Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Fitzwilliam Darcy had hated Netherfield Lodge at first sight, and he still hated it after having lived here for six miserable months.
The gatehouse had just two rooms at the front on the ground floor; behind there was only the kitchen, a study, and the stairs.
Above were just four bedrooms and an attic.
Darcy looked around what was allegedly a drawing room.
No cornice marked the junction of wall and ceiling, while the beams that supported the upper floor projected into the rooms below in naked simplicity.
Cold slate floors were beneath his feet, and the furnishings left everything to be desired.
Netherfield’s lodge was uniformly plain and modest, the least comfortable accommodation he had ever suffered, and it was of little consequence and attracted no notice.
Just as I am supposed to do: be a man of no consequence in the world, and attract no notice as I move quietly through it.
Darcy looked to the sofa where Georgiana was dozing.
This corner room had more windows to open than her bedchamber, and if he kept the drawing room door open, the open windows across the hall in the dining room helped to keep the space ventilated for the sake of her lungs.
Her persistent dry cough worsened a year ago when he removed her from school, and had been constant ever since, now with loss of flesh and shortness of breath.
This was not how it was supposed to end.
They were supposed to live in seclusion temporarily, and then both return home.
Fear settled in the pit of his stomach that he would be returning alone, that it was only a matter of when.
He would do all that was possible to postpone that event.
People in Georgiana’s condition often lived for years, after all.
She awoke with a hollow, cavernous cough, and Darcy had to blink his eyes before approaching her.
“Would you prefer to return to your room?”
“No, I would like a little exercise. Let us take a turn in the garden whilst I still can.”
Her calm manner unnerved him. “I wish you would not talk that way.”
“It is the truth. Mr Jones says the same with his eyes every time he looks on me.”
“Mr Jones can only dispense and compound. He is no better than a village quack with patent medicines!”
Darcy had the good grace to feel embarrassed when she stared at him with disapproving, sunken eyes. He knew rationally that it hardly mattered at this point, that Mr Jones the apothecary could do no more than the finest physician in town.
“Fitzwilliam, you are unhappy here, and it has made you disagreeable.”
“I worry for you, is all.” He worried for his own wretched soul, too, but not nearly as much as for her health.
She gave a long cough before answering. “’Tis not all. You need not stay. Your reputation is not beyond redemption, after all.”
“And neither is yours.” He gave her a weak smile. “That is why we are in this dismal, secluded place, denying ourselves our nearest connexions and greatest comforts. Besides that, you cannot imagine that I would leave you.”
His sister had by now raised herself to her feet and wrapped a shawl around her narrow shoulders. “I am so sorry.” Georgiana addressed her own shoes. “My wickedness and folly have cost you much.”
“Come, my dear, Mr Jones charged me with keeping you easy and cheerful.” Darcy embraced his sister, pressed a kiss to her head, and led her to the door to the garden. Dutifully, or perhaps merely lacking the strength to argue, she came along. “Too much excitement is not good for you.”
“Neither is too much seclusion. I am lonely, however much I might deserve it.”
“You do not deserve this!” Darcy controlled his temper, knowing his anger would weaken her spirits. “I could hire a companion now. We are supposed to be a brother and sister of limited means, but now that—”
“I would rather be alone than be pitied by a stranger you hired to tend to me. Besides, the new maid gossips too much as it is. She makes me long for Mrs Reynolds and home.”
After all this time, they had just now made it to the trees that ringed the house. “You know why we could not go home after Ramsgate, for all that mattered in the end.” Georgiana began to cry softly, and Darcy cringed at his mistake before whispering an apology.
“I just wish for something to occupy my mind now that—something to occupy me now and then. If you went into society, you could at least amuse me with anecdotes of our neighbours.”
“Society! Here?” Darcy barked a laugh. “I think not.”
“If there is a public ball, you could tell me about the musicians and the dances called and the gowns your partners—”
“An assembly, here, in the spring? Good God! The lesser gentry, the professions, and the genteel trades will be the best this society has to offer. It would be insupportable.”
“We are thought to have only a few hundred a year and no connexions—”
She coughed heavily, bringing a handkerchief to her mouth, and when she pulled it away, Darcy saw it was tinged red. He handed her his; he had been in the habit of carrying as many as could fit in his pockets.
