Chapter 11 A Lessening of Ill Opinions
A LESSENING OF ILL OPINIONS
Darcy’s eyes swept over the crowd at Maynard House, witnessing the same scene he had beheld too many times previously.
A heat of too many bodies in close proximity, the din of a multitude of meaningless conversations, the smell of perfumes and colognes mixing together in an overpoweringly malodorous scent.
For a brief moment, his heart stopped, a flash of dark eyes and the bounce of a curl arresting him.
A second later he exhaled. It was not her, of course.
In truth, the lady did not even resemble her very much, only in a trick of light and his own imagination.
It was not the first time it had happened nor, did he suspect, would it be the last.
And there is Miss Manning. She stood beside a woman he presumed was her mother—they looked much alike—both appearing demure and unobtrusive. Miss Manning looked even younger, to his eye, than Georgiana did, but for the sake of his sister, he would ask her to dance.
The dance was not unpleasant. Miss Manning was naturally diffident and that, combined with her awareness of the jealous looks received for having somehow secured Darcy’s first dance, made her very quiet. Darcy did all he could to draw her out, but it was a relief to take her back to her mother.
Miss Manning was followed by a succession of increasingly shameless misses.
Lady Jane Bourdillon made an exaggerated and quite obvious stumble that sent her tumbling into Darcy’s arms. Miss Litchfield tried an opposite tactic, appearing as disinterested as she could, even a little mean, no doubt in hopes of stoking his interest. It did not work.
He found himself seated at supper with Lady Alice Maynard, eldest daughter of the house.
She was an audacious young lady who seemed determined to reveal her breasts to him.
There had been lace along the bodice of her gown while they danced, but sometime before they sat, she had removed it.
Now she was intent on doing all she could to lean over to him, determined to make him glance down.
He was equally determined to avoid looking and trained his eyes on the feathers in her ridiculously elaborate hairstyle.
Fitzwilliam, seated across from him, had no such reservations, and grinned widely at Darcy, appearing to enjoy his cousin’s discomfort.
When supper was finally ended, and everyone began to move back into the ballroom, he came over to his cousin.
“If you were to pick the future Mrs Darcy based on breasts alone—”
Darcy groaned as they began a slow stroll out of the supper rooms. “What of proper modesty? Ladylike reserve? What man wants a woman who behaves so?”
Fitzwilliam slapped his cousin’s back in a show of solidarity. “If it is so insupportable, choose one. That might not completely end the madness, but it will at least dampen it significantly.”
“Choose one? Like I am choosing a new horse?”
“Chances are you will spend more time with your horse than your wife.”
Darcy grimaced and shook his head. Fitzwilliam suggested that they retire to the card room for an hour or so, and to that scheme Darcy gladly assented.
They sat down to a table that included several men Darcy knew, including a Mr Edgar Hawkridge, Fitzwilliam’s cousin on the maternal side.
He was a good man, about five years Darcy’s senior, and known for his outgoing jocularity.
He had been married for three or four years to one of the celebrated beauties of the ton, and they had recently celebrated the birth of his heir.
Darcy asked after the boy and Hawkridge beamed. “A fine little fellow he is,” he said, shuffling his hand. “My true pride and joy. Has a head like a cannon ball! I cannot think how my wife managed it, but so she did.”
Of those at the table, Darcy and Fitzwilliam were the only two unmarried and thus open to all the teasing the others wished to mete out to them. Hawkridge began by teasing Fitzwilliam for attentions he had paid to Lady Isabelle Montague.
Fitzwilliam replied agreeably, “My heart is available to any woman who wishes to support me in the manner to which I have become accustomed.”
“And Darcy? Has your wife search proved fruitful as yet?” The question came from Sir Thomas Willard.
Darcy groaned and ran a hand over his mouth which made the men laugh. It was, alas, the wrong thing to do, for another man—a thin, nervous gentleman called Farnworth—immediately and inappropriately began urging this and that female towards him. “Darcy, if you only knew my cousin, I daresay—”
“If she looks anything like you,” Hawkridge said genially, “then Darcy ought to run for the hills.”
“Most of the time, I wish to run for the hills regardless,” Darcy offered gravely, to much mirth.
“Ah, it is not so bad as that,” Sir Thomas opined. “The noose can be quite comfortable at first, and it tightens so gradually, one hardly notices.”
“Marriage is hardly like being hanged,” Hawkridge protested. “Well—perhaps mine is, but only the part where one twists and chokes and hopes death will come quickly!”
This was greeted by a burst of uproarious laughter. Darcy chuckled along with them, but a sense of forlorn regret was sinking in his chest.
The remainder of the evening was no better, and by the end of it, he had decided he could no longer do it.
He lay awake in his bed that night, thinking of the humiliation he felt from the displays and machinations of these brash husband-hunters of the ton.
Georgiana, far from reassured by their last talk, questioned him often and reported the shocking gossip she heard from her friends about him.
It was disgusting and embarrassing, and he could bear it no more.
And the worst of it was that it had not worked. In the weeks since he had left Kent, Elizabeth had not left his mind for even a moment. Not one of his efforts, no lady he knew, had come close to diminishing his regard for her. It was Elizabeth and only Elizabeth whom he could really love.
Did he dare return to Hertfordshire and show her the improvements he had made in his character? Had he changed enough? Would she be agreeable to giving him a second chance, even if she had been unaware of the first?
He woke early the next morning. The first thing he would do was to try again to resolve matters with Bingley.
It had been a month since that dreadful day in his study.
He had seen Bingley about town now and again, but they had not spoken.
He hoped that his friend’s anger had cooled, that he might be more amenable to hearing an apology now.
He considered calling upon him but at length settled on writing him a letter.
Bingley,
If you have read this note thus far without burning it or tearing it to shreds, I must thank you. I appreciate your willingness to read the words I have written, inasmuch as I know there is little I can say to excuse what I have done, and what has come between us.
You must know how greatly I regret the actions that separated you from Miss Jane Bennet.
I cannot excuse my actions except to say that I acted only out of the highest degree of regard and respect for you, as well as from my desire to see you happily settled.
Although I truly believed what I told you at the time, none are so happy as I am to learn that I was in error, that Miss Bennet does hold you in high esteem.
You are deserving of no less. I wish you great joy, and I wish it for the pair of you together.
I regret having occasioned pain onto her as well.
The conversation that we have had over this issue might have been the harbinger of an irreparable break in our relations, but I do hope, most fervently, that it will not be so.
You may be assured that I recognise that you are fully capable of managing your own affairs and do not require my intervention; indeed, I was in error to do so.
I would beg you to forgive my interference, high-handed and officious as it was.
Your words in our argument have given me much pause for reflection.
I cannot but agree that in many cases, I have behaved meanly towards those outside of my own circle of family and friends.
I have behaved selfishly, and though I have been taught good principles, I have followed them in pride and conceit.
It is my greatest wish that I might rectify those attitudes, particularly where dear friends such as yourself are concerned.
I never intended to make you feel as though I thought myself superior to you or your family because, certainly, I do not.
In the years of our friendship, I have come to regard you much as I do any member of my family and think you as fine a gentleman as any I have ever known.
Should you wish to discuss these matters further, I am at your convenience.
F Darcy
He read the letter over, sanding and blotting it. Would it do? He had no idea. He sealed it, then placed the letter on the salver with the other outgoing mail, hoping for the best.