Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
If it were up to Sir William, the family at Lucas Lodge would never have a disengaged evening.
Elizabeth knew her mother had a similar nature, but after Mary’s ascension to her post as mistress of Longbourn, Mrs Bennet had to enjoy company in other people’s homes.
Mr Collins was a humourless, stupid man who was well-matched to his wife, and neither was inclined to entertain.
Perhaps parsimony on both of their parts also had much to do with it.
“No invitation comes amiss to me, my girls,” Mrs Bennet said as they entered the Lucases’ drawing room. “Mary hardly mixes with the world as much as a woman in her position should. They should host dinners and evening parties oftener than they do!”
“Mamma, there is Lady Lucas with the sherry near to the fire. Should you like a good place, you ought to claim it now before Mary does.”
“Yes, my dear, I will greet Lady Lucas. Mary does not circulate amongst a room as much as she ought. Perhaps since Mr Collins comprehends whist a little better, he will pass the evening at the card table and not trouble us.”
Elizabeth thought his playing was likely, but that his comprehension of the game had not improved as much as one would expect from someone who could, supposedly, match like suits.
After Elizabeth saw her mother settled with her gossiping friends, and Mary amongst them as the wife of the principal landowner of the village, she was free to seek her own amusements.
Few could be had at Lucas Lodge without the presence of her sensible friend Charlotte.
Lydia had, as soon as her shawl was shrugged off her shoulders, run into the room to speak to the Harrington sisters.
Their conversation focused on the woman who had married Colonel Forster, of the militia regiment that would soon go on to Brighton.
Lydia, being disappointed not to have found a husband in Colonel Forster for herself, was eager for other girls to commiserate in her misfortune.
She would have accepted any of the higher-ranking officers who had at least a thousand a year, but no such gentleman made an offer.
Elizabeth listened to this talk without contributing anything.
“Lizzy, tell Harriet and Pen of what you wore in town. Maria! Come join us!”
“I daresay my letters sufficed,” Elizabeth answered as Maria Lucas joined them. “I wrote in such detail that you ought to be able to tell it as well yourself.”
“Oh, I probably did not read them. Besides, we really want to know what the grander ladies wore.”
All the girls nodded; Elizabeth sighed and described what she had seen worn at the opera. “And the sleeves were not very high above the elbow, and fitted close to the arms. They were ornamented on top with points of satin that matched the gown and were trimmed in a single row of pearls.”
“Did you go to the opera and the theatre often?” one of the Harrington sisters asked.
“No, I was with the Cuthberts, not the Gardiners.”
“I suppose Mrs Cuthbert has stopped trying to get you married.” Lydia gave her a sympathetic look. “Probably because you are not as lively and confident as you used to be before our father died. I hope I have luck like Kitty’s rather than yours when I stay with Jane and Mrs Cuthbert.”
“Would you like to hear about the performance? I saw Die Zauberflote.” The four girls looked dull; Lydia even grimaced. “I did also attend one evening party, and a lady in attendance wore one of her opera dresses.”
While Elizabeth was describing the short Spanish pointed sleeves, caught up in the centre with pearls, she realised that her audience had gained another member, hovering at its periphery.
Mr Darcy, looking as severe as he had in the apothecary shop, was listening attentively to her conversation.
What can Mr Darcy mean by listening to talk about pearl stomachers with pendant drops on each side?
When the talk shifted to debating satin versus sarcenet, Mr Darcy moved away.
“Did you see that the tenant of Netherfield’s gatehouse is here?” Lydia exclaimed for all to hear.
“My father is always after him to join a dinner or a small evening party.” Maria had not bothered to drop her voice, either. “This is only the third time Mr Darcy has come in the six months he has been here. He does not go into society.”
“We do not need him! He never speaks, and he keeps a mistress.”
“My father says not to listen to servants’ gossip, and that the woman is Mr Darcy’s sister. He would not invite anyone who was scandalous.”
“Oh, Maria, Sir William would invite anyone with a pulse.”
“I heard from our maid that the woman is his sister, and she is ill,” Pen or Harriet said. To Elizabeth, the sisters were often indistinguishable.
“Mr Collins says never to speak to him.”
“And since when have you followed any attempt to curb you?” Elizabeth asked.
“I am obliged to Mr Collins for my maintenance until I catch myself a husband. Then you can be sure I will not mind him one bit.”
