Chapter Six #3
“Mr. Darcy,” Mr. Bennet interrupted, pleasantly but decidedly, “my daughters acted from compassion, not in expectation of profit. I have no inclination to turn their conduct into a matter of accounts. Your sister is received here as a guest. There, if you please, let the business rest.”
There was a short silence.
“You are extremely liberal, sir,” Darcy said more quietly. “I am sensible of the obligation.”
“I am father to five girls,” Mr. Bennet replied. “If any one of them were ever in such a situation, I should be grateful indeed to the gentleman who gave her shelter, and should hope he would not stand upon ceremony about coal and mutton.”
Before Darcy could answer, Mrs. Bennet’s voice floated along the passage.
“Mr. Bennet! Are the gentlemen still in the hall? They must come in this instant and take some refreshment. It would be monstrous to allow them to depart without so much as a dish of tea.”
Mr. Bennet’s sigh was distinctly audible.
“You perceive, Mr. Darcy,” he said, “that my authority does not extend to the regulation of my wife’s hospitality. I recommend submission. Resistance has been tried, and found fatiguing.”
There was, nearly, the ghost of a smile in Darcy’s reply.
“I am entirely at Mrs. Bennet’s disposal.”
Intolerable
“Mr. Darcy! Colonel Fitzwilliam! How good of you to join us!” Mrs. Bennet's voice carried across the drawing room with remarkable force.
“Do sit down, pray do sit down. Jane, move closer to the fire, that the gentlemen may have the best seats. Mary, put that book away. Kitty, do not fidget so. Lydia, sit up properly.”
Darcy took the indicated chair with reluctance. The Colonel, he noted with some resentment, appeared perfectly at his ease.
“You must take some tea,” Mrs. Bennet continued, without waiting for a reply.
“And cake. Cook has made a seed-cake on purpose. Jane, my dear, pray pour for the gentlemen. You do it so beautifully. Such grace! Everyone remarks upon it, Mr. Darcy. I declare there is no one in the county who pours out tea with such elegance.”
The eldest Miss Bennet—Jane—rose with quiet grace and moved to the tea-table. She, at least, seemed to possess some degree of composure.
“How is dear Miss Darcy?” Mrs. Bennet asked, her hands fluttering. “Such a sweet girl. So pale and delicate. We have been attending to her every need, I assure you. She has the best chamber in the house—the very best. I insisted upon it.”
“You are very kind,” Darcy said.
“Not at all, not at all! It is our Christian duty. Besides, any cousin of Mr. Bennet’s old friend Colonel Fitzwilliam is most welcome in our home. Is she not, Mr. Bennet?”
Mr. Bennet, who had taken refuge behind a newspaper near the window, lowered it slightly. “Most welcome,” he said dryly.
“And you come all the way from Derbyshire!” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “Such a long journey. You must be quite exhausted. Though I suppose gentlemen of your consequence are accustomed to travelling. You have a carriage, of course. Several carriages, I dare say.”
Darcy accepted a cup from Miss Bennet with a brief inclination of the head. “I travel as circumstances require.”
“To be sure, to be sure. Your estate—Pemberley, Sir William said—it must require a great deal of your attention. So many tenants and servants to manage. How many servants do you keep, Mr. Darcy?”
The Colonel cleared his throat. “I am persuaded Mr. Darcy would prefer not to discuss such particulars, Mrs. Bennet.”
“Oh! I only meant—that is, I am sure it is a fine establishment. Ten thousand a year, Sir William mentioned. Or was it twelve? I confess I cannot recall. But a very handsome income, indeed.”
Darcy clenched his jaw. The youngest daughter—Lydia, he recollected—giggled from her place on the sofa.
“I am sure Mr. Darcy does not wish to discuss his income with strangers, Mamma,” Elizabeth said quietly from her seat near the window.
“Strangers! We are hardly strangers now. We are caring for his sister! That makes us practically family.”
The Colonel intervened smoothly. “Mrs. Bennet, I must commend the care you have bestowed upon Miss Darcy. My cousin and I are deeply grateful.”
“Oh, it is nothing! Nothing at all! Though I must say, it would be far easier if Miss Darcy were not confined to her chamber. If she were well enough to come down, we could introduce her to the neighbourhood. There is to be an assembly next month. She would enjoy that, I am certain.”
“My sister is not yet out,” Darcy said coldly.
“Not out! But surely she must be fifteen or sixteen at least! My Lydia has been out this past year, and she is only just sixteen. I see no reason to make girls wait. They must have their share of amusement before they are married, and besides, the younger ones would be quite mortified, poor things, if they could not go about with their elder sisters. Is that not so, Lydia?”
