Chapter IX
It was difficult to experience a major shift in opinion, especially when that change was forced upon one most unwillingly. For Elizabeth Bennet, the change had come upon her like mist rolling in from the ocean, silent and insistent, unexpected in the most basic sense.
The beginning had been Mr. Wickham’s shocking behavior at Lucas Lodge, the disgusting things he said to her, shattering every observation she had ever made about him.
Mr. Darcy’s arrival the previous day had torn down the last shreds of credibility Mr. Wickham might still claim, revealing the true man behind the mask he had shown to everyone in Meryton.
Then there was Mr. Darcy himself. Though Elizabeth had been sitting near him and had expected him to speak to her in keeping with his usual conduct, it was to her aunt and uncle that he had directed his comments.
That Mrs. Gardiner had prompted their conversation by speaking first mattered little in Elizabeth’s opinion—the gentleman was reticent before anything else, and no one could expect him to speak with those he scarcely knew on a whim.
That he was known to Aunt Gardiner, even to the small degree allowed by their mutual interactions in Lambton, was another shock to Elizabeth’s sensibilities.
The image she had built in her mind of Mr. Darcy—with Mr. Wickham’s interference, Elizabeth recalled—was not that of a boy who would associate with the children of townsfolk.
Yet Aunt Gardiner had held him in fond memory, as she explained after Mr. Darcy’s departure the previous day.
“He always had excellent manners as a child,” said she, when Elizabeth had asked her about it. “Even then, he was reticent, but he was not displeasing.”
“Yet you have no memory of Mr. Wickham.”
Mrs. Gardiner grew pensive. “Thinking on it, I seem to recall shadows of a boy who was often with him, but no, I recall little. From Mr. Darcy’s explanation, Mr. Wickham’s character did not become pronounced until after he left for Eton, and by that time I left Lambton.”
There was little more Aunt Gardiner could tell her that Elizabeth could not observe for herself.
His character as a child suggested the man he would become; Elizabeth’s strongest asset in discovering the real man was her own observation, even if it had failed her.
Elizabeth did not concern herself much with that, for Mr. Darcy had not shown himself to advantage when he had stayed in Meryton before.
Now that he was here again, she decided the only thing to do was to push her previous observations to the side and start fresh.
Why it was so important to her, she did not know, but the desire to learn who he was did not depart from her, regardless.
To her benefit, the gentlemen visited from Netherfield the following day, allowing Elizabeth to begin her study at once.
Their appearance was unsurprising, given Mr. Bingley’s renewed ardor for Jane.
Then again, Elizabeth supposed it was not renewed, merely embers fed with enough branches to roar to life again.
The gentlemen entered to the family’s welcome, and events proceeded about as Elizabeth might have expected.
“Mrs. Bennet,” said Mr. Bingley in greeting, addressing the mistress as was proper. “I hope you will forgive us for visiting again; we are alone at Netherfield, and unable to accept visitors at present.”
“Oh, it is no trouble, Mr. Bingley,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Do you expect your excellent sisters to join you soon?”
Mr. Bingley’s jaw tightened, but he mastered himself with a smile that appeared forced. “No, Mrs. Bennet, I do not expect my sisters to join us. Louisa and Caroline are enjoying London at present and have no desire to be in Hertfordshire.”
“Then you are welcome to visit at any time convenient, sir. And since you are to be alone, perhaps you will consent to join us at Longbourn for our New Year’s Eve celebration.”
“It will please us to accept,” said Mr. Bingley. “If I might, Darcy’s sister is to join us at Netherfield. Would it be an imposition to beg the invitation be extended to include her?”
Though Mrs. Bennet’s eyes flicked to the gentleman, it was not in her nature to refuse, no matter how little she liked him. “Not at all, Mr. Bingley. Miss Darcy is welcome to join you.”
The pleasantries continued for several more moments, and then Mr. Bingley took himself to Jane’s side and began to speak to her, while Mr. Hurst sat by Mr. Bennet.
It was odd for her father to remain for a morning visit any longer than civility demanded, but on that morning, he appeared fixed in the sitting-room, his eyes surveying them all, but more particularly focused on Jane and Mr. Bingley.
As for Mr. Darcy, the gentleman approached and sat next to Elizabeth with little hesitation, though he did not speak at once.
Elizabeth snuck glances at him when she thought he was not watching, but for a time, she despaired of his saying anything to her.
