Chapter 14
DISGUISE OF EVERY SORT
The nearer to Farley House the carriage took him, the hotter burned Darcy’s resentment.
He had not laid eyes on Jane Bingley since October when she slapped Elizabeth at Netherfield, and the intervening months had done naught to diminish his displeasure.
Contrary to what Elizabeth believed, however, he was not averse to delivering her letter.
Indeed, her request provided the perfect pretext to pay the visit he had been desirous of making for some weeks.
The carriage drew to a halt, and after presenting his card, Darcy was shown into a small room at the rear of Hurst’s house where Jane Bingley sat at her needlework, for all the world as though her most pressing concern was where next to stick her needle.
Her serenity deserted her upon seeing him. “Mr Darcy!” she cried, launching herself to her feet. “What are you doing here?”
Darcy waited for the servant to close the door, taking advantage of the brief time to bring his temper under regulation.
Once the door had clicked shut, he turned his eyes upon her, feeling no contrition when she visibly quailed.
He made no effort to moderate his tone, which even to his ear sounded exceptionally cold.
“I would have your word that you will never cast aspersions about Elizabeth’s good character again—by any means, to any person, or in any manner that might threaten her reputation or wellbeing. ”
“Oh! Pardon? I…I thought you must be come about Charles.”
“I imagine you did. I have noticed your first thought always tends to your own interests. Your word, madam.”
“I…I did not know any of what I said would be repeated! It was never my intention to gossip, only to confide in my friend.”
“You are mistaken if you consider Lady Ashby a friend. She has been known to my family since childhood and long acknowledged by all of us as self-serving.”
She had the temerity to look affronted.
“I might also add that Elizabeth is troubled far less by those to whom you whispered your vile misrepresentations than that you yourself believed any of it.”
She frowned a little but seemed otherwise disinclined to remorse. He could not say he was surprised.
“I, on the other hand, take an excessively dim view of your propensity to gossip about my family to anybody. If it happens again, you will discover that being excluded from my homes is but the merest expression of my displeasure. Your word, madam.”
She paled and gave it with a nod. He knew not why she should be alarmed. She could not have expected that he would allow her to continue unchecked with behaviour so injurious to his family.
“And now, your word that you will not repeat what you know of my sister’s dealings with Mr Wickham to another living person.”
Her eyes widened, and she stared at him.
“Do not pretend ignorance, madam. Elizabeth assures me you know.”
“I do, but…you must think very ill of me indeed if you believe me capable of so cruelly exposing her. I assure you, I never would. I am not the sort of person who does such things to innocent young ladies.”
“Evidently you are.”
Her countenance contorted with emotion, and for one brief moment, he thought she might cry before indignation got the better of her and she began to bluster instead. “You do not know what I have suffered! It is scarcely my fault I have grown bitter.”
“Do not dare suggest it is Elizabeth’s! She has done nothing to deserve your contempt.
You, whom she ever held in the highest possible regard and in whom, for some reason unfathomable to me, she still has not given up hope, have abused her in every imaginable method.
You have disdained all the particulars of her new situation, from her home to her capacity to run it.
You sabotaged her relationship with my family, you marred her entrance into society, and you have abandoned her when she most needs you.
” He lowered his voice. “You struck her, not only knowing that she is with child but because of it.”
She backed away, shaking her head. “You misunderstand! It is only that my husband has—”
“You would blame him also?” Darcy exclaimed, turning to walk with quick steps across the room to distance himself from her effrontery.
“As might you if you only knew what I have endured.”
“What have you endured but Bingley’s struggles to overlook the defects in your character and esteem you regardless?”
She laughed bitterly. “He does not esteem me!”
“That is hardly any great wonder. What, pray, have you ever done to earn his esteem?”
“I am his wife!”
She appeared to think this would rouse him to compassion. Presumably, she did not suspect him of knowing how it came about.
