Chapter 9 #2
Jane lay upon her back, hands folded lightly over the coverlet. The ribbon lay neatly arranged upon the chair beside her bed, as though it too required rest before the morrow.
Mr. Bingley’s expression returned to her – not merely his smiles, which were constant, but the particular warmth in his eyes when he listened. She had observed no impatience, no calculation, no divided attention.
He had seemed glad.
She did not dwell upon declarations. She did not speculate beyond what was before her. But she allowed herself one small hope – that sincerity might meet sincerity and not be found wanting.
With that gentle thought, she closed her eyes.
Elizabeth did not lie so quietly. She turned once, then again, watching the pale outline of the window against the dark.
Mr. Darcy’s words replayed themselves with unwelcome clarity.
Young. Generous in your judgement. It had annoyed her.
It had also lingered. And then there was the look – not his reserve, not his hauteur – but the moment at the window, the steady lift of his gaze as though he had known she stood there.
He had looked entirely at ease upon his horse.
She frowned at herself in the darkness.
It was absurd that four-and-twenty hours should disturb conclusions she had held so confidently. She prided herself on discernment. And yet…
She rolled onto her side at last. She told herself she was not looking forward to the ball – and was not entirely persuaded by it.
***
Mr. Collins, having concluded his devotions, did not at once retire.
The evening had not unfolded precisely as he had anticipated. After dinner, he had offered – with what he considered becoming humility – to read aloud a short improving passage. He had selected it beforehand. The occasion had seemed most appropriate for edification.
Miss Elizabeth, however, had declared that she and the younger ladies must attend to their gowns in preparation for the morrow.
The urgency with which they withdrew suggested a zeal for industry that he felt bound to commend – though he could not but observe that the improvement of the mind ought not to yield too readily to the ornament of the person.
Miss Bennet had remained. So had Miss Mary.
Miss Bennet’s attention had been divided between her embroidery and the reading; yet she had expressed polite approbation at the conclusion.
Miss Mary, however, had listened with seriousness and afterwards ventured several reflections of her own.
She had even inquired, with thoughtful interest, after the particulars of his parsonage – its situation, its prospects, the patronage of Lady Catherine.
He had been gratified. It was agreeable to be consulted.
He considered, too, Miss Elizabeth’s liveliness during dinner. Liveliness was engaging, certainly. Yet it was not always conducive to tranquillity in a clerical household. A wife must reflect dignity upon her husband’s office.
His mind returned – not altogether comfortably – to the repeated occasions upon which Mr. Darcy’s gaze had rested upon Miss Elizabeth.
Mr. Darcy was a man of consequence. Of very great consequence.
It was natural that he should observe freely where he pleased.
Yet Mr. Collins felt a faint stirring of something he would not name.
It was one thing for a gentleman to admire animation in Hertfordshire.
It would be another to permit such familiarity at Rosings.
Lady Catherine would not approve of indiscriminate attentions.
He straightened in his chair.
Miss Elizabeth’s spirit required guidance.
It might be improved – though perhaps not without effort.
More than once, she had attempted to correct him, and in front of others.
Yes, she was a handsome lady, but she was free with her opinions, too.
Her father seemed to enjoy them rather than instruct her.
Mr. Collins engaged in thinking seriously.
Miss Mary, on the other hand, although not as pretty, possessed seriousness already formed. She valued instruction. She valued order. She would not likely attract notice that exceeded propriety.
He found himself recalling her expression when she had spoken of music and moral reflection. There had been animation there too – of a quieter kind. And she played the piano.
It was the duty of a prudent man to consider all advantages calmly. Providence, he reflected, frequently presented more than one acceptable path. And he retired persuaded that discernment, when joined to patience, would inevitably secure the proper reward.
***
In the smaller chamber they shared, whispering had not yet ceased.
“If Captain Carter attends, I shall not sit out a single dance,” Lydia declared.
“You said that already,” Kitty protested.
“Yes, and this time I may give my supper dance to Mr. Wickham.”
They dissolved into suppressed laughter. Neither considered consequence. The morrow promised music, officers, admiration, perhaps triumph. That was sufficient. Sleep overtook them mid-speculation.
***
On Monday evening, Mr. Bingley retired to his chamber in a state of uncommon satisfaction.
He had not yet ceased to congratulate himself upon his choice of estate.
Netherfield, which at first had been merely a pleasant prospect and a promising arrangement, now appeared a stroke of remarkable good fortune.
The house suited him; the country was lively without fatigue; the neighbourhood hospitable; and the society, most particularly the society, had exceeded his expectations.
He smiled as he undid his cravat.
Saturday’s dinner had been animated. Sunday’s walk had been better still. That Mrs. Bennet had insisted upon their remaining for luncheon did not trouble him in the least. He had been glad of it. Glad of every additional hour.
Miss Bennet’s composure during the meal, her quiet management of her younger sisters, her gentle defence of her family without display – these things had impressed him more than he had admitted aloud.
There was nothing artful in her behaviour, nothing of the calculated ease he had often observed in London.
Nothing calculated. If she was pleased, she was so without affectation; if she was attentive, it was because she genuinely cared.
He admired that more than brilliance.