“Indeed, Mamma! I would have died of boredom sitting at home whilst Jane and Lizzy attended assemblies.”
Darcy clenched his jaw again. Fifteen or sixteen was, in his judgement, far too young to be out in society, parading at public rooms. It was exactly this sort of lax supervision that—
He checked the thought before it could be completed.
“I only meant—well, young ladies do enjoy dancing. My girls adore it. Jane is much admired at every assembly. Everyone says she is the most beautiful girl in the county. Do they not, Mr. Bennet?”
“They do say so,” Mr. Bennet agreed, without looking up from his paper.
“Lizzy is very accomplished. She plays and sings. Well, she plays tolerably. Her singing is better than her playing. Though Mary is the true musician of the family. Mary, play something for the gentlemen.”
“I would prefer not to, Mamma,” Mary said.
“Nonsense! Mr. Darcy would enjoy hearing you play. Gentlemen always enjoy music.”
“Perhaps another time,” the Colonel said hastily.
Lydia, who had been whispering to Kitty, spoke up suddenly. “Are you married, Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy turned to look at her. She was perhaps fifteen, too young, in his view, to be so much in company, and apparently too young to understand propriety.
“Lydia!” Elizabeth's voice was sharp.
“What? I only asked. Mamma asks questions all the time.”
“That is quite different,” Jane said gently.
“I do not see how,” Lydia persisted. “Mr. Darcy, are there many balls in Derbyshire? I adore balls. There is nothing so agreeable as a good ball.”
“Lydia, that is enough,” Mr. Bennet said from behind his paper.
“But, Papa—”
“Enough.”
An uncomfortable silence followed. Mrs. Bennet hastened to fill it.
“You must forgive Lydia, Mr. Darcy. She is young and has such high spirits. All my girls are spirited. It comes from me, I suppose. Mr. Bennet is so quiet, but I have always been lively. Have I not, Mr. Bennet?”
“Exceedingly lively,” Mr. Bennet murmured.
“Jane, however, is all gentleness. So amiable, so pleasant. Everyone remarks upon it. She is never cross or out of humour. Unlike some girls I could mention.” Mrs. Bennet cast a meaningful glance at Elizabeth.
“Lizzy has too much wit for her own good. She will insist upon having her own opinions on every subject. I tell her gentlemen do not like opinionated wives, but she will not listen.”
Darcy ventured a glance at Elizabeth. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes fixed upon her teacup.
“I am persuaded Miss Elizabeth’s opinions are perfectly reasonable,” the Colonel said diplomatically.
“Oh, I did not mean—that is, she is a good girl, of course. All my girls are good girls. And we shall have them all married soon, I am certain. Jane is already two-and-twenty. It is high time she was settled. Do you know any eligible gentlemen in Derbyshire, Mr. Darcy? Jane would do very well in Derbyshire.”
That was enough. Darcy rose abruptly. “I must beg your pardon, Mrs. Bennet, but my cousin and I must take our leave. We have another call to make before we return to the inn.”
“Oh! But you have scarcely touched your tea! And the seed-cake—”
“You are most obliging, but we must go.” Darcy bowed stiffly. “You have been most hospitable.”
The Colonel stood as well, offering his farewells with more grace. As they moved towards the door, Darcy caught Mr. Bennet's eye. The elder gentleman’s expression was inscrutable. There might have been a hint of sympathy in it—or merely resignation.
When they were at last in the carriage, Darcy leant back against the seat and closed his eyes.
“That,” he said, “was intolerable.”
“She means well,” the Colonel said mildly.
“She is vulgar, grasping, and utterly without discretion. I cannot leave Georgiana in such company.”
“Where else would you have her go?”
Darcy opened his eyes. “To London. To Pemberley. Any where but here.”
“We have already discussed this—”
“I do not care what we have discussed,” Darcy said, his voice rising. “That woman was questioning me about my income. The youngest daughter asked if I were married as though inquiring after the weather. I will not subject Georgiana to such vulgarity.”
“Georgiana is upstairs, out of the way of it all,” the Colonel pointed out.
“She is attended by the elder daughters, who seem perfectly respectable. Miss Bennet is gentle and considerate. Miss Elizabeth appears intelligent and capable. The younger ones are thoughtless, certainly, but they are not cruel.”
“They are impossible.”
“They are imperfect,” the Colonel corrected him. “As are most families. You are, I believe, acquainted with our aunt Catherine?”
Darcy made a sound that might have been assent and looked away.
“They saved Georgiana’s life, Darcy. Does that weigh for nothing with you?”
Darcy turned his face to the window and the passing hedgerows. “Of course it weighs with me. But that does not mean I must expose Georgiana to—to that scene on a permanent footing.”