Chapter 4
My dear Aunt Gardiner,
Another day, another letter. You would think me a most dutiful niece, had I not already confessed to you that this correspondence is my respite from the clamour of this over-crowded house. Truly, Mr. Collins and Miss Bingley under the same roof is more than I can endure without some diversion.
Our hostess’ hostility grows hour-by-hour, I fear, particularly towards myself.
I cannot entirely account for her animosity, unless it be a simple aversion to my unfashionable manners.
In Jane’s presence, she continues to feign friendship, likely that she might demand Jane’s attendance upon her and thus prevent any too-intimate conversation with Mr. Bingley.
Towards me, she is never less than venomous, even in the execution of her duties as hostess: my room is notably smaller than the guest chamber assigned during our last residence and overlooks the stable yard.
As it also offers a magnificent prospect of the sun rising over the copse beyond the home paddock, I am perfectly content, but only Jane could fail to discern the intended slight.
Far more vexing than such transparent ill will are Mr. Collins’ persistent attentions.
Oh, aunt! I know that you would tell me to be mindful of my family’s future and show courtesy to the next master of Longbourn, but I aver, the man is beyond bearing.
His interest grows daily more marked, and I fear that even the most overt rudeness on my part will not prevent his offering for me—a disastrous eventuality, for I shall be compelled to refuse him.
If ever you meet him, you will instantly comprehend my resolve.
Why could he not have fixed his gaze upon Mary instead of myself? She would be blissfully happy as the spouse of a sanctimonious parson.
That is unkind, but it is true.
Against all reason, however, he must press his suit with me.
Last night, he insisted upon escorting me in to dinner, and this morning, he appeared at breakfast uncharacteristically early and claimed the seat beside me once again, talking all throughout the meal.
It has entirely spoilt my appetite, I assure you: when next we meet, you may find that your robust niece has dwindled into an emaciated waif.
Whenever Mr. Collins singles me out, Mr. Darcy sneers at us both, and Miss Bingley smiles unpleasantly.
When the ladies were gathered in the drawing room this morning, she had the temerity to congratulate me upon “so advantageous a match.” Mamma overheard and received the counterfeit well-wishes with perfect satisfaction, which provoked a fit of giggles from Lydia and Kitty.
As you might imagine, I am in a towering temper and have begun this letter to avert any further discussion of the matter.
I fear that, after two days confined indoors, I am perilously close to losing my self-command.
Suffice it to say that, in addition to pursuing the conditions of Jane’s future happiness, I am forced to devote half my attention to the avoidance of Mr. Collins. I am only grateful that he has not yet asked for a private audience, or worse, blurted out a proposal before the whole of the company.
I promise I shall not fill this letter with further complaints. I know these annoyances are slight compared to others’ troubles. Mrs. Hurst kept to her bed yesterday with some indisposition, and I can tell Mr. Bingley worries for her, cut off as we are from any medical assistance.
We all fear for the tenants as well. No matter how well-maintained the cottages attached to Netherfield and Longbourn may be (and I fear some are in need of repairs), a true snowstorm must cause severe hardships.
We cannot provide any aid to the Netherfield tenants until the snow stops, and those at Longbourn will be completely beyond our reach until the roads clear.
This morning, the maid who came in to light my fire was sniffling over the logs, and she confessed, when I inquired as to the cause of her distress, that the arrangements for the ball kept her from visiting her family this past week and that she fears the cold may do them harm.
Her mamma has recently been delivered of a babe, and should either take ill, they will be beyond assistance, cut off from their neighbours in a cold cottage.
Truly, I have nothing of which to complain, comfortably situated as I am in this grand house with ample food and firewood and my family safe to hand.
But on to more exciting subjects: my campaign on Jane’s behalf has yet to bear fruit, but I have every confidence that it will if the snow lingers much longer, which seems entirely likely.
At every encounter, Mr. Bingley shows himself delighted in Jane’s company, and I believe the conditions of our visit here have diminished her customary reserve.
Her affection is present in her every expression and gesture.
He must see it as clearly as I do. He sits beside her at mealtimes, seeks her out in the drawing room, and when he cannot be by her, he watches her constantly, so intently that he is at times wholly oblivious to the general conversation.
Had we only the garden in which to stroll for an hour, or any other outdoor recreation which might occasionally disperse the party, all would be easily arranged.
But with snow piling up about the house and wind rattling the windows, we have little choice but to be all together morning, noon, and night.
Papa, of course, has taken possession of the library—not without many sardonic remarks regarding the deficient literary tastes of Netherfield’s residents, past and present—and Mr. Darcy occasionally whisks Mr. Bingley away to consult with the groundsmen or conduct other matters of business.
