Chapter 11
Fitzwilliam Darcy shifted his left leg cautiously, and was rewarded when the slight ache in his ankle faded away. His companion, who was nosing around on the grass, trotted over and laid a sympathetic head on Darcy’s right leg.
“I quite agree, Maxwell,” the man commented, patting his furry head. “A damaged ankle is most annoying. On the other hand, I am delighted to have the pleasure of your company this fine November day.”
Maxwell huffed in satisfaction at these words and, his patience for sitting still quite exhausted, ran off to investigate the garden.
It was a lovely morning, cool but not frigid, and Darcy was thankful for the bench which faced the wilderness behind Netherfield. He guessed, based on the forlorn rose bushes fighting for survival among a riotous coterie of blue-blossomed plants, that this had once been a formal garden; years of neglect had allowed the ground cover plants to run wild.
He did not mind, really. He had always preferred natural landscaping to excessive formality. There was a crunch nearby, and he turned in alarm. Miss Bingley was not fond of the outdoors, but she was so determined to hover over him, talking incessantly, that she might have overcome her natural inclination for a warm seat by the fire.
But no, it was not Miss Bingley, but the apothecary walking from the stables toward the manse.
“Mr. Jones, good morning.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I see it is still morning, though barely. I am later than I intended, but the blacksmith’s apprentice needed a burned hand treated. How is your ankle?”
Darcy shrugged, “It aches, of course, but so long as I stay off of it, I am well enough.”
“That is excellent news. Well, I must see Miss Bennet and decide whether she is well enough to return home, though I believe it should be safe by now. Good day.”
“Good day,” Darcy returned with a courteous nod.
Not two minutes later, a carriage drove sedately into the main drive and disgorged Miss Elizabeth, who, after a few words with the coachman, took a few steps towards the house.
“Miss Elizabeth!” Darcy greeted her, and then closed his mouth in shocked amazement. What was he doing, calling this young woman to his crippled side? He must be mad to encourage the girl in any way!
“Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth responded, walking closer to the man on the bench. “Good day, sir. How are you today?”
“I am very well,” Darcy said uncomfortably. “I, er, wished to thank your father for the loan of the crutches.”
“You are entirely welcome. And good morning, Maxwell!”
The puppy, enthused at the arrival of a person who deigned to move around instead of sitting dully on a bench, snuffled around her boots and then tried to paw her skirt.
“No, no, dear boy,” the girl protested in amusement. “I have no desire for you to muddy my clothing. Mr. Darcy, if you will excuse me, I must see if my sister is ready to return home.”
“Mr. Jones arrived only a few minutes ago. He said that he was delayed by the needs of the blacksmith’s apprentice, who burned his hand.”
Elizabeth groaned softly and shook her head, “Poor Edwin. He has a willing heart and a strong back, but he is also ungainly at times. This is not the first time he has sustained burns.”
Darcy was aware, once again, of a profound sense of surprise. This woman, who should be focused entirely on assemblies and dancing with perhaps a vague side interest in the harp, was very knowledgeable about the individuals in the little town which she called home.
“What do you think of the formal garden here at Netherfield, Mr. Darcy?” the woman inquired with an amused quirk of her lips, walking still closer to him.
He shook his head slightly and gazed at the tangled vegetation, “It is not very formal any more, is it? It has been sadly neglected, though I daresay Bingley will have his gardeners take it in hand after the New Year.”
“I confess I prefer the current wilderness to the gardens at their supposed height of perfection,” Elizabeth mused, her eyes on the tangle of roses. “I have never been fond of extremely formal gardens.”
Once again, Darcy struggled to conceal his surprise. Young women of marriageable age always angled their answers to agree with his own.
“Surely you do not believe that Nature should be allowed to run riot!” he suggested, his tone disapproving.
She turned an arch look upon him, “In the matter of fields and weeds, of course not. But if I were to choose between gardens where nary a bloom or twig is permitted to be out of place, and a riot like this, I prefer the riot. Of course, preferable to both is a well-tended garden where flowers and trees blend naturally into the existing landscape, but it is, I suppose, a difficult thing to manage.”
“And what of Longbourn?” Darcy asked. “Has your mother managed it there?”
Elizabeth laughed, and the gentleman’s heart thudded strangely in his chest at the sight of her vibrant eyes and glowing countenance, “Where do you think I learned to dislike strict formality, Mr. Darcy? We do have a pleasant wilderness in the back, but the main garden is very formal. But what of Pemberley, sir? I am certain her gardens are remarkable.”
He felt himself flush with pleasure at these words and smiled, which lit up his face in a way that quite amazed the lady.
