Chapter Kympton
Kympton
After the debacle with Lady Matlock, Elizabeth questioned the entire enterprise.
She must believe either that she had misjudged the man, or that Lady Matlock was overly protective of her family; yet she had wasted a golden opportunity with someone who could answer her questions…
or at least could answer them if Elizabeth were willing to abandon all pretence of good breeding.
That Lady Matlock might be overprotective was not difficult to credit, for Elizabeth viewed her own family in the best possible light, though they always mortified her.
However, Lady Matlock’s frank assessment of Mr Darcy’s defects seemed to contradict that assertion.
There was no reason to believe the Fitzwilliams should be any different, and though she had tried her best to dance around the issue, Lady Matlock had seen through her without difficulty.
The worst part was that Elizabeth believed the countess would have happily accepted anything she had to say, and equally happily answered any question; but Elizabeth’s courage had failed her at the last minute, and it was too late to return.
She was still a fortnight from her majority, still had no idea what to think of Mr Darcy, and was more confused than ever.
Though the trip was enjoyable, and she loved the Wythes, thus far she had not accomplished any of her goals, nor even made meaningful progress—aside from the many hours of restless attempts at sleep where she worked what she thought and what she knew like a dog chasing its tail.
Of course, absence alone for two months or more would likely accomplish the goal of not becoming engaged to him, but the spectre of the Bates ladies made her reconsider. Was it right to penalise her mother and sisters simply because she did not wish to marry a man who did not respect her?
What did she truly know of Mr Darcy? He was certainly involved in separating Mr Bingley from Jane.
That was indisputable, but frankly any spineless worm who walked away from Jane was probably at least half-simple anyway.
Jane was probably better off without him, and definitely better off without the pernicious Bingley sisters; so, was she truly to hold that to the Darcy account, even if the man had done everything to separate them for Mr Bingley’s benefit and not Jane’s?
And what of Mr Bingley’s culpability? If he were to abandon Jane, did he not at least owe her the courtesy of taking his leave like a man, instead of crawling off like a mongrel?
What of Charlotte’s assertion that Jane had her own culpability because she did not show her affections?
That disturbed Elizabeth more than Mr Darcy’s interference.
Could she truly hold him to account if Jane showed no affection, but her mother boasted of ‘capturing’ the man…
within Mr Darcy’s hearing? It was difficult to see how she could fault him.
Especially as her mother had slighted Mr Darcy in the same breath when Elizabeth tried to get the matron to speak more quietly.
For a few minutes, Elizabeth tried to picture the world from Mr Darcy’s perspective.
He was master of a great estate and rich as Croesus.
Mrs Bennet was certainly not the first matchmaking mama to hunt him or one of his friends, nor was the Meryton assembly the first place where rumours of his income and consequence circled the room within five minutes of his arrival.
For the first time, she realised that it must happen everywhere he went!
She clearly remembered his entry to the assembly hall. She had seen plenty of ghosts of the past before, but this time she saw herself speaking with Charlotte. Elizabeth had found the man quite handsome on first appearance but then found his expression not to her liking.
As if watching herself from afar, she observed the conversation, and was far from satisfied with the result:
And the person with the quizzical brow?
That is his good friend, Mr Darcy.
The miserable poor soul!
Miserable, he may be, but poor he most certainly is not.
Tell me.
Ten thousand a year and he owns half of Derbyshire.
The miserable half?
Elizabeth wanted to flush in embarrassment, for she realised her behaviour was only a slightly more subtle version of her mother’s. She was measuring a man she had never met by his income and demeanour as he climbed into what must have seemed like a vat of boiling oil.
To make matters worse, she had the temerity to become mortally offended when the gentleman later failed in his God-given duty to find her handsome enough to dance with when his friend badgered him publicly.
Those thoughts were so disturbing that she had to move to another topic. Dwelling on that was likely to make her die of either shame at herself, or anger towards him, which would be a terrible inconvenience for the Wythes.
In the light of a new day, Mr Wickham’s account disturbed her, but she had to belatedly admit that perhaps Jane was right. It was likely she did not know all the particulars; and as little as Jane could encompass the idea, Mr Wickham could be lying or exaggerating.
Lizzy had no evidence to support him other than that he was agreeable and pleasant, while Mr Darcy tended toward offence.
However, a closer examination of Mr Wickham’s manners added disturbing questions.
If he was so well-mannered, why tell a complete stranger his personal business on the same day he met her?
It was certainly not proper, and she had taken the bait like a tasty worm, merely because she was predisposed to dislike Mr Darcy.
What would she have done if Mr Wickham slighted someone she liked, or was indifferent to?
She tried replaying that first conversation in her mind, replacing every reference to Mr Darcy with Sir William or one of her Uncle Gardiner’s business associates, and she would have cut him off before the second sentence.
The realisation that she had taken part in yet another propriety violation sent her into a fresh shock, and she wondered if she should be having an impoliteness contest with Mr Darcy. She was not at all certain who would be the victor.
Mr Darcy was certainly capable of lies by omission.
When she mentioned that Jane had been in town these four months, he had simply said he had not had the privilege of seeing her.
That would have been the perfect time to add something like, ‘No, I did not see her, since I consider you, her, and the rest of your family unsuitable company and I was not up to suffering the degradation.’
In the end, neither gentleman’s manners truly withstood close scrutiny, nor even cursory inspection.
