by J P Christy
“What is your connection to Mr. Collins?” Anne asked.
“He is the son of my father’s aunt. I suppose you have heard that Longbourn is entailed away from the female line.”
“Yes, Nora and I were present when Mama counseled Mr. Collins to choose a wife from among his cousins. For your sake, I am glad you did not marry him.”
“As am I!”
“And I am glad for my sake Darcy does not wish to marry me. If he had wanted the match, Mama would be impossible.” She gave Elizabeth a sidelong glance. “What do you think of Darcy?”
“I scarcely know the gentleman.”
“Christopher said you and Darcy often walked together in the mornings.”
“Sometimes when I went walking on sunny mornings, I would encounter Mr. Darcy. There was no plan, I assure you.”
“Mr. Collins said that you and he met Mr. Darcy last autumn,” Mrs. Jenkinson said.
“Yes, Mr. Darcy was in Hertfordshire with his friend Charles Bingley, who had leased an estate called ‘Netherfield,’ which abuts Longbourn.”
“Was my cousin immediately popular for his fortune and his good looks? Although for my taste, he is too tall,” Anne said.
Elizabeth flushed slightly to recall the great interest Darcy’s wealth had initially inspired among her mother and her neighbors. “I confess, his wealth and appearance were mentioned, but he failed to charm at his first social event in Meryton.”
“Failed to charm,” Anne repeated. “Oh, you must tell us how he acts in company!”
“It was at an assembly at the nearby town of Meryton. On that September evening, there were more ladies than gentlemen, but Mr. Darcy danced only with Mr. Bingley’s sisters—one set each, as I recall. As for the local ladies without partners, when Mr. Bingley urged your cousin to dance, he said Mr. Bingley was dancing with the only pretty girl in attendance—my sister Jane. Your cousin also said he would not give consequence to the seated ladies who, clearly, were slighted by other men,” Elizabeth said.
“You heard him say that?” Mrs. Jenkinson gasped.
“I did.” Elizabeth omitted the fact that he had directed this comment specifically at her.
“How terribly rude!” Anne exclaimed. “And now Darcy has gone to London to find a wife. If this is how he behaves in public, I do not have high hopes for his success.”
Mrs. Jenkinson nudged Anne’s arm. “The fork is just ahead; shall we go to the left and have our picnic by the folly?”
“Yes! Elizabeth, have you seen the Rosings folly? It is a nonsensical decoration, yet I adore it for its uselessness,” Anne said, directing the horse to that stretch of road.
When Elizabeth saw the folly, she could not decide if the small structure looked more like a work in progress or a collapsing ruin. Made of rough-hewn stone blocks, its basic shape was cylindrical, and it had a partial roof supported by two columns. Four stone steps led up to the doorway, which opened to an interior that was empty save for a stone bench lining the curved wall.
“It looks very old,” Elizabeth said.
“Barely twenty years,” Anne said. “It was inspired by the Temple of Philosophy of Ermenonville in northern France.”
“Why was it not finished?” Elizabeth asked as she climbed out of the phaeton.
“The folly was finished in such a way as to appear unfinished,” Anne said. She tied off the horse while Mrs. Jenkinson carried the picnic basket to the folly steps.
“It is meant to symbolize that human knowledge is and always will be lacking,” Mrs. Jenkinson explained.
“Shall we arrange our food here?” Anne asked, indicating the flat place at the top of the steps.
“Let me brush it off first with a leafy branch,” Elizabeth said, grinning. “It is what we rough and rustic people do.”
As she swept, Anne asked, “What did you do when my cousin was so rude at the assembly?”
“I had not been introduced to Mr. Darcy at that time, so there was little I could do. I walked past him and gave him a look before I joined Charlotte to tell her about his remark.”
“If ever a moment demanded your impertinence, surely that was it,” Anne said.
“In subsequent meetings, I confess I missed no opportunity to be impertinent to him.”
“How did Mr. Darcy respond?” Mrs. Jenkinson asked.