“Have you any of the draught Mr Jones made for you?” She shook her head. “Let me see you to the house, and after I take care of a few matters, I will walk to Meryton.”
“His shopboy will bring more on Monday,” she choked out as she leant on him. “You need not go on my account.”
“I do not have a footman to send, the maid will never finish her work if I send her, and you cannot wait that long. I shall go myself after I see you to your bed.”
Lady Lucas, her aunt Philips, Mrs Long, Mary, and her mother were still gossiping.
Lydia and Maria Lucas were at the table ripping a bonnet to pieces.
Elizabeth sat on the other side of the room with her work.
She could not join in the conversation with the married ladies as she had no home and husband, and she did not feel equal to joining the chatter of two girls discussing a militia regiment that had wintered in Meryton.
“Lizzy, did I tell you that the Bakers are as usual?” Her mother continued to try to include her. “They are greatly happy since their daughter Sophia finally married Mr Beverly.”
“I did not think it was usual for Mrs Baker to be happy.” Silence followed, and Elizabeth realised her thought about their unpleasant neighbour had been voiced aloud. “I meant, I remember Mrs Baker was not well when I left.”
“Mrs Baker is always unwell,” said her mother. “She has a weak heart and a feeble constitution for so large a woman. If she did not lose her temper so often, it would do her good.”
Mrs Philips reached for a plate, and her mother passed it before Mary could. Mary huffed in displeasure.
“Mr Robinson was heard being asked by another gentleman if he thought there were many pretty girls in Meryton,” said her aunt, “and Mr Robinson said that he thought Miss King a handsome girl.” Her aunt Philips kept her parlour windows up and made it a point to share everything she heard.
“He might not think that if he knew she nearly eloped in January with that officer,” her mother answered. “I suspect he wanted the ten thousand pounds she inherited the month before.”
“Mr Robinson needs spectacles. She is a nasty, freckled thing. Her inheritance is her only charm!” cried Lydia.
Mrs Long held out her empty cup to Mrs Bennet to refill. Mary set her shoulders and pressed her lips into a line.
“At least with a fortune, Mary King will not end up an old maid. I forgot to ask, Lady Lucas, when does Charlotte come home?” Mrs Bennet refilled her neighbour’s cup as she spoke, and Mary sucked in a breath.
“Charlotte will be home next month. My son’s wife is still recovering from the influenza.”
“It is so good of Charlotte to go where she was needed. She has always been a useful, practical girl. Such a shame she was unsought. Fortunately, there have been few spinsters amongst your connexions.”
Lady Lucas pursed her lips, and Mrs Long quickly said to Mrs Bennet, “Mrs Cuthbert, Mrs Collins, and Mrs Redmond married young. I suspect your Lydia will be married within a year. She is a handsome, lively girl.”
“Beauty and liveliness are no guarantee that a gentleman will make an offer.” Lady Lucas’s voice dropped. “Look at Eliza. At least my Charlotte has three brothers of her own.”
To be unmarried did not wound Elizabeth, but to be a single woman on so narrow an income as whatever her uncle Gardiner or her brothers-in-law chose to grant her was maddening. She was always at another’s mercy. To be poor and dependent was more of a galling bitterness than to be unloved by a man.
“Being married is the only honourable provision for a well-educated young woman of small fortune.” Mary’s voice dripped with pride.
“It is her pleasantest preservation from want, but not all women are able to achieve that state. Lizzy may end up a hopeless old spinster, but it is our duty to care for unmarried sisters.”
To remain single would not be as bad as being married to a stupid man like Mr Collins.
Mrs Bennet lifted the teapot, but Mary cleared her throat; Mrs Bennet blushed and put it down to allow her daughter to do the honours of the table.
Mary gave a superior smile to her assembled party.
“Lizzy will not wonder how to employ herself as she grows old without husband or children at her side, as she can show her worth to her family by being of use in her married sisters’ households. ”
Two years ago, Elizabeth might have been diverted by their folly.
Or she might have excused herself from the visiting ladies and hidden in the library with her father.
But now the books, along with everything else in the house, belonged to Mr Collins.
He was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education and society.
Having now inherited Longbourn and a sufficient income, his self-conceit and weak head were firmly settled.