Mrs. Bingley’s Sister (The Austen Novels)

Chapter 29

"Sarah, what on earth am I doing?" Elizabeth asked wearily. "Going for a walk with Mr. Darcy out in the cold, when the sun isn't even shining—is this madness?"

Sarah laughed. "It sounds like it, Miss, but love makes everyone act a bit mad, though, does it not? Clearly he loves you, or he wouldn't have agreed to go out in the cold in such a way."

Elizabeth wasn't so daring as to repeat Sarah's bold assertions aloud, of course, but the idea of him loving her made her heart stop.

She had been so disappointed in the tour for turning out the way it had: she had expected to be on Darcy's arm, not his sister's, and certainly not in plain view of him escorting another woman. Mrs. Llewellyn had spent half the tour giving Elizabeth a detailed narrative of what she believed was going on between Darcy and her sister-in-law, and it had pained Elizabeth so much to be there, pretending to be perfectly unaffected by such ideas.

"See how well they look?" Mrs. Llewellyn had said eagerly, "Look how he supports her, how she leans upon his arm so! William very well seems to like her, I do believe. It will only be a matter of time."

Elizabeth had remained silent, and Mrs. Llewellyn went on darkly, "But I know Mrs. Fitzwilliam has designs on him for her sister, as well. I don't know how much you know about that, Miss Bennet, but I can very well say, my brother shows Miss Swann very little interest. Besides, Fitzwilliam says that she has an understanding with Mr. Cole, anyhow—therefore I do not see why Mrs. Fitzwilliam is making such a fuss.”

This led to a diatribe on the Swanns themselves, and Mrs. Llewellyn went on to say, “I have noticed that Mr. Swann seems to take a great interest in you."

This was a surprise for Elizabeth to hear, and she voiced as much in her reply. Mrs. Llewellyn waved a hand.

"Indeed!" she said, "I saw how he looked at you last night, and at dinner, he was very animated in your conversation."

"We merely were speaking of poetry."

"Poetry! Very romantic, I daresay."

Elizabeth had shaken her head at this, with a slight smile, "No, it was not romantic. He is a widower, you know. He only recently lost his wife, in the summer of 1818."

Mrs. Llewellyn nodded somberly.

"I had heard that, from my cousin. How very sad! But I am sure," she said more quietly, "that he ought to be in search of another wife. And it cannot be denied, he has certainly taken notice of you."

Sarah asking Elizabeth about her pelisse brought her back to the present moment.

"Indeed, the red one will do," Elizabeth answered, as Sarah began to put it on her. "On our tour, Mrs. Llewellyn suggested that Mr. Swann is interested in me."

"The widower? The one who reminds you of—"

"Yes, the very same. He reminds me much of Mr. Ellison."

Mr. Ellison—Elizabeth hadn't been reminded of that man until she met Mr. Swann, and he had the same melancholic, widower air that Mr. Ellison had possessed, the same morbid interest in sad poetry about heartbreak, grief, and loss.

"I don't think you're looking for another Mr. Ellison, Miss."

Elizabeth laughed and shook her head. "No, I very well am not. Mr. Swann did seem to pay attention to me last night, though, so I shall try to not give any encouragement."

"I'm sure you're not giving the man any encouragement!"

Elizabeth sighed. "Well, I had been so sure I hadn't given Mr. Ellison any encouragement either..."

January 1817

Netherfield park

Hertfordshire

Mrs. Bennet called on Netherfield, and she was not there but two minutes before saying to Elizabeth, "Purvis Lodge has been let at last—Lizzy, I have heard that the man is a widower and has some money. Ellison is his name. He must be in want of a wife."

Elizabeth frowned at her mother's pointed implications, and Jane intervened, smoothly saying, "Yes, Mama, we have heard about our new neighbor. Mr. Bingley went to call on him yesterday, as a matter of fact."

She sipped from her teacup and added softly, "He shall be dining with us very soon."

Mrs. Bennet liked the sound of this, and she began speculating all the ways in which Elizabeth might catch this mysterious new neighbor's attention.

"I have all my daughters married but you, Lizzy—even Mary, as plain as she is—why is it you do not seek out a husband? I daresay, Mr. Bingley ought to have some friends to throw in your path—"

"Mama, I do not need to marry," Elizabeth said in an annoyed tone, but catching sight of Jane's distress, she softened her reproving look and added gently, "I love living here with the Bingleys. I am satisfied and can want for nothing. Surely you do not worry for me, when I am under Mr. Bingley's protection?"

