Chapter 15 Note by Fitzwilliam Darcy, 19 December 1811
Editor’s Note: As with the previous text, the following is more a diary entry than a letter, in this case written in Fitzwilliam Darcy’s hand on the same woven foolscap he utilises throughout these papers.
Unlike Elizabeth Bennet, who seems to have relied upon the supply of paper provided by her hosts at Netherfield for her earlier letters, Darcy seems to have packed his own supply, and the leaves are consistent in size, texture, and colour.
The clocks have already chimed midnight, but I shall not find any rest until I have set my thoughts in order. I will recount all that has unfolded today as dispassionately as possible, and then I will decide how to proceed.
The first warning of something amiss came shortly after I had returned from Angelo’s.
* I had intended to retire upstairs to change for dinner directly, but before I could do so, the footman informed me that Fitzwilliam was waiting in my study.
I assumed he had come to escape one of his father’s domineering humours and to deplete my supply of French brandy, but when I saw his expression, I knew at once that some graver matter had brought him.
“What is it?” I asked at once.
“Pour yourself a drink first, Darcy,” he said, taking a sip from the glass he had helped himself to in my absence.
I thanked him in my most sarcastic tone and poured my own drink. After the pleasant exertions of the fencing parlour, the warmth of the fire and the brandy were particularly pleasant, but my concern over Fitzwilliam’s business kept me on edge. For once, he did not keep me in suspense.
“Can you guess who arrived at my father’s door last night, while we were all out at the Cavendish dinner?” he asked.
“I could not possibly conjecture,” I replied, giving him an unimpressed look. Fitzwilliam knows how I deplore guessing games.
“Lady Catherine.”
This was alarming news indeed, for our aunt scarcely ever stirs from Kent.
“Indeed? What brings her to town?”
“She is returning from a visit in Hertfordshire.”
“Hertfordshire?” I repeated, alarm making my voice sharp.
“Yes. Evidently she felt the need to call upon some relations of her parson and was deeply offended by her reception. She told Father all about it this morning, and they have both been in the most towering rage ever since—at you mostly, though also at each other. I escaped to warn you as soon as I could. Would you care to explain—”
But I did not care to explain. As soon as I understood that my aunt’s errand in Hertfordshire was somehow related to the Bennets, I was up and calling for my horse. Before I could gallop off to Berkeley Square, however, Fitzwilliam caught my arm.
“What is this about, Darcy? Lady Catherine has been raving about engagements and country misses all day. She cannot mean—”
He trailed off expectantly, but I was not of a mind to satisfy his curiosity.
“Not now, Fitzwilliam,” I snapped and strode from the house.
When I reached Matlock House, I found Lady Catherine in the drawing room, holding forth to my aunt Matlock on the proper arrangements for a winter soirée. Lady Matlock, an accomplished town hostess, gave every sign of suffering from extreme ennui.
When I entered, she brightened and said, “Ah, Darcy! You will be wishing to speak to Lady Catherine in private,” and promptly left the room.
As soon as the door clicked shut, Lady Catherine rounded upon me with her most imperious glare.
“I surmise by your presence here, nephew, that you know the purpose of my visit.”
“On the contrary, madam, I cannot imagine what calamity would cause you to leave your home at such a time, with the roads in so wretched a state. Is my cousin unwell? Have you come to consult the town doctors?”
“Anne is perfectly well. But you are right to speak of calamity. The calamity of seeing the Darcy name disgraced, and the position that once belonged to my sister filled by an unscrupulous fortune hunter.”
“Speak plainly, I beg you, madam. To whom do you refer?”
“To Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” she said, spitting the name as though it were sour wine. “My parson warned me of her impudence and presumption, but I could not have imagined the extent of it. To think that—that baggage could aspire to the position of Mrs. Darcy! It is unthinkable.”
“And so,” I said, suppressing my wrath with great effort, “you have come all the way to London to inform me of your disapprobation for a match that you do not believe I would ever contract?”
“Men have often been known to act the fool over a pretty face—though I cannot imagine that anyone could think Miss Bennet more than tolerable.”
“Your imagination falls short of reality, then,” I said.
She gave me a suspicious look but chose not to acknowledge the sarcastic remark.
“Tell me at once, nephew. Are you engaged to Miss Bennet?”
“I am not.”
