Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
RETURNING TO REALITY
Miss L did not call at Netherfield. He had endured an excruciating two hours in Bingley’s drawing room while the local populace—which included no one of any modicum of distinction, breeding, or elegance—descended upon Netherfield.
At least I kept Bingley from getting entangled with the Bennet family, he assured himself, wishing to believe the hours spent had not been in vain. I may congratulate myself on that much.
The Bennet ladies were a recent addition to the unhappy circle of the genteel poor. They were beauties, country beauties, but they were not for Bingley. And Darcy had made sure that he understood the certain evils of such women and their arts.
Nothing at all like Miss L. Who is she? he asked himself for the millionth time. When will I see her again?
He passed through Meryton, a sightless gaze out the window as he reviewed, in his mind, the events of the night prior.
He had been subjected to a painfully embarrassing dream in which he had not only kissed the mystery lady in the locked room but had gone so far as to…
Well. No sense remembering that again, or he would embarrass himself further.
Why had she affected him so? She was pretty, not the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but then there had been something about her eyes that was quite captivating. The light had been so dim and yet somehow, they had sparkled, showing every emotion she felt as they talked.
I am lonely. More than just lonely…weary. Downtrodden.
In August, Georgiana had nearly eloped with George Wickham, a man who was once his intimate friend.
Darcy had arrived at Ramsgate just in time to stop her, but his Fitzwilliam relations were sure that if he had done as he ought to, and married Anne, it never should have happened.
They had been merciless in blaming him—never mind that her companion, in whose character they were grievously misled, had been hired on Lady Catherine’s recommendation.
Their censure was unneeded, particularly as he censured himself for his failure to adequately protect her. And it was his guilt, not their condemnation, which led him to agree to Georgiana living with Lady Matlock. Just for a time, they all said. So why did it feel as if he had lost her forever?
When the family had turned their collective backs on him in the fateful Christmas of ’10, it had pained him excessively.
He was not received at Matlock House in town, nor at Rosings House.
The elders of the Fitzwilliam side of his family had not spoken to him until the situation with Georgiana arose; then, the temptation to castigate him was too strong, and they broke their silence long enough to take Georgiana away.
It was without a doubt the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Yes, his parents had both died, leaving him behind, but that had been no one’s choice. This was choice. This was the Fitzwilliam clan deciding he was worth less to them than their pride.
His cousin Fitzwilliam had even grown a bit cool; Darcy suspected that the generosity of his father dictated that. Only Saye had proved faithful, but Darcy suspected that was more likely due to his enjoyment of disobedience than true fidelity. Nevertheless, Darcy accepted it gratefully.
He was lonely, achingly lonely sometimes, and the silly, scheming debutantes of the ton did nothing but make him feel it more keenly.
The balm of female companionship offered by Miss L had been startling in its solace.
How he had enjoyed that little interlude locked away in a dusty room at a humble inn!
Would he see her again? He hoped he would. He was determined he would. She had all the town bronze that made him certain she was a lady of the ton, something in her air and in the manner in which she walked. She was accustomed to the highest circles, beyond a doubt.
A casual enquiry among the gentlemen had yielded nothing in terms of the lady’s name.
No surnames beginning with L, not that anyone else had noticed.
He had asked about ladies whose given names began with L, again with no positive reply.
After that, the men had grown too curious and he was forced to abandon his query, as he had with Bingley.
It does not signify, he thought. Miss L, I shall find you in London.
The Bennet ladies returned to London by stage.
Happily they were alone in the conveyance, for other travellers would have made quarters unbearably tight.
As it was, Elizabeth had Jane’s elbow in her ribs and Lydia’s foot constantly grazing her own.
Shifting a little to try to carve out her own space, she listened to her mother’s mad schemes for Jane and Mr Bingley.
While Elizabeth called on Charlotte at Longbourn the day prior, her mother and sisters had called at Netherfield Park.
It was a bustling place, full of Mr Bingley’s friends, one wealthier than the next, if Mrs Bennet was to be believed.
And if one was to believe that, then one might also believe that nearly every man fell instantly in love with Jane and very nearly proposed on the spot.
Elizabeth listened to the chatter while looking past her sister’s bonnet to the passing fields outside the window.
“And then,” Mrs Bennet told her happily, “Mr Bingley himself came over and all but sent that pesky Mr Blake on his way, upon which—”
“Mama,” Jane said quietly. “Let us speak no more of Mr Bingley.”
The effect this produced was astonishing. All the sisters fell silent and looked at her, including Elizabeth herself.
“Only think,” said Mrs Bennet, her scheming only slightly dimmed by Jane’s accents, “how good it would be to be mistress of Netherfield! And wife to such an agreeable man, so very charming!”
“I overheard him speaking with his friend, the tall gentleman, and his sister Miss Bingley,” Jane said very calmly. “And there is nothing there, I assure you.”
“The tall gentleman?” Elizabeth enquired.
“I believe they said his name was Darcy,” Mrs Bennet said, saying the name as she would an epithet. “Owns half of Derbyshire it seems. Handsome, I suppose, if one does not account for manners.”
Elizabeth shot Jane a look, but her countenance gave nothing up. “What was amiss in his manners?”
“It was nothing, I am sure,” Jane said dismissively. “Mama, what did you think of my aunt’s new curtains?”
Mrs Bennet sniffed. “Garish,” she said, but the gambit worked. Their mother was suitably diverted, and the subject of Mr Bingley was left.
