Chapter 16 Note by Elizabeth Bennet, 23 December 1811
He has come after all. Why has he come?
Surely, ’tis merely a sign of his regard for his friend, or perhaps his desire to make some amends for his aunt’s rudeness. It cannot signify any other intention, can it? To believe so would only be to torment myself with impossibilities.
Lydia entered the room a moment ago and, without invitation, began to read over my shoulder. She informs me that I am “almost as silly as Kitty” and “must be very blind indeed if I do not understand why Mr. Darcy has come.”
It seems she has conceived the fancy that my letters will one day provide the matter for a sentimental novel—which eventuality may heaven forbid—and she insists that I set down the day’s events properly.
That much, I too wish to accomplish, if only in hopes that the undertaking might likewise allow me to make some sense of my thoughts.
It began this morning: Mamma had invited the Netherfield party to dine with us tonight, to which Charles readily assented—and not merely out of a desire to see Jane.
I believe he has been rather dejected this past week at the inability of his friends from town—foremost among them Mr. Darcy—to journey into Hertfordshire to attend his nuptials.
While some people invite only their family and nearest neighbours to their wedding, Charles is precisely the sort to wish for all his acquaintance to share in his happiness.
(At times, my future brother reminds me rather markedly of the friendliest of the local farm dogs, a brown and black mongrel who never fails to greet me on our walks as though I were Odysseus returned to Ithaca, and he the faithful hound—though rather more vigorous than Argos.)
Of course, one can hardly blame Mr. Bingley’s friends for avoiding the journey.
The roads, though passable, are thoroughly muddy, and the weather has turned cold again in recent days.
Further snow seems likely. The prospect of local entertainment has, therefore, been particularly necessary to my poor, dejected future brother.
This morning, a note came from Netherfield.
As Charles had written it, it was, naturally, illegible, and our attempts to decipher it kept us alternately alarmed and entertained until calling hours began.
Jane, who has quickly become quite adept at interpreting her fiancé deplorable hand, discerned the phrases “dinner tonight” and “trust will not.” By this, Mamma at once concluded that Charles had fallen mortally ill and would neither dine with us tonight nor marry in the morning.
Poor Mamma! She has exercised her nerves ever since the engagement with the terror that her happiness—and Jane’s, though that is incidental, I suspect—will be snatched away at the eleventh hour by accident or pestilence.
Even the argument that Charles could not have written such a letter from his deathbed did not set her at ease.
The rest of us, however, concluded that the Bingley party was likely to be either smaller or larger than anticipated, but as we could not determine which, we chose not to trouble ourselves over the matter.
As soon as the Netherfield carriage arrived, Kitty, who had been watching out the sitting room window, proclaimed the presence of an extra gentleman.
“A stranger?” I asked, hardly daring to hope.
“Yes,” she said, and my heart sank. Then, an instant later, “No! It is Mr. Darcy! But I had thought he was gone to London.”
I stood from my seat and, without any regard for subtlety, hastened to the window. There he stood. Though his face was in shadow and his figure shrouded in an overcoat, I knew him at once by his height and the slight tilt of his head.
My pulse began to race and my hands to perspire. I returned to my seat and endeavoured—likely with little success—to appear composed. A moment later, they were within the room. I looked up, forcing a polite smile to my lips, and at once my eyes met his.
He bowed; I curtsied. But the moment felt like more than a simple exchange of civilities. Am I wrong to think that some deeper understanding bound us?
I was certain, when he left, that he would not return and that his decision was because of me. If he has returned, perhaps I was mistaken all along in our attraction—in the cause of his departure. Or dare I hope that he has changed his mind?
His conduct at dinner gave me little opportunity to discern his intentions.
He was, perhaps, more sociable than usual, but the whole of the party—most particularly Mamma and Charles—were in such high spirits that it was difficult not to be swept away in their enthusiasm.
Nevertheless, it is difficult to imagine that the Mr. Darcy to whom I was introduced in October would have listened politely to Mamma’s description of the garlands in the church, or conversed so eagerly with Aunt and Uncle Gardiner.
He did stare at me as often as ever—but where previously his look seemed expressive of disdain, now I found only warmth and fascination.
Am I, who have fancied myself so astute a judge of my fellow man, in truth able only to perceive what I wish to find? Have I been blinded by prejudice? Am I blind even now? I feel as though I hardly know myself.
Someone is knocking at the door, and Jane will soon leave Mamma and come to bed. What a day tomorrow will be!