“Pemberley’s gardens are glorious, Miss Bennet, and my mother, who designed them many years ago, was in agreement that it is better to work with Nature than to beat Nature into submission. My aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, used to be quite distressed about Pemberley’s gardens; like Mrs. Bennet, my aunt prefers her flowers to adhere meekly to their prescribed places.”
“Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Kent?” Elizabeth inquired in surprise.
“Yes?” Darcy answered in confusion. It seemed impossible that the Bennets were known to his conceited aunt.
“That is rather an extraordinary coincidence, Mr. Darcy. Our distant cousin, a Mr. Collins, is Lady Catherine’s rector at the parsonage in Hunsford.”
Darcy struggled to keep from grimacing. He knew that his aunt’s underlings and dependents were universally tiresome, “That is a surprise indeed. Have you ever had the opportunity to visit him?”
“Oh no, we have never met him before. His father and mine were not on good terms, and he is visiting us for the first time in a few days.”
“How very pleasant for you,” Darcy returned, trying to infuse warmth into his tone.
Based on the curious look on the lady’s face, he was not sure he succeeded, but to his relief a servant approached with the news that Miss Bennet was ready to return home.
“I wish you well as your ankle improves, Mr. Darcy.”
“Thank you.”
“Good day,” she said, curtsying politely and then stooping to give Maxwell a pat on the head.
Fitzwilliam Darcy found his eyes following her as she entered the main door to Netherfield. That was, in itself, not too surprising perhaps. After all, hers was the only moving figure in view save for the dog. Perhaps of greater surprise was that some fifteen minutes later, he was still watching the front door when Miss Bennet and her sister walked out of the mansion with Mr. Bingley and Miss Bingley behind them. There were a few murmured words, notably between Miss Bennet and Mr. Bingley, Maxwell was forcibly discouraged from leaping into the carriage with the sisters, and then the vehicle started up and the Bennet sisters were gone.
Darcy had a strange feeling in his chest as he watched the carriage disappear around the corner. A moment later, he realized to his amazement, that the emotion was one of disappointment.
Bingley waved at the departing carriage and then strolled back towards his friend, the red spaniel frolicking at his heels.
“It appears Miss Bennet has largely recovered from her illness?” Darcy asked a little awkwardly.
“Yes!” Bingley agreed cheerfully, settling himself on the bench next to Darcy. “Mr. Jones is most pleased with her recovery and of course I am as well, though I confess that I enjoyed having her here at Netherfield.”
Darcy shook his head in amusement, “In spite of the fact that you did not see her since she was ensconced in her bedroom, recovering?”
His friend chuckled in return, “That is true enough, but the mere thought that such an angel was under my roof was pleasure in itself, and I did see her this morning, as she came down for breakfast before Mr. Jones arrived. She is such a charming lady, Darcy! Her beauty, of course, is beyond compare, but she is also such a gracious, kindly creature.”
Darcy nodded but did not speak. Miss Bennet was extraordinarily lovely, but Miss Elizabeth was steadily growing in his estimation. She was not as conventionally pretty as her sister, but there was such liveliness in both her countenance and her mind.
“Maxwell seems to have taken a liking to Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley declared, reaching over to fondle the dog’s floppy ears. “Did you see him attempt to jump into the carriage after her?”
“I did,” Darcy admitted. “Some people are especially attractive to animals, I suppose.”
“You are yourself, my friend.”
Darcy considered this as Maxwell carefully nosed his left hand, “I do like dogs very much, and cats too. They are simpler than people. They love and respect based on ... on whatever dogs and cats find important. I am quite certain it has nothing to do with wealth and connections, in any case.”
“True enough!”
/
“Do you have any brothers or sisters, Mr. Collins?” Elizabeth asked, inserting herself desperately into their guest’s near monologue.
It was Monday and Jane had returned home two days previously. To everyone’s relief, the eldest Miss Bennet was nearly fully recovered from her illness, though she occasionally coughed and sneezed.
This afternoon, Mr. Collins, the heir of Longbourn, had arrived precisely at 4 o’clock in the afternoon and was welcomed by the ladies of the house. Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet were united in their determination that the man not meet Mr. Bennet yet; the master of the estate was not violent today, but he was extremely inebriated.
Mr. Collins was a tall, heavy-set individual of some five and twenty summers and he spoke extremely formally, with many bows and compliments on the beauty of his fair cousins. Once they sat down for dinner, Mr. Collins spoke almost ceaselessly, and the two topics of interest to the portly clergyman were Longbourn and its wealth and Lady Catherine de Bourgh, his patroness. The former was offensive since Mr. Collins kept looking around with a look of avarice, and the latter was just boring. Lady Catherine sounded like an imperious and irritating woman, and Elizabeth was thoroughly weary of the subject.
