Chapter 6 #2
The longer she spoke, the clearer it became that Miss Bingley’s displeasure was not rooted in any breach of etiquette; it was pride, pure and simple, and an overblown sense of her own importance.
Nothing Elizabeth said would satisfy her, for Miss Bingley had fixed upon her grievance and meant to keep it.
Recognising the futility of further effort, Elizabeth inclined her head in a slight curtsey. “If you will excuse me, I shall go and check on Jane.”
With that, she withdrew, grateful for even a brief reprieve from Miss Bingley’s frostiest civility.
The instant Miss Elizabeth Bennet departed the room, Miss Bingley’s composure collapsed.
She turned upon her sister with a sharp exhalation, setting aside her teacup with more force than was strictly necessary, indignation flashing openly across her features now that there was no one present to observe it.
“For the life of me, I cannot comprehend the audacity of that Eliza Bennet,” she declared.
“To receive a call in a house that is not even her own! The presumption of it is beyond anything I have ever witnessed. What extraordinary assurance she must possess to behave as though she were mistress here and not merely a guest—one whom we have been obliged to receive under our roof. She does not belong in such a house, not with those relations of hers.”
Mrs Hurst, who had already endured this complaint more than once that afternoon, offered little more than a distracted murmur of agreement. Her languid indifference only heightened Miss Bingley’s irritation.
“What vexes me most,” Miss Bingley continued, her voice sharpening as she crossed the room and adjusted the fall of the curtain with unnecessary precision, “is that the man should come expressly to see her and not Miss Bennet. Jane is infinitely the more proper, the more elegant—anyone with eyes must see it. It is Eliza who attracts the notice of every gentleman present. It is she who commands attention as though she possessed some peculiar talent for it.” She paused, her expression hardening.
“As though she took pleasure in collecting the admiring glances of men of every rank and situation.”
“They are not sisters, Caroline,” Mrs Hurst observed mildly, smoothing her gown as though the correction scarcely deserved emphasis.
“They are cousins. It was mentioned at a recent gathering, and I believe it was never expressly said that they were sisters. They have been raised together since Miss Elizabeth’s parents died when she was young.
The gentleman you met today is her grandfather and her legal guardian.
It appears he has been abroad for many years on military service of some consequence.
Mr Hurst recognised the name when Miss Elizabeth mentioned it at dinner and spoke well of him.
He is not insignificant, nor is he without influence.
Did you not say that he knew Mr Darcy’s father?
From what I understand, he is known to several influential men in London as well. ”
Miss Bingley’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Since coming to Netherfield, she had been singularly unsuccessful in securing Mr Darcy’s attention, and it troubled her deeply to observe the interest he appeared to take in that country miss.
She was, of course, far better suited to be Mrs Darcy than that upstart Eliza Bennet.
She had fortune, education, refinement—she possessed every advantage that ought to recommend a woman to a gentleman of consequence.
It was unreasonable, almost absurd, that she should be overlooked; yet she had scarcely contrived a moment alone with him, and his manner suggested not indifference but studied avoidance. None of what her sister had said suited her purpose, and she dismissed it at once.
She resumed her catalogue of objections with renewed vigour—Miss Eliza’s manners, her dress, her connexions, her forwardness—each criticism sharpened by the vexing truth that the girl continued to be taken seriously by those whose opinions mattered.
That she proved to be merely a cousin to the Bennets, and that her connexions were better than first supposed, mattered little; indeed, the knowledge that she was an orphan only confirmed Miss Bingley’s conviction that such elevation was wholly misplaced.
She had scarcely reached the subject of Miss Elizabeth’s intolerably unfashionable habit of roaming the countryside on foot when the gentlemen entered the room.
At once she smoothed her expression, arranging her features into their accustomed composure.
One glance was enough to unsettle her entirely. It was unmistakable that two of them—her brother and Mr Darcy, much to her dissatisfaction—were searching for someone who was not present.
“Shall we have music this evening?” Bingley asked pleasantly, casting a cursory glance about the room. “Or do you suppose Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth might join us later?”
“Miss Eliza remains upstairs with Miss Bennet,” Miss Bingley replied at once, her tone carefully light, but the emphasis upon the improper name betrayed her distaste. “I believe she has no intention of coming down again tonight.”
Mr Darcy did not demean himself by enquiring further, yet Miss Bingley observed the brief pause that followed, and the alteration in his countenance—a fleeting contraction about the eyes before composure resumed its accustomed place.
He inclined his head in acknowledgment and offered some commonplace reply, but the disappointment he sought, unsuccessfully, to conceal struck her like a deliberate slight.
It vanished almost at once, mastered by long practice, yet remained unmistakable to one who watched him as closely as she did.
Her smile stiffened, every trace of warmth extinguished.
Miss Eliza Bennet was no longer merely an annoyance; she was a distraction—an intrusion—particularly where Mr Darcy was concerned. It unsettled and angered her to know that, despite all her efforts, he was allowing his attention to be engaged by a provincial girl.
She would wait.
But she had no intention of allowing Mr Darcy to quit Netherfield without securing his attachment.