Chapter 7 #2
Wickham was now at liberty to poison ears with whatever story best flattered himself and to slander Darcy without restraint. So much so that Miss Elizabeth had been moved to defend him. He hoped she would not wholly dismiss the warning.
Wickham’s ease would win him friends wherever he went. A ready smile and unguarded attentions were too often mistaken for virtue. Darcy found such transparency contemptible; civility, he knew, was no proof of character.
He was at least relieved that he had spoken frankly with her father.
Mr. Bennet’s rebuke had been delivered earlier, with an ease that had disguised its seriousness.
Darcy did not deceive himself as to its cause.
The remark he had made at the assembly – careless, unexamined, and spoken in the assurance of not being overheard – must have wounded Elizabeth more than he had allowed himself to consider.
That her father should have thought it necessary to address the matter spoke plainly enough.
What unsettled Darcy was not the correction itself, but his own response to it.
He had accepted it.
There had been no resentment, no instinctive retreat behind reserve.
He had listened – and, more than that, he had reflected.
The realisation troubled him, for he could not remember the last time he had permitted himself to be corrected so freely.
Authority alone had never compelled him, nor had familiarity.
Why, then, had he allowed Mr. Bennet to do so?
The answer was not immediately comfortable.
Mr. Bennet was, by every conventional measure, an eccentric man.
Indolent in certain duties, inclined to irony, and far too willing to expose folly by amusement.
And yet, beneath this disengagement, Darcy had discerned something he could not easily dismiss: a precise moral instinct, and a readiness to defend his daughter’s dignity without hesitation or display.
Darcy found that he respected him.
The respect was complicated by a question that would not be entirely suppressed.
Mr. Bennet’s daughters were numerous, their fortunes slender, and the entail an undeniable hardship.
Why nothing had been done – no gradual augmentation attempted, no economies enforced – remained a puzzle.
Darcy did not resolve it that morning. He merely acknowledged that negligence and affection were not always so neatly opposed as he had once believed.
He looked out the window. The morning sun began to melt the frost. The frost, which had rendered the ground almost white at first glance, was already yielding to colour.
He had behaved in an ungentlemanly manner.
Driven by impatience to be left alone, he had lashed out at a gentlewoman.
At the time, he had not cared whether he offended.
He must have spoken loud enough for her to hear it.
For a young woman to hear his insult must have been a blow.
That was beneath him. The recollection was mortifying.
No wonder Miss Elizabeth did not like him.
Darcy took up a paper, some days old, and perused the titles; yet his mind refused to be confined. It turned next, and not unwillingly, to Mrs. Bennet.
After finding himself at the wrong end of the table, he resolved to endure Miss Elizabeth’s challenge.
What he had not anticipated was to perceive the motive beneath a mother’s excess.
Her talk of marriage and security, though incessant, had been animated by a genuine fear – not for herself, but for her daughters’ future.
She had spoken as a woman perpetually conscious of time pressing and safeguards failing.
Darcy had listened.
The knowledge did not render her elegant, nor her manners very agreeable, but it did engage his sympathies.
Jane Bennet – her beauty was matched by her unassuming character. Her smiles concealed nothing; they merely reflected a gentle and sincere disposition.
Darcy’s attention turned instead upon his friend.
Bingley was plainly attached; of that there could be little doubt.
What had appeared, at first, the natural warmth of his disposition now bore a more particular direction, and one not likely to diminish.
Darcy had seen enough to know that the attachment was returned – or, at the very least, encouraged with a sincerity that admitted no art.
Yet sincerity, however engaging, did not always imply strength; and he could not be certain whether Miss Bennet’s composure arose from steadiness of character or from a gentleness that might yield too easily to stronger influence.
The question also remained whether inclination alone ought to determine him.
Bingley’s temper was open, his judgement less guarded; he was apt to be guided by feeling where others might pause.
Such attentions, so publicly marked, could not pass without consequence, nor be lightly withdrawn once engaged.
Darcy found himself considering, not for the first time, whether he ought to interfere – and, for the first time, uncertain upon what grounds he might justify such interference.
***
The breakfast room at Netherfield was brighter than usual, the pale winter sun finding its way through the tall windows and striking the silver upon the sideboard.
