Chapter 6
My dear Aunt Gardiner,
Forgive me if this letter proves illegible. I write with shaking hands, but I feel that I must set down everything that has transpired if I am to find any rest tonight.
You will worry when you read this. Fear not. We are all well, apart from my swollen ankle, of which more anon. I am only very angry and equally ashamed.
But let me start from the beginning.
Miss Bingley is, as I have informed you, less than pleased at our residence here.
In truth, I cannot blame her for her displeasure.
To be compelled to house neighbours whom one heartily dislikes, not once but twice in the space of a month, and, moreover, to share one’s clothes with them, would try the patience of even the most gracious hostess.
Still, we cannot be held accountable for the weather.
From the moment of our return to her house, she has made her dissatisfaction known in backhanded comments and petty domestic discomforts: my room overlooking the stables is but one example.
She has been notably miserly in sharing her winter garments with us, a serious hardship when the house is as cold as it is at present.
The Bingley sisters go about swathed head to toe in fur—and several different sets of furs, mind you—every day.
While they were kind enough to permit Jane the use of one rabbit stole, which she instantly gave to Mamma, the rest of us must make do with shabby woollens.
I was offered the use of Miss Bingley’s maid’s second-best shawl.
This I could not bear to accept, and so I am forced to go about all day in my dress shawl and winter cloak, which seems to please our hostess.
Even more evident is her disapprobation of her brother’s attachment to Jane.
Aided by Mr. Darcy, she has done all she can to separate Mr. Bingley from Jane, and I have no doubt that, had the weather permitted it, they would have removed him to London immediately after the ball and contrived by means fair or foul to keep him there.
Jane would not believe me if I shared these fears with her: she refuses to acknowledge even the most overt discourtesy, entirely convinced of Miss Bingley’s good will. It is enough to put one entirely out of temper.
“She was merely attempting to be of some assistance, Lizzy.” That was all Jane had to say when we retired last night, after Miss Bingley had suggested that Mr. Collins, rather than my father or a footman, ought to assist me up the stairs.
I dearly love my sister, but in some matters, she is a deplorable confidante.
Today’s events she would certainly refuse to credit, and I have not the forbearance at present to hear her excuses for the conduct of all involved.
And so you will be my only confidante, dear aunt—though I wonder now if I shall have the courage to send this confession to you when the post at last resumes. Perhaps I shall instead consign it to the flames and spare your inevitable disappointment in my abysmal manners.
I have wandered once more from the substance of my narrative. Forgive me.
Miss Bingley’s displeasure reached new heights yesterday, when I fell down the stairs and turned my ankle.
She believes me to be feigning injury—to what end, I cannot imagine.
Mr. Darcy, who examined the ankle himself—and the less said on that matter, the better—seems to be under the impression that I flung myself down the steps in a foolish but courageous attempt to prevent him disturbing Jane and Mr. Bingley.
The truth, of course, is that I foolishly rushed down the stairs, caught my toe on a banister, and fell.
I had just found Alice Jones, the chambermaid of whom I wrote to you in my last, sniffling over the fire in my bedchamber, and I was fretting over her situation when I ought to have been watching my step.
I was fortunate not to break my head on the floor when I landed.
Instead, I escaped with merely a swollen ankle and some slight bruising.
The only true injury has been to my dignity.
I was forced to allow Mr. Darcy to carry me to a chaise, and there was I constrained to remain like some wilting damsel for the remainder of the evening.
Justice forces me to acknowledge that Mr. Darcy was, on this occasion, the perfect gentleman, more solicitous for my health and comfort than were my own parents.
Perhaps it amused him to observe my mortification, or perhaps even he would not stoop so low as to appear indifferent to a young lady’s pain.
Whatever the motive of his temporary beneficence, it was certainly not shared by Miss Bingley.
She took every opportunity to add to my discomfort, even suggesting that Mr. Collins should sit with me in the drawing room during dinner, which would have spelled the death of my efforts to avoid that gentleman’s attentions.
I very much fear, aunt, that I shall not be able to avert his proposal for much longer, but I am determined not to surrender prematurely.
