Chapter 11
PLEASING PROSPECT
As much as she was enjoying her stay in Derbyshire, Elizabeth missed being at home.
She missed her mother. She missed her sisters.
Most of all, she missed her intimate friend Charlotte Lucas.
Always when she was in Hertfordshire in want of someone to talk with about matters that she did not necessarily wish to discuss with Jane, she turned to Charlotte.
Always. She wanted desperately to discuss the inexplicable feelings she was suffering toward the heir apparent of Pemberley, but, how could she?
It was unseemly enough that she allowed herself to think of them.
She could indulge her fantasy all she wished, for fantasy by its very nature was not real.
It was just pretending. Committing such thoughts to paper, on the other hand, lent an air of credence to her sentiments that she was not certain she desired.
In fact, she was entirely certain she did not want to express her feelings or rather her confusion about her feelings toward Fitzwilliam Darcy with anyone.
However, she felt she ought to write to Charlotte about all the other happenings at Pemberley. On the eleventh evening of her stay, she decided to do just that.
Dear Charlotte, Elizabeth began. I trust that this letter will find you well.
Pray you will forgive me for allowing so much time to pass before writing to you.
My only excuse is that there has been so much to entertain since my arrival.
Not that such a reason is a valid excuse, but it is indeed all I have.
Now that I am quite certain you have forgiven my lapse, for you are far too kind to do otherwise, allow me to tell you how things have unfolded thus far.
Oh, Charlotte, Pemberley in all its natural splendor is such a magnificent sight to behold.
I do not know that I have seen another estate that compares.
As for the particulars of our purpose in traveling here, matters that you know all too well to warrant any manner of repetition, I have news of a rather mixed nature to share.
Indeed, Mr. Darcy and his son are fine upstanding gentlemen who suffer none of the pretenses one often associates with such great men.
Indeed, they are most pleasant. Should events unfold as my father and his friend schemed all those years ago, I would say that Jane has no cause at all to repine.
For my part, I must confess to suffering a measure of skepticism.
Why would I not be entirely optimistic about the prospect, you may be wondering?
Dare I say that I have a vague inclination that the odds, while not entirely against such a pleasing prospect, seem to point that way.
I shall say no more than what I have said for now, hoping that I merely want more time to form an opinion based more on fact than intuition.
I will say that my sister is not without her fair share of admiration.
Indeed, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy is most attentive.
I suspect he is far too gentlemanly to behave in any other way toward one of his father’s guests.
However, a great measure of Jane’s admiration comes from another source.
You see, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy has a friend—a handsome young man whose family is from the North.
His name is Mr. Charles Bingley. Amiable, agreeable and quite charming, he is indeed everything a young man ought to be.
Again, without finding fault in Mr. Darcy, I can honestly say that if he behaved toward my sister half as ardently as his friend does, I would have no doubt of a happy outcome for Jane.
Alas, what would a summer party in the country be without its fair share of colorful characters?
Indeed. There are several other very interesting members of our party that I dare say you would find quite amusing.
The grandest of them all is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy’s aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Oh, Charlotte, I dare say you have never met anyone quite like her.
Although knowing you so well as I do, I am quite certain you would bear her with a great deal more tolerance and grace than I, at present, find myself capable of doing.
It is not merely the fact that she looks on my papa, my sister and me with unmasked disdain that causes me to regard her as I do, but it is the fact that she has such strong opinions on every possible subject, and she proudly makes her opinions known to everyone she meets.
If I am to be completely honest about my lack of tolerance for her, it would have to be because her ladyship believes her own daughter is destined to marry her nephew, and she does not tolerate dissenting opinions on that matter at all. Indeed, her daughter is Miss Anne de Bourgh.
I implore you not to mention a word of any of this to anyone, for I am certain that were my mama made privy to such intelligence, she would not hesitate to come to Pemberley to take up the role of the determined matchmaker.
That said, even I can surmise that the possibility of Lady Catherine’s daughter marrying her nephew is inconceivable.
She is so tiny, so pale, so fragile that she would never suit a man such as Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Did I mention how tall he is? How handsome he is? How infinitely attractive he is?
Elizabeth, realizing that perhaps she ought not to be writing these specific words immediately thought to ball up the paper, toss it in the waste bin, and start writing her letter anew. No—merely discarding it would never do, she considered. What if someone should find it?
Retrieving a fresh piece of paper, Elizabeth proceeded to rewrite those parts of the letter that she intended to write again.
Upon reaching the place where she earlier noticed herself waxing poetic about the handsome heir of Pemberley, she ceased writing and commenced tearing up the original missive into shreds.
I must regulate my thoughts more carefully, else I shall never finish my letter to Charlotte, she silently considered.
One look at her pen informed her it was very much in need of repair.
Here, she smiled despite herself in remembrance of the lengths Miss Bingley had gone through earlier that day endeavoring to impress upon Fitzwilliam Darcy how eager she was to mend his pen.
Being the fair maiden that she was, Elizabeth knew she should not have entertained the naughty ideas that Miss Bingley’s words incited in her busy imagination.
On the other hand, thinking a thing and having intimate knowledge of a thing were two different matters altogether.
Owe it to her penchant for reading those books in her father’s library that he went to great lengths to assure no one’s eyes other than his would ever see.
And thus, when Fitzwilliam Darcy informed Miss Bingley that he preferred to mend his own pens, Elizabeth severely chastised herself for the thoughts his words invoked.
She shook her head. She may not have been a great admirer of Miss Bingley, but Elizabeth had to admit that the lady added fodder for laughter and hilarity in a manner that might sorely have been missed were she not always swarming around the gentleman.
What a game of cat and mouse those two perform.
Who needs charades when the two of them are in a room? Elizabeth asked herself before once again taking up the task of finishing her letter to Charlotte.
Upon the completion of the missive, Elizabeth sealed it, blew out the candle on her writing table, and stood to prepare for bed.
Her mind would not stop racing. Having made a start, she really wasn’t able to cast aside visions of Miss Bingley in eager pursuit of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy about the grounds of Pemberley.
She did not need to be acquainted with the gentleman long at all to know without a shadow of a doubt that Miss Bingley was the last woman in the world to garner his attention.
His cousin’s odds were better, of that Elizabeth was certain.
And silently reaffirming her belief of the unlikelihood of the cousins marrying, Elizabeth’s hopes for her sister brightened.
The absence of any serious competition for the gentleman’s affections from either of those two ladies must certainly bode well for Jane, for who else might stand in her way if neither Miss Bingley nor Miss de Bourgh stand a chance?
“Perhaps another young lady whom no one has any reason to suspect will emerge,” she voiced softly.
Now comfortably in bed, she blew out the candle on her bedside table and closed her eyes to sleep.
“Another young woman indeed.” A part of her whispered, it could be me.
Just as quickly, she reasoned it was the impractical side, the whimsical side that was simply imagining something that was not there—could not possibly be there.
Elizabeth loved her sister, perhaps in most ways just as much as, if not more than, she loved herself.
In such cases as this, Jane’s feelings are the only feelings that really matter.