Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
Few men could withstand the feverish activity of a household preparing for a wedding.
Mr Bennet was no exception, and although Elizabeth felt her father was as pleased as the rest of the Bennets with Jane’s future as Mrs Charles Bingley, he had an odd way of showing it.
If anything, the pleasure he took in teasing his wife and Jane for their talk of laces and gowns had only sharpened his tongue; his meanest gibes were reserved for complaints about his future son-in-law.
He stood in the threshold of Longbourn’s parlour, where sewing boxes lay open on the table and Jane’s old bonnets were being newly trimmed for her sisters’ use.
“Mr Bingley is all smiles and joy, but he lacks the wit and vocabulary of his friend Darcy, and the earnest loquaciousness of Mr Collins. Now he would have been a fine son. I am not a man who envies others, but Sir William is a fortunate fellow to call my cousin his son.”
“Mr Bennet,” cried his wife. “Do not speak of horrid Mr Collins in this house. He is a traitor to Longbourn, and a fool, taken in by the scheming Lucases. If only Lizzy had done as she ought—”
“Lizzy chose duty to her father over the love I am certain flourished in her heart for Mr Collins,” he said sardonically, gazing at Elizabeth through his spectacles. “May her heart mend and she forgive Charlotte for stealing her true love.”
Lydia and Kitty whooped with laughter; seeing Jane was less cheered by his jokes at Mr Bingley’s expense, Elizabeth withheld her own smile.
More than once, Papa had alluded to his satisfaction with the engagement for Jane’s future and the security of her sisters while bemoaning that he would gain no intelligent conversation from the match.
“Do his cheeks not ache from all the smiling?” he had whispered to her after Mr Bingley dined with them two nights prior.
Papa is no better than Miss Bingley in his insults and slights; he simply wraps them in softer wit. And I am no better in the feelings I have shared with Jane about Charlotte’s eager acceptance of Mr Collins.
Tapping her thimble lightly on the table, she sank back into the thoughts of Mr Darcy which had plagued her in the week since she had last seen him, standing behind the bench, his face solemn and his pained eyes boring into hers after she had rejected his explanation and his declaration of ardent love.
Had he gazed at me through the quizzing glass, perhaps he would have known my feelings towards him were vexed and muddled—certainly not anything close to ardent love. Except he said the glass reveals character and essence, not feeling.
It was endlessly confusing.
Though denying he had ever looked at her with the glass, he still saw something about her which compelled his admiration.
His unexpected declaration, ‘You have an ethereal glow, a wondrous, inexplicable light’, had played endlessly in her mind these past days, only deepening her confusion over the enigma of Mr Darcy and his quizzing glass.
Elizabeth thought herself a rational creature, one who could not think on the inscrutability of love when the man confessing it was so perplexing—and deeply reliant on an object that was so out of the ordinary.
It would be far simpler to sort her feelings about Mr Darcy if she understood the quizzing glass.
Had he brought it to Meryton, would she have thought worse of him?
Should she admire him for attempting to use his judgment here in the country, where he knew almost no one, rather than rely on the glass?
Mr Darcy was correct that the neighbourhood had its share of fools, braggarts, and rustics—but they were known to her, and each had an endearing quality or excuse for their behaviour.
If a rogue or thief or malefactor lived amongst them, he or she was a stranger to Elizabeth.
Indolence, pride, and a fondness for gossip or wine are the worst I can think of within our small society.
But Mr Darcy, who lived a life far different from those in Meryton, did not know that, and she had accused him of forswearing use of his quizzing glass because he assumed they were simpletons, with needs and desires that were less cloaked and less grasping.
He assumed nothing, she thought contritely. It is I who assumed erroneously and wronged him with that unjust accusation.
Weeks before he had come to Netherfield, Meryton’s matchmaking mamas were throwing greedy looks towards Mr Darcy—or more precisely towards the promise of his fortune; what need had they to measure any other aspect of his value as a husbandly prospect?
Mr Darcy’s name, connexions, fortune, and townhouse were to be coveted; his friends at Netherfield had done him no favours by trumpeting all of it, as well as his brilliance in managing ‘the country’s grandest estate’.
His skill and acumen had no rival, his countenance was handsome, his stables and his seat grand.
What could be said against him beyond he was not of noble birth—though his uncle was an earl—and preferred the quieter pursuits of country to town?
Was that murmured among the ton, whose more avaricious types Mr Darcy detected easily with the quizzing glass?
My neighbours are as guilty as those in town of judging his worth. Should he not be able to judge them as well? The material point is that he did not do so with the quizzing glass. He did not bring it to Meryton, did not look at her or anyone here to form his opinions.
Her remorse deepened.
So much had been laid at his door—his reputation and his place in the world much discussed. Who could like being the object of reverence and rumour? Who would not wish some help to discern those with good intentions from those with less pleasant objectives?
With that thought came a new consideration: caution.
Perhaps he left the glass in town to ensure its safe-keeping.
It was perilous to bring something so unusual, so dangerous if misused or misunderstood, into a neighbourhood he did not know and into a house where Miss Bingley was always quick to practise her charms. Had he had it at Netherfield, she may have had more success in appropriating it than she had at the theatre.
Good lord, Elizabeth thought, I had but a glimpse through the glass and was startled.
Had Miss Bingley peered through it, she would have responded with far more than a quiet gasp.
Her screams could have endangered Mr Darcy’s reputation in a theatre full of the ton.
And she could hardly be trusted with the explanation he attempted to give me.
“Lizzy, stop banging that thimble, or you will give us all a headache,” cried her mother.
After offering an apology, Elizabeth gripped the thimble in her fist and stared blindly at Kitty as she threaded her needle. Thoughts which had tumbled one after another quieted until only one remained.
He trusts me, sees something in me, something singular, which caused him to fall in love with me.
Mr Darcy was the least reckless man she knew, and to leap into such a declaration without relying on his safeguard? It demonstrated a remarkable trust.
But can I trust the love of a man who has, for so long, relied on a jewelled device to pass judgment and make decisions?