Chapter 5
Fitzwilliam,
The chit is cleverer than I had suspected.
Yesterday she diverted me in the gallery with a show of ignorance that was dangerously effective if ultimately unsuccessful.
I do not for a moment believe that she was, as she claimed, ignorant of the myth of Hippolyta and Theseus, but courtesy required me to dally in conversation rather than hasten to interpose myself between Bingley and her sister.
I would have been disgusted by such pretence were Miss Elizabeth’s manners even slightly less charming.
But today’s gambit showed true daring. Were your generals possessed of half her ruthless resolve, we would not now live in fear of the French tyrant.
She nearly succeeded today—indeed, Miss Bingley was forced to resort to overt discourtesy to preserve her brother’s liberty.
I cannot be wholly content with her conduct, but Bingley remains free.
By now, you will be cursing me for failing to offer any rational account of the incidents to which I refer. Forgive me. I shall try your patience no longer.
For the past two mornings, I have risen earlier and sat at breakfast far longer than is my wont, thereby ensuring that Bingley and Miss Bennet have no opportunity to share another private moment in the dining room.
It has been Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst’s task to supervise her brother in the afternoons, when he and I are not engaged together on business.
Both ladies have, however, been frequently distracted.
Mrs. Hurst spends more time in her bedchamber than in the drawing room, and Miss Bingley has been regularly called away to meet with her housekeeper.
I suspect the family’s lavish dining habits are becoming something of a strain upon the household, cut off as we are from the village and from London shipments.
(Forgive the digression, but I must confess that I am far from satisfied with Netherfields’ arrangements for the care of its tenants in this crisis.
Heaven only knows when the snow will cease long enough for us to begin making paths, and Miss Bingley seems determined that the gardens should be cleared before we bother about the outer farms. It seems the rose bushes are of greater concern to her than the possible woes of her fellow creatures.)
In any case, the lady was detained this afternoon, while I had retired to my room for a few moments’ peace from the Bennets and their tiresome cousin.
When I came down, I was most alarmed to find Bingley and Miss Bennet standing together in the small parlour, with the door only slightly cracked open.
So engrossed were they in conversation that they did not observe my presence—certainly Bingley did not, though I cannot but wonder if Miss Bennet merely ignored me.
I was poised to intervene when I heard a thump from the hall, followed by a soft moan. Bingley and his angel stirred not at all, but I, without reflecting, turned back to investigate. I found Miss Elizabeth crumpled in an ungainly heap upon the marble floor, hands clasped about her ankle.
I presumed at first that she was feigning injury, but a closer examination revealed that the joint was beginning to swell.
Thus was proven the true extent of her daring: she must have glimpsed from the stairs my imminent intrusion into the parlour and flung herself forward to prevent me.
How she knew that such a diversion would not also disturb Bingley and her sister, I cannot guess—perhaps she has noted how unobservant Bingley is in general—but the stratagem worked remarkably well.
I could not, in all decency, abandon her where she had fallen, and even when I called for assistance, the pair in the parlour were not disturbed.
Miss Elizabeth, meanwhile, insisted that she was perfectly well, though her face and lips were very pale, and her efforts to stand under her own power proved vain.
“A foolish manoeuvre, Miss Elizabeth,” I chided as I knelt to examine her ankle.
“Clumsy, certainly,” she replied, chin tilted defiantly, “but I should not call it foolish.”
Not wishing to quarrel, I lifted her and bore her into the larger drawing room. I was tempted to take her into the parlour instead, thus thwarting her plan, but the drawing room contains a chaise lounge where she was able to recline comfortably. The parlour sofa would not have sufficed.
She seemed small in my arms, though she is by no means a frail creature. To be sure, she has not her elder sister’s fashionable height, but such is the force of her character that she seems to fill any room she enters.
She protested my effrontery, of course, but I would not hear it.
Once she was situated as comfortably as possible upon the chaise, I sought her permission to examine her ankle further.
She seemed reluctant at first, her cheeks flushed like one of Georgiana’s favourite roses, but when I reminded her that the surgeon could not be sent for, she allowed me to roll down her stocking and test the joint.
It was red and swollen but, happily, not broken—though I should be more at ease were a surgeon available to confirm my judgment on the matter.
As soon as I had made my assessment, Miss Elizabeth carefully draped her skirt over the bare ankle, but before she could do so, Miss Bingley entered the room, her eyes instantly falling upon us.
Rather than inquiring after Miss Elizabeth’s well-being, she merely raised her eyes heavenward, then asked if I had seen Bingley.
I informed her that they were in the parlour, and she stalked from the room without any further acknowledgment of her guest’s injury. Certain though I am that she believed Miss Elizabeth’s distress to be feigned, I could not but disapprove of such neglect.
A moment later, Miss Bennet and Bingley sought us out, the former visibly alarmed at her sister’s state. Miss Elizabeth, for her part, insisted upon making light of her condition.
“Mr. Darcy assures me that only my pride is wounded, Jane. I am perfectly well, I assure you.”
I disputed this characterisation, and earned only a glare for my efforts at accuracy.
A moment later, Mrs. Bennet entered and drew all the room’s attention to herself at once with a show of distress over her daughter’s condition.
Miss Bennet was dispatched for the vinaigrette; Bingley rang for tea; a footman was required to retrieve several cushions.
In short, the needs of the invalid were forgotten in the effort to calm her mother’s nerves.
Into this mayhem came Miss Bingley, who seated herself at the writing desk and ignored both Mrs. Bennet and Miss Elizabeth. Only when Collins entered did the lady of the house show any concern for her guests.
“Oh, Mr. Collins,” said she, “Miss Elizabeth has injured herself and will wish to take her supper on a tray so that she need not disturb her ankle. Perhaps you would be so kind as to sit with her while the rest of us go through to dine? We would not wish her to feel neglected.”
Miss Elizabeth immediately protested the measure, though her words were drowned out by Collins’ eager agreement and Mrs. Bennet’s expressions of delight.
I cannot conceive how that woman could aspire to wed her handsomest, cleverest daughter to such a fool.
It would be, in material terms, a respectable match, but anyone with a grain of sense can see that it would utterly destroy Miss Elizabeth’s spirit.
Perhaps I ought to have remained silent and allowed the lady to reap the rewards of her own absurd schemes, but as she was truly injured, and her father yet closeted in the library and unable to defend her, I felt bound to speak.
“Perhaps one of her sisters would be a more suitable companion. I am certain Miss Bennet would not wish to leave her sister alone.”
Miss Bennet, returning with the vinaigrette, at once professed her eagerness to be of use to her sister, but Miss Elizabeth suggested that Miss Mary might prefer the quiet, and Bingley, once he perceived that his angel’s company might be lost to him for the evening, energetically forwarded this proposal.
Miss Mary, apparently indifferent, gave her assent, thwarting my own design to separate Miss Bennet and Bingley.
A moment later, however, I was granted the satisfaction of hearing Miss Mary suggest that she might read to her sister from a particularly unbearable book of sermons.
Judging that Miss Elizabeth would be sufficiently punished by her sister’s extracts from Fordyce, I took it upon myself to divert Collins with some questions about affairs at Rosings.
Thus did I bring upon myself the undeserved torment of his endless chatter throughout the meal.
Must I always suffer for my charitable impulses?
Nevertheless, I cannot bring myself to regret the decision.
I remain, etc.,
Darcy