Catch No Evil （Catch-22）
Elizabeth Bennet sat in the parlour and revelled in the silence.
No one could consider Miss de Bourgh a harsh taskmaster, nor could they easily consider Miss Bennet overworked or neglected.
She was still a gentlewoman of leisure, unlikely to starve, able to retire early and rise late.
Even better, she was companion to a friend as close as any of her sisters, and possessed sufficient means to pursue matters she deemed important and worthwhile.
Yes, she was quite content with her situation, save for the complete lack of silence.
In Hertfordshire, before Elizabeth did what she sheepishly had to admit was nothing more than fleeing a harpy, she could go out into her father’s garden or wilderness, wander the familiar paths until she was half a mile from the house, and be completely free of all sounds of men or beasts.
The occasional hawk or hare might accompany her, and the wind through the trees was her constant companion, singing the lullaby of the woodlands, but otherwise silence reigned.
Unfortunately, here in the New World, here in New York, here in the clamour and tumult of commerce and work and teeming life, she was always in company, always accompanied, always safe, always watched over, never alone, never lonely, never neglected, never silent… until that August night.
It had taken a fit of stubbornness worthy of her mother, but Elizabeth had finally managed to persuade Anne to attend a ball alone—or as alone as one could be whilst accompanied by two footmen, a driver, a maid, and a Dowager Countess who had retired to New York to be near her son.
Another bit of—well, let us call it impertinence, or perhaps small fibs, or perhaps outright lies and misdirection—left the servants out for an evening of liberty at Elizabeth’s expense.
For the very first time in over a year, Elizabeth Bennet was entirely alone in a house amid the silence of her own thoughts.
While she missed the lullaby of the wind in the trees, she was otherwise content.
This solitude had a different flavour than the time she spent alone in her bed.
At night, her excellent hearing could detect the creaking of the townhouse, Anne coughing, the steady ticking of too many clocks, and the steady snoring of at least one, and usually more, of the servants.
She could even occasionally hear other sounds coming from the direction of the servants’ quarters that she in no way wished to investigate.
Lying in her bed at night was not the same as being alone—nothing of the sort.
~~~
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but may I have the honour of the next dance?”
Anne de Bourgh looked at the man in front of her in perplexity.
Here in America, the rules were entirely different, and she was never quite certain she understood them.
Even back in England, she had never been sure she did everything right.
She had missed so many of the things that could only be learned in company, because of both her ill health and her isolation in Rosings.
Perhaps her mother might have better prepared her for society, but Anne had long since resolved the matter.
As a daughter, she might feel entitled to criticise, had she ever nursed a child sick to death for a decade.
Until then, she would keep her peace. Lady Catherine de Bourgh might not have done everything right in the eyes of the absent, but Anne was loath to think she had any right to complain.
An ill child was like a blight on the soul, and Anne was only happy her mother had survived the ordeal as intact as she was.
It would have been easier for her mother had Anne died, yet she was glad she had not.
Now however was not the time for introspection. Now was the time to show she at least was familiar with the English language, even when spoken oddly.
Anne replied, somewhat shyly, “My pardon, sir. We have not been introduced.”
~~~
Jane Bennet prepared for the upcoming encounter in the most comfortable place she knew: the parlour at Rosings.
The gentleman was due at any moment, and she vacillated wildly between euphoria, mortal anguish, and self-reproach over her choices.
What in the world had made her give up on the courtship of Mr Darcy and force herself on Mr Bingley?
Was she the bravest woman she knew, or the most cowardly?
Was her heart guiding her, or did her head know that however amiable and comfortable Mr Darcy was as a friend, as a lover he would not suit?
It took no wild flights of fancy to see that they were not at all similar.
Was she simply trading another man’s comfort in life for her own?
There was little doubt Mr Bingley would feel honour-bound to offer for her, and she honour-bound to accept.
Finally, the door opened and she beheld the man whose fate appeared bound with hers. His face convinced her he was not displeased with his current position, and her heart leapt. She had not laid eyes on him in over half a year; absence, it seemed, truly made the heart grow fonder.
“Miss Bennet, it is uncommonly good to see you.”
“Mr Bingley, thank you for coming. I know this is not easy.”
“It is my pleasure.”
~~~
Fitzwilliam Darcy strode down the hall of Rosings, a worried frown on his face.
He had just seen Bingley to the parlour, but nothing happening behind that door was of the least concern.
Jane and Bingley were merely two puzzle pieces wandering the world waiting to find each other, and the result was as inevitable as a stone falling from a precipice.
He met Lady Catherine in the hall, and she looked toward the parlour with a little smile, no more concerned than he.
“I imagine I have calmed enough to talk to Richard without doing him violence, but it is a near thing,” Darcy said. “By your leave, I will go to him now and determine what is to be done.”
“If he were anybody but family, what must be done would be obvious and not to the credit of his health. However, with him, I do not know. He was not always thus.”
Darcy pushed his hand through his hair and let out a long breath.
“No, he was not. The behaviour was unpardonable, but it makes me wonder if we all hang on a precipice, just a few experiences from savagery. War changes a man, and he has been in the thick of it for the better part of a decade. Perhaps he is just… shattered.”
“Perhaps.”
“How do you resolve such a thing? Is this an aberration or his character? Was a kiss the worst behaviour on offer, or might he have done more? We cannot send a monster back into the world to wreak havoc, but we also cannot hold our own family to an impossible standard. I do not know, but I imagine I must resolve it soon. It is only by the barest luck that all will work out for the best for Miss Bennet. It was a very near thing.”
“For once in my life, I am not at all sure of the right course.”
On any other day, Darcy would have revelled in the novelty of Lady Catherine de Bourgh being unsure of herself, but that day, he merely understood it.
“Since his actions occurred on your estate, I must offer you the opportunity to deal with him if you choose, but I shall not insist, since I brought him here. It might be best if I attend to the matter.”
The lady sighed wistfully. “I will not presume to instruct you, nephew. Go see him. Do what must be done. Ask anything of me you require, but otherwise I leave it in your hands. Perhaps you should leave it to his father?”
~~~~
The man standing before Anne laughed softly.
He was a reasonably handsome man, rugged but not roguish, well-dressed though not ostentatiously.
He was a head taller than Anne herself, which made him of middling height.
Her Fitzwilliam cousin would have dragged the man away for a drink and conversation before he uttered three words, while Darcy would have scowled and frightened him off.
Anne was astonished. She had danced before—quite frequently by her previous standards—but never with someone who introduced himself, and frankly, never without unconsciously using Lizzy as bait.
Anne was so used to thinking of herself as a pale and sickly creature that the idea of someone voluntarily noticing her and giving his attention was startling.
Lizzy had managed to instil courage in the young heiress, but old habits died hard, and she still expected to dance only with gentlemen who saw and admired Lizzy first.
While Anne looked on in confusion, the gentleman continued without any real interruption, apparently not intimidated by indecisiveness.
~~~
Elizabeth wondered at the contradictions of her life.
Was she brave or cowardly, wise or foolish?
She had, in her own humble opinion, weathered the loss of her sight rather well.
Her first year of railing against fate—her tilting at windmills—had mostly passed under cover of darkness in her own bed, hidden even from Jane.
Daylight hours belonged to strength and character.
She took the slights she could hear, though the speaker whispered yards away, with the aplomb necessary to ensure she was no burden to her family or her own self-respect.
She took the silliness of her sisters, the indolence of her father, the shrillness of her mother, and her fears of becoming a blind, penniless spinster of fifty, and the worries about her elder sister, out in society for six years without a suitor.
She took it all in stride. Night was for crying; day was for resilience.