Chapter 8 Mixed Blessings
MIXED BLESSINGS
The sight of his wife eavesdropping at the door to the little parlour presented a temptation too great to overlook. Rather than lead the recently arrived Sir William into the library, Mr Bennet directed him thither.
Upon noticing his approach, Mrs Bennet began frantically flapping her hands at him and alternately shaking her head and twitching it towards the parlour door.
Fortunately, after many years of marriage, Mr Bennet had become accustomed to his wife’s delicate subtlety: she did not wish him to go into the parlour.
Thus, assured of sport of some variety, he was less inclined than ever to leave.
“Shall we take our coffee with a view of the pond for a change, Sir William?”
“Why not!” his guest replied amiably, following him along the passageway and bidding Mrs Bennet good morning.
“What do you mean by bringing poor Sir William to this cold, unpleasant room, Mr Bennet? He would be much more comfortable in the front parlour.”
“Nonsense, my dear, this is the best room in the house,” he replied, reaching for the handle.
“No!” His wife thrust herself theatrically across the door. “Mr Bingley is within! He requested a private audience with our daughter!”
Mr Bennet leant back on his heels and smiled. “Indeed? And pray, which one have you sent him?” His curiosity was partially satisfied by the appearance of one of the five contenders through the front door. “Not Lizzy, then.”
“What is not me?” Elizabeth enquired, removing her bonnet and coming down the hall to join them.
“Shall we see?” He gestured to his wife to step aside. “Apparently, Lizzy, Mr Bingley has made one of your sisters an offer your mother cannot refuse!”
It occurred to Bingley too late that he had not specified to Mrs Bennet which of her daughters he wished to see—and it was not this one.
Miss Jane Bennet entered the room in high colour, unable to meet his eye.
They exchanged embarrassed greetings and spoke briefly of the weather but then lapsed into silence as she no doubt awaited his addresses, and he tried in vain to think of a polite way not to make them.
“Please do be seated,” she said at length.
He declined, not wishing to give the impression of wanting to be there.
“Would you care for some refreshments?”
He repeated his negative but then felt compelled by her disappointed expression to say something more obliging. “This is a delightful room. I do not believe I have seen it before.”
“Thank you. My mother likes to keep it for special occasions.” She stopped, looking as mortified as he felt by the allusion to everybody’s expectations.
Her blush, he could not help but notice, spread down her neck and beyond, drawing his attention with it. He was quite sure he had never seen her wear that gown before; it looked remarkably well on her. “I see,” he said distractedly. “I wonder that she was good enough to let us use it then.”
Jane let out a little gasp.
Bingley made a silent imprecation. He had not meant to announce so bluntly what his intentions were not.
He had not the time to apologise, for Miss Bennet unexpectedly swooned towards him.
He threw his arms out to catch her but was unbalanced and fell heavily on the nearest sofa with her somehow sprawled, supine, across his lap.
He was instantly returned to a fortnight earlier when it had been Elizabeth he held lifeless in his arms. There his mind lingered, for with her head reclined thus, both of Miss Bennet’s eyebrows were arched, her cheekbones were accentuated and her lips slightly parted—and she looked more like her sister than ever.
Had not she looked so much the picture of the woman he wished he were embracing, he would likely never have remained bent over her as long as he did.
Then, she would never have observed him looking at her in such a manner when her eyes fluttered open, might never have mistaken his ardour as meant for her, and might never have been emboldened to lift her head and kiss him.
Had not he been consumed with unfulfilled yearning for Elizabeth, he might have pulled away sooner.
He registered the click and creak of the door too late and was still engaged thusly when Mrs Bennet’s shriek fractured the quiet of the room, followed immediately by Mr Bennet’s voice.
“And there my money was on Mary.”
Bingley almost tipped Miss Bennet to the floor in his haste to detach himself.
“Young love, eh?”
His stomach sank, for he knew that voice. Sir William, of all people, had observed his transgression!
“I always knew how it would be!” Mrs Bennet all but sang.
Bingley turned to face his audience and froze. Elizabeth! Her expression was one of pure surprise, sending remorse knifing through his gut. His mind turned over, searching desperately for a way to explain, to apologise, to salvage what had meant to be their union.