It was at the end of Elizabeth’s tongue to remind Lydia that she would then have to mind her own husband.
“I do not know why he came,” Lydia continued. “He must know we are all speculating about him.”
“Mr Darcy is a young man living alone and must not like it,” Maria suggested. “Any single man would enjoy exchanging a vacant evening at home for the society of a drawing room.”
“La, Maria, you sound like your father. If he is always inviting him, why did Mr Darcy only attend tonight? Maybe his mistress is vexed with him!”
“Lydia! Keep your voice down.” Elizabeth was mortified.
“Why ought I to? My mother and Mr Collins do not approve of him, and half of the people in this room think him wicked. He is a disagreeable man regardless of the rumours.”
Elizabeth conceded that he was unpleasant, but still left them to sit with her mother. She had grown tired of standing; thank goodness no one was playing and she needed no excuse not to dance.
She noticed that Mr Darcy had been asked to make up a fourth for whist, and saw with a mixture of shame and pity that he had been paired with Mr Collins.
Even rude men with a want of principles do not deserve that.
Her cousin was normally a man who had more to say than could be managed in the expected time to speak it, but Mr Collins was silent on discovering who his partner would be.
Elizabeth suspected his silence would not be enough to improve his whist skills.
Since the card table was quiet, the players could certainly hear the chatter of the women seated near them.
“Do you see Mr Bonham, talking to Miss Watts? I have a very good eye at an adulteress,” their hostess said with a teasing lilt.
“No, no, that is not she, I assure you, Lady Lucas. You must fix on Miss Peart,” Mrs Bennet proclaimed.
“Which do you mean? The eldest? That cannot be her. She is not as pretty as I expected.”
Elizabeth thought Miss Peart’s face had the same defect of plainness as her sisters, but sat in silence. No good could come of gossiping, but the other ladies continued with enthusiasm.
“Miss Peart is like any other short girl with a wide mouth and a fashionable dress and exposed bosom.”
“She is highly rouged, but then an adulteress usually is,” Mrs Bennet cried, and her friends laughed with spirit.
“Mamma, where shall we find our best morality?” Mary said loud enough for all to hear. “You ought not to speak against Miss Peart. You all must follow my example and preserve yourselves from this abominable suspicion of her improper attachment to Mr Bonham.”
“Oh, Mary, it is harmless. We know no real ill of her.”
“I cannot approve of any of you to speak against a lady’s reputation. The hint of indiscretion is ruinous to one’s reputation, and the loss of female virtue is irretrievable. Miss Peart’s reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful.”
What was worse? The spiteful old ladies of Meryton gossiping away an evening, or her nineteen-year-old sister taking joy in crushing their amusement with inept moral extracts?
“A man’s reputation is stronger than a lady’s. Have you anything to say against us speaking about an unsocial gentleman who rents a lodge?” Aunt Philips asked Mary, who thought her sincere and gravely bowed her head in permission.
Elizabeth rose, not wishing to hear another version of the younger girls’ discussion.
Mr Darcy was either a recluse who ought to be more in company, or he was a recluse who ought to be shunned for living with a woman without the benefit of marriage.
The sister was either ill, or she was not his sister at all.
Regardless, to Elizabeth, he was an insufferable man.
She moved about the room, talking with all of the little groups that had formed.
After the whist table had broken up, Mr Darcy often stood within a short distance of her, quite disengaged, never coming near enough to speak.
This curious behaviour continued, and Elizabeth could not answer for it.
After half the evening had gone, she lost her patience and addressed him directly.
“Mr Darcy, hair worn flat with waving curls or hair dressed in the antique Roman style cannot hold your interest, can it?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then what can you mean by attending to my conversations?”
He looked surprised, but then composed himself. “I hoped you might speak of The Magic Flute after all.” Elizabeth stared. “You spoke to some of the ladies of your time in town and mentioned the opera. Did you sit in a private box?”
“Heavens, no. I sat in the gallery. I had hoped to stay in town long enough to see The Marriage of Figaro also, but I was obliged to come home. I admit I was underwhelmed, though. Few in the audience took notice of the opera whilst they were gossiping and laughing.”
Mr Darcy looked at the chaperons seated near the fire. “You appeared not to mind gossip and laughter earlier this evening. That speaks to a degree of hypocrisy on your part.”