Chapter 5
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Clearly, Darcy thought, Miss Bingley ought to have stood on the chairs at her costly lady’s seminary, rather than remain seated—since their lessons on civility had gone so far over her head.
Even Mrs Hurst, who usually followed her younger sister’s lead, looked taken aback.
Yet he could not help his interest in how Mrs Ashwood would respond to such a frontal attack.
The woman, he saw, could not be flustered.
“If that were true, it would certainly be foolish, would it not? My sister is the epitome of graciousness. Every guest in her home is treated with courtesy, respect and kindness.” She smiled benignly and Miss Bingley flushed; she was rude, not stupid, and had just been flattened at her own game.
“Mrs Ashwood, how does your sister fare?” Mrs Hurst interpolated, helping Miss Bingley save face by interjecting a drop of ‘courtesy, respect, and kindness’.
“Not very well as yet.” Mrs Ashwood sighed, abruptly appearing uneasy, and glancing back towards the stairs from whence she had just come. “She has kept very little down.”
“There is nothing worse than a bad cold,” Miss Bingley chimed in. “This house is so draughty. Is she warm enough, do you think?”
Bingley suddenly looked as though his sister had suggested Mrs Collins might be resting outside in icy mud instead of in a comfortable bedchamber. “Oh, my! We can have the fire built up immediately! Someone fetch Miles!”
“That is not necessary, sir,” Mrs Ashwood immediately assured. “I do not believe that the temperature of her room, which is quite comfortable, affects her. The illness must simply run its course.”
Bingley appeared only marginally relieved. “She mentioned the delicate Bennet heart,” he worried aloud.
At this, Mrs Ashwood appeared surprised; her response sounded measured.
“My father suffered a terrible fever, which according to the physician, weakened his heart as a result. That illness seemed much worse than the one from which Jane now suffers, although she feels dreadful and I am, of course, concerned. I expect that she will recover fully, however. There is no reason to believe she will not live as long as any other.”
Darcy then asked Bingley about his meeting with the steward, casting about for any topic which might divert his attention from his obsession with Mrs Collins.
Unfortunately, Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst responded to his annex of the conversation by forgetting their guest entirely, only speaking to each other on whatever reporting they had misremembered from the latest newspapers and a recently arrived issue of La Belle Assemblée.
Mrs Ashwood did not at all appear uncomfortable, despite their disregard; in fact, after a particularly specious comment in which Miss Bingley attributed a scripture from the Old Testament to Chaucer, he saw her lift her napkin to her lips.
Plainly, she was attempting to stop herself from laughing aloud.
He knew he ought not to engage with her; considering the delicate situation in which he lived, he could little afford rumours emerging, implying his interest in any woman.
However, this corner of England was hardly a hotbed of social exchange, and he could count on the Bingleys to deny his interest in anyone, to everyone, especially if he were discreet.
Besides, they were not the most observant of his friends.
“Mrs Ashwood,” he said, once Bingley and Hurst were involved in a difference of opinion over a horse, and quietly enough not to interrupt Miss Bingley’s diatribe on capes.
She looked a bit startled when he addressed her, and he realised that she probably believed them all to be a completely uncivil lot, ignoring her almost entirely.
And was she not correct? He had been silent, the Bingley sisters self-absorbed, and Hurst could not care about any female unless she was a filly upon which he wagered.
While more polite than his sisters, all of Bingley’s concern had been for the absent Mrs Collins, and once reassured, he had hardly made great efforts towards including Mrs Ashwood in the conversation.
It was enough of an embarrassment that he moderated the formality of his tone, as well as the content of his enquiry.
“How do you find your accommodations? Is there aught else that can be done for your comfort? Shall we send a servant to Stoke for any belongings of which you might be in need?”
Her eyes widened; she had gone from mild wonder to instant astonishment; inwardly Darcy sighed. All told, he had hardly made much better of a showing than Miss Bingley.
“No indeed,” she murmured. “Mrs Hurst was most gracious in providing wonderful accommodations, and of course for Jane, as well.” Her eyes flicked to the woman who could not be bothered, now, to acknowledge her guest.
He felt some obligation to explain. “Please excuse our distraction this evening. I believe Mrs Hurst has been quite worried about the health of both your sister and hers today. It is undoubtedly a relief to her that Miss Bingley was able to join us at dinner, after all.” It was weak, and did not really explain the rest of the rudeness she had encountered, but it was the best he could do—and at least he had been fairly truthful.
Mrs Hurst did fret too much over her younger sister, who had a jealous character, and if Miss Bingley felt slighted in any way, she grew resentful and snappish.
It was likely best—for everyone’s peace—if Mrs Hurst did expend most of her attention upon her.
Nevertheless, Miss Bingley’s failings meant the excuse did not hold much water, especially in the face of the gentlemen’s disregard.