That meant neither had any advantage in believability.
Mr Darcy refused to disclose anything about Mr Wickham, but was that arrogance or politeness?
A true gentleman did not spread tales about another without cause, but what could Mr Wickham’s cause be? She could not fathom one.
Her snort of derision at her own silliness earned her a curious look from Margaret and Mrs Wythe, but she merely nodded and did not elaborate. It was embarrassing enough bearing it in her own head.
The carriage arrived in good order at the village of Kympton, a mere fifteen miles from Pemberley, around dinner on Saturday.
She was eager to be in the neighbourhood of the Darcy family, and anxious to pursue her inquiries.
In a curious coincidence, they were to attend the parish Mr Wickham claimed was to be his living, so perhaps she could ask the incumbent about the two gentlemen in question.
That would certainly be a way to learn the truth—if she could bring herself to ask such an impertinent question.
She could not imagine doing so with a stranger, but she could imagine asking his wife.
They spent the afternoon wandering from shop to shop, and trying not to be too obvious, she asked subtle questions about the Darcys, with most people either giving them a good character or at least nothing bad.
Her first piece of genuine intelligence came from the bookseller.
Margaret was not a great reader, but was, much like Kitty, a great devotee of the haberdashery, so the party separated, Elizabeth requesting the privilege of an hour in the bookshop.
Though she would not impose on the Wythes to purchase books, she loved the scent of leather and paper, and it reminded her of her father’s library.
Mr Wythe had business with a carrier in the village, and Mrs Wythe accompanied her daughter.
Elizabeth’s thoughts regarding her father were conflicted.
She loved him dearly and always found comfort in his presence; yet she was forced to admit that he had utterly failed in the duty of securing his daughters' future.
He left his wife to raise them—an arrangement which left much to be desired.
They had little dowry, no formal education, and two-thirds possessed no manners.
All in all, they had few prospects—yet he chose to assist them by ridicule, rather than instruction.
The realisation struck her right in the middle of the bookshop, and nearly forced her to a seat; she settled for a startled gasp as she saw her Grandfather Gardiner, or at least his ghost sitting in a chair in the corner.
Someday my girl, you will come to realise all the people you look up to are flawed. Some are more flawed than others, and you may be distressed to learn that the people you love and esteem most might just have more flaws than others.
The elderly owner of the bookshop asked solicitously, “Are you well, miss?”
“I thank you, sir. I am well,” she replied, mostly out of politeness.
She had not understood that remark when she was a young girl, but she certainly understood it now.
Elizabeth wondered how many of her father’s flaws she had inadvertently adopted.
She could name at least three from each parent, but since the owner appeared concerned, she decided to put those ruminations aside.
He was a grandfatherly man, with an old-fashioned wig and substantial whiskers. He seemed good-humoured, and quick to smile or laugh.
The shopkeeper noticed the volume she was examining. “Holding that book, you remind me very much of Miss Darcy. I ordered it at her request last autumn, but she has been from home longer than expected.”
Seizing the opportunity, Elizabeth asked, “I do not know Miss Darcy, but have heard of her. What sort of girl is she?”
The old bookseller, not immune to conversation, replied, “A very accomplished young lady, but somewhat shy, I believe. My sister is a maid at Pemberley and says she plays all day, sings like an angel, and has not uttered a single unkind word to anybody in the whole course of her life. Her brother absolutely dotes on her.”
“She sounds much like my elder sister, except for the brother, as we have none. You say Mr Darcy is an ideal elder brother?”
She had gone well beyond the bounds of propriety into gossip, but she had to find out something somewhere.
“I believe so. He is a good customer, and we talk occasionally. I do not believe there is a tradesman or tenant anywhere in his sphere who will not give him a good character. He looks after his sister very well and is possibly the most diligent master in Derbyshire. He is kind, courteous, and affable to the poor. He knows every tenant and tradesman within a dozen miles. He is attentive to the land, fair, and even-tempered. His tenants get help when the harvest fails, and their cottages are the best in the county. He even established a free school in Lambton. He has visited my shop all his life, so while I cannot claim to be intimate with his family, I have spoken to him often, and everyone here thinks well of him.”
Someone unconnected giving such a good reference was not to be disregarded.
Elizabeth, for the first time since the mortification of his slight at the Meryton assembly all those months earlier, wondered: could her first impressions be entirely mistaken?
Of course, the man was likely one of his best customers, but what was to be gained by praising the man to a stranger? No, it must be the truth!
The rest of Saturday afternoon in Kympton yielded much the same.
Whether it was shopkeepers, friends of Mrs Wythe, or anybody else she met, her subtle or not-so-subtle requests met with nothing but approbation.
Everyone gave him his due for being reserved and more than a little distant, but they assumed that just went along with the responsibilities he carried.
Nowhere could she find the relief she might have felt at knowing others agreed with her own opinions.
Worse yet, she doubted even she agreed with her own previous convictions.
Could she reflect on their history and form a new understanding that reconciled her experience with what others said?
When she attended church on Sunday, she discovered, much to her disappointment, the vicar was away with his wife visiting his sister, so a curate delivered the sermon. He was amiable enough, but not from the area, and thus unable to provide intelligence or even local gossip.
Elizabeth grew uneasy with the number of questions she asked about the Darcys and reluctantly concluded that the limited bits she had learned must suffice for a time.