Chapter 8 Elizabeth #2
“First, I want you to know that I consider Bingley a good man and quite a good friend. He is much younger than I am, of course, and I have not known him as long as most of the men I consider friends, for when I was close to finishing with Eton, Bingley was entering. Coincidentally, he entered younger than most, at age twelve, exactly as I did five years before. Also coincidentally, he arrived at the boarding school at that tender age because his mother had died—again, exactly as happened with me.”
“Oh, dear, I can see why you noticed him.”
“Well, to be quite honest, the reason I noticed Bingley is because many of our fellow students were relentlessly unpleasant to him because of his parents’ and grandparents’ participation in trade.
People characterised their own behaviours towards Bingley as teasing or jesting, but I saw it as mean-spirited intimidation, insult, and name-calling.
I could not bear it and took a stance against it, which of course necessitated that I befriend him.
He has always expressed himself as very grateful for my support. ”
“You are so good!”
“The thing is, I attempted to continue to look in on his wellbeing when I went off to Cambridge, but Bingley is not a reliable correspondent; also, he has perfectly dreadful handwriting. I travelled to visit him and insisted he use the services of a friend as his scribe, and another boy whose family’s roots were also mired in trade took up the task gladly.
Through our correspondence, I heard that Bingley’s father died when he was just nineteen, almost a year ago.
I was twenty-two when my father died, and I was shocked and grieved that my friend had to go through this transition even earlier.
Of course, I rushed to Bingley’s side again, hoping to help him through the agony I had recently undergone. I feel…quite brotherly about Bingley.”
“Oh, believe me, I can understand everything you are saying. ’Tis an unusual bond you two share, but I can readily see why it was compelling.”
“I want to emphasise,” her suitor said, reaching out to squeeze one of her hands, “that I act as very much the elder brother of Bingley, not as companion or friend. I have never really socialised with him until recently. But Bingley did dictate long letters to me while he was at Eton and I was at Cambridge, and now he does talk an awful lot. Because of this mostly one-way communication, I feel I have heard much of what Bingley has experienced and felt, in the past, even though all of this was out of my sight.”
“I see. So you know of his past mostly through his words, not through your own observations. But…you have said that he is a good man.”
“Yes, I believe so. I wish to believe so,” Mr Darcy admitted with a wry smile.
“But I have heard from Bingley many tales about him meeting what he termed ‘angels,’ all of them young ladies with blonde hair, blue eyes, and what he considered elegant figures. From the two or three I have actually met, I gathered that elegance, for him, means fairly tall and quite slender.”
Mr Darcy looked pointedly at Elizabeth. “Just like Jane,” she said slowly. She did not like the idea of there being “many, many tales” of Mr Bingley meeting ladies matching her sister’s description.
“Exactly. Bingley has told me of meeting, dancing with, and calling on these angels. Apparently none of them warranted a serious or long-term relationship, but whether this was because of flaws in the ladies or immaturity or some other failing in Bingley, I have never known.
“When I noticed my friend’s marked attentions to your sister, and heard him describe her as an angel, I remembered all of those other angels.
Therefore, I took him to task, demanding that he treat your sister, who will before long be my own sister, with circumspection.
I wished to make very certain that he did not flirt, raise expectations, and then move on.
Because Netherfield is only leased, not purchased, and because Bingley is still so young, I am not at all certain that he would be a reliable suitor for your elder sister, and even though they are almost the same age, she strikes me as being more mature than he. ”
Elizabeth huffed. “I believe that Jane really likes him already. What did Mr Bingley say when you brought all of this up?”
“He promised to take care. He seemed to truly understand me. I feel quite confident that he will treat your sister well—and he said that he really likes Miss Bennet. The only problem is that I know he has felt that way many times before. In other words, Bingley is the opposite of me: he becomes infatuated often and loses interest quite quickly, or at least he has done so frequently in the past; whereas I never fell for any lady until I fell in love with the one I remain certain I want by my side all of my life.”
Elizabeth digested this for a moment while taking a little circuit of the hilltop in order to check on the whereabouts of their sisters and the man under discussion.
When she returned to their log, she did not sit again, but rather stood before Mr Darcy and asked, “Is Mr Bingley also opposite of you when it comes to the vices common to men of your station?”
“Honestly, I do not know,” Mr Darcy said, looking quite serious as he searched her face.
“I imagine that he is more like most men than like me. I wonder if anyone at all is like me. At any rate, I do not ask, and although I sometimes hear the boasting by other men, I cannot think of a single time any of my friends have said anything to me on this topic.”
