snore interrupted these thoughts, he opened his eyes one at a time and scrutinized his cousin. Yes, Fitzwilliam was definitely asleep.
Cautiously removing Elizabeth’s letter from his waistcoat pocket, Darcy opened it. Then, fearing his cousin might wake unexpectedly, he took a large book from his satchel, opened it on his lap, and laid the letter on it. If need be, he would simply close the book, and the letter would be safe from his prying eyes.
Be not alarmed, sir, on receiving this letter. I write without any intention of paining you or humbling myself by dwelling on your offer. I would have spared you this letter had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention. Your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice. Because I am a lady and feel the weight of my responsibility as such, I shall start with an apology for the tone of my conversation. Regardless of how provoked I felt myself to be at your criticisms of my family, I should have spoken more courteously. I regret that I did not exercise better control over my feelings. Very soon, I doubt you will remember either me or this little note — and that is as it should be. Still, I admit that our encounter of two days ago left me with questions, which I have noted here. Rest assured I expect no actual answer from you. Indeed, I am confident that whether or not you trouble yourself to read this, you will soon dispose of it without a second thought. However, in fairness to both of us, I must acknowledge and reflect on my questions so that I may know myself better and affirm — or not — the correctness of my part in our conversation. You said my pride was hurt by your honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented your forming any serious design. I assure you, sir, my pride suffered no injury. Rather, my anger was firmly fixed in your unfairness to my favorite sister and in the pride you clearly took in your devastating interference into a matter of the heart that did not involve your heart. Do you believe it is gentlemanly to boast to others — and I am referring to what I learned in a conversation with the colonel — of your success in separating Mr. B from a woman for whom he had expressed a tender regard? I wonder whether you will ever tell the colonel that my own sweet sister was the lady against whom you had strong objections. I wonder, too, does Mr. B fully comprehend the extent of this prodigious care you take of him? Has he thanked you for separating him from my sister? Is this act of inserting yourself into the personal affairs of others a general habit of yours, or is it a protection you offer only to Mr. B? I am also curious as to this: If the society you found in H---shire was so offensive, why did you stay so long? Mr. B said you were advising him on his estate, but given your experience in such matters, surely you could have concluded your counsel in far less time than the several months you spent with him. As previously mentioned, your obvious disdain of my dear family also pained me. Yes, we are a lively and sometimes loud and indecorous group, like many of our country neighbors. I am not always proud of myself or my family members. However, suppose that someone with whom you had only a slight acquaintance had fiercely criticized the conduct of your own sister; might you not feel an impulse to be offended on her behalf? Imagine if your sister had received a proposal from a man who said he made his offer despite the rudeness of her ladyship your aunt and the disdain that you wear like a suit of armor? You once said it had been the study of your life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule. Can the same be said of your sister? I assure you I mean no disparagement of her; she is a lady whom I have not had the privilege of meeting. Still, as I was once a female of her age, I remember clearly that my choices and behaviors were not always worthy of praise. For is not maturity — the growing to adulthood — a process fraught with errors meant to be our lessons? Honesty compels me to acknowledge that the behavior of some of my family members (and, indeed, myself) is not always what I would wish. I would apologize here for what you witnessed of us had not you and Mr. B’s sisters already taken us to task with jibes and snubs which were noticed and felt more than you may realize. Allow
me the liberty of speaking both for my family and my neighbors when I say that while our welcome may not have met your lofty standards, at least we did endeavor to welcome you. Were I to compare the welcome your party received when you first arrived in H---shire to the welcome I received at the home of your aunt, I maintain you got the better bargain. Or did you feel your aunt’s condescension to me was appropriate for country miss so far beneath her? In fairness, however, I cannot blame you for the behavior of someone so obviously beyond your control. As to your disdain for my mother’s efforts to ensure her daughters’ futures through good marriages, is this not the way of our society? Unlike your Cousin A, my sisters and I have no fortune with which to support ourselves upon my father’s demise. Yet, I am told your aunt is as eager for her daughter to wed you as my mother is for a respectable man to ask for the hand of any of her girls. And unlike my sisters and I, your cousin will still have a home if she does not marry. As to what you called “the inferiority of my connections,” permit me to point out that you are a gentleman and I am a gentleman’s daughter. Thus, we are equals. Do not conflate wealth with character or an ancient lineage with refined manners. Regarding Mr. W, as a matter of fairness I concede I know little of him beyond his efforts to charm all he meets. Just as your taciturn demeanor is no proof of a cold nature, his pleasantness is no proof of an honorable man. Thus, I will give careful consideration to what I observe and learn of him. And if, as you implied, I find evidence of his bad character, know that in my heart I will send you a small prayer of thanks for your warning. However, your condemnation of Mr. W raises another question. If he is as dishonorable as you maintain, why did you make no effort to warn his commander? Granted, there may be personal details that you prefer not to disclose. But, to use your own words, surely where there is a real superiority of mind, a gentleman could find a way to protect both his privacy and the welfare of those who are at risk, such as my neighbors. Perhaps there is one element of our characters you and I share. It is possible that my inability to discern your regard for me in your silent and oft-scowling manner is not substantially different from your inability to discern my sister’s fond feelings for Mr. B. It is said that people see what they wish to see, so I can only wonder why each of us believed what we thought we saw. This, sir, is an honest recounting of the questions you inspired in me following our recent conversation. If you feel I have wronged you, let me own that offense myself; do not lay it upon my family. I was taught good principles as a child, but, well, you are familiar with my innate impertinence. However, as I said at the beginning of this letter, I do sincerely regret the harsh manner of my speech. I confess I feel more sanguine after writing this letter. I hope I am brave enough to find some opportunity of putting it in your hands. I will only add, God bless you and the colonel. A Lady
