Chapter 8
“For Heaven’s sake!” Darcy muttered to himself, appalled at the scene playing out in the middle of the supper room at Bingley’s first Netherfield Park ball — which, to judge by the standard of behaviour there, he must hope would also be the last.
One of the younger Bennet girls had unfastened and run away with a sword from the belt of one of the militia officers.
After being chased to and fro with much screaming and laughter, she had now actually climbed up onto one of the benches and was holding the sword out of reach while the officer in question threatened to tickle her until she dropped it.
Mrs Bennet, who ought to have been supervising her young daughters, was instead occupied in her own too-loud conversation with Lady Lucas and other ladies of middle-age.
When the girl’s high-pitched giggling did penetrate her ears, the neglectful mother only threw across a fond smile and then returned to her own chatter, either unaware or careless of the censorious looks her daughter was attracting from other guests.
“You shall not have it back until you beg, Denny!” the girl proclaimed, sword in one hand and skirts hitched almost to her knee with the other.
How boldly and rudely she spoke! Yet the strident tones of the girl’s mother grated scarcely less on Darcy’s ears.
“Yes, he is a perfect match for my Jane, I do declare. Watching them tonight, I believe we will see an engagement before Christmas! Think too, Mr Bingley has so many friends. What opportunities may arise for all