One less acquainted with my aunt might not have marked the slight drop of her shoulders betraying her profound relief.
“I am very glad to hear it. The girl said— But she must have dissembled.”
This remark, spoken almost under her breath, stirred my fears to life.
“I beg your pardon, madam. To whom do you refer?”
“To Miss Bennet,” she said, without the slightest sign of shame. “I felt it necessary to obtain assurance from her own mouth that she was neither engaged to you, nor intending ever to become so, before addressing you on the subject.”
I cannot find the words by which to convey the magnitude of my wrath and mortification at this admission: only by a great force of will did I keep my voice steady as I said, “And what was her response?”
It was not hope that spurred my inquiry.
Surely, if Elizabeth harboured any warm feelings towards me, this evidence of my family’s incivility must have quashed them.
Rather, it was a sense of obligation: that I, as well as my aunt, ought to bear whatever expression of disapprobation and disdain Elizabeth must have offered in reply.
Lady Catherine, of course, showed not a shred of contrition in confessing her flagrant impropriety. To lord it over her tenants and neighbours in Kent is one thing. To accost a gentlewoman whom she had never before met with impertinent inquiries regarding matters of the heart is quite another.
“She, too, denied the existence of any attachment. She had that much decency, at least. But she refused—refused entirely, in spite of all my appeals to good sense and decorum—to promise never to contract such an engagement. Her ambition is evident. You must take care, nephew, not to come in contact with that young lady again, for she will contrive to impose upon your honour if she possibly can. May the shades of Pemberley never be so polluted!”
Her diatribe continued, but I cannot recall further particulars.
As deep as my despair had been at learning of Lady Catherine’s effrontery, so great was my joy—my sudden, overwhelming hope—upon learning of Elizabeth’s words.
How well I know her candour, her fearless willingness to speak her mind when pressed beyond the bounds of common civility.
Had she been disgusted with me—or even disinterested—she certainly would have disclaimed any intention of accepting a future offer. But she did not.
Dare I conclude that she might return my regard? And if she does, how ought I to proceed?
I ended the interview with my aunt mere moments later, interrupting the flow of her vituperations and leaving her both perplexed and irate at my abrupt departure. I rode home slowly, my mind puzzling over this dilemma all the way.
Upon my return, I found Fitzwilliam still ensconced comfortably in my study, drinking my brandy and staring into the fire.
“Well, Darcy, how did you find our aunt?”
“Devoid of even the slightest shred of propriety. The woman actually dared to impose herself in the home of a gentleman who had never been introduced to her and to interrogate that gentleman’s daughter regarding her matrimonial intentions. It is unconscionable.”
Though Fitzwilliam already knew of the journey, he seemed as thunderstruck as I had been at the revelation of our aunt’s purpose. He whistled and shook his head like an astonished schoolboy.
“Our aunt has too long been surrounded by sycophants, Darcy.”
“I quite agree, and I feel for all those over whom she holds any sway. But my more immediate concern is the offence to the Bennets.”
“To be sure, you must send a letter of apology to Mr. Bennet.”
“A letter is not sufficient, particularly when Miss Elizabeth was the one truly offended. I doubt Mr. Bennet stirred from his library for the whole of Lady Catherine’s visit.”
“Then you may tender your apology in person when you attend Bingley’s wedding.”
“I had not intended to do so.”
The look he gave me made me shift in discomfort. “Not attend Bingley’s wedding?”
“I have already informed him that matters of business detain me in London.”
“What matters of business?”
I faltered. It was one thing to make excuses to Bingley, whose trusting nature precludes the slightest scrutiny of a friend’s motives. It was quite another to deceive my cousin.
“What reason could you have for failing to attend Bingley’s wedding? You have not fallen out with the man, have you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then is there some other personage in Hertfordshire whom you wish to avoid?”
He fixed me with a penetrating stare, and when I offered no response, began to smile in that unbearably knowing way he has upon uncovering one or the other of my secrets. “Is it, perhaps, this Miss Elizabeth’s company you fear? Is she a dreadful termagant or a despicable fortune hunter?”
“Certainly not,” I snapped, and his smile only grew.
“Quite the opposite, then? Perilously lovely? A veritable siren?”
“She is a handsome young woman,” I said, rather stiffly, “but I would not call her perilous.”