Mrs. Bennet had to concede that, no, they did not necessarily need to worry at all about Elizabeth. Elizabeth was satisfied with that, although she partially understood her mother had difficulty shaking old habits. She had spent the last decade, just about, trying to get her daughters all married, and even though she finally married off Mary last spring, Elizabeth couldn't help but notice Mrs. Bennet still often brought up the subject with her when she could. And now that an eligible bachelor entered the neighborhood, it was sure to be a topic of interest for Mrs. Bennet and her sister Mrs. Philips, along with all the other gossips of Meryton.

Her father, on the other hand, quite enjoyed Elizabeth's spinsterhood.

"Don't let Mrs. Bennet bother you about marriage, my dear," Mr. Bennet said to her the last time she visited Longbourn, "She just enjoys feeling useful. Marrying off her daughters has been her sole purpose these last many years. I worry not a jot about you. You turned down the heir to Longbourn those many years ago, and rightfully so. I would have been miserable to see such a match. I know your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked up to him as your superior. Your lively talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life."

Elizabeth had laughed and said, "Oh Papa, I shall be unmarried for the rest of my life, but it is no sadness to me; I have Jane's children to comfort me."

Of course, it was no laughing matter at all, but Elizabeth couldn't let her father see her endless melancholy.

Ever since Darcy left so abruptly in August, she had been quite bereft when she wasn't overwhelmed and busy with helping Jane care for little Jack, who had been born so precipitously and dangerously. The babe nearly died—he was too small to nurse properly, and both Jane and the wet-nurse had to hand express their milk and feed him with a little spoon, with which they had help from Elizabeth around the clock. Jane never wanted to let the baby away from her side, and so Elizabeth and Nan were taking care of the other two children most of the time, in lieu of Jane being able to part from the babe. It was clear that Jane's constant closeness might be what saved the baby, as he was but a thriving, though small, five-month-old child now.

Now that little Jack was out of harm's way, Elizabeth's grief over Darcy came back full force, and no one but her maid was aware of it at all, not even Jane. So her father's joking words of relief at her being unmarried just increased the heaviness and sadness of her heart, as she felt that she lost the only chance she might have had to be happy with a man. Darcy hadn't returned from his quick departure some months ago, and as the days continued on, to Elizabeth it became more likely he never would return.

Thus, she grieved.

The day of the impending dinner with their new neighbor arrived, and Elizabeth had little expectations of anything other than just the general interest that accompanies making any kind of new acquaintance. The man had gotten Purvis Lodge through an acquaintance with Sir William Lucas, who had stopped by Netherfield to tell them all about the man: he believed it impossible for man to be more attached to woman than poor Ellison was attached to Mrs. Ellison or to be more deeply afflicted under the dreadful change. He considered his disposition as of the sort which must suffer heavily, uniting very strong feelings with quiet, serious, and retiring manners, and a decided taste for reading and sedentary pursuits.

And yet, Elizabeth thought to herself, he has not, perhaps, a more sorrowing heart than I have. He will rally again and be happy with another someday.

The man arrived for dinner, and he was as Sir William had described: he had a young, pleasing face and a melancholy air, just as he ought to have, and he drew back from conversation.

While Bingley and Sir William dominated conversation on one side of the room with Mrs. Bingley and Lady Lucas as audience, Elizabeth found herself sitting near Mr. Ellison and drawing him out in conversation. He was shy, but soon he opened up, and they spoke of reading, mostly poetry. He showed himself so intimately acquainted with all the tenderest songs of one poet, and all the impassioned descriptions of hopeless agony of another; he repeated, with such tremulous feeling, the various lines which imaged a broken heart or a mind destroyed by wretchedness, that she ventured to say:

"I hope you do not always read only poetry; for it is the misfortune of poetry to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoy it completely; the strong feelings which alone could estimate it truly, they are the very feelings which ought to taste it but sparingly."

Mr. Ellison seemed to appreciate this allusion to his situation as a bereft widower, so she ventured on to suggest some more prose works for him to pour into and explore, those of great moralists, religious preachers, and characters of suffering and endurance: he listened attentively and wrote down her suggestions.

When the evening was over, Elizabeth could not but be amused at the idea of her preaching patience and resignation to a young man she had never seen before; nor could she help fearing, on more serious reflection, that she had been eloquent on a point in which her own conduct would ill bear examination.