Chapter 13 #2
How dare Mr Darcy have regarded me with tender solicitude!
How dare he have engaged my affection without a thought of returning it!
Are all men akin to those who treated Jane and Miss Darcy in such a disrespectful fashion?
Fortunately for Elizabeth, she had not been violently in love with Mr Darcy.
She was more disappointed in his behaviour than she was disappointed in love. At least that is what she told herself.
There was much in the conduct of Miss Wright and Mr Darcy that offended her notion of decorum, and she was deeply aggrieved that a gentleman whom she had come to respect would do something so improper.
They should just elope and be done with it.
Such a transgression is hardly worse than a secret understanding.
And if a seemingly honourable gentleman like him can easily deceive a lady, then no man should be trusted.
Even the charming Mr Henry Clark, a frequent caller at Cliff House, was now suspect.
It was obvious to Elizabeth that the young man visited to not only chat with the Bakers but to enjoy the company of their pretty niece.
Miss Hughes was equally enamoured, though she tried to conceal her admiration while in mourning.
It was painful, exceedingly so, for Elizabeth to observe the smitten couple, for she had hoped to form an attachment herself with Mr Darcy. Still, she was happy for her friend, although Miss Hughes and Mr Clark’s growing closeness only added to her own loneliness.
Each day, Miss Baker tried to tempt her with Mrs Poole’s delicious baked goods accompanied by a selection of teas, including the dreaded willow bark variety.
To appease Miss Hughes’s aunt and the cook, Elizabeth sipped and nibbled while being fussed over.
Although she had not much in the way of an appetite, she dutifully turned up for dinner each evening, smiling and insisting she was well, save for a lingering headache that she blamed on the weather.
In truth, cloud cover was only partially responsible for her pain, her turmoil, and her disgust. The greater share of blame was laid to Mr Darcy’s charge.
Why in the world would he have a secret understanding?
And with Miss Wright, of all ladies! How could the two of them do something so disgraceful and so risky to their reputations?
For Elizabeth to live in ignorance of the circumstance was impossible.
But what reason can there be for such secrecy?
I can think of no impediment to their union.
There is no class disparity. There is no threat of disinheritance if he marries her.
And Mr Wright obviously approves of the match.
How could he not? What father would not jump at the chance to have Mr Darcy for a son-in-law?
They do not even have to wait to receive his blessing.
Miss Wright’s father is staying right there at Strandsmere Park.
Oh, if only Jane were here with me to help me understand! While missing her dearest sister, Elizabeth’s thoughts of Jane elicited further disenchantment with the world and the men inhabiting it.
Knowing that another woman had a future with Mr Darcy, she was stabbed by sharp pangs of jealousy as never before experienced. What a triumph for Miss Wright!
Torturing herself, she opened her friendship book to a particular page and reread the entry Mr Darcy had made in a close hand.
Our banter resembles a shuttlecock rapidly batted back and forth. But, like battledores with gut strings, your debates, Miss Bennet, have holes in them. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Strandsmere Park, Wyman’s Cove, Somerset. July 1812.
She could not help but grin, slight though it was. Their repartee would always be fondly remembered.
Fitzwilliam. What an unusual name. Tracing a finger over his signature, Elizabeth realised that sooner or later, Hannah Wright would become Mrs Fitzwilliam Darcy. Then she wondered why he had told her, and not his betrothed, about Mr Wickham.
To her surprise, for surely they were not friends, Miss Wright had made an entry in her album amicorum. It was a lovely little watercolour, featuring a bee-fly amongst yellow and orange calendula. The picture was titled The Importance of Connexion. Beneath it, the caption read
The insect serves as a pollinator for the flowers which, in turn, provide the bee-fly with energy-rich nectar. Theirs is a mutually beneficial connexion, just as a marriage between two well-matched people should be. Hannah Wright, Strandsmere Park, Wyman’s Cove, Somerset. July 1812.
When she had first looked at the entry at the villa, Elizabeth had thought it an odd choice for a friendship book. Then, upon return to Cliff House, she had been bewildered after unfolding the piece of paper that had been tucked into the valley between the two pages.
Once again taking the anonymous note from her escritoire, she sat at the table by her bedchamber window and studied the sentence that was penned in disjointed print-hand.
The bee-fly may be harmless, Miss Bennet, but beware the territorial wasp that may sting repeatedly.
Still none the wiser as to who had written the warning, Elizabeth refolded the note four times and pushed it back into the farthest corner of her writing slope.
After taking out paper, two pens, an ink pot, and a penknife, she set about trimming both nibs.
Somewhat homesick and missing the comfort and consolation only Jane could provide, she was about to begin writing a letter to her elder sister when there came a tap at the bedchamber door.
“’Tis just me, Miss Bennet.” Upon being bid entrance, Miss Hughes asked, “Are you feeling better, or do you still have that horrid headache?”