We ladies are mostly denied such diversions: we can scarcely escape each other except when we retire to sleep.
Poor Lydia and Kitty are frightfully bored, which makes them quarrelsome, and their squabbling taxes Mamma’s nerves.
Miss Bingley is forever rolling her eyes at us all, for which even I can scarcely blame her.
I refuse to pity her, however, for she and Mr. Darcy are constantly meddling in Mr. Bingley’s courtship of Jane.
Whenever the pair manage to speak to one another, even for a moment, Mr. Darcy or Miss Bingley sweep in to part them.
I fear my attempts to intervene have made me look as transparently ambitious as Mamma.
This afternoon, for instance, Mr. Bingley suggested that we hasten the hours between luncheon and dinner by strolling in the gallery at the back of the house.
As Miss Bingley had only just stepped out to speak with her housekeeper, I perceived an excellent opportunity to facilitate a tête-à-tête: if I could divert Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley might have his moment.
Mamma, Lydia, and Mary all disclaimed any interest in the paintings, and Kitty—whom I know to possess an innate appreciation for art, for I have on several occasions observed her examining paintings at Longbourn and elsewhere—feigned disinterest, likely to please Lydia.
I believe she fears that any show of independence might meet with ridicule.
I ought perhaps to speak with her on the matter, but on this occasion, her reticence served my purpose.
Alas, Mr. Collins was not so easily deterred.
He commandeered my arm at the top of the stairs and began an oration about the family portraits at Rosings Park.
My only consolation was that he persistently sought to engage Mr. Darcy in the discussion, while Jane and Mr. Bingley were permitted to stroll ahead.
When Mr. Collins inquired if a decidedly mediocre portrait of a former lady of the house put Mr. Darcy in mind of a recent painting of his cousin Miss Anne de Bourgh, Mr. Darcy sought to extract himself by his preferred means of overt rudeness.
“Not at all,” he snapped and began to stride off. This, I could not allow.
“Mr. Darcy,” said I, detaching myself from Mr. Collins, “You must lend me your insight, for I cannot identify the subject of this painting.” I gestured towards a classical scene at the end of the hall farthest from Jane and Mr. Bingley.
He turned on me with a raised brow, and I could not refrain from blushing at so transparent a stratagem: anyone with a grain of sense could see that the painting was a rendering of the battle between Theseus and Hippolyta.
Mr. Collins, of course, at once declared that the painting depicted Cupid and Psyche. Both Mr. Darcy and I turned towards him with incredulous stares. When our gazes met once more, I could almost believe that I had discerned a gleam of humour in the gentleman’s look.
“It is Theseus fighting the Amazons, Miss Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy said at length, and managed not to add, “As I am sure you know,” though the words were clearly implied in his tone.
“Ah!” I said, attempting an expression of innocence. “A tale which I have not heard recently. Would you refresh my memory?”
Mr. Darcy betrayed, by pursed lips and flared nostrils, that he had observed me reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream during my last residence in this house.
He glanced behind him, to where Jane and Bingley stood before a painting of Netherfield’s facade, but for once, he obeyed the dictates of courtesy.
He turned back towards me and began, through clenched teeth, a concise but comprehensive survey of Apollonius Rhodius, Herodotus, Plutarch, and Shakespeare.
Evidently, most sources portray an unhappy end to the attachment between Theseus and Hippolyta, but Plutarch depicts their marriage as a source of personal happiness and political concord, and Shakespeare concurs.
Had a more agreeable man delivered such a treatise, I should have been most sincerely impressed.
As it was, I found myself vexed by his intellectual prowess.
As Mr. Darcy described this mythic romance, his eyes remained fixed on mine.
His gaze seemed to burn, and I could not interpret its meaning.
Perhaps he was merely frustrated at my efforts to divide him from Mr. Bingley.
But his lips quirked slightly. It was as near a smile as I have ever seen on Mr. Darcy’s dour countenance.
Then loud, hurrying footsteps announced Miss Bingley’s arrival.
She called her brother’s name as soon as she reached the head of the stairs and hastened down the gallery to claim his free arm.
Mr. Bingley looked rather flustered, though Jane appeared unconcerned.
It was evident that no declaration had been made.
Glancing back at Mr. Darcy, I observed that his prior odd look had been replaced by one of complacency.
“Well-played, Miss Bennet,” he murmured. Then he excused himself and left me to the mercies of Mr. Collins. Odious man!
And so, once again, Mr. Darcy emerges the victor—but I shall prevail in the end. Of this, I am determined.
Yours, etc.,
Elizabeth