Chapter 2
My dear Aunt Gardiner,
Where shall I begin? You will be wishing, of course, to hear of Mr. Bingley’s ball, and so I shall offer a faithful account before proceeding to the alarming events which followed it.
Naturally, this prelude to the narrative will leave you in painful suspense, but as I find myself in a vexatious temper, it pleases me to begin in so dramatic and high-handed a fashion.
You may, of course, proceed directly to the conclusion of this letter to allay your anxiety.
Should you choose to do so, pray, do not inform me, for I am quite enjoying my authorial power and do not wish to know if it has been thwarted.
The morning of the ball dawned cloudy, and Mamma and the younger girls passed the whole day in a terror lest some freak of the weather prevent our journey to Netherfield.
Happily, no such disaster came. Almost too early, we boarded the carriage: all seven Bennets and Mr. Collins, who regrettably considers dancing an acceptable amusement for a clergyman.
Jane wore her pale blue muslin and looked, in Mamma’s words, “like a fresh spring morning.” I had not known my mother was possessed of so admirable a poetic faculty, but the correct provocation reveals her hidden depths.
Mary insisted upon her usual green, though the pale shade does her few favours; Lydia wore Kitty’s favourite pink gown, much to Kitty’s distress, for she was forced to make do with her sprig muslin.
I wore my usual white, though I flatter myself that I contrived to make it rather fetching with new red ribbon that precisely matches my garnet cross.
We were, if I may be forgiven the boast, quite a handsome party.
Even Papa turns out well, when he makes the effort to appear at all.
Had our conduct been in keeping with our excellent looks, I should have been well-pleased.
Alas, the evening proceeded from one mortification to another.
I opened the ball with Mr. Collins, who did irreversible damage to my feet over the course of the set.
I still limp slightly a day later. My fortitude met with no reward: Mr. Wickham did not appear as promised, and I was forced to stand up instead with the detestable Mr. Darcy.
When I taxed him with his conduct toward his childhood friend, he merely declared that the man has a propensity for losing friends.
Not a bit of remorse for his own detestable disloyalty towards one so dear to his father!
Meanwhile, Lydia and Kitty made spectacles of themselves with the officers.
Mary played as badly as usual, poor dear, and had not the sense to end her performance after one song.
Papa felt obliged to halt her, which only added to her humiliation and ours.
I fear it was not well done. Mr. Collins had the audacity to introduce himself to Mr. Darcy, which was received as poorly as you might imagine.
Mamma, for her part, passed the entire evening in boasting of Jane’s imminent engagement to Mr. Bingley.
There! Is that not a catalog of woeful conduct sufficient to depress even the most buoyant spirits? I am quite cast down, not least by the thought that my own quarrel with Mr. Darcy must have confirmed his opinion of my family’s irremediable vulgarity.
My one consolation is Jane, who looked angelic and whose conduct suited her appearance.
She passed the whole evening in Mr. Bingley’s company, and they both seemed entirely unaware of the parade of absurdity surrounding them.
I confess, I have begun to share Mamma’s expectations: if a proposal is not soon forthcoming, I shall be very much surprised.
Alas, the worst of the evening was yet to come.
It was cold when we arrived at Netherfield and, as I mentioned, cloudy.
The snow must have started soon after we entered the house, for by the time the guests had begun to call for their carriages, the lawns and drive were blanketed in white—an utterly enchanting sight but not pleasing to the coachmen.
We were, you will not be surprised to learn, the very last to leave, for Mamma could not be prevailed upon even to call our carriage until the Lucases were halfway down the drive.
When at last we were all loaded into our conveyance, the snow was falling faster than ever, and it was difficult to see anything beyond the range of the small lantern hung from the front of the carriage.
Mr. Bingley looked terribly concerned as he handed Jane in and even suggested that we ought to stay the night, but this offer Papa refused, in spite of Mamma’s protestations.
For once, however, Mamma’s preferences proved the more sensible. We had scarcely made it out of the drive when disaster struck.
(Is that not a satisfying turn of phrase: “Disaster struck!” I fancy I might meet with great success as the author of gothic novels. What think you?)
The snow was simply too heavy for poor Alfred to see his way.
He drove us straight into the drainage ditch on the far side of the Meryton road and broke an axle.
Indeed, it is a miracle that we all escaped unharmed: so tightly crammed on the benches were we that, though we were all badly jostled and bruised, no more serious injury transpired.
