As Though Naught Had Changed #5
“Not a whisper! He was gone so long I began to think he would never come back, but see how he looks at Lizzy still, as though he never went away! There is no doubt he is here for her. I knew some good must come of her refusing Mr Collins.”
“As did I, Sister, as did I! But pray, is Jane not pleased Mr Bingley is come back?”
“What is your meaning? Of course she is pleased.”
“Well, she might like to show it. I have not seen her say two words to him all evening.”
“Nonsense! She simply does not rattle on like her sisters—and with her countenance, neither does she need to! Oh, look at Kitty dancing with Captain Denny.”
“Now there would be a happy match,” Mrs Philips agreed, “if only Colonel Forster were not taking his regiment away to Brighton next month.”
It soon became clear this was news to Mrs Bennet, for the remainder of the set was passed listening to her violent lamentations over the militia’s imminent removal from Meryton.
After two hours of watching and waiting, Wickham finally espied an opportunity.
Seeing Elizabeth Bennet stood unattended in a dingy corner of the ballroom, he strode directly to reach her before anybody else did.
She knew something. He had no idea what, but her sly remarks earlier in the evening had convinced him it was something to do with Darcy, and nothing to do with that man ever boded well.
“Miss Elizabeth!” If not that he was already on his guard, he might have missed the flare of vexation upon her countenance. “You are much in demand this evening, but I have you to myself at last.”
“So you do.”
“You have danced very prettily tonight. I hope you have found all your partners agreeable.”
“Very much so.”
“You seemed anxious earlier that Meryton’s society could not please you.”
“Perhaps I was, but it does not do to be too fixed in one’s opinion of people,” she said with a pointed look.
Blast it! What has Darcy told her? “Neither does it do to be easily persuaded of an alternative opinion.”
“True, but people themselves alter so much, sometimes no persuasion is necessary.”
“I see. And were any of your friends in Kent much altered? Has Mr Darcy deigned to add aught of civility to his ordinary style? For I dare not hope that he is improved in essentials.”
“Oh no,” she replied, eyes flashing. “In essentials, I believe, Mr Darcy is very much what he ever was. Though I would say, from knowing him better, his disposition is better understood.”
Worse and worse! She actually liked the starched bastard.
Her dreadful taste notwithstanding, he feared she must now believe whatever version of events Darcy had spun.
How to undo her faith in him? “You, who so well know my feelings towards Mr Darcy,” he began, “will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even the appearance of what is right. His pride, in that direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by.”
That earned him naught but a raised eyebrow.
He was growing excessively tired of her sanctimony.
“I only fear,” he pressed, more loudly for the music had struck up again, “that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgment he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss De Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart.”
She only inclined her head and made to step around him, but with such a glimmer of amusement in her eyes as filled him with alarm.
He could not tolerate being at such a disadvantage.
If she were privy to information that could ruin his good name, he would discover it.
He stepped closer and reached for her hand.
“Madam, we have not finished our conversation. I must insist upon this dance.”
“Miss Elizabeth, I believe this dance is mine.”
He looked around. “Mr Bingley!”
“Mr Wickham,” Mr Bingley replied brusquely, reaching for Miss Elizabeth’s hand himself and leading her away.
Wickham leant against the wall, glaring at their departing backs.
For all that effort, he was still none the wiser.
He knew neither how much she had been told nor how likely she was to repeat any of it.
He must now live on tenterhooks, fearing the chit would out him at any moment.
Damn Darcy to hell and back! The man buggered up everything!
Elizabeth was not sure she had ever seen such a pained expression on her sister’s face as when she took to the floor for a second set with Mr Bingley.
It made her slightly nauseous to be the cause of it.
She had assured him she was grateful for his intervention and that to dance was not necessary, but he had been insistent upon shielding her from Mr Wickham’s attentions.
There was nothing to be done but complete the set and make her excuses to Jane afterwards.