He had already secured the second set for the morrow’s ball. The thought returned to him now with fresh pleasure. He thought he might persuade her to walk a turn if the room grew warm.
He was aware – vaguely – that his sisters might not share his enthusiasm for the neighbourhood. That circumstance troubled him less than it once might have done. He felt, perhaps for the first time, that he had chosen something for himself.
Netherfield did not merely suit him; it welcomed him.
And if that welcome were embodied in a pair of steady blue eyes and a smile that never presumed, he could not think the choice ill made.
***
Mr. Darcy did not retire immediately.
He stood for some time before the fire, the events of the weekend arranging themselves in his mind with less order than he preferred.
He had long believed himself capable of accurate judgement; yet he had been obliged to revise more than one conclusion.
He could not decide if it was according to his taste.
It had not escaped his notice that Mr. Collins had placed himself repeatedly at Miss Elizabeth’s side. The compliments had been of that peculiar sort which carried more intention than elegance. Miss Elizabeth appeared unaware of the direction they tended.
The prospect ought not to have concerned him. Mr. Collins was secure in his living, respectable in station, and well patronised. For a family such as the Bennets, the match would be advantageous. Indeed, it would be prudent.
Yet the thought of it lingered with unwelcome persistence.
Elizabeth Bennet, presiding over the parsonage at Hunsford – receiving Lady Catherine’s direction with cheerful submission – moderating her wit into dutiful acquiescence – the image would not settle.
He would meet her there as Mrs. Collins – and find the prospect unexpectedly difficult to reconcile.
He felt, not without a degree of impatience, an uneasiness he could not justify – as though the very idea imposed a limitation he was unwilling to acknowledge.
He attempted to reason with himself. It would be no misfortune. Many intelligent women reconciled themselves to narrower circumstances. Comfort and stability were not negligible considerations. It would take uncommon strength to decline such an offer.
That he should occupy himself with the question at all was, he told himself, wholly unwarranted. It was not jealousy that unsettled him. He would not indulge in so crude a sentiment. It was incredulity, so he told himself.
That such a mind might be confined to the perpetual admiration of Lady Catherine’s poultry and chimneypieces struck him as an injustice – though he could not claim the right to protest it.
An image of her appeared – Miss Elizabeth in the rose garden at Pemberley. Then another placed her at the long dinner table with the silver candle holder reflecting in her eyes.
He closed his eyes, as though the effort might dismiss the images
He tried one more time.
Why should it matter to him where she bestowed her hand?
He knew the answer – or rather, he recognised its outline – and chose not to examine it too closely. To do so would oblige him to confront a preference he had no right to entertain.
***
Caroline dismissed her maid earlier than usual, pleading fatigue, though she felt none.
When the door had closed, she remained seated before the mirror, studying her reflection not with vanity but with scrutiny. What was wrong with her eyes? What is there in Eliza’s eyes to command such notice? She could discover nothing so very remarkable in them.
Miss Eliza possessed animation. That much was undeniable. She spoke readily; she moved with confidence; she appeared wholly at ease in company. Such qualities amused gentlemen in the country. They suggested novelty.
But novelty was rarely to be mistaken for permanence.
Caroline adjusted a curl near her temple and considered the darker silk laid across the chair. Candlelight rewarded restraint: depth of colour conferred distinction where mere gaiety drew attention. One must never compete in the wrong field.
Mr. Darcy’s recent attentions – if attentions they could be called – had not escaped her notice. He had listened too closely. He had looked too long. It was not gallantry; it was interest. That difference she understood very well.
Yet interest was often a passing indulgence. At least that used to be the case with her brother. Once away from this place, she was sure, Mr. Darcy would cease to think of Eliza. It was time for him to notice her.
He had always valued discernment, elegance, breeding. He had been formed within a world far removed from Longbourn’s irregularities. He required only reminding of that world – of its expectations, its refinements, its proper alliances.
Surely, he would notice all she had done for this ball. If not to impress him, she would not have put so much effort into it. He must notice the elegance, the effectiveness with which such a task was done. He must notice. He could not fail to.
She brushed her curly hair.
Charles presented a more immediate concern. His enthusiasm was genuine, and genuineness, in him, had a troublesome habit of becoming attachment. Left uninterrupted, it might harden into resolution.
London would correct that. Engagements, obligations, society – these would restore proportion to his judgement. Distance clarified sentiment. It always had.
She rose at last and smoothed the darker gown with measured composure. Tomorrow would require finesse, not resentment.
Caroline extinguished the candle calmly, persuaded that misdirection, when addressed in time, need not become defeat.
***
Mrs. Bennet declared she should not sleep a wink – and was almost correct. There was too much to consider.
Mr. Bingley had walked with Jane. He had remained for luncheon. He had smiled in a manner no attentive mother could mistake. Jane, sweet child, would never encourage him openly, but modesty was often more persuasive than eagerness.
Netherfield had been let at precisely the right moment. She had always said so.
Elizabeth, too, was not without her prospects. Mr. Collins – well. A most advantageous connection. Secure. Respectable. A comfort in every worldly sense.
If even one understanding were reached tomorrow…
Mrs. Bennet adjusted her pillow with determined satisfaction. Other people might leave such matters to chance. She preferred preparation. And she slept persuaded that events were finally moving in the proper direction.