CHAPTER NINETEEN
Breakfast at Netherfield was held even later than usual the morning following the ball. The household and its guests were exhausted and somewhat traumatized by the evening, although it is safe to conclude that Mr. Bingley was significantly less traumatized than his sisters. The house servants were grateful for the reprieve, as they were afforded a whole extra hour of sleep after several days of preparations for the event, and a night of cleaning and restoring the house to its proper condition. In recognition of their fine and resolute work, Mr. Bingley had been sure to send the leftover food and wine down to the servants’ quarters as a token of appreciation.
When breakfast was served, only Bingley and his sisters were present. Mr. Hurst had been peculiarly jug-bitten the preceding evening, and was not in any condition to be seen, let alone decamp from his bed. Mr. Darcy’s truancy, on the other hand, was certainly a bit more remarkable.
“The evening seems to have got the better of our friend, Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Hurst jested while buttering a hot roll.
“I dare say it did, Louisa,” answered Miss Bingley, “And he was not even half-sprung by the end of it.” The two sisters giggled in unison.
“Might he be unwell?” Bingley asked guilelessly.
“Oh, brother, I would not think so,” Louisa answered. “Though I believe you might have been more pleasantly distracted than the rest of us by the manners of certain number of our guests.”
“I was not ignorant of what we might consider to be certain faux-pas that may have occurred. You must remember, there is a distinction between country manners—”
“Barnyard manners, you mean,” Mrs. Hurst cut in. Bingley frowned and laid his silverware down.
“Ill-breeding, I would argue,” Caroline added.
“Well, you will have to argue it until you’re blue in the face,” Bingley declared, “because to my sensibilities, the entire evening was exceedingly merry.”
The sisters glanced at each other and then thought the better of continuing their scarcely disguised line of attack on the Bennet family. Their point had been made, surely, and more would no doubt be said on the matter at a later time. Caroline thought she might diffuse the situation by sending for Darcy’s valet to check on his condition. Louisa took the opportunity to have hot chocolate and rolls sent up to her husband’s room. The three siblings ate in relative silence until Ridley, the footman, entered once more to inform them that Mr. Darcy was not in his room.
“Not in his room?” Bingley inquired.
“No, sir,” replied Ridley. “Mr. Perry advised me that Mr. Darcy did not go to bed, but rather, lingered in the library until dawn, whereupon he asked for his coat and went out walking.”
“Walking?” Louisa cried. “ At dawn? ”
“Yes, ma’am,” the footman answered.
“Very peculiar, indeed,” whispered Caroline.
“ Poor Mr. Darcy,” Louisa continued, “the fiasco of last night must have impacted him greatly.”
“Yes,” her sister answered, “he must be excessively unnerved.”
Neither Bingley nor his sisters were of the mind to mention what they were all thinking—that Mr. Darcy was thoroughly smitten by Miss Elizabeth Bennet. The brother reflected upon the thought with a contented smile, the sisters, with affrighted disbelief.
Just then, Darcy himself entered the drawing room looking dapper and sanguine. His appearance was both a shock and a comfort to Louisa and Caroline. For his part, Darcy bowed slightly in their direction, then set about arranging his plate with French bread and boiled eggs, before calling politely for tea. He sat next to Bingley, who grinned as he wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin.
“Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Hurst uttered. He looked up from his plate at her and smiled. “Good morning,” she mumbled after an awkward moment.
“Good morning to you, as well,” he responded amiably.
“Are you quite well?” Caroline queried.
“Most assuredly. Perhaps a bit fagged, but that is all,” he quipped. The sisters glared at each other in disbelief. They had never heard him utter such a low word.
“We heard from your valet that you did not sleep,” stated Louisa.
“He spoke truly,” answered Darcy after chewing a bite.
“But you were not unwell?” Louisa asked slowly, her mind unable to process the near absurdity of this normally rational and habitual gentleman.
“I assure you I am perfectly well. These weeks in the country have granted me, perhaps, more tranquillity than I have been lately accustomed to. Yesterday evening was a fine gathering, certain social blunders notwithstanding, but it excited me more than I may have given it credit. The thought of sleep was dreary in comparison to the music in my mind, and when the sun began to rise, the notion of absorbing its rays seemed marvellous. The woods were quite enchanting this morning.”
With that declaration, he nodded again and with an affable smile, resumed his breakfast. Bingley and his sisters glared at him with such astonished silence, frozen in place like Grecian sculptures, until the fork unwittingly fell from Caroline’s hand. The sound of silver clattering on porcelain roused them all back into reality but did not inspire a resumption in conversation.
