Chapter 11
Well, Fitzwilliam, I am humbled once more.
Not, you may be pleased to learn, by another dressing down from an offended young lady, but by a more permanent, if less injurious, defeat.
Bingley is engaged to Miss Bennet, and thus, I must concede to Miss Elizabeth the victor’s laurels in our private war.
A day or two ago, I would have been deeply distressed by this turn of events, believing Miss Bennet incapable of returning Bingley’s affections.
I have been shown the error of that hasty judgment, however.
Has not my own aloof demeanour often led to misunderstandings?
Yet it had not crossed my mind that a young lady might exhibit a like reserve.
I have been shown my error, in a most unmistakable fashion.
The revelation began two nights ago. I was, in fact, in the midst of writing to you but was forced to break off my letter due to a remarkable circumstance: a footman knocked at my door to inform me that one of the housemaids had gone missing and that Bingley required my assistance.
The poor girl had left the house in the afternoon to visit her family and had failed to return before a fresh snowstorm set in.
Naturally, we went in search of her. I shall not dwell here upon the difficulties of the endeavour.
I shall only say that I most devoutly thank the Providence that guided us through the snow and dark to find that unfortunate child.
Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth saw us off—a kind gesture, for by that time the remainder of the party had chosen to retire.
Miss Elizabeth offered me her own green shawl as a muffler and bade me take care.
She is so often wry and witty that the simple gravity of her words and manner impressed themselves upon me all the more.
I confess, I think her the loveliest and most admirable lady of my acquaintance.
But I have permitted myself to wander from my true subject: Bingley’s coming marriage.
When at last we returned to the house, bearing Alice, the maid, with us, we found the ladies awaiting us in the kitchen.
The first sight that met my eyes as I stepped out of the storm was Miss Elizabeth’s radiant smile.
The second was Miss Bennet, clasping Bingley’s hands and beaming up at him.
I had little opportunity to reflect upon that tableau, for the unfortunate Alice required attendance, and the Bennet sisters swept in to guide her up to bed.
Meanwhile, Bingley and I retreated to our own rooms for the much-needed fortification of a hot bath and cognac.
I had several hours’ sleep in a warm bed and woke reasonably refreshed.
The snow began to thaw yesterday, as though the storm had been only the last outrush of a flood before the subsidence.
All yesterday the sun shone, and the drifts slowly melted.
The men have begun afresh to prepare the drive.
The paths in the back of the house were snowed over in the storm, however, and so in spite of the fine weather, the party remains, for a little longer, confined.
I had quite forgotten Miss Bennet’s show of emotion at our return. But this afternoon, it was recalled to my mind by more momentous events.
We had, as usual, assembled in the drawing room after lunch.
Mrs. Hurst had retreated upstairs, claiming an indisposition and demanding Miss Bingley’s attendance.
Mr. Bennet had likewise vanished into the library, leaving Mrs. Bennet, her four younger daughters, Mr. Collins, and myself in the drawing room—and Hurst, whose presence was immaterial as he was stretched out and snoring in the armchair nearest the fire.
We had only just taken our places—myself by the window, Miss Elizabeth at the writing desk nearby, Mrs. Bennet and her other daughters arranged about the sofas with Mr. Collins in their midst—when I noted that Bingley and Miss Bennet were not within the room.
The door to the dining parlour was cracked open, and by listening carefully, I could discern voices within.
I glanced to Miss Elizabeth and read in her intent gaze an awareness of the situation. Absent were either the fierce determination or the mischievous intent which had marked our prior skirmishes. Rather, she looked to me with simple entreaty.
For a moment, I wavered. Then my loyalty to Bingley prevailed, and I turned towards the door, determined to enter and disrupt the intimate encounter.
Then, behind me, I heard Collins clear his throat.
“Mrs. Bennet,” he said portentously, “may I request the privilege of a private interview with your daughter Elizabeth?”
At this, I turned once more and saw the dismay in Miss Elizabeth’s features.
In that moment, I felt as the ancient oracles must have, the future stretched before my eyes like a tapestry of misery.
I could see it all at a glance: Collins would make his inept proposal; Miss Elizabeth might, perhaps, refuse; but her mother would insist; and her father, whose indifference to his daughters’ well-being has already been amply demonstrated, would not defend her.
She would be forced to wed this oaf, to run his house and bear his children, and all for her family’s security.
I could do nothing to avert such a fate—alas, the one true remedy is denied me—but I could at least delay it.
Mrs. Bennet at once acquiesced to Collins’ entreaty and ordered Elizabeth to retire with the man to the smaller parlour.