“Looking back upon those times, I believe I bewildered him. Although I felt I was skirting the boundary of rudeness, he did not seem to realize it. I cannot read him at all.”
“While you were giving him a set-down, he probably thought you were trying to charm him,” Anne laughed. “How awkward.”
“Indeed,” Elizabeth said.
“How did you and Mr. Darcy reach an understanding?” Mrs. Jenkinson asked. After shaking out a cotton cloth on which to set the meal, she began unpacking the basket.
I cannot tell them about his proposal and my anger. After a delicate cough to cover her discomfort, Elizabeth said, “It was here at Rosings that we discovered our errors.” Eager to change the subject, she asked, “Do you know Mr. Bingley?”
Anne said, “I have met him on two occasions. His personality is so different from Darcy’s, yet other than Christopher, I believe he is Darcy’s closest friend. Does he court your sister Jane?”
“No.” Oh, why did I bring up this subject?
Seeing her anxious look, Mrs. Jenkinson said, “Something distresses you, Elizabeth.”
“I … I confess I am reluctant to speak of it. It is a personal matter involving my dearest sister.” Her eyes filled with tears, for more than anything, she wanted to confide in these ladies.
“If you wish to unburden yourself, know that what you say will go no farther than,” Mrs. Jenkinson looked around and gestured, “than this folly.” Smiling, she placed a comforting arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder and guided her to sit on the steps.
“We are the soul of discretion,” Anne agreed, handing Elizabeth a handkerchief as she sat on her other side.
Elizabeth was silent for several moments. At last she said, “I will withhold certain details, but perhaps if I speak my thoughts, they will cease to weigh so heavily on my heart.” With both hands, she cradled the glass of wine Mrs. Jenkinson gave her and took a fortifying sip. “From Mr. Bingley’s first dance with Jane at the assembly last year, he seemed enchanted by her. He showered her with attention, which was noted not only by my family but by our neighbors. In a short time, Jane told me she thought him to be everything a young man ought to be, and before long, it seemed everyone in the neighborhood—most especially my mother—expected Mr. Bingley would offer for Jane. When he held a ball in November, my mother believed he would propose that night.
“But he did not. The day after the ball, we received a letter from his sister Caroline, who had been his hostess during their stay at Netherfield. From the first, she made it abundantly obvious that Hertfordshire was her idea of purgatory. Her letter said her brother had been called to business in London and was unlikely to return, although he had leased the estate for a year. Caroline also hinted her family was anticipating a match between her brother and Mr. Darcy’s sister.”
“How odd! In Georgiana’s letters to me, she has mentioned Mr. Bingley only in reference to Darcy. If she holds an affection for him, she has never said so,” Anne said.
“Is Jane at Longbourn now?” Mrs. Jenkinson asked.
“In January, Jane went to London to stay with the Gardiners. Soon after her arrival, she called on the Bingleys, but Caroline ended the visit quickly, saying she had an appointment. Then, a few weeks passed before she returned Jane’s visit.”
After a sip of wine, Elizabeth continued in a bitter tone. “Perhaps Mr. Bingley is unaware Jane has been in town since January. Or perhaps he tasked Caroline with ending the connection to the Bennets on his behalf. I am certain only that Jane—the kindest, gentlest soul in the world—is wondering why, with so little civility, Mr. Bingley singled her out in our small society and then abandoned her to the neighborho
od gossips.”
“Clearly, he is another bounder deserving of your impertinence,” Anne declared.
“Yes, well, the difficulty with that is the need to be in proximity with the object of one’s scorn,” Elizabeth said with a little sigh. Although she still felt anger at Bingley and Darcy, she also felt a lightening of her spirits at having confided her sorrows. Selecting a sandwich from the picnic offerings, she took a bite.
“Suppose Mr. Bingley returns to Netherfield. What would you tell him?” Anne asked.
Elizabeth considered the question carefully. “Well, I would mention that it has been ages and ages since last we met. And I would ask if his charming sister Caroline was still the mistress of his calendar and his correspondence. Finally, I would ask if felicitations were in order as to his engagement to Miss Darcy.”
