Chapter 14
I know not how to begin. Perhaps I ought not to write this confession at all. Aunt Gardiner would advise against putting my most private thoughts to paper, lest any indiscrete expression of sentiment fall into the wrong hands.
Certainly, I should employ this rare interval of quiet to write to my aunt.
I am, ironically, several letters in her debt, for I have chosen not to post any of the missives I wrote to her during my stay at Netherfield.
I cannot bear for even dear, sensible Aunt Gardiner to know of my vain admiration for Mr. Darcy, nor the humiliating depth of my dejection at his departure.
Still less would I distract from Jane’s joy in her engagement.
Nevertheless, I must somehow give voice to my disappointment, or I shall run mad with it.
Lord, what a gothic declaration. I must find some way to laugh at myself again, or I shall become truly ridiculous.
I meant only to say that, without the relief of confiding in this page, I should not be able to maintain my good humour when in my family’s company.
I would doubtless snap at Lydia’s incessant demands for a new dress for the wedding, or else dissolve into hysterics upon Mamma’s next attempt to add lace to Jane’s bonnet.
We talk of nothing but the wedding day from morning to night—nor would I wish it otherwise, for Jane deserves to be the happiest of brides.
Yet I must confess that I find it all not a little trying.
I cannot help but think that, had circumstances been otherwise—had he felt a true attachment towards me—we might have been wed together with Charles and Jane on Christmas Eve and celebrated our Lord’s nativity from his home in London.
I have found myself frequently lost in such fancies, imagining a husband’s strong arms bearing me over the threshold of a fine townhouse, decked with greenery and alive with candlelight.
We would sit together by the fire, and he would hold my hand.
I can still recall exactly how it felt for my fingers to rest in his.
But it is absurd to imagine the impossible. How have I become this detestable, languishing creature? One might think I had been left at the alter, rather than enjoying a few days of pleasant concord with a gentleman quite above my touch. What would I not give to be free of these useless desires?
I am not yet altogether spiritless, however.
Last night, we dined with my aunt Phillips, and some of the officers were present, including Mr. Wickham.
I had no wish to speak to him, but still less did I desire to cause a scene, for I knew both my aunt and Lady Lucas were watching us, minds alight with romantic conjecture.
They expected, I suppose, that I might act the scorned lover or attempt to reclaim Wickham’s attentions after his recent flirtation with Mary King.
Any show of offence or repulsion would only confirm them in one or the other of these opinions, and thus my only possible course was disinterested courtesy.
To my surprise and discomfiture, he approached mere moments after his arrival, his old, eager smile firmly in place. After greeting me, he soon made his purpose in addressing me clear.
“I understand I am to condole with you, Miss Elizabeth, upon your latest imprisonment at Netherfield.”
Choosing to misunderstand his meaning, I replied, “Indeed, the carriage accident was most alarming. We are grateful to have escaped unscathed, and doubly so that the mishap occurred in proximity to Netherfield, where we were so kindly welcomed.”
“Indeed, I have heard Mr. Bingley called the best of hosts. Would that his friends were equally praiseworthy.”
“I cannot think to whom you might refer, Mr. Wickham. By the by, have you yet heard the tale of Alice Jones’ rescue? It does great credit to my future brother, and to his friend Mr. Darcy.”
“Yes,” he replied hastily, and I read irritation in the pinch of his lips and flash of his eye. “Darcy never was deficient in physical courage, though he seems dead to all other proper feeling.”
“I cannot say I concur with your impression, sir. He showed laudable concern for the tenants suffering from the storm. And,” I added, possessed with a sudden, lamentable daring, “I understand him to be a most careful guardian to his sister.”
He at once understood the significance of this remark, for he paled and stepped back.
“Yes, I believe he is,” he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“But excuse me, Miss Elizabeth. I have not yet greeted Miss Mary King.” As he fled towards that unfortunate young lady, I felt a surge of triumph.
I might never meet Mr. Darcy again, but at least I have had the satisfaction of defending his name.
I must persuade Papa to write to Mr. King, for I fear—
19 December
I had meant to conclude this reflection yesterday afternoon and lock it away safely in my trunk, but a most peculiar and mortifying incident diverted my attention, and once again, I must turn to my pen to order my thoughts.