“In other words, your friends do not speak to you of going to brothels or of trysts with serving girls or widows, because they assume you will judge them negatively or—at least—not feel comfortable with their sordid tales, you being a monk.” It was the second time she had used the nickname students of Cambridge had used for her suitor; of course, Mr Darcy was not a monk, and never had been, but he was an oddity as far as his viewpoints of sexual fidelity.
Mr Darcy winced at her words but kept his gaze locked with hers. “I hope that my friends do not actually do those things, but I imagine that those who do feel I am the last person to whom they wish to brag…or confess.”
“If Mr Bingley were to tell you that he visited a different courtesan every day for a month, would you feel judgmental about him? Or at least judge negatively that aspect of his life?”
“I would try not to, but I am not certain if I could manage. Perhaps because I have a sister, I cannot prevent myself from considering how I would feel if her suitor behaved so. And I cannot see why behaviours in men are acceptable if the same behaviours in women are ruinous.”
“I dearly love you, Mr Darcy.” Elizabeth felt the warmth flooding up her body, as if her love was a liquid getting ready to boil over, and she flung her arms around him just as she had that morning.
They stood embraced for several minutes.
Finally, William said, “Let us go down and find everyone else, lest they suspect us of misbehaviour.” He gave her his arm, and they started down quite briskly, making their way back to the house and, soon, making their farewells as the Darcys and Mr Bingley left for Netherfield.
Shuddering, Elizabeth asked herself, What should I say to Jane about the many angels in Mr Bingley’s past?
“Mr Darcy has told me something about Mr Bingley, Jane.”
Jane’s face lit with a smile, because—being Jane—she naturally assumed the best of everybody.
Elizabeth swiftly repeated everything Mr Darcy had said—including the coincidences regarding each man’s loss of his parents drawing the two together, the mean treatment Mr Bingley first suffered at Eton, and the reports over the years of Mr Bingley’s “many, many angels.”
Jane had lost her smile when Elizabeth related the deaths of Mr Bingley’s parents, and she paled when Elizabeth related the cruel teasing Mr Bingley had endured. When Elizabeth described the “angels” Mr Bingley called on over the years, Jane’s face seemed to freeze.
Reaching over to take Jane’s hand, Elizabeth finished by saying, “Mr Darcy holds the opinion that Mr Bingley is a good man, although still very young. But I learnt that Mr Darcy actually knows little from his own observation of Mr Bingley’s past history and nothing at all about his ideas concerning, and his use—or lack of use—of brothels and mistresses. ”
The good news was that Jane’s face was no longer frozen; the bad news was that it was bright pink. Jane jerked her hand away from Elizabeth’s and exclaimed, “Oh, Lizzy! How can you speak of these things? It…it is not right, or proper, for us to even know such things exist!”
“Well, I do read literature, Jane.”
“I am happy that I read much less than you, then, if this is the kind of topic canvassed in your poetry and plays and novels. And how is this something your suitor feels is appropriate to discuss?”
Elizabeth was affronted. How dare Jane insult literature and Mr Darcy in one fell swoop?
Still, Elizabeth took a few moments before responding, and she realised that Jane had stumbled into a bit of a contradiction. She asked, “Jane, if we maidens are not to even know that brothels and mistresses exist, how do you know to be upset about these words?”
Jane’s eyes widened. “I have heard the words a few times—overheard from maids and footmen—and from the intonation and context, I gather that the words pertain to topics I do not wish to know about.”
Nodding, Elizabeth said, “I see. Well, Jane, I must admit that Mr Darcy and I both had a share in bringing up these topics. For my part, I do not wish to marry a man and then, later, discover that he has lain with hundreds of courtesans, continues to frequent brothels, and keeps a mistress…. So of course I have had to discuss these things with Mr Darcy.”
Jane shuddered, and Elizabeth surmised from her expression that her trembles were signs of disgust. Jane whispered, “Well, I could never discuss these things with anyone. Especially not a man.”
“Not even a man who offers you his hand in marriage?”
“Especially not with such a man!"
Elizabeth gazed at her elder sister but could not catch her eye.
She felt uncomfortable, and she was certain that Jane felt even more awkward.
She wished her sister a good night and sweet dreams, but before she herself felt ready to sleep, she had to read two Wordsworth poems and then several letters from The Woman of Colour.
Finally she felt exhausted enough to mark her page, snuff out the candle, and close her eyes.
Once closed, however, she could not help but remember Mr Darcy’s dark eyes as he had removed her hairpins and watched her hair fall.
He had looked tender and loving but also…
what was the word? Passionate, perhaps. He seemed to see her as a beautiful flower to be looked at and cherished but also as a roasted pheasant to be devoured.
How it was possible to combine both of these into one look, Elizabeth did not know…
but the memory of his gaze comforted her even as it agitated and aroused her.
I will never be able to sleep, Elizabeth thought. But less than a minute later, she was sleeping soundly.