Chapter 4
Elizabeth cherished the solitude of her morning walk, just after breakfast. It was the single hour in which Charlotte, engaged in her household duties, did not accompany her, while Maria, wholly captivated by her sister—now become a wife—scarcely left her side.
She had just reached the gate of Rosings Park when she espied Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, with cheerful mien, raised his hand in greeting, plainly wishing her to wait for him.
“Oh, good morning!” His voice carried evident pleasure as he executed a broad bow before her. “The great advantage of being indolent in the morning is that I chance upon you!”
Elizabeth curtsied with equal good humour, glad to find herself in agreeable company. Though they had exchanged but a few words, the foundations of a friendship had already been laid between them.
She glanced behind him to see if he was alone, and the colonel, catching her look, smiled.
“Mr Clinton and Darcy set out before breakfast to fish.”
“I am fond of fishing!” Elizabeth exclaimed almost involuntarily, feeling free to speak upon any subject in the presence of this young gentleman, whose manners were natural and unaffected by that solemnity which characterised other members of his family. Seeing his look of surprise, she laughed.
“My father expected a son each time a child was born at Longbourn; and as we proved to be five daughters, he contented himself with what Providence had sent.”
“And he took you fishing?” The colonel’s tone was brisk and amused, as he tried to picture the ladies of his own family so employed—an image which refused to form itself.
“I was the only one he succeeded in persuading. Poor Papa—he wished for a son for more reasons than the mere enjoyment of fishing.”
She was not accustomed to converse with strangers upon the unsettling subject of the entail that encumbered Longbourn.
Yet the topic was not new to the colonel; for, during the dinner at Rosings, Lady Catherine had spoken of it with a want of delicacy which had shocked Elizabeth—and, it would seem, not her alone, for Mr Darcy had brought the conversation to a close with a few resolute words, thereby securing her gratitude.
But it had sufficed for all at table to learn that Longbourn, the Bennets’ estate, must pass to Mr Collins upon her father’s decease.
The colonel, however, possessed a peculiar talent for dispelling unease. He offered her his arm with an expression of sincere concern, yet continued in a lighter tone, “Whatever the cause may be, the education you have received has made a powerful impression upon…someone.”
Elizabeth coloured slightly, supposing he alluded to Mr Darcy, who had aided her throughout the evening in feeling at ease, even when Lady Catherine had placed her in the mortifying position of revealing the private circumstances of her family.
Fortunately, the colonel was little inclined to close observation.
When he resumed speaking, she felt assured that he had not discerned her small discomposure.
“I speak of Mr Clinton.”
“Mr Clinton?” Her surprise was so evident that even the colonel could not mistake it.
“The very same. After dinner, we met in the library for a final glass. Mr Clinton confessed that he had been struck by the young lady who reads Plato…and now I must join him in his admiration, though for other reasons,” he added with cheerful laughter.
“I am most impressed that you go fishing! Each man is touched by that which stirs his own enthusiasm.”
“A great passion indeed, if it moved you to remain abed.” Elizabeth laughed in her turn, plainly enjoying the playful tone they had both adopted.
“Pray, do not mock a poor officer who is compelled each day to rise at five o’clock in the morning.” His light tone made her doubt the hardship of his life.
It was so easy, so natural, to converse with him.
Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded her somewhat of Mr Wickham—perhaps not so handsome as the militia officer, yet certainly possessing a greater share of decorum.
His manners were not displayed for admiration, as in Mr Wickham’s case, but appeared the natural consequence of good breeding and education.
The distinction was difficult to express, yet Elizabeth perceived it clearly.
Strangely, her admiration for the handsome officer, still confined to Hertfordshire, grew fainter and fainter—not solely on account of his recent conduct, but because she had begun to discern his true nature, long concealed beneath elaborate politeness and deceitful friendliness.
“Am I to understand that army duty keeps you from society?” Elizabeth ventured, resolved to approach—if only through Mr Darcy’s cousin—the subject of Mr Bingley, which continued to press upon her mind.
“You are not far from the truth, Miss Bennet. Although I am fond of dancing, and flatter myself that I am not wholly unskilled in the exercise, I am not always at liberty to attend the assemblies to which I am invited.”
“Because there are far too many!” she returned, unwilling to grant him escape through modesty.
“You are relentless.” They both laughed. “But indeed, I take great pleasure on such occasions—unlike my cousin, who absents himself from London for months at a time.”
“He passed two months in Hertfordshire last autumn,” Elizabeth observed, striving to appear indifferent.
“Precisely so. I do know Bingley quite well, and I cannot imagine remaining two months in the company of him and his family—” The colonel broke off suddenly, his eyes fixed upon her.
“In a place where there is little to engage one’s attention,” she offered, endeavouring to complete the thought as she supposed he had intended it.
“I should not venture to affirm that. If the society of the Bingley family proved tedious, his visit to Hertfordshire must nonetheless have included some more agreeable moments—”
“Did Mr Darcy tell you so, or is that your own conjecture?”
“It is no easy task to determine what Darcy feels. He is reserved and scarcely ever confides in anyone. Yet if he remained two months away from either London or Pemberley, one must conclude he was not wholly dissatisfied.”
Elizabeth endeavoured to conceal her astonishment.
Never had it occurred to her that the proud gentleman had derived any enjoyment from their society.