When the meal was over, the ladies retired to their separate parlour to continue working on the screen they had begun previously, while the two gentlemen were left in the drawing room. Darcy had his ledger brought in and began energetically poring over his accounts. Bingley sat with a book in hand, watching him the entire time. Once or twice, his friend would look up from his journal and make eye contact with Bingley, as if he felt he was being watched. The two would smile and nod at each other and then go right back to their tasks with rigid interest—actual or feigned. Eventually, Bingley could hold his tongue no longer: “What on earth has gotten into you?”
Mr. Darcy finished a calculation and jotted some quick notes before making his response. “I gather you mean to inquire after my quite unusual behaviour.”
“ Bizarre behaviour, yes.”
“I do admit, it has been many years since I have spent a sleepless night with no physical ailment to hinder my repose.”
“Then what is the matter?”
“Can you not guess it?”
Bingley thought for a moment, when an idea so simple that it seemed preposterous popped into his mind. “You’re in love, aren’t you?”
Darcy smiled. “Not in love —I do not regard myself quite so imprudent. However, you are correct in a sense, and I have no shame in admitting it to a friend such as you—I have taken quite the fancy to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“You are in love, Darcy,” Bingley exclaimed. “You are simply so rigidly pragmatic that you do not know what to call it.”
“ Bingley ,” Darcy began calmly, “I am honest enough with myself to acknowledge my own feelings. I have, no doubt, been smitten by Miss Elizabeth Bennet—her eyes, her vigour, her intelligence—however, I must square my feelings with the reality of my situation, and hers.”
“I do not follow your meaning.”
“We have been over this several times—her connections, or lack thereof, her—”
“Yes, yes,” Bingley interjected, annoyed at having to broach the old and familiar subject again. “But if you love her, Darcy—”
“Even if I did, and I contest that I do not, it seems to me that a recent development has settled the question entirely.”
“What—Mr. Wickham?”
“No, Bingley,” answered Darcy. “ Mr. Collins .”
“The vicar?” Bingley demanded. “The obsequious—” he struggled for a word—“unctuous, little man—”
“Bingley,” Darcy cut in with a near-chuckle, “do not tell you me you were so enamoured by the eldest Miss Bennet that you failed to notice the attention that Mr. Collins paid to Miss Elizabeth Bennet?”
“It did not fully escape my notice, no.”
“And you, no doubt, can easily guess the intention of his particular fawning over her?”
“You don’t think—”
“It is an eligible match for both of them,” remarked Darcy casually. Bingley felt slightly piqued at the thought. “Bingley, look,” Darcy stood and walked to the mantle. “I admit to you freely that I was quite enamoured with Miss Elizabeth. In fact, those feelings, and the violence with which my rational intellect assaulted them, were the reason I could not go to bed last night. I felt more comfortable pacing the library than I would rolling around in bed, wrestling between my feelings and my better judgement. Now, mind you, I am of firm enough resolve, as I hope you would expect, to never act on such flighty and spontaneous sentiments, but they would have to be conquered either way. Then, just as the dawn began to make itself known through the easterly windows, the thought struck me—she will certainly soon be engaged to Mr. Collins. And so, the question was settled. In spite of the way she makes me feel, she is surely soon to be betrothed to another in what would truly be a more sensible match for all involved. When I realized this, the tension in my soul was lifted and I felt a freedom from attachment as I have not since I first met her. Therefore, I went walking and whatever ill-feeling in my heart still lingered on her behalf was lifted with the ascent of the sun.”
After a moment’s stunned silence, Bingley said, “And I suppose this is to be a lesson for me—to suppress my feelings in a similar fashion?”
“Your feelings will be what they are, Charles,” replied Darcy. “You must act on what your reason informs you—and you certainly cannot be ignorant of the disgraceful manner in which her sisters, her mother, and even, to some extent, her father, conducted themselves yesterday evening.”
“Darcy, I don’t—”
“It would give me great delight, my dear friend, if we together could disregard any endearment to either of the Bennet girls.”
Bingley slumped back in his seat and sighed. He felt as though he had been lectured—again—but knew, or at least acquiesced to the idea that Darcy was right. It was, however, as if the glow emitted from Jane still surrounded him—he had not given a moment’s thought that morning to the ugly business that laid ahead.
“Last night was a fine night, Charles. Let it be that, but do not commit an error which you might regret the rest of your life. Besides, you have business to attend to, do you not?”