“Er, um, well, Miss Elizabeth, my father has passed on, as you no doubt know, and my only sibling, my younger brother Timothy, left England’s shores seven years ago. I have not heard from him since that time.”
“Oh, I am sorry!” Jane murmured sympathetically. “That must be difficult.”
The rector wiped his moist forehead, “In truth, Cousin Jane, my esteemed father and my brother were not on good terms, and when Timothy chose to go to sea on a merchant ship, life in our little home grew calmer.”
“I have often thought it would be interesting to go to sea,” Lydia commented dreamily. “It is hard to fathom being on a wooden ship surrounded entirely by water as far as the eye can see.”
“It sounds dreadful to me,” Mary declared with a shudder. “I have read about thirst and storms and the struggles of navigation and seasickness. I have no interest in such experiences.”
“It is fortunate that the men in our Majesty’s Navy are willing to venture into dangerous situations or we would likely be overrun by Napoleon,” Elizabeth observed.
“That is true enough,” Mary acknowledged. “It is the will of God that some are called to stay home, and others to travel across land and sea to work, to fight, to learn. I acknowledge that there is great value in traveling for some.”
Elizabeth sat back with a satisfied sigh as the conversation became general. Mr. Collins, looking rather like a bewildered rabbit, apparently had little to contribute on the topic of travel. For the rest of the meal, he occasionally made remarks about Lady Catherine de Bourgh and her penchant for staying home at Rosings the majority of the time, but he was largely, happily ignored.
/
Mrs. Bennet gestured to the nearby chair as she sat down in her own favorite chair in the parlor, “Please, do sit down, Mr. Collins.”
The clergyman obeyed and, after peering at the fine wainscot paneling which adorned the parlor walls, turned his attention on his hostess.
“Mrs. Bennet, while I have no desire to be forward, I had hoped to visit with your esteemed husband Mr. Bennet soon. May I inquire as to when he will be available?”
The lady of the house hesitated, plucking uneasily at her shawl, “I fear that Mr. Bennet has far more bad days than good, and today is not a good day. Perhaps you can speak to me instead and I can pass on any messages you have for him?”
“I wish to marry one of your daughters, Mrs. Bennet,” Mr. Collins intoned solemnly, “with the express purpose of mitigating the great sorrow of losing their home upon the death of Mr. Bennet.”
Frances Bennet’s nostrils flared in shocked delight at these words. A real live eligible suitor for her girls! The heir of Longbourn himself! What a gift!
“That is wonderful, Mr. Collins, absolutely wonderful!” she gushed.
The man bowed portentously and lifted one plump hand to stroke his chin, “Miss Bennet is the eldest, of course, and thus by right of seniority should be the first to marry.”
The lady shook her head slowly, “Oh, Mr. Collins, Jane is a delightful girl but she is, well ... she is very close to being engaged to Mr. Bingley of Netherfield Park, who has been courting her most assiduously.”
Mr. Collins frowned heavily at this, but he would not try to ensnare another man’s prospective bride.
“Miss Elizabeth is, of course, second in birth and beauty,” he mused. “She would do nicely as the mistress of the parsonage at Hunsford.”
Now Mrs. Bennet openly shuddered. Much as she disliked Lizzy’s high handed ways, she knew that Longbourn’s continued solvency was due to her second daughter’s diligence. Furthermore, Elizabeth was the only one in the house who could reliably manage Mr. Bennet during one of her husband’s ‘spells’. No, not Elizabeth.
“Mr. Collins,” she responded, allowing her forehead to wrinkle just slightly, “I do apologize for contradicting you, but of course you do not know Elizabeth well. She is, and I am ashamed to say it, rather a strong willed young lady and does not always respect her elders as she ought. I blame her father, I really do; he taught her far more than was advisable when she was younger. She actually reads some Latin and Greek, Mr. Collins! No, no, I would not wish you to marry a woman who would not show Lady Catherine the great respect that she deserves …”
Mr. Collins paled and actually swayed slightly at the very thought of such a thing, “Surely not, Mrs. Bennet! Surely the very sight of the great lady in all her glory and wisdom …”
“What about Mary, Mr. Collins?” Mrs. Bennet interrupted hastily. “I believe she has nearly memorized Fordyce’s sermons. She would make a wonderful clergyman’s wife.”
Mr. Collins did not conceal his wince. He wanted a pretty wife, and Mary was the only Bennet girl who was not pretty. Nor was he convinced that his cousin Elizabeth was not an option. No young woman could fail to be awed into respectful silence and reverence in the presence of Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Kent.
“Well, we shall see, shall we not?” the clergyman suggested, his expression mulish. “We shall see.”