“Pardon me, Mamma,” the young lady replied, obviously discomposed, “but Mr. Collins can have nothing to say to me that cannot be said in company.”
“Nonsense, Lizzy. I insist you go.”
“Forgive me, ma’am, but I shall not.”
At this, her mother gave a shriek of frustration, but an instant later, she quieted, cunning in her eyes.
“Very well,” she said, a melodramatic quaver in her voice. “You have distressed me beyond bearing by your wilfulness, Lizzy. My poor nerves! I must retire. Lydia, Mary, Kitty, you must attend me.”
“But Mamma! I do not want to go,” protested one of the giggling sisters—which, I cannot recall.
“I require your attendance, child,” Mrs. Bennet repeated, already half out the door. Then she recalled my presence.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, in a calmer tone.
“I am certain you have a great deal of business to attend to. You always seem so very busy. Such a volume of correspondence! And now that the thaw has begun, the postman is certain to reach us tomorrow. I am sure my husband would welcome your company in the library. We would not wish to detain you, sir.”
Propriety dictated that I excuse myself at this less-than-subtle hint—but when have I ever permitted trivial niceties to determine my conduct?
“I thank you, madam,” I said, returning to stand by the window, near enough to Miss Elizabeth that I might interpose myself should Collins prove too forward.
Mrs. Bennet attempted to protest, but I had already turned away from her and towards her daughter.
Miss Elizabeth looked up at me as though I were St. George defending her from a dragon.
Beside us, Collins had begun to bluster about the irregularity of my conduct, but I paid him no mind.
Instead, I asked Miss Elizabeth which of Shakespeare’s comedies she preferred.
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream, perhaps?” I suggested, with a look I hoped was conspiratorial.
She laughed and said, “Oh, Much Ado About Nothing, sir, assuredly.”
Mrs. Bennet, perceiving herself thwarted, retreated to enjoy her bout of nerves, and we passed the next quarter-hour in debate about the Bard, ignoring every attempt on Mr. Collins’ part to insert himself into the conversation.
I had quite forgotten Bingley and Miss Bennet in that interval—and, by her start when the door swung open, I discerned that Miss Elizabeth had as well.
It was then that I recalled Miss Bennet’s conduct the night of the storm.
The lady who emerged from the dining room on Bingley’s arm was neither smug nor quietly content in securing an advantageous match.
No, Miss Bennet glowed with a happiness so great that love could be its only cause.
She could scarcely draw her eyes from Bingley long enough to turn her smile upon her sister, who returned it with a selfless fondness that I could not but find moving, so strongly did it remind me of my own dear sister.
I knew at once that I had misjudged both ladies, but the revelation brought satisfaction rather than shame.
I congratulated Bingley without reservation, and my approbation seemed to reassure him.
He soon excused himself to speak to Mr. Bennet, while his future bride took herself off to share the news with her mother, leaving Miss Elizabeth and I once more alone with Collins and the still-slumbering Hurst.
The confirmation of one engagement must have renewed Collins’ absurd determination, for he attempted once more to make Miss Elizabeth hear his offer.
I would not permit him to proceed, however.
As soon as I discerned the distress and exasperation returning to Elizabeth’s features, I rounded upon the wretched little man.
“Good God, sir, can you not discern when your advances are unwelcome? Have you no sense? Pray, get you gone and find some lady who can tolerate your inane conversation. If you trouble Miss Elizabeth any further, be sure I shall inform my aunt that her parson is no gentleman.”
This threat at last silenced him, and he took himself off with every pretence of wounded dignity. Miss Elizabeth, meanwhile, turned towards me, her mischievous smile restored.
“I am sure I ought to disapprove of such uncivil conduct, sir, but I must thank you instead. I had no wish to endure the scene that would have resulted had Mr. Collins proposed.”
“I could not bear to see you imposed upon,” I replied. “The man ought not be allowed in polite society.”
She smiled at this but changed the subject.
“I confess, I had expected you to be rather vexed with me, sir. I know the news of your friend’s engagement must not please you.”
“On the contrary, I must confess myself greatly in the wrong: your sister’s attachment to Bingley is now perfectly evident. I must concede to your superior discernment.”
She laughed, an unfeigned, joyous melody, and I wanted— How I wanted—
But it is impossible. I must not think of it.
Thank God for the change in the weather. I will return to London as soon as the roads clear. Bingley will blame me for missing his wedding, but it cannot be helped.
I must not linger here, lost in dreams that can never be realised. I fear that if I remain much longer, I will bring upon Miss Elizabeth’s name a scandal which it is not within my power to redress, and I would do anything to avoid causing her such harm.
As soon as the road is cleared, I shall depart.
Darcy