Chapter 3
My dear Fitzwilliam,
You will not require this letter to comprehend my continued absence from London.
How much snow has fallen in Berkeley Square, I wonder?
Does Georgiana run out into the back garden to build snow maidens as she used to at Pemberley?
Or is she now too much the young lady to indulge in such indecorous pleasures?
Lest you think the weather has turned me maudlin, let me assure you that I am merely seeking any possible diversion from my present predicament. Not only has the snow thwarted my planned departure, it has confined me at Netherfield in most unwelcome company.
No, Fitzwilliam, I do not speak of Miss Bingley, well though I know your distaste for that lady.
Rather—by misfortune or contrivance I dare not speculate—we are once more forced to harbour the Bennets.
Not merely the eldest two, whose company might have been acceptable, but the entire family, from the shrieking mother to the babbling, pompous cousin.
(By the way, said cousin is, in fact, Lady Catherine’s new parson.
Her taste in retainers remains as deplorable as ever.)
Their party lingered far too long after the ball ended.
When at last Mrs. Bennet called for the carriage—yes, the wife, not the husband, who seems entirely disinterested in exerting himself on behalf of his family—the snow was falling so heavily that some disaster on the road seemed certain.
I felt duty-bound to follow on horseback, as did Bingley, and we found their carriage at the bottom of the drive, front end dangling in the ditch.
The coachman and Mr. Bennet were staring haplessly at a broken axle when we rode up, while the parson cousin delivered some unnecessary oration on the virtue of prudence.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Bennet’s shrieks within the carriage rang louder even than the howling wind.
We thought it best to return the ladies to the house before they caught cold.
Bingley, of course, conveyed his angel like Launcelot rescuing Guinevere, while I was forced to lead the sour-faced middle sister, whose name I can never recall.
The footmen brought back the younger girls, giggling as much as ever.
This left Miss Elizabeth to endure the cold as she struggled to calm her mother’s hysterics.
I believe she is the only useful female in that entire family.
By the time Mrs. Bennet was sufficiently composed to be bundled onto Bingley’s gelding, I feared that Miss Elizabeth would be exhausted and frozen to the bone.
Nevertheless, she sprang from the carriage with her usual energy, not flinching even as her dancing slippers sank into the snow, and permitted me to lift her onto Arion’s back without protest.
That extraordinary show of fortitude did not endure.
Miss Elizabeth is no horsewoman, and as you know, Arion always becomes restive in cold weather.
He spooked at the wind, and though, to her credit, the lady neither complained nor cried out, I could perceive her alarm even in the darkness.
I was forced to mount up behind her to ensure that she was not flung from the saddle.
When we reached the house, Miss Elizabeth thanked me graciously in spite of my horse’s deplorable conduct, and today, she seems none the worse for the unwelcome adventure.
Unhappily, she has turned her remarkable vigour to pernicious ends.
It became clear to me during last night’s ball—a parade of absurdity and vexation from beginning to end—that the neighbourhood has begun to expect an engagement between Bingley and Miss Bennet.
Her mother boasted of it as an inevitability.
This morning, I found Miss Elizabeth loitering outside the dining parlour, clearly intent on preventing any disruption to the scene within.
I knew at once what I would find: Bingley, alone with Miss Bennet.
Doubt not that I promptly put an end to this intimate tableau.
Mercifully, the pair were talking, not of matters of the heart, but of the weather.
Miss Bennet may be out to catch a wealthy husband, but she is no conniving society miss.
Her cunning sister is by far the greater danger, but I am determined that Miss Elizabeth’s wiles will not avail her.
Persuasion will not be sufficient to guard Bingley from his own sentiments—not while his angel is in the house.
Therefore, I must ensure that he is never afforded the chance to make an offer which he would be certain to regret in time.
When at last we are free of this damnable weather, I shall prevail upon him to remove to London, where he will be sure to find another angel within the fortnight.
Perhaps I might be called domineering for so intervening in Bingley’s affairs, but I refuse to be found deficient in safeguarding my friend’s interests.
To do less would be to shirk my duty. If even once you sat at table with Mrs. Bennet or Miss Lydia, you would understand that no lady, however charming, could make such relations acceptable.
I only pity the eldest Miss Bennets, who are each, in their way, excellent ladies.
Miss Elizabeth, with her wit and her striking eyes, might have made a brilliant match had she a modest dowry and one or two acceptable connections.
Alas, she has neither and shall like as not wed some tradesman or obscure country squire.
This pity will not alter my resolution regarding Bingley, of course.
In this, I have an uneasy ally in the man’s younger sister, who is equally set against the match.
Miss Bingley came upon me alone in the study after breakfast this morning.
I was at first alarmed, for she shut the door and approached with a countenance full of emotion.
I must confess, Fitzwilliam, that I ought to have heeded your warnings before departing for Hertfordshire.
Miss Bingley’s ambitions have grown increasingly more evident the longer we have remained here.
Prior to this visit, I have always found the lady pleasant company—a trifle vicious, perhaps, but witty enough to provide an agreeable diversion from the vapidity of polite society.
Since my arrival at Netherfield, however, she has become increasingly presumptuous.
She now refers to my sister as her “dear Georgiana,” as though they were intimate friends rather than passing acquaintances.
Any local lady I so much as speak to becomes the target of my hostess’ ire.
When she came upon me in the library, therefore, I half expected some unwelcome declaration.
Instead, to my sincere relief, she declared that she wished to confide in me her fears for her brother.
She took the chair across from me and continued, “I know that you well understand my objections to our present uninvited guests. However we may differ regarding the—attractions—of the elder Miss Bennets,”—this she said for I had once contradicted her absurd insinuation that Miss Elizabeth was plain—“we both know that such a match would not do. It would sink Charles in the eyes of society before he has even the chance to establish himself.”
To this, I assented. “I fear that this renewed proximity to Miss Bennet may lead him to do something foolish. He must not have the opportunity to make her an offer.”
She gave me a smile of relief, reaching out as though she wished to clasp my hands. I stood and stepped away.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy, I knew that I could depend upon you,” she said.
I crossed to the window and looked out. (Yes, more window staring, Fitzwilliam. I can hear your laughter even now.)
“We must,” I said, before further protestations of gratitude could ensue, “ensure that your brother never has an opportunity to profess his sentiments. From morn to night, he must not be left unguarded. I shall be at liberty to supervise him through most of the day, but we must both keep a close watch, particularly when the party is all assembled.”
“Yes,” she said, with a sneer of distaste. “The Bennets will all be trying to throw them together.”
I noted that Miss Elizabeth seemed particularly determined, and Miss Bingley’s eyes flashed, her lips curling into a venomous smile which I found quite repellent.
“I see you have begun to adopt my view of the lady. Fine though her eyes be, her ambition and impertinence know no bounds.”
This remark nettled me beyond reason. Miss Bingley has no right to make baseless insinuations about my sentiments towards Miss Elizabeth. I excused myself in a chilling tone and departed the room.
When we met again before dinner, Miss Bingley cast several conspiratorial looks towards me which I declined to acknowledge.
Now that we are all gathered in the drawing room, I have used the pretext of this letter to avoid her attentions, as well as the unbearable chatter of Mr. Collins.
Miss Elizabeth has adopted my strategy as well, I see, though happily she sits at the card table, and I am afforded the relative solitude of the writing desk by the window.
Pray God I may escape this house erelong.
I remain, etc.,
FD