Bingley was already seated when Darcy entered. That alone was unusual. He had unfolded the newspaper, though it lay unread before him. His coffee had gone untouched.
“You are early,” Darcy observed.
“Am I?” Bingley glanced at the clock as though surprised by it. “I thought we might… I mean – there is no advantage in being late.”
Darcy merely nodded, though he was not without suspicion as to the cause of his friend’s sudden readiness.
Caroline entered at that moment, fastening the clasp of a bracelet. “Late to what, my dear Charles? The church will not depart without us.” She laughed at her own joke.
Louisa followed more languidly. Mr. Hurst, last of all, with visible reluctance. He looked as though several more hours’ sleep would not have displeased him.
“The service is at eleven, I believe,” said Bingley.
“It rarely begins precisely then,” Caroline said, taking her seat. “In Hertfordshire, one must allow for conversation.”
“That is not peculiar to Hertfordshire.” Darcy pointed out.
Louisa smiled faintly. “Of course.” Then she changed the subject. “We had quite an evening last night.”
Bingley coloured very slightly. “It was a pleasant dinner.”
“Pleasant,” Caroline repeated. She poured her chocolate without assistance. “The exertions were considerable.”
Darcy reached for the toast rack. “The dinner was well conducted.”
“How can you say that, Mr. Darcy? What induced Mrs Bennet to seat you beside her, I cannot imagine.”
Bingley and Darcy exchanged a look, but Darcy nonchalantly responded. “She was interested in Derbyshire and my travels.”
Caroline gave a small, incredulous sound.
Mr. Hurst, carving with attention, looked up. “The pheasant was excellent.”
Louisa suppressed a small laugh. “That is not quite what Caroline meant.”
“I mean only,” Caroline continued, “that some people display enthusiasm in ways which are not always… measured.”
Bingley’s brows lifted. “Mrs. Bennet was most attentive to us.”
“Yes,” said Caroline, “one could not mistake it.”
Darcy set down his cup. “She has five daughters.”
Caroline’s spoon paused mid-air. She looked at him. “Indeed.”
“I should prefer enthusiasm to indifference in any case,” he added calmly.
A brief silence followed.
Louisa adjusted her napkin. “Five daughters,” she repeated lightly. “One cannot expect perfect composure in such circumstances. I believe Mr. Darcy is right – one must allow something for a mother’s zeal.”
“Very properly so,” Darcy said.
Bingley, who had been listening more closely than usual, said with quiet warmth, “Miss Bennet conducted herself with perfect composure.”
Caroline stirred her cup. “Miss Bennet is very mild.”
“She is very good,” Bingley answered, almost simply. “And she sings like an angel.”
Mr. Hurst, who had resumed eating, remarked a little late, “I saw nothing amiss. I thought the table exceedingly sufficient. I had heard she was famous in the neighbourhood about the table she kept,” he said, not looking up.
Caroline set down her spoon. “You seldom perceive any defect while the table is well supplied, Mr. Hurst.”
“I attend to what concerns me.”
Darcy hid a faint smile behind his cup – though he suspected Hurst would never forgive him for it.
He did not need to look at Bingley to discern the direction of his thoughts. They were evident in the way he rose before the meal was fully concluded, in the quickness with which he glanced toward the window, as though judging the weather insufficiently cooperative with his impatience.
“We ought not to keep the neighbourhood waiting,” Bingley said, though no such danger existed.
Caroline stood at once. “Indeed not.”
Darcy rose more slowly.
Such marked attention to a young lady in a country parish was unlikely to escape notice. Whether Bingley understood the full consequence of it remained uncertain.
The Netherfield carriage was brought round sooner than necessary. Bingley was ready at once; Caroline less so, though she made no complaint beyond remarking that the morning air would do her no kindness.
Darcy descended the steps with the others but paused before entering.
“You will go on,” he said, almost carelessly. “I have a mind to ride.”
Caroline looked at him with mild curiosity. “In this chill?”
“It is bracing,” he replied.
Bingley scarcely noticed. He was already calculating how long the drive might take.
Darcy gave quiet instructions for his horse and waited only long enough to see the carriage roll away before heading for the stable. The frost had not entirely yielded, and the air sharpened the senses. He was not sorry for it.