“Capital! Capital!” Sir William went on. “What congratulations will now flow in!”
“Indeed,” said Mr Bennet coldly. “I may be forced to overlook the prematurity of your celebrations, Mr Bingley, once those of my neighbours begin.” He glanced meaningfully at Sir William.
Bingley broke into a sweat. Mr Bennet was correct. Between Sir William and Mrs Bennet, news of his amorous clinch and presumed betrothal would be all over Meryton before supper. How could the alliance possibly be avoided? He looked at Elizabeth in desperation.
“I am very happy for you both,” said she.
Bingley almost whimpered. She was utterly lost to him.
He briefly considered running from the house and not coming back, but the notion only made his despair greater, for he could not countenance the prospect of never seeing her again.
Then she smiled, and the matter was settled.
He could not leave her. Yet, if he stayed, he must marry her sister.
He turned to Miss Bennet. She returned his look with a tentative smile, seeming better pleased with the turn of events than he, which was rather too little relief too late, for he had come to doubt whether she welcomed his attentions at all.
Louisa was correct, however. She was decorous and sweet and uncommonly pretty.
A union with her could hardly be considered a punishment.
He looked back at Mr Bennet. “My apologies, sir. I meant to come to you directly of course.”
Mr Bennet grunted. “I shall await you in my library. Jane, I shall speak to you afterwards.” Without further word, he turned on his heel and left.
Miss Bennet rose hastily from the sofa and came to stand before Bingley. “I beg you, take no offence. I am sure he will be happy for us once the surprise passes.”
“He has every right to be angry. It was ill done.”
“I daresay there are worse ways of declaring oneself,” she whispered shyly.
Bingley refrained from actually kicking himself.
Surely to God, there was no worse way to declare oneself than to do it to the wrong woman!
“You are quite sure this is what you wish?” he enquired quietly.
Her expression of heartfelt delight as she nodded her acceptance rendered her even more handsome than usual, vaguely disposing him to be more hopeful.
“And are you well? You swooned very suddenly. Shall I send for Mr Oates?”
“Pray do not! I should be mortified. I was only a little too warm.”
“As you wish. I ought to go to your father now.”
She stepped away from him and was immediately engulfed in her mother and Sir William’s rapturous celebrations. Elizabeth came to Bingley, shaking his hands with cordiality he did not deserve.
“You have been very good to me these past few weeks. I could not have wished for a better brother or a better husband for Jane.”
Gads, how was he ever to be a brother to her?
He gripped her warm hands tighter still to prevent himself dipping his head to kiss her, but she was gone to her sister before he could do more than thank her.
Thus, with very startling rapidity, the affair that had given him so much suspense and vexation was finally settled, and in the most perverse manner possible.
With one last rueful glance, he left the room and Elizabeth behind.
Wednesday 10 June 1812, Hertfordshire
Elizabeth crouched to lay her flowers on the grave as she did on this day every year.
Mrs Lincoln had been the wife of one of Longbourn’s tenants, and she was survived by her husband and two children.
Four years after her passing, Elizabeth still recalled teaching her little boy to read, his grief as he struggled to follow her instructions weighing particularly heavy on her this year, for what right had she, compared to such loss, to mourn that which she had willingly thrown away?
Endlessly, she tortured herself with thoughts of Mr Darcy—his subtle smile, burning gaze, absorbing conversation and unassuming generosity.
His impassioned declaration of love. Regardless of how she told herself a person ought not to form a design on a memory, her heart would not be dissuaded.
She could think of him in no other terms than of being in love, for no other sentiment came close to expressing the depth of her present feelings towards him.
Observing Jane’s present happiness taught her how utterly foolish she had been to refuse him.
“Do you visit her grave often?” Bingley enquired behind her.
Elizabeth almost toppled over in surprise and stood hastily to prevent it, making her head reel as it had not done in days.
“Forgive me, I meant not to startle you.”
“You are forgiven. I thought you would be longer with the curate.”
“He is not yet here, but we found Mrs Goulding in the church. Jane is speaking to her about flowers for the wedding. Speaking of flowers…” He crouched to gather up those Elizabeth had just laid, which she only then noticed had been strewn untidily over the grave when he startled her.