She was grateful for the liveliness of the dance and Mr Bingley’s talkativeness, for both excused her from much conversation.
He chattered on amiably as they came together and whirled apart, apparently content with smiles by way of response.
He gained her immediate and full attention, however, when his ramblings touched upon the object of her reflections.
“…and I have yet to hear from Darcy, which is surprising. Still, he was very busy when I left him.”
After a moment’s consideration, Elizabeth enquired, “Do you correspond with him often?”
“Fairly often, yes.”
“I wonder—that is, there is something I would ask of you.” She paused, unsure how to proceed with what he might consider a vastly improper request. An explanation seemed the best way to begin. “When Mr Darcy and I spoke of Jane, we…well, it became something of a debate.”
“Was it as fierce as those you enjoyed at Netherfield?”
“Rather more so, I am ashamed to say.” They broke apart to perform a figure with several other dancers. When they faced each other once more, she continued quietly, “I wonder if you would be so good as to pass on my apologies in your next letter to him?”
“I should be happy to, but I must say he gave no indication that he was affronted by anything you said.”
Mr Darcy’s discretion only deepened her remorse.
A vicarious apology seemed wholly inadequate, yet it was all that was in her power to give.
Her later apology to her sister was little better received.
Despite Jane’s attempts to be gracious, Elizabeth could easily perceive she was dismayed by what must have looked to all their neighbours as Mr Bingley’s marked attentions to the wrong sister.
Between Mr Wickham’s persistent lies, Mr Bingley’s overzealous defence, Jane’s jealousy and her mother and younger sisters’ improper behaviour, she was ready by the end of the evening to foreswear assemblies forever.
Friday 15 May 1812, London
“It is, in every respect, horrible. What could motivate a person to do such an abhorrent thing?”
Darcy regarded Georgiana with interest as he considered how to answer.
The assassination of the Prime Minister earlier that week had sent ripples of unrest throughout the country.
Nevertheless, he had not anticipated that his younger, less worldly sister would wish to think on it in any detail.
The discussion was a far cry from the sedate morning of refreshments and pianoforte for which he had hoped when he called on her.
“It is being reported that he believes the government have wrongly denied him compensation for some time he spent imprisoned in Russia.”
Georgiana turned up her nose. “He sounds like Mr Wickham.”
“Wickham?”
“Aye, for have both men not resorted to despicable acts because they believed they were denied their due?”
“Indeed—and neither man comprehends why he was denied to begin with.”
“But Mr Wickham was not denied,” Georgiana said indignantly. “You said you compensated him for the living at Kympton.”
“And so I did, but he asked for much more than just the living.”
“I see.” She furrowed her brow in thought. Darcy considered it best to change the subject and was on the verge of requesting that she play for him when she asked a most provoking question. “And you denied him more because it was not his due?”
“Yes, I did!”
Georgiana jumped slightly, her eyes opened wide.
He took a deep breath and continued in a more controlled manner.
“Certainly, he asked for more than he had a right to expect. Nevertheless, I might have helped him, had his need been genuine or his intentions respectable.” She continued to frown, and he felt compelled to add, “Georgiana, there are things about Mr Wickham I would not have you know. Suffice to say, it would have been imprudent to provide further funds to support his habits—and downright reckless to award him a living in the church.”
“Yet he believed himself wronged. I wonder whether it was not what he was denied that made him resent us so, but why he was denied it.”
Darcy said nothing, in no humour to reflect upon Wickham’s pretensions to neglect.
“You refused him on moral grounds,” his sister continued, “but, perhaps he did not comprehend that. Of course, I fully understand now why he wanted me to elope, but the reason he gave me at the time was that you would never agree to our alliance because you did not respect his situation. He often mentioned your pride. Perhaps he believed you denied him succour because you did not consider him worthy of it.”
It was apparent she did not mean to pain him, yet she could not have chosen to philosophise on a subject more likely to do so.
Darcy’s thoughts were flung back to the night he danced with Elizabeth at Netherfield, when she had pointedly enquired whether he ever allowed himself to be blinded by prejudice.
