Chapter Fourteen #2
“Of course, I should have known he would pay his respects.” She smiled at a memory, a faint blush dusting her cheekbones.
“I chastised him when he first asked permission, believing him promised to his cousin. He corrected my misapprehension, insisting neither he nor Miss de Bourgh harboured any matrimonial intentions towards each other. At the time we were in Charlotte’s parlour, where the servants, with hearing as sharp as one of Papa’s hunting dogs, carried every word back to Lady Catherine.
Because he and his cousin were leaving the next day; I suggested meeting before they departed.
” Elizabeth’s cheeks burned with even more fire than before.
“I gave him a letter explaining our change of circumstances, along with Uncle’s direction.
He, in turn, entrusted me with a letter detailing the sleight of hand he and his cousins planned against his aunt.
He wished to spare me the distress of hearing of his ‘marriage’ when he was not the bridegroom. ”
“It seems your Mr. Darcy has scarcely had a moment’s rest these past two weeks,” Jane teased.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“As I said earlier, he paid us a visit, and shared rather illuminating intelligence concerning Mr. Bingley.”
“Mr. Bingley! Has he sought you out? Is he aware of your presence in London?”
“Patience, Lizzy!” Jane said with a laugh as she held up her hand to forestall her sister’s eager questions. “I have no idea if he and his sister remain in town, and even if they did, I do not expect him to call.”
“Whyever not?”
After looking to her aunt, who inclined her head slightly, giving silent permission, Jane revealed the unfortunate truths of Mr. Bingley’s financial imprudence, and his pattern of toying with young ladies’ affection.
“In short,” she concluded, “the gentleman has developed quite a habit of showering exclusive attention upon well-dowered young ladies, only to withdraw when another pretty face appears with a little more money behind her name.”
“How peculiar to discover that Mr. Bingley and Mr. Wickham are cut from the same cloth.”
Jane’s lips parted in astonishment.
“Surely you exaggerate.”
“Do I? Both gentlemen possess a handsome countenance and agreeable manners, yet beneath these superficial charms lurks a want of principle that would send any discerning mother and daughter fleeing.”
“As far as we know, Mr. Bingley has not blemished any young woman’s virtue,” Jane protested.
“Has he not?” Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. “Consider, dear Jane, did he not single you out at every assembly and gathering where you both were in attendance, monopolising your attention while ignoring all other eligible ladies, only to depart without the slightest indication of honourable intentions?”
Jane dipped her head in silent acknowledgement.
“He abandoned Netherfield Park, and you, without a backward glance. You know I speak the truth in this matter.” Elizabeth continued, her voice softening.
“Fortunately, his true nature revealed itself before your affections grew too deep. When, not if, he inevitably learns of our circumstances and attempts to charm his way back into your favour, you shall recognise him for the fortune-hunter he truly is.”
“I confess, I did not think him so bad,” Jane admitted reluctantly.
“But in retrospect — do not give me that look, Elizabeth Bennet — in retrospect, I now realise our conversations lacked substance. He praised my beauty, my temperament, my…” She hesitated, exhaling deeply.
“…my nothing. While he discoursed at length on London society, his dogs, his steed, and his sporting pursuits, he showed no interest in how I spent my time, or what hopes I held for my future. Our exchanges were vacuous.”
“I am so glad you came to this realisation yourself, as I know you try very hard to see the good in all.”
“I am not completely na?ve; I am quite pragmatic when pushed, although I will admit that at first, I was disconsolate over his abrupt leaving, and heartbroken when I received the letter from his sister. At that time, I had not stopped to think over everything, as it was quite heady to have such a handsome, wealthy man pay so much attention to me.”
“And now?”
“You saw how Miss Bingley treated us on Bond Street, and at the theatre. I would not wish to have Mr. Bingley as a husband for all the reasons we have discussed, and I certainly would not want Miss Bingley as a sister by marriage. Mrs. Hurst is someone I could spend time with, but not at the risk of being in the company of her sister.”
“Brava, Jane! I concur with your observation. I have it on great authority that Mr. Darcy’s friendship is with Mr. Hurst. They have known each other since they were boys. Mr. Bingley came to Mr. Darcy’s attention when Mr. Hurst married Miss Louisa Bingley.”
“I had wondered how Mr. Darcy met Mr. Bingley. It could not have been through university, as there are five years between them.”
