Chapter 22 #2
I just looked at the time, and my steward will be arriving in half an hour. That will give me time to copy this very blotted and confusing letter so that you can read it.
You can thank Jane for that, as she advised with great gentleness and respect that it is rather hard on my friends when my words are nearly indecipherable.
I hope you know that you are always welcome here, Darcy.
Sincerely,
Charles Bingley
Darcy leaned back in his chair with a broad smile on his face. He was genuinely grateful to Mrs. Bingley, because in the past, he had often struggled mightily to figure out what his friend was trying to say. It was rare that he failed completely, but it was frustrating to struggle so.
She was a good influence on Bingley. Moreover, his concerns over Mrs. Bingley’s poor connections had dissipated entirely. Yes, the lady had ties to the lower class, but Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were elegant and refined in their speech, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins were sensible and hardworking.
Inevitably, Darcy’s thoughts shifted away from Jane Bingley toward her sister, Miss Elizabeth, now Miss Bennet.
Not a day had gone by since his departure from Hertfordshire to London that he had not thought of her.
His infatuation had driven him away from Netherfield Hall, as she presented a danger to him that no other lady ever had.
She was enchanting, magnetic, alluring. The sparkle in her eyes captivated him, her wit delighted him, her vivacious energy appealed to him, and her kindness awoke his admiration.
A danger indeed, and he had believed that his only recourse was to flee and allow his attraction to die the natural death of distance.
It had not.
In vain he had struggled, had reminded himself sternly of his duty, of his responsibility to his name and his sister to marry a woman of wealth and connections and status.
In vain had he reminded himself that he was more than half promised to his cousin, Anne de Bourgh.
There was not, some treacherous part of his mind pointed out, any sort of legal contract binding him to Anne.
No offer had been made or accepted. And yet Darcy knew, had always known, that he was meant for his cousin Anne.
The engagement was a cradle affair arranged by their mothers, and thus of long standing.
Nonetheless, his heart continued to conjure visions of the glorious Elizabeth Bennet, and Bingley’s invitation offered a temptation as great as any ripe fruit on a lush tree.
He could go back to Hertfordshire, could stay at Netherfield, and would see Miss Bennet again.
Would see her again in person, more precisely, for he saw her regularly, as she flitted in and out of his dreams, tantalizingly beyond reach.
It was what he desired to do. But as always, the demands of duty loomed large in his thoughts.
He was scheduled to visit Rosings soon, and Lady Catherine would be furious if he failed to attend her as he did each year.
He had a twofold reason for doing so this year; to render filial observance to his aunt and to speak with his cousin Anne.
Despite the long-standing nature of their understanding, Darcy had never been able to force himself to offer for her.
He understood his aunt’s justifications for the proposed marriage; his own mother had wished the match, and it would be advantageous to unite the two families and the estates with them.
His own heart and good sense misgave the decision.
Pemberley and Rosings would both need an heir, and it was his duty to produce one.
Anne de Bourgh had never enjoyed good health, and Darcy, remembering his own mother’s frailty after Georgiana was born, had his doubts about Anne’s ability to safely carry and bear a child.
He had no desire to wed a wife only to lose her and their firstborn in one blow, and he shuddered at the thought of being responsible for her death.
She held no romantic appeal for him, being rather drab and quiet, but he cared for her as a cousin ought to.
He shrank from causing her pain and disappointing expectations, but to marry her to avoid hurt feelings was idiotic.
Darcy stirred, sighed, set Bingley’s letter aside to be responded to later, and reached for the next one on the stack. He grimaced at the envelope. Lady Catherine had written to him.
He broke the wax seal impatiently and allowed his eyes to scan quickly down the page.
Rosings
Tuesday, 3rd March 1812
Dear Darcy,
I look forward to seeing you here, along with your cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam, in a little more than a fortnight. I greatly anticipate your arrival, and Anne, of course, is ecstatic. Indeed, she wonders whether you might be able to move your visit a trifle sooner. We are always glad to see you!
I understand that you have met my parson and his wife, who were married only a few months ago.
Mrs. Collins is a sensible creature, pleasant enough to look at, but not so beautiful as to be inappropriate for a clergyman’s wife.
She is, perhaps, a trifle too inclined to cook more food than is necessary, but I am providing the appropriate guidance, and given that she is young, I daresay there is hope that she will learn in time.
She will be welcoming a visitor in the next few days, her elder sister Miss Bennet.
I am certain it will be a pleasure for Mrs. Collins to have a companion, though I hope it will not prevent her from doing her duty.
But I do not think I need worry about that overmuch, as Mrs. Collins is, as I said, most sensible.
You wrote asking about the South Field. I have no intention…
Darcy stopped reading, in part because he realized his mind had stopped interpreting the words he read. He put the letter down on the desk in front of him and turned his attention to the daffodils bobbing yellow heads beyond the window.
Elizabeth Bennet would soon be in Kent, at Rosings.
Assuming that she was staying for more than a short visit, he would see her again soon.
Whether he liked it or not.
And indeed, he liked it very, very much.
He would see her again.
And his heart beat joyfully in contemplation.