Mamma, Kitty, and Lydia all succumbed at once to strong hysterics. Papa and Mr. Collins leapt out, talking over one another. Mary prayed loudly. Jane and I prayed quietly in between our unsuccessful efforts to settle the others’ nerves.
Just when we had begun to think that we must freeze our toes and ruin our slippers with the long walk up Netherfield’s drive, salvation appeared in the unexpected form of Mr. Darcy riding his great black horse.
What curious and unpleasant shapes ministering angels may take!
He was followed a moment later by Mr. Bingley and two footmen, also on horseback.
Evidently, shortly after our departure, the gentlemen had ordered their horses saddled that they might see us safely down the road.
Thus, they came upon us not long after our mishap.
They leapt down to assess the situation and concurred with Alfred that nothing could be done about the carriage under such conditions. The gentlemen gallantly volunteered to convey us back to the house.
Poor Mamma! The prospect of ruining her best gown by riding in such weather provoked fresh tears, and I took it upon myself to calm her so that Jane, blushing and protesting, could be swept up onto Mr. Bingley’s white horse and led back to the house like a princess in a romance.
Consequently, I was the last to leave the carriage.
By the time the footmen had escorted my sisters back and Mamma, still clutching her handkerchief, had consented to be lifted onto Mr. Bingley’s horse and accompanied to the house by that gentleman and Papa, my only remaining means of conveyance was Mr. Darcy’s mount.
He lifted me into the saddle with remarkably little effort and attempted, at first, to walk alongside.
But the wind was fierce, and the horse—a truly massive and fearsome creature—grew increasingly restive.
I was nearly flung into the ditch at the first shy and left quite shaken.
Mr. Darcy took one glance at me, sighed, and said, “You will forgive me, Miss Bennet”—an order, of course, not a request. Then he swung up behind me without further warning.
Loath though I am to admit it, honesty forces me to acknowledge that his indecorous proximity was, in that moment, rather comforting.
He quickly had the horse in hand and served as a wind-break into the bargain.
I felt sufficiently in charity with him to honour his unaccountable preference for stolid silence for the remainder of the journey, and I thanked him sincerely when he had set me down on the steps of the hall.
He received my gratitude with a bow and a grunt and immediately left to tend to his horse, thus sparing me the displeasure of feeling any liking for a man I am quite determined to despise.
Not, of course, that gallantry could ever atone for his treatment of Wickham.
We were all bundled off to blissfully warm guest rooms, though I believe Miss Bingley would far rather have seen us all lodged in the stables. I fell asleep at once and awoke refreshed and eager to return home.
My hopes were wholly vain. The snow had continued all through the night and into the morning, and the roads are now entirely lost beneath the drifts.
So here we all are, confined once more with our neighbours at Netherfield.
You may imagine the agony of breakfast, with Mr. Darcy, Mr. Collins, Mamma, and Lydia all at table together.
I believe, if the weather does not clear very soon, that I shall take to my bed and demand every meal be delivered on a tray.
Jane, of course, is my consolation once more: not only does her presence soothe my temper and keep me from disgraceful outbursts, but I have high hopes that this unexpected interval will bring Mr. Bingley to the point.
To that end, I am determined to contrive some occasion for private conversation between the two.
I nearly succeeded this morning, for I found them alone in the dining parlour when I came down to breakfast. I halted outside the doorway before they could observe my presence and waited there, intent on diverting whichever of my family should appear and thus prolonging the tête-à-tête.
Of course, the next person to approach was not any of the Bennets, but Mr. Darcy.
I gave him my most engaging smile and inquired after his health in a not-too-carrying voice.
He looked at me, frowned, peered into the dining room, and then returned his gaze to me with narrowed eyes that suggested he had fathomed my design and disapproved.
“I am very well, Miss Elizabeth, I thank you,” he said, in an unusually loud voice. “And yourself? Are you going in to breakfast?”
Thus was I forced to accept his arm and accompany him into the room, quite ruining the moment. A point to Mr. Darcy—but the ultimate victory will be mine.
Now we are all gathered in the front sitting room, watching the snow drift past the frosted windowpanes.
Mary plays; Mr. Collins talks; Miss Bingley surveys us all as though we were an infestation of rodents.
Mr. Darcy stares out the window. Perhaps the force of his disapproving glare will frighten off the clouds?
Meanwhile, I am avoiding the conversation by writing this letter to you. I wonder when you will read it. I cannot imagine that the post will go out soon. By the end of this ordeal, you may find yourself in possession of a whole bundle of plaintive, impertinent missives from,
Your most affectionate and beleaguered niece,
Elizabeth