Anne, who was plucking preserved plums from a tart, took on the part of Bingley. Pitching her voice low, she asked, “Why, whatever do you mean, Miss Elizabeth?”
“Caroline told my family that Miss Darcy was practically your bride. Also, during Jane’s lengthy visit to London, she was disappointed you had not found time to call. Perhaps, sir, you were occupied with your wedding plans.”
“By mentioning Jane’s disappointment, do you not give the young man some consequence?” Mrs. Jenkinson asked.
“You are right! I must add something to … ah, I will say, ‘Jane was somewhat disappointed not to renew the connection, but she has been so occupied with the attentions of gentlemen who recognize her worth, she has likely forgotten you.’ And all of this must be said with a pleasant smile and in a matter-of-fact tone.”
“Nothing accusatory,” Anne said, making a mental note.
“No strong emotions,” Mrs. Jenkinson added.
“What makes impertinence forgivable, I believe, is that it may prick, but it does not wound. Inflicting wounds is the danger of speaking in anger. From anger comes regret, and I prefer not to have regrets,” Elizabeth declared, raising her chin. And for the first time since giving Darcy her letter, she wondered whether her words to him merited regret.
≈≈≈
During a game of backgammon after dinner, Anne confided to Mrs. Jenkinson, “I suspect Darcy knows the reason Mr. Bingley left Netherfield.”
After a brief reflection, her friend offered this observation. “Mr. Darcy said little about his time in Hertfordshire. He spoke no praises of the Bennet family or the neighborhood. He is a fastidious man, proud of his place in the world. You yourself have mentioned that he tends to act as if he is above his company. Is it possible—no, I should not say what I cannot prove.”
Anne looked puzzled. “Do you think Darcy was involved in Mr. Bingley’s decision to leave Netherfield and Miss Jane?”
Mrs. Jenkinson gave a small shrug. “I do not wish to defame your cousin, and I can give no reasons for my assumption. Yet I suspect something unpleasant of a personal nature passed between Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth. Perhaps it was a revelation of his influence over his friend. Of course, we must not ask.”
“I do not wish to put Elizabeth in the uncomfortable position of having to disclose such an unkind act by my cousin. We shall keep silent on this.”
Across the room, Lady Catherine, bored by the lack of company, looked up from the book she was halfheartedly reading. Seeing Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson in quiet conference, she asked loudly, “What are you talking about there? I must have my share in the conversation.”
≈≈≈
May 2, 1811
Thursday morning brought a light rain to London; thus, Darcy savored the warmth of the fire in the grate as he sat at the desk in his study. On every day except Sunday, he began his morning here at approximately half-past seven. While enjoying a single cup of coffee improved by a small spoonful of sugar and a splash of cream, he would plan his activities.
On the desktop to his left was a calendar page for the month of May. Yesterday, when he put April’s calendar in the bottom drawer, he had felt great relief. Each glance at it had reminded him of how many days had passed since his disastrous proposal to Elizabeth Bennet—and how many days had passed since she had pressed her impertinent letter into his gloved palm.
Following his return to London, Darcy had attended a dinner party on Monday, a private ball on Tuesday, and another dinner on Wednesday. He and Georgiana had also joined Lady Fitzwilliam for tea on Tuesday afternoon but, happily, there were no marriageable maidens present to cast longing looks in his direction. Or did I deceive myself in thinking the unmarried ladies at the ball and the dinners were eager for my attention?
Even before he became master of Pemberley, he was aware that among the ton, he was considered a good catch, despite his reserved nature and dislike of dancing with ladies unknown to him. “Still, this week I made conversation,” he murmured as if ticking a point off a list. “I danced most of the dances. I, I … I was pleasant to my hosts and polite to the other guests.” An inner voice mocked, Well, isn’t this the very least a gentleman would do? While I am at it, why not give myself kudos for not setting the host’s home afire?
