Chapter 6 Perplexity - Darcy
By the time we took supper at Lucas Lodge, I will admit I was suffering from a great deal of perplexity.
Whether it was my own mind at fault or the situation is not for me to say, but I was certainly thrown into some unaccustomed turmoil. The confusing visit came near the end of a trying year, but perhaps I should start closer to the beginning.
My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy. My given name was my mother’s maiden name, as is the custom for the first-born Darcy sons. My parents were both dead, and the Darcy family consisted of only myself and my sister Georgiana, who was more than a decade my junior.
At my sister’s request, I removed her from school, engaged a companion with stellar references, and allowed her a summer holiday in Ramsgate.
Thither also went my childhood nemesis, George Wickham.
He was my father’s godson in repayment of many years of service from his valued steward.
Mr Wickham’s mother was profligate to about double her income, so the son was left without the means for advancement.
My father took up the yoke, gifting him a gentleman’s education, and even allotting a valuable family living should he take orders.
Instead of being grateful, the scoundrel wasted four thousand pounds in a few years; then went to Ramsgate to try, and nearly succeed, in obtaining the dowry of my fifteen-year-old sister.
He made a concerted effort to get her to elope, and even went so far as to forge letters from me that did not quite give permission but did not dissuade the connection either. The man was slippery like that.
When my sister discovered his scheme, he rounded up a group of ruffians and tried to hunt her down like an animal.
He thought he could take what was not freely given, under the mistaken belief that, not only would I allow him to live, but her other guardian, a colonel in the army, would be similarly forgiving.
Since both of us would consider being the widow of George Wickham endlessly superior to being his wife, there is no doubt what the outcome would have been.
She managed to escape with the help of an unknown lady, so naturally I offended said lady on first sight when I stumbled upon my sister stranded at a coaching inn a few hours outside Ramsgate.
I have no idea except blind panic why I accosted the lady, and I bitterly regretted it ever after.
That five-minute period stood out as the most shameful of my life, and one that I could not redress since I could not possibly identify the woman unless my sister happened to bump into her on the street.
Nearly all ladies look identical to my untrained eye in bonnets and cloaks.
I knew she was tall and on the thin side, but I could not even speculate on her hair colour without asking my sister.
By the time I arrived in Meryton, I was still stinging, both from my shame at how I treated her rescuer and my sister’s rebukes, which were ongoing, bitter, and relentless.
I suspected she found relief from the guilt of her own stupidity by blaming me, and since she made a valid point and the alternative was to crush her spirit, I was happy to accept it as my due.
I had, after all, hired her companion and failed to warn her about scoundrels.
That was two significant failures, with the latter occurring over years, none of which was anybody’s fault but my own.
That almost nobody in our society educated ladies of her age about rakes was not much of an excuse.
The guilt over both my treatment of her rescuer, and my failure to protect my sister in the first place, weighed heavily on my shoulders; I wondered if I would ever recover.
Naturally, my cousin and I hunted down the rogue and as many of his compatriots as we could find. About half of them were serving His Majesty chained to cannons in the army or navy, while the other half were doing their duty feeding His Majesty’s worms and fish.
An hour-long chastisement by my sister upon my departure to help my friend Bingley learn about estate management, followed by several hours (or days—hard to tell) in a coach with Bingley’s sister, followed by a mere two hours of rest; left me in no mood to attend a local assembly—but the alternative was worse, so attend I must.
I spent the night evading matchmaking mamas and aunts, grasping fathers and uncles, and the other usual assortment of jackals I encountered everywhere the Darcy Fortune went.
Naturally, I had to spend the gathering listening to the ever-present whispers of ‘ten thousand a year and likely more’, that haunted me everywhere I went.
The worst was, ‘he has already inherited’, which seemed to make a virtue of my father’s death.
Some people whispered the tittle-tattle, while others bellowed it for the dogs and grooms to hear.
Bingley tried my patience by encouraging me to dance with a local lady, and he persevered in his chastisement long enough to force me to be more snappish than usual.
It is his way, and I find him a good friend but occasionally so annoying I want to strangle him, even without considering his clingy sister.
He tried to push me toward the most ordinary young miss in the world, so I privately chastised him for his impertinence in the only language he understands.
He seems like the most amiable man, but he is like a limpet when he gets the bit in his teeth.
I assume that was because of years of enduring his sister’s nastiness, but that is neither here nor there.
I was only glad the young lady did not hear me, since she did not react in any way and anyone who heard such nonsense would either chastise me or leave in tears.
She would at the very least sink my local reputation in retribution, and more likely would have a father or brother take out her frustration on my hide.
That again was something I would just have accepted as my due—I may well have preferred it.
Over the next fortnight, my mood improved.
While I had the almost constant annoyance of Miss Bingley, I was accustomed to her and mostly ignored everything she said.
Believe it or not, trading my sister’s rebukes for Miss Bingley’s fawning approbation was a slight improvement.
If you knew Miss Bingley, that would give you a good idea of how relentlessly bitter my sister was, and trading her constant fawning approbation for my sister’s endless criticism was not as bad a bargain as you might think.
It mattered not whether I deserved the approbation (I did not) or the criticism (I did).
It was my lot in life for the moment and my duty to endure both.
My cousin and I thought removing myself as an easy target for my sister’s ire might help her heal enough to get on with her life. We could neither redress the past without finding her rescuer, nor change her memories. I hoped we both learnt something from the experience. We would see!
All that finally brings me to my nemesis of the evening, and the proximate cause of my growing perplexity: Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
I first encountered Miss Elizabeth at the assembly but promptly abandoned the field when her mother made a not the least bit subtle attempt to coerce me into dancing five minutes after my entry, in the apparent belief that a country matron might succeed where dukes routinely fail.
It angered me to no end, as did Bingley’s later attempt to do the same.
I maintain that I am a grown man, master of a vast estate, responsible for the prosperity of thousands, and quite capable of choosing my own dance partners—but everyone seems to want a bite of Pemberley.
Anyone whose name has never appeared in the tattle section of the papers over a single dance would probably consider me churlish, but I had to be careful. Such is life.
As for my nemesis, I must sheepishly admit I had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty, when I thought about her at all.
I had enough sense (barely) to keep my thoughts to myself, so I said not a word about any of the local ladies, despite Bingley’s sisters’ numerous attempts to drag me into a critical discussion.
She did not have the looks or manners of the fashionable world as her elder sister did (much to Bingley’s pleasure), but I had never liked the fashionable, willowy look myself.
I honestly thought little of her one way or another the first fortnight, aside from her presence seeming to draw my attention in a way that seldom occurs.
I did not react as Bingley did, but I eventually noticed her face was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes.
I eventually acknowledged her figure to be light and pleasing, while I was caught by their easy playfulness—or more specifically, her playfulness with other people.
I began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing with her, began to listen to her conversations—and that, my friends, is where my puzzlement began in earnest.