On Elizabeth’s part, however, such stratagems could only enhance her curiosity about what had transpired in the drawing room at Netherfield. Almost as soon as she and Jane were ensconced in their small bedchamber that night, she enquired, “What really happened when you called at Netherfield?”
Jane was removing the pins from her hair and finished her task before answering her sister. “My mother does not quite understand how our desperation precedes us.”
What had happened was the same thing which had been happening since the moment Jane had turned fifteen, the age at which Mrs Bennet deemed her old enough to begin husband-hunting in earnest. Admitted into a drawing room filled almost exclusively with wealthy bachelors, Mrs Bennet had hardly known where to throw her daughters first and had settled for a scattershot approach.
The younger ladies, who ought not to have even gone on such a call, were ill-behaved and silly, and Jane sat silently red-faced with mortification.
“I could not utter a syllable, such was my humiliation.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “What must Mr Bingley have thought of us!”
“He is so exceedingly good-humoured, I confess he seemed unaffected by it. His sisters and Mr Darcy—”
“The tall one who owns half of Derbyshire?”
Jane nodded. “You did not meet him?” Before Elizabeth could reply, Jane continued, saying, “Of course you did not; none of us did, for he declined the introduction.”
“He did? How rude.”
Jane shrugged. “When one is that wealthy, they can afford to give offence when and where they please. And he is very wealthy—ten thousand a year, clear as my mother immediately told me when he arrived in the drawing room. Likely she thought she was being quiet, but he seemed to hear her and was not best pleased.”
“Everyone discusses a man’s income,” Elizabeth said ruefully, “but most have the sense not to do it while he stands there.”
“He did not come meet us, only walked to the mantel and stood looking at us. It was a very little distance away, well within earshot of my mother saying how excessively rude he was. Alas, Mr Bingley took it upon himself to go over to his friend and again urge him to talk to us. And Mr Darcy became more vexed—”
“I do not doubt that!”
“—and said something about Mama that I could not quite make out. Whatever it was, Mr Bingley was very embarrassed by it, as was I. One did not need to hear the particulars to mistake the scorn on Mr Darcy’s countenance.”
“How humiliating,” Elizabeth said as in her mind she heard Mr D say, ‘There is one among them, five or six daughters to her credit, who nearly grappled Mr Bingley to the ground when she saw him’. Then again, Mr D had not been rude…brusque at first, yes, but hardly as bad as all of this.
“Would that I could have hidden beneath the sofa I sat on, but manners prevailed and I remained seated as I should.” Jane sighed.
“In any case, when Mr Bingley moved again in our direction, his sisters stopped him. Miss Bingley said some sort of nonsense about needing him in the hall, so he followed her out there and Mr Darcy soon went as well. I have no idea what happened out there, but I do know that Mr Bingley did not speak another word to me and only stood back and nodded when we left.”
Elizabeth laid a comforting hand on her sister’s back. “How perfectly dreadful.”
“I do not even care that Mr Bingley is rich. Truly! I thought he was the most amiable man I have ever met. It was so very easy to talk and laugh with him. I have never known a man who made me feel so…wonderful. But it was easy enough to understand what happened. His sisters and his friend disapproved of us, likely ridiculed us. I have disadvantages enough, without adding a silly mother to it.”
Elizabeth could say nothing more to this.
“I suppose it does not signify. A Mr Bingley would never marry anyone like me regardless,” Jane added. “Mother or no mother. I shall count myself fortunate if a kindly clerk or solicitor takes notice of me.”
“And I as well,” Elizabeth admitted. “Our mother is quite mad if she thinks any of us could marry these great men.”
“Even before Papa died, it was an unlikely prospect,” Jane agreed.
The conversation lagged a little then, and Elizabeth, who always was too curious for her own good, said, “I did, in fact, meet a gentleman at the assembly whose last name began with D, but I cannot quite recall if the name given was Darcy. He was friendlier, though, than it seems this Mr Darcy was. I might have thought him a little proud, but not so outwardly uncivil.”
Jane was busy examining her countenance for spots. “I cannot think of another with a name beginning with D. There was a shorter man, somewhat round, who I believe was Mr David…something or other?”
“No,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully, the remembered sensation of colliding with the firm, undoubtedly strong chest of the mystery man in her mind. “He had dark hair, curly…and definitely tall and athletic-looking.” She gestured to what she thought his height might have been in relation to herself.
“Handsome?” Jane asked.
Elizabeth nodded.
“It could only have been Mr Darcy. He was exceedingly well-favoured, and until he opened his mouth, I daresay Mama was on the verge of pushing me at him. But when were you introduced to him? It seems,” Jane said in a sly tone, “that you might have a bit of interest in him?”
Elizabeth ignored the question of the introduction. “Interested? Lord no, nothing like that. I am too well aware of my own position to have fancies for such a man as that, I assure you. And it seems he has taken a strong dislike to us as well, so no great loss there, is it?”
To this Jane could only agree. “What did Charlotte wish to say to you?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, ready to tell her sister all about the position with Miss de Bourgh, but something stopped her. “She is redoing the dining room at Longbourn,” she told Jane. “She wanted to know if we could put any of the furnishings to use.”
Jane smiled sadly. “How kind of her. She cannot imagine how snug we are, I suppose.”
“Either that or she chooses not to,” Elizabeth remarked. Happily, their mother called for them then, and Jane was required to forgo the opportunity to scold her younger sister for such an ungenerous, albeit true, comment.