Mrs Ashwood’s expression revealed nothing of criticism.
“Have you known the Bingleys a long while?” she asked politely.
“Several years now. Hurst is the son of a friend of my father’s, and although a few years exist between us, we were together often growing up. He married…oh, I suppose it has been more than five years now—it was shortly before my father died.”
There must have been something in his voice when he said it—he still was not easy, even now, speaking of his father’s death aloud, as if one of the worst events in his life was a commonplace.
“I am so sorry for your loss,” she said immediately, and as if she meant it.
He looked at her then, truly looked; her deep brown eyes were warm with sympathy, when most would only have noted his reference to the timing as nothing of import.
Again he felt that undeniable attraction, the pull of her.
Later, he could not say why he asked it; at the time, it seemed, simply, the logical course of conversation. “How long has it been for you?”
“Oh, it has been nearly three years now,” she replied, but there was something in her voice too—a shared grief, perhaps. Or he might be imagining what was not there. Nonetheless his question emerged before his will could stop it.
“How long do you think it will be before the intensity of grief fades? Until the past seems truly in the past?”
The compassion in her eyes enveloped him, full of a sort of kindness that wholly avoided pity.
“It is never easy, is it?” she asked, half-heartedly pushing a morsel of food from one side of her plate to the other.
“One’s father is larger than life, the ruler of his children, the one whose opinions mean more than one’s own.
Gaining his approval was once at the heart of every worthwhile goal.
And then he was gone, and coping with the chasm—that vast space, the father-shaped hole where he used to be is… difficult.”
He had the sudden urge to place a comforting hand over hers, only just stopping himself. “Gaining his approval seems still at the heart of every worthwhile goal,” he murmured. “Whether or not he is here to give it.”
Mrs Ashwood looked at him as if he had said something wise, and again he felt it—the touch of understanding, of empathy. He felt strangely cheered at her insight.
“Ah, well, it is complicated, is it not?” she smiled.
“My father was an antagonist by nature—teasing was sport, to him. He loved nothing better than to poke fun at difficulties, and mock silly rules or silly people he could not change. His philosophies were often sceptical. But he was always willing to…to hear my questions, hear my doubts, share in my own frustrations. He might make a joke of them, but he never blamed me for having any, or criticised me for failing to find peace in the ways most others can.” She stopped speaking suddenly, as if she had said too much.
She probably had, but truthfully, only if she were trying to lure a husband—most men wished for a biddable, peaceful sort of wife, and she had nearly admitted to ‘kicking against the pricks’, as the Bible named her condition.
However, he was not looking, and there was nothing in her manner to suggest that she was, either.
It was astonishing to find that they had drifted into such depths of conversation, however, and he abruptly changed topics.
“Stoke is what—five miles from Netherfield? A very long distance, without a carriage.”
“A bit more than six,” she admitted. “I hope you do not believe my motivation in making the journey any discredit to the care my sister has already received. Her fears of illness are well known to me, and spring from the deaths of my younger sister, Catherine, and then my father. I possess the same fears. I do not believe in any latent weakness in the Bennet heart, but I wished to find reassurance as much for myself as for Jane. I am extremely grateful for Mrs Hurst’s kind invitation that I might remain with her, and do not expect any more attention than has already been expended. ”
She applied herself to her plate with a certain earnestness, and he almost felt her unspoken words: I want no one’s attention. There is nothing to notice here. Look away, look away.
Civility compelled him to acquiesce, and to leave her in peace.
Very quickly after the meal, she excused herself; she did not return, only sending word that her sister had worsened and she would remain with her.
He enjoined Miss Bingley to cease her abuse—which had begun the moment Mrs Ashwood exited—and instead to attend her sister in visiting their ill patient.
They returned once coffee was served; Miss Bingley immediately began harping again on Mrs Ashwood’s supposed flaws, but Mrs Hurst appeared concerned, several times glancing towards the ceiling.
Hurst, naturally, only cared about his game of loo, but thankfully kept Bingley occupied enough that he did not notice his eldest sister’s anxiety.
Darcy could hardly mind his cards. “Do you think we ought to call Jones back?” he asked, once he had the opportunity of speaking to Mrs Hurst when the others were all occupied.
“No,” she replied slowly, thoughtfully. “Perhaps if she is not improved by morning.”
If she is not improved by morning, Darcy thought, I will send for Mr Miller in town.
His personal physician was very much an improvement, in Darcy’s opinion, over the old family physician who had treated his father, emphasising cleanliness and sensible, intelligent medical reasoning.
He would be far better than a simple apothecary.
It was only logical. If anything happened to Mrs Collins, the disruption at Netherfield in general and to Bingley in particular would have been prodigious.
If the thought also occurred to him that Mrs Ashwood had already experienced far too much sorrow and distress in her young life, and ought not to have another grief laid at her door, Darcy brushed it aside.