***
The Bennet family arrived in excellent time. Mrs. Bennet alighted with visible animation, casting a swift glance about her before she advanced toward the small cluster of ladies gathered near the lychgate.
“My dear Mrs. Long! Such a charming morning. We were quite engaged last evening – the Netherfield party dined with us, you know. All of them.”
The information was not delivered loudly, but it carried.
Mrs. Long’s eyebrows rose appropriately. Lady Lucas, who had just approached, declared it a very handsome compliment indeed.
Mrs. Bennet received these responses with modest satisfaction, as though such attentions were merely the natural consequence of proper management.
***
It was Lydia who first noticed the rider approaching at a measured pace along the lane.
“Why, there is Mr. Darcy!”
Darcy slowed as he drew near. For a moment – no more – he considered passing them and making his entrance alone. It would have been the simpler course.
Instead, he turned his horse toward the verge and dismounted.
“Miss Elizabeth. Miss Kitty. Miss Lydia. Good morning.”
They curtseyed together, a bright contrast against the pale morning.
“Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth returned.
He would have said more, but Lydia stepped forward without ceremony.
“You ride very well, sir. Last evening, you spoke of your sister. You must bring her next time. She should see our part of the country. We shall make her quite at home.”
Elizabeth watched him carefully. She ought, she thought, to cease measuring his conduct so closely. Yet she could not prevent herself from doing so.
Darcy’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.
“My sister is easily persuaded by kindness,” he replied. “I shall inform her she has received a most earnest invitation.”
He had scarcely finished when Kitty, emboldened by proximity, ventured her own question.
“And is Derbyshire very fine? I have heard it is quite wild. Are there mountains? I have never seen a mountain.”
He fell into step beside them, leading the horse with an easy hand.
“There are hills enough to satisfy curiosity,” he said. “Though they may disappoint expectations of grandeur.”
“I should like to see them,” Kitty said earnestly.
“I believe you would,” he answered. “It is quieter than Hertfordshire. More trees than people.”
Lydia laughed. “I prefer society.”
Elizabeth, who walked a little apart, met his eyes then.
The look was brief – no more than an acknowledgement – yet not indifferent.
The path narrowed slightly, obliging them into closer proximity than society would otherwise dictate. The horse snorted softly as they walked, and the gravel shifted with each measured step.
For several steps, no one spoke.
“I trust you are well this morning,” he said at last to Elizabeth, the tone measured and formal.
“I am, thank you.”
Another step passed in silence.
“The dinner was much admired,” he added, with quiet deliberation.
Elizabeth glanced at him. There was no irony in the remark.
“You are generous in your assessment,” she replied.
He inclined his head slightly, as though he might answer further – but Kitty turned again, curiosity undiminished.
“What is your horse’s name, Mr. Darcy? Is it a she or a he?” She cast a cautious glance at the animal.
“It is a he. His name is Bramble.”
“Bramble?” Kitty repeated.
Elizabeth’s brows lifted before she could prevent it. “Indeed?”
“Yes.”
“That is not what I should have supposed,” she said, unable to conceal the faintest note of surprise.
“And what would you have supposed?” he asked, one corner of his mouth threatening a smile.
“Hercules, perhaps. Or Caesar.”
“Caesar would require a temperament I do not possess,” he said dryly.
“And Bramble does?” she returned.
He glanced at the horse, whose ears flicked mildly at the sound of his name.
“He was found in a hedgerow as a colt,” Darcy said. “Thoroughly entangled, thoroughly indignant, and determined to blame everyone but himself. The name seemed… appropriate. It remained.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened despite herself.
“And is he still indignant?”
“Only when crossed.”
Lydia laughed at that, though she had missed the subtlety of the exchange.
They had nearly reached the church gate now. Voices carried faintly across the yard – Mrs. Bennet’s among them, rushing toward the girls when she saw them arrive.
Bingley’s carriage stood already before the entrance. Caroline, having descended, was surveying arrivals with interest.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy, how good of you to walk with my girls!”
The small company dissolved naturally into the broader congregation.
Darcy lingered for a moment to see Bramble secured.
He looked back only once.
His eyes met hers.
She did not look away at once – and, though the moment passed almost immediately, she was conscious, as she turned from it, that her opinion was no longer so easily arranged as before.