13. 14 November 1811 #2
“Oh, I do!” She hastened to where Darcy and Miss Elizabeth sat, apparently eager to see her words enshrined in Darcy’s hand. “What is this?” she shrieked in dismay.
“It is my list of characteristics I hope my wife will have. As Miss Elizabeth said earlier, the contrast between my values and yours is quite instructive.”
Miss Bingley stood rigidly in her spot, her mouth now set in a rictus. “Visiting tenants? Charity to those in need? Respect for servants?”
“I have always known that our philosophies and aims are quite different, Miss Bingley. That is not to say that either of us is right or wrong; there are many ways to live a happy life and to bring more beauty and love into the world. However, I believe it is easier to establish a happy home when there is some congruence between values of husband and wife, master and mistress.”
Narrowing her eyes, Miss Bingley said, “I suppose…that you are correct. I will leave you to it.” She turned and swept from the room, only pausing to murmur something to her sister, who immediately hurried to join her exodus.
Bingley said nothing, and Darcy was grateful that he looked quite incurious as he held a newspaper in front of his face. Hurst continued to gently snore.
Darcy turned towards Miss Elizabeth. She gazed at him for a long moment before saying, “I believe she finally understands what you have apparently known for some time—that the two of you do not suit.”
“And I believe that you may be realising that, in my view, you would be a perfect Mrs Darcy. Without a doubt, your own view on the matter is just as important, and I imagine that you have not yet come to the same conclusion.”
“You are a very surprising individual, Mr Darcy. But, no, I am not yet sure of you…or at least, I am not yet sure of us.”
Darcy rose, and Miss Elizabeth stood as well.
He said, “I should like to continue to allow you to see my own character, to prove the values I have revealed here, and to attempt to interest you in all that I can offer. When you go home, I would like to call on you, to court you as a lady should be courted.”
She swayed slightly towards him, but—he thought—unconsciously. He still smiled to see it, and she caught her breath. He hoped she was as affected by their proximity as he was, but he waited to hear what she had to say in reply.
“I hope you do. Call on me, I mean. But…you may not wish to once you meet the rest of my family….”
“I look forward to meeting them. I look forward to knowing every aspect of you and your life.”
“We shall see,” she murmured. She made her excuses, said her good nights, and left as well.
Bingley waited, then stood to check the corridor—empty—and Hurst—still asleep. Finally he moved to Darcy and said, “It astonishes me that I thought you needed any instruction on wooing a lady. I believe that the student has become the teacher.”
Darcy chuckled. “And I believe that we should at least wait to see if I succeed!”
That night Darcy had dramatic dreams about Miss Elizabeth leaving Netherfield. Almost half of the dreams were filled with ecstasy, but the others were upsetting. Precisely none of the dreams were restful, and he woke feeling as if he had been in a battle.
He was not the least surprised, as the morning proceeded, that Mr Jones determined that Miss Jane Bennet was healthy enough to travel the three miles to Longbourn. Darcy readied his carriage for the task of carrying the Bennet sisters home, and Bingley and Darcy rode horses to accompany them.
At Longbourn, Bingley introduced Darcy to the rest of the Bennet family while Elizabeth helped her sister upstairs.
To say that Longbourn’s parlour was uncomfortable to Darcy was an understatement.
Mrs Bennet asked more than a dozen questions about Darcy’s wealth, the youngest sisters did a great deal of pointed whispering and giggling, and Mr Bennet did not make even the briefest appearance.
“I shall take a moment to speak with Miss Elizabeth’s father, Bingley.”
“I should go with you and introduce you,” Bingley said, apparently also eager to quit the parlour, given that his favoured Bennet was out of reach.
“Excuse us,” Darcy said to Mrs Bennet. “I would like to have a private talk with Mr Bennet, if I may.”
The lady’s eyes became very wide. She bobbed her head in agreement and rang for the housekeeper, Mrs Hill.
“He is with another, ma’am,” Mrs Hill stated.
“Is he? Who has called on my husband? Can it have any importance?”
Darcy blanched at the woman’s shrill tone and indecorous words. Mrs Hill said that Mr Goulding—“the younger Mr William Goulding”—was meeting with Mr Bennet.
A sound in the corridor caused the housekeeper to lift a finger in a silent suggestion that the gentlemen wait a moment. She swished out of the parlour and, just a handful of moments later, returned to stay, “The master will see you now.”
She led them to what she termed “the bookroom” and announced them, then closed the door on her way out.
Bingley introduced Darcy as his greatest friend. Mr Bennet stood—or, rather, he made a passing attempt to rise to a half-crouched stance before he dipped a little as if executing a truncated bow. Then, having never fully stood, the man dropped down into his seat.
Darcy knew that he far outranked Mr Bennet in both consequence and wealth, but as he performed his own perfect bow, he decided that he outranked the man in manners, as well. He supposed he should feel outraged and insulted by the carelessness Mr Bennet displayed, but he saw no gain in such.
“Ah, Bingley’s friend, of whom we have heard so much!” Mr Bennet said, flicking his eyes to the side as if in disdain. “An enormous estate in Derbyshire, a huge house in London, ten thousand a year, on and on.” He waved his hand towards some chairs.
Darcy held onto his temper, reflecting that Bingley had warned him that Mr Bennet’s manner was sarcastic. He sat, and Bingley sent a meaningful look Darcy’s way as he excused himself and left.
Carrying on with the words he had expected to say, despite Mr Bennet’s ill behaviour, Darcy said, “It is a pleasure to meet the father of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Sir, I wished to apprise you of the fact that I asked Miss Elizabeth if I might call on her, and she has agreed to my calls.”
Mr Bennet chortled. An insufficient bow and eye movements that may or may not signal contempt were as nothing compared to being the object of laughter.
Darcy decided against his original plan to be as cordial and friendly as possible, and he drew himself up even more rigidly than his wont as he donned an expression of hauteur. “Is there humour in the situation of which I am unaware?” he asked in a cold voice.
Still chuckling, the country squire said, “In my view, there is indeed. My daughter is twenty, and in all these years she has had not one suitor. But this morning two men have come to me asking if they may call upon her. I suppose you claim to have honourable intentions? If you and my Lizzy decide the two of you suit, you would wish to marry?”
“Of course. Do not insult me by hinting otherwise; I believe that a man wishing for a brief tryst or planning to take a mistress does not apply to a lady’s father for permission.”
“You may be right, Mr Darcy.” Mr Bennet pronounced the honorific as if Darcy did not deserve it. Sarcasm, indeed. “I little know of such things,” Elizabeth’s father continued.
“And I know nothing at all of such things,” Darcy interjected, “but common sense would tell me that a supplicant for a father’s permission, after obtaining the lady’s approval, would be concerned with courtship and possibly marriage rather than any other outcome.”