“I am glad Mr. Darcy came to speak with you.”
“We have entertained more than one gentleman of late.” Aunt Madeline’s eyes twinkled as she glanced towards Jane. “Mr. Morgan has graced our parlour with remarkable frequency these past weeks, and not always accompanied by his sister.”
“Aunt!” Jane’s cheeks bloomed a delicate rose hue. She adjusted the cream-coloured shawl draped across her shoulders. “Mr. Morgan has always conducted himself with perfect propriety.”
“Indeed, he has,” Aunt Madeline agreed with a knowing smile that creased the corners of her eyes. “But one would need to be quite blind not to notice his particular attention to you.”
“After what happened in Hertfordshire…” Jane’s voice faltered, her gaze dropping. “I dare not presume. I shall wait for him to declare himself.”
Elizabeth’s heart constricted at her sister’s uncertainty, the familiar ache of witnessing Jane’s undeserved suffering returning. Before she could offer any reassurance, Jane looked up suddenly.
“Do you recall that dreadful poem I received when I was fifteen?”
“How could we forget? Mamma mentions it to every gentleman she thinks you should marry, usually before the second cup of tea.”
“Well…” Jane began slowly, her slender fingers twisting the embroidered edge of her shawl. “Mr. Morgan was the author of that poem.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened, her second cup of tea freezing midway to her lips.
“What?”
Jane’s eyes softened as she recalled the memory, her lips curving into a wistful smile.
“It was in the year ’04. Our paths crossed quite by chance in the park opposite uncle’s house, where Margaret and I were feeding the ducks.
Margaret, being only two at the time and utterly fearless with strangers, offered Mr. Morgan a piece of bread as he walked by.
The gentleman accepted with such grace, bowing at the waist, that one would think our young cousin had presented him with the Crown Jewels.
We conversed easily that day, and on three subsequent occasions over the following fortnight, each time longer than the last. At our final meeting, he presented me with his poetic attempt. ”
“And then?” Elizabeth pressed, leaning forward in her chair, her dark eyes alight with curiosity. “Why did this undeclared courtship end so abruptly?”
Jane’s slender fingers traced the delicate gold edging of her teacup. “That remains a mystery which has haunted me for many years. After the poem changed hands, he simply vanished from my life.”
Aunt Madeline’s eyes softened. “I believe I know why he departed London so suddenly. While I was unaware that he was the gentleman who gave you the poem, Mr. Morgan was known to my husband, which explains why he was near the park. At the time, he was discussing investment opportunities with your uncle when tragedy struck. His father and brother perished in a carriage accident, and he was required to return to Nottingham to manage the family estate.”
“If Mr. Darcy had not been here when Mr. Morgan visited, I may never have known he owns an estate. He does not speak of it, at all.”
“The estate practically runs itself with his excellent steward in place. His mother prefers country life, while he attends to business in London.”
“Then, it is safe to assume that he never truly knew my identity?” Jane finally asked, her voice tremulous.
“Did you not exchange proper introductions?”
“We had our little game; he was Mr. Propriety to my Miss Manners.” Jane blushed at the silly memory. “It was all so innocent and light-hearted, like a dance where neither partner knows the steps. I had no idea he held such strong romantic feelings for me until he presented that dreadful poem.”
“Truly dreadful,” her aunt agreed with a wry smile. “You only allowed me to read it after many years had passed. Although the intent of his admiration of you was clear, the delivery left much to be desired.”
“He compared my eyes to forget-me-nots, if you recall.”
“I do recall, and found it charmingly delightful!” Aunt Madeline cried out with a light laugh.
“It was.” Jane smiled despite herself.
Her aunt tested the teapot with a practiced hand, before pouring herself another cup. “At least the poor man attempted to romance you with soft words, ill-chosen though they were.”
Jane gazed out the window at the rain burdened clouds. “Eight years change people like seasons change landscapes. I cannot imagine he remembers that time with any fondness. He has made no mention of it in any of our conversations.”
“Dear, dear Jane,” Aunt Madeline soothed.
“If it is any solace, I believe you are quite precious to Mr. Morgan, and he may not have mentioned what took place between the two of you, because he does not know if you recall it, or wish to forget it. You have the power, my dear, to cross the Rubicon, bring that time in your joint history out into the open, and discuss it freely.”