He had replied that he hoped not but, at present, he knew not whether he could truthfully deny that pride had any bearing on his dealings with Wickham.
It made him slightly nauseous to think the cur might be justified in his resentment.
“I beg your pardon!”
He looked up to discover his sister regarding him anxiously.
“I did not mean to sound as though I thought you had treated Mr Wickham unjustly—only that, perhaps, his believing it is what led to him forming such a violent resentment. You would never think less of a person merely because of his or her descent, you are too good!”
A tight knot formed in Darcy’s stomach at the recollection of that part of his proposal in which he asked Elizabeth whether she expected him to rejoice in the inferiority of her connexions.
“Do not distress yourself,” he replied stiffly, “I took your meaning. What have you been reading to put you in such a penetrating frame of mind?” Thus, he steadfastly steered the conversation to more general matters and, very soon after, to a close.
With a promise to take her to Gunter’s for ices on Monday, he left his sister’s establishment and rode home at a pace, eager to outdistance such uncomfortable introspections.
It was a vain endeavour; the further he rode, the heavier grew his heart.
He once said to Elizabeth that he hoped his faults were not of understanding, not truly believing he had any at the time.
It was with growing anguish that he was coming to realise just how well she had understood them, and with even greater shame that he was only now beginning to comprehend them himself.
Saturday 16 May 1812, Hertfordshire
Though happy for the opportunity to recommence his courtship, Bingley disliked the hours he was obliged to spend alone at Netherfield each day.
In a bid to pass the time more agreeably, he invited his neighbours to fish with him in his pond.
Barring the crayfish that made a hole in Mr Goulding’s net and the chill Mr Philips contracted after falling in the water, however, not a thing was caught—and the whole thing was rained off after but half an hour by a sudden rainstorm.
The gentlemen ended ensconced in the comfortable parlour of the Millstream Inn while they waited for the rain to cease.
Spirits were high, conversation flowed as freely as the ale, and the fishing party was unanimously declared a raging success.
“It is capital to see you back in our little corner of the world again, Bingley,” Sir William said to him over his second or third flagon. “We had worried you meant to quit the neighbourhood entirely.”
“As did I, at one point,” Bingley replied. “Though I am fond of the country, there was some uncertainty as to whether the country returned my regard. Fear not, though. Darcy set it all to rights for me, and here I am!”
“Darcy, you say?”
“The one and only. Assured me the country was completely in love with me.”
“Capital, capital! I daresay he is correct. Will he be joining you at Netherfield?”
“He said not, but he had praise enough for Meryton when he was convincing me to return, so he may yet decide to visit.”
“He is very good,” replied Sir William, preening as though any praise for the neighbourhood must necessarily encompass him.
“He sends his regards, of course.” Bingley placed his forearm on the table and leant forward, adding in a hushed tone, “He did ask me to convey his regrets for his reserve during his last visit, but I am sure you agree with me it is not necessary.”
“I do indeed! His manners were faultless—here and in Kent. Capital fellow! Whatever gave him the impression we found him otherwise?”
“I did,” Bingley slurred, grinning. “It was quite unintentional. I was teasing him for squabbling with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. He took it altogether the wrong way.”
Sir William nodded sagely. “He must not blame himself for that. Miss Elizabeth can be rather pert. A good girl, though.”
“No need to convince me of that—or Darcy. He assured me he thinks she is perfectly lovely.”
“Did he indeed?”
“He did! Apparently, he finds her very pleasing company.”
Sir William’s eyebrows began creeping up his forehead. “Indeed! Maria mentioned that he called on them often at Hunsford.”
“Not often enough for them to say all they needed to say, for I am still passing messages between the pair of them.” Bingley briefly wondered whether he ought to have said as much when Sir William’s eyebrows all but lost themselves in his hairline, but two more flagons of ale and four rounds of skittles quite put the matter from his mind.