Still, Darcy took satisfaction in the fact that his ability to make social conversation had improved recently, and he credited his sister’s companion, Mrs. Annesley, for this. Following Georgiana’s near-elopement at Ramsgate last August, Darcy—aided by Lady Fitzwilliam—had conducted a thorough vetting of Mrs. Annesley’s qualifications and references. Yet since those initial interviews, he had scarcely done more than greet the lady, although she lived in his home.
Mrs. Annesley regularly provided reports as to Georgiana’s studies and the outings the ladies made to museums and galleries. Occasionally Darcy made suggestions regarding his sister’s reading selections—suggestions which, as he reflected now, probably sounded like commands. Thus, during breakfast on the Monday after his return, when he attempted to engage Mrs. Annesley in casual conversation, the lady’s initial response was a wary look.
When Darcy asked whether she wished to visit her married daughter in Salisbury in the near future, Mrs. Annesley wondered whether she was about to be discharged. Cautiously, she said, “I do hope to visit her in the next several months, provided that my doing so will not inconvenience you or Miss Darcy.”
“I suppose you would like to be nearer to your family,” he said.
“My daughter and my two sons have families of their own. I am happy to be here or at Pemberley.”
Georgiana, who had been watching this strained conversation with wide eyes, assured her companion, “And we—if I may speak for you, Brother—are happy to have you here, Mrs. Annesley. We certainly do not wish for you to leave.”
“What? Oh, yes, of course, quite happy with you!” Darcy said quickly. “My dear sister’s development as a gracious, mannerly young woman has been facilitated by your fine example and .…” he trailed off. After an uncomfortable pause, he added, “I hope you did not think I wanted to end our reliance on your services.”
Mrs. Annesley’s smile was cautious. “I am pleased to hear it.” For several moments, the three were silent; Georgiana and her companion wore expressions of anticipation, while Darcy’s face reflected an internal struggle. Finally, Mrs. Annesley asked, “Do you have a question for me, sir?”
Darcy chuckled. “Given my fluency in English, I am puzzled at my struggle to make what is known as ‘polite conversation.’ Do you think, madam, there is an age limit after which one is too old to become skilled in the art of social niceties?”
This time Mrs. Annesley’s smile was warm. “Not at all, Mr. Darcy. I believe a motivated student can learn most anything.”
Later, Georgiana sought out her brother and encouraged him to have afternoon tea with her companion and herself. “As I, too, am often uncomfortable in social conversations, Mrs. Annesley has suggested that you and I might practice together.”
With mixed feelings, Darcy joined the ladies. At the end of this awkward first tea, Mrs. Annesley recommended they each come to their next meeting with three topics
. Their teas on Tuesday and Wednesday were, by Darcy’s estimation, increasingly successful. Thus, at the social events he attended in the evenings, he felt distinctly more at ease, and he appreciated those persons who could coax coherent conversation from a shy guest.
Now, on this rainy Thursday morning, Darcy closed his eyes and recalled an evening at Rosings when he and Fitzwilliam stood at the pianoforte in Lady Catherine’s drawing room while Elizabeth played. At Fitzwilliam’s urging, she told of Darcy’s first appearance at an assembly in her neighborhood, when he had danced only with the sisters of his host, Charles Bingley. Darcy had offered the explanation, “I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”
With an arch smile, Elizabeth queried his cousin, “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education and who has lived in the world is ill-qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”
To which Fitzwilliam replied, “It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”
“Well, I have now given myself the trouble!” Darcy declared aloud and allowed himself a smug smile. So there, Miss Elizabeth. This man of sense and education, who has lived in the world, is perfectly able to recommend himself to strangers. But in his thoughts, Elizabeth seemed to respond immediately, reminding him of another charge she had made:
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.
“And what should I have said to Wickham’s commander?” Darcy grumbled. “Would I mention the financial losses he has inflicted on various and sundry through gambling and unpaid debts? The possible loss of the good reputation of Colonel Forster and his men? The loss of the reputations or virtue of the ladies in Meryton?” Or Longbourn! Elizabeth is too sensible to allow Wickham to take liberties with her, but he could easily seduce her foolish younger sisters.