“That alone does not entitle you to his unwavering affections. You cannot expect his good opinion to endure when you treat him and all those around you with such utter disdain.”
“Sir, you are unjustly severe!” she cried, her eyes moist with unshed tears.
“In voicing such censure, perhaps, but not in thinking it. And since you have not scrupled in speaking ill of Elizabeth, I am not presently inclined to be overly sympathetic to your sensibilities.”
“You do not understa—”
“No, I do not.” Determined to hear no more of her self-pity, he reached into his pocket for Elizabeth’s letter and held it out to her. “Neither does Elizabeth, yet such is her devotion to you that she has written again with news she considers imperative that you hear.”
Jane took the letter gingerly as though it might burn her.
“She wondered whether you had troubled yourself to read any of her others since you have never deigned to reply. I recommend you read this one.”
He turned on his heel and quitted the room without taking his leave. She deserved no such attention. He was unsurprised to discover Miss Bingley loitering outside the door and only wondered that her sister was not with her.
“I hope you are well, Mr Darcy?”
“I am, thank you. If you will excuse me, I must be on my way.”
“Oh yes, of course. If I may, though…might I enquire as to my brother’s whereabouts?”
“He is at Pemberley still, madam.”
“With Mrs Darcy?”
“Yes.” She looked more concerned for her brother than he had ever seen her, prompting him to add, “He is in good health, despite his troubles. You need not worry for him.”
She gave a poor approximation of a smile. “I do, though, Mr Darcy. Pray, send him home as soon as may be. Pemberley is not the best place for him. He ought to be with Jane.”
Darcy was no longer certain where the best place for Bingley was but gave Miss Bingley all the assurances she sought to avoid being further delayed.
He later reflected, as his carriage sped across the Kentish countryside, that it was telling with what alacrity he hastened to his aunt’s deathbed, infinitely preferring it to the scene of his objectionable audience with Jane Bingley.
Rosings Park
6th March
Dearest Elizabeth,
Be not surprised if what I write is incomprehensible. It is late, and I am weary, but I do not wish to end another day without speaking to you.
Lady Catherine is still with us, though barely.
I am increasingly relieved that neither you nor Georgiana accompanied me.
No quantity of pastille burners can mask the scent of illness in the house, and her appearance grows no less shocking upon subsequent visits to her bedside than when I first arrived.
When my mother passed away, her mind wandered, and her limbs trembled, but her person was otherwise unchanged.
My father’s death was so sudden I never saw him aught but hale.
Lady Catherine is wasted away to almost nothing.
Nonetheless, you were correct. I am pleased to have come.
She sleeps a good deal, but this evening she stirred sufficiently to acknowledge me for the first time.
Our exchange was brief, for she can scarcely breathe enough to speak, but we were able to share a few thoughts on Rosings, Anne, Georgiana, our unborn child—and you.
It does not surprise me in the least that what might be her last ever words to me were about you.
“I am pleased you married Elizabeth. I always liked her.”
I shall say no more on that. I trust we are of equal minds on the matter.
Montgomery and I spent two hours this morning with his steward and another three this afternoon with his attorney, all of which seemed painless in comparison to the ten minutes I spent with Mr Collins afterwards.
I am finding the role of adviser even more onerous than I had anticipated, not least for its tedium but also the unexpected remembrance of the days following my father’s passing, which were dark indeed.
I have seen very little of Anne. It would seem her delicate health has not lent itself to the rigours of nursing a dying relative, and I understand she spends but little time with her mother.
Your good friend Mrs Collins, however, has been stalwart in attending her ladyship, despite not having been long out of her confinement and having a new-born infant in need of her attention.
I mean to speak to her at church on the morrow to express my deepest thanks for her troubles. I have already given her your letter.
I have also given Master Jonathan the gift you sent for him, with which he was delighted, of course, though he was most disappointed not to have you in person.
I am not sure how much of him you would have seen had you come, however, for he is largely being kept to the nursery, presumably to spare him from the general malaise in the house.