Yet the unexpected civility he had shown during the dinner at Rosings had indeed been revealing—his sentiments regarding his stay in Hertfordshire could not have been wholly unfavourable.
“Are you acquainted with Mr Bingley’s family?”
“The family, only through report; Bingley himself I see from time to time at the Club. He has joined our party at Bath on several occasions—a very popular man, I would say.”
Indeed, thus did Elizabeth remember him also. All had liked him unreservedly, only to be the more disappointed in the end by that amiable and well-regarded gentleman who had departed without so much as a word.
She shook off the recollection which, for a moment, had carried her into the past, and perceived in the distance two horsemen approaching Rosings from Hunsford.
“They return from fishing.” The colonel recognised Darcy and Mr Clinton before Elizabeth did.
In a short while, the two gentlemen reached them and dismounted, evidently intending to offer their greetings.
At Mr Clinton’s astonishment upon encountering her walking at an hour of the morning which appeared to him unusually early, Mr Darcy replied on her behalf, smiling, “Miss Bennet is a great advocate for exercise in the open air.” His tone conveyed nothing but admiration, as though this very quality were one he had long esteemed in ladies.
Elizabeth regarded him attentively, endeavouring to discern at what point she had been mistaken—whether it had been when she believed him merely a proud and wealthy gentleman, or now, when he appeared more nearly an old friend.
But she had little leisure to reach any conclusion, for Mr Clinton, having fixed his gaze upon her with marked interest, remarked, “And a student of Plato—Miss Bennet appears to possess every accomplishment.”
They continued their walk towards Rosings and the Parsonage, amidst the cheerful recollections of the two anglers about what they considered a perfect morning.
Their lively stories were now and then interspersed with slight questions that Mr Clinton addressed to Elizabeth in a tone of easy civility, always in the course of their conversation.
∞∞∞
It was only upon reaching her chamber that Elizabeth became aware that what had seemed a mere half-hour’s walk had in truth been nearer an examination, in which Mr Clinton, without ever appearing condescending, arrogant, or intrusive, had subjected her to continual scrutiny.
“How old do you suppose Mr Clinton to be?” she asked Charlotte a little later.
Charlotte considered the question for some moments. To them, any gentleman more than ten years their senior appeared quite elderly.
“Fifty?” she ventured at length.
“He seems older than my father,” Elizabeth mused. “Well…yes… He may well be fifty.”
“And why does it interest you?” Charlotte’s curiosity was piqued; for although Mr Clinton was no kin of Lady Catherine, he was nevertheless part of her circle, and thus held in some degree of consequence.
Elizabeth hesitated before replying. Of late, she had grown more guarded in what she confided to Charlotte concerning any of the Rosings company. The thought that had arisen in her mind was so unexpected, so peculiar, that she hesitated even to speak it aloud.
“Why are you silent?” Charlotte asked, already somewhat alarmed.
“Only because Mr Clinton is markedly more civil than the rest of Lady Catherine’s household,” Elizabeth answered hastily, half speaking her mind.
For indeed she had been struck by the elderly gentleman’s manner.
Yet, within herself she could not but wonder whether his attentiveness bore not merely the marks of courtesy, but those of a gentleman’s admiration.
To her relief, Charlotte soon quitted the parlour again to attend to her affairs, followed by Maria.
Thus left alone, Elizabeth was at last free to dwell upon that strange and wholly unexpected idea.
Though she was accustomed to perceiving when a gentleman admired, or even paid court to her, she had seldom encouraged it.
Like Jane, she awaited a love of consequence—a love unmistakable, certain, and complete.
She had always believed she should know the man destined for her at once, from the very first look.
And surely a gentleman of Mr Clinton’s years could never be the one whom she awaited.
Yet, strangely, he seemed interested in her…
and she began to wonder, with visible alarm, how she might respond to a proposal of marriage from a gentleman who appeared older than her own father.
With Mr Collins, the matter had been simple; for although civility had constrained her to veil her contempt, the refusal itself had come naturally, and in few but resolute words.
Yet what might she do when faced with a man of Mr Clinton’s station and years—a man of evident respectability, refined manners, and considerable learning—who had awakened her admiration from the very first words he had spoken concerning the purpose of education, words so entirely akin to the convictions of her father, and thus to her own?
Unwillingly, her thoughts turned to Charlotte’s contentment.
Although she had married without affection, she appeared satisfied with her lot; for, in the end, Mr Collins had furnished her with what she had long expected from life—to be a wife, and in all likelihood a mother, and to live as her parents had lived before her.
Mr Collins possessed manifest faults, which, it seemed, weighed little with Charlotte, whose contentment was plain and bore no trace of artifice or pretence.
Mr Clinton had but one failing—he was advanced in years. Had he been some twenty years younger, it was quite possible she might have fallen in love with him; for he possessed all the qualities she most esteemed in a gentleman.
But the question that troubled her throughout the day, and continued to press upon her as she made her way to dinner at Rosings, was whether she, like Charlotte, might bring herself to overlook Mr Clinton’s single imperfection, and marry him—not out of passion, but because he might bestow upon her something she held dear above all else: a life governed by the very principles her father had deeply instilled within her mind and soul.
In the end, she wondered whether it were possible to love with the mind, and to offer the soul other nourishment than passion or sentiment.