As I was transcribing my exchange with Mr. Wickham, I heard a carriage coming up the drive.
Naturally, I presumed that the Netherfield party had come to call.
A few moments later, however, a voice rang through the entry hall, and I knew that such a commanding tone could not belong to Miss Bingley, still less to Mrs. Hurst.
Just as I was standing, prepared to investigate the commotion, a knock came at my chamber door, and, without waiting for invitation, Lydia entered.
“Mamma says you must come down at once, Lizzy. Mr. Collins has come with his dreadful patroness, and she insists upon speaking with you.” She let out a giggle, and then her eyes fell on the little writing table, covered with papers.
“Are you writing another letter to Aunt Gardiner, Lizzy? You must take care, or you will ruin your eyes with scribbling and go about with a squint.” She laughed again, and I smiled, but I was too alarmed by her news to make any further response.
I checked my hair in the glass, cast aside my heavy shawl—Mr. Darcy never returned my evening mantle—and descended to meet the famous Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
I found that formidable person standing in the parlour, glaring down her aristocratic nose at Mamma, while Mr. Collins fluttered about, urging the lady to sit and take some refreshment. His suggestions went entirely unheeded.
Lady Catherine was everything one might imagine her to be: an imposing figure, clad in velvet and furs, her imperious sneer vaguely reminiscent of her nephew’s habitual expression in society.
For a moment, I wondered if she, like Mr. Darcy, might have possessed a fundamental merit concealed by her ungracious manner—but then her eyes fell upon me, and the vicious glint there made it clear that the aunt was not at all like the nephew.
“Mr. Collins, introduce this young person to me,” she ordered.
“Of course, your ladyship. This is Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” He cast a gloating smile my way, as though I were a small child due for a scolding.
I ignored him, making my most dignified curtsy and murmuring in as demure a tone as I could contrive, “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Catherine.”
“I require a private interview with you, Miss Elizabeth. Has this house another sitting room? Or must we walk outdoors in this weather?” The look Lady Catherine cast towards the window suggested that she not only disapproved of the climate in Hertfordshire but held us personally responsible for it.
“This is only the evening sitting room, Lady Catherine. The morning room is larger,” Mamma protested, but the lady barely acknowledged her.
Judging that further discussion would serve no purpose, I led the way out of the room.
“You will await my return, Mr. Collins,” I heard as I turned into the corridor. In the morning room, I rang for a servant to bank the fire before offering tea to our guest, who had chosen to stand by the window, holding her gold-topped walking stick like a riding whip.
“I shall not take tea,” she said, as though it were a royal proclamation.
Turning her back to the window, she surveyed the space, pronouncing it small and shabby and objecting to the west-facing windows.
This I acknowledged, and she lapsed into silence once more.
Discomfited and growing impatient, I at last inquired the purpose of her call.
“We had not,” I said without prevarication, “anticipated the honour of making your acquaintance.”
“You might have anticipated such an honour, had you possessed the good sense to accept Mr. Collins’ offer.”
For a moment, I gaped, but Lady Catherine continued on, betraying no consciousness of the absurd impropriety of her speech.
“I have heard a most alarming report from Mr. Collins and have come, in spite of the deplorable roads, with the sole purpose of hearing it unequivocally denied.”
My heart began to race, but I contrived to retain some appearance of tranquility.
“May I inquire as to the nature of this report, ma’am?”
“Do not dissemble, Miss Bennet. Mr. Collins has already informed me of your devious nature. He claims that you have, by some contrivance, persuaded my nephew Mr. Darcy to enter into an understanding with you. I demand that you instantly recant this absurd notion. Darcy is engaged to my daughter. What have you to say to that?”
“Only that, were he already engaged to Miss de Bourgh, I should not suppose him so dishonourable as to make an offer to me.”
Lady Catherine waved this reference to her nephew’s honour away as though it were an inconsequential matter.
“The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. His mother and I intended them for each other from their infancy, and I have every confidence that our wish will soon be accomplished.”
“And again I say, Lady Catherine, that if Mr. Darcy intends to conform to your wishes, then you can have no reason to believe that he has proposed to me.”