Happily, it was decided that Mary should sit with me instead, which I welcomed in spite of her insistence upon reading at length from a collection of sermons.
You will shake your head at my impiety, but I doubt even you could maintain your good humour were you forced to listen to an hour of Fordyce while nursing an injury.
I retired early, took a drop of laudanum, and slept late into the morning, awaking to bright sunshine.
The snow had stopped during the night, and the staff made haste to compress the snow into paths leading as far as the nearest outbuildings.
Though my family all came to sit with me in the course of the morning, they were—except for Papa—eager to take some exercise out-of-doors.
Even Mamma took a turn, before the party was driven inside by fresh snow clouds.
Jane was at first reluctant to go, for she knew that I was myself longing to walk and had no wish to leave me alone with my disappointment.
I was nearly compelled to order her away.
Nevertheless, several careful mentions of Mr. Bingley persuaded her where repeated assertions of my own well-being failed.
I take this to be an excellent sign of Jane’s deepening affection.
Thus, I watched alone from the window as the party made a rather ungainly promenade across snow and ice.
You may picture me, like the unhappy heroine of some sentimental novel, seated by the window of my bedchamber in a posture of profound melancholy, luncheon neglected at my side, watching them slide along the packed snow towards the stables.
In short, the very image of contemptible self-pity.
This portrait would not be perfectly truthful, of course: I was, in fact, laughing at Kitty and Lydia, who kept rushing ahead of the party and nearly falling into the snow, and at Mr. Collins, who actually tumbled headfirst into a bank and thereby afforded me great consolation.
Nevertheless, I soon grew impatient of watching them and determined to escape the confines of my chamber. Though my ankle was painfully swollen, I was able, by hopping most inelegantly, to descend to the small parlour. Happily, I was not observed by the servants.
I had only just settled in an armchair and lifted the book nearest to hand—an agricultural manual that Mr. Darcy had been perusing the day before—when I heard the party tramp through the hall, evidently in a lively good humour. Their steps ascended the stairs, leaving me in peace once more.
I continued to read desultorily for a quarter hour, until I once more heard footsteps descending, shortly followed by voices in the hall.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy!” Miss Bingley said in the eager tone she always directs towards that gentleman, “I must speak with you. Would you come through to the parlour?”
I set my book aside in alarm, hoping against hope that Mr. Darcy would refuse, but all in vain. An instant later, they were both stepping through the door, Miss Bingley shutting it behind them. Neither observed my presence, and I was about to announce myself when Miss Bingley spoke again.
“This injury of Miss Elizabeth’s has been a stroke of good fortune for us, but I fear—”
There, she halted, at last turning away from the door and seeing me. Perceiving her surprise, Mr. Darcy likewise turned, and his expression became even more foreboding than usual. Perhaps he thought me somehow at fault for overhearing their remarks.
“Miss Eliza!” Miss Bingley exclaimed, flushing red, “Why did you not announce yourself?”
“I was about to do so,” I replied. We stared at one another in silence, none of us certain how to proceed. I felt, I confess, not the slightest urge to ease their discomfort.
Mr. Darcy continued to glower, while Miss Bingley’s countenance shifted from mortification to malice. She glanced at the closed door, then turned back to me, and I knew, before she spoke, that the moment had come to abandon all disguise, and whatever followed would not reflect well upon any of us.
“I see no reason why we ought not speak frankly, Miss Eliza. I confess that I had thought your injury feigned, until your absence from this morning’s walk.
We all know how you delight in walking. Rest assured, however, that your sister had no occasion to speak to my brother in the course of the morning. Mr. Darcy and I made certain of that.”
At this lapse in decorum, Mr. Darcy turned his frown upon Miss Bingley, but he remained silent. Would that I had done the same!
“That is precisely as I would have expected, Miss Bingley.”
“You are not deficient of sense, Miss Eliza.”
I could not resist a sardonic “I thank you” at this dubious compliment, which Miss Bingley ignored.
“You cannot be ignorant of how unsuitable a bride your sister would be for my brother.”
“I must disagree. How could a gentleman’s daughter of exceptional beauty, grace, and goodness be an unsuitable bride for a tradesman’s son?”