“That is curious, Miss Elizabeth,” said he as Elizabeth was trying to think of some subject they could discuss without difficulty.
“What is that, Mr. Darcy?” asked Elizabeth, though given his gaze was fixed on her father and Mr. Hurst, she had a notion of what he meant.
“Hurst and your father,” said he, confirming her conjecture. “Hurst considers morning visits a bother and does no more than sit with a cup of tea and cakes. It seems something of a friendship has developed between them.”
“Yes, I dare say you are correct. Papa is also not social—I suspect that, and their similar characters have brought them together.”
Finally, Mr. Darcy turned to regard her. “Similar characters? I had not thought of it, but I would not have considered them to be at all alike.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Their interests are, I suppose, not common, but the way they look at the world is not at all at odds. Papa laughs at the world, and Mr. Hurst ignores it. In a certain way, their oddities complement one another.”
Mr. Darcy appeared to consider this. “That is still curious, but not an unreasonable assumption. When I consider the autumn, I do not recall them speaking much to each other.”
“No, I do not recall it myself. After Mr. Hurst arrived, he attended Sir William’s Christmas party, and their mutual aversion for society drew them together. Then, knowing Mr. Hurst was alone at Netherfield, Papa invited him to join us for Christmas. Since then, they have been fast friends.”
“Your father is a bibliophile, is he not?” said Mr. Darcy, turning to regard her.
“The most determined I have ever met,” replied Elizabeth. “Papa is never happy unless he is holding a book in his hands.”
“While I have never seen Hurst holding a book. Hurst loves hunting, food and drink, and cards, but has very little interest in anything else.”
“Yet,” replied Elizabeth, “in essentials, that is much like my father, for each is immersed in his own preferred pastimes, devoted to them, to tell the truth.”
Mr. Darcy nodded, conceding the point. “What of you, Miss Elizabeth?”
“You know me better than that, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth with mock reproof. “Did I not confess that I have far too many interests to focus on one? As I recall, I gave that excuse when apologizing for my lack of ability on the pianoforte.”
“I have never found your performance lacking.”
Elizabeth eyed the gentleman, wondering if he was toying with her. “Then you have not paid attention, Mr. Darcy. Though I can play, I do not practice enough to be called proficient. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both have far more ability than I do.”
“Perhaps,” said the gentleman, considering. “However, there is much more to performing than technical proficiency.”
Uncertain what he meant, Elizabeth said: “How so?”
“It is the presentation of the music that draws the attention. Without a doubt, proficiency matters far more than any other factor, but it is not all.
“Take Miss Bingley, for example.” Mr. Darcy smiled.
“You held her up as a proficient, but to own the truth, I do not find her performance pleasing, for she adds embellishment that rarely fits the mood of the piece she plays. Perhaps she has more technical proficiency than you, but I find your performance to be superior. The music means something more to you than it means to Miss Bingley—she treats it as a way to display herself, not to provide enjoyment for her audience.”
It was impossible not to feel flattered by Mr. Darcy’s praise. “I only recall one occasion you heard me perform, Mr. Darcy.”
The gentleman’s smile grew wider. “Once was enough, Miss Elizabeth.”
How Elizabeth might have responded, she could not know—it was fortunate that an interruption arose in the form of her younger sisters, or she might have been forced to acknowledge the flutter in her chest. As the day was mild, they had said something of a visit to Meryton that morning, and while Mr. Bennet had listened, he had not commented.
Now, it seemed the girls were determined to go.
“We shall return before tea, Mama,” Lydia told their mother. “Kitty and I want to know what has happened with Mr. Wickham.”
“Why we should care what happens to that odious man is beyond my comprehension,” said Mrs. Bennet with a sniff of disdain. “You girls would do well to remain strictly away from him as your father instructed.”
“We will not speak with Mr. Wickham,” protested Lydia. “But I am certain there is plenty of gossip about him. When we learn all, we shall return to Longbourn.”
“Sit down, Lydia,” said Mr. Bennet, a note of command he used infrequently, pulling his daughter’s attention at once. “You saw the officers only yesterday. Today, it is better that you stay home.”
“Papa!” exclaimed Lydia as if the notion of staying home were foreign to her understanding.
Mr. Bennet raised a hand, forestalling any further protest. “Lydia, you will obey and stay home today. The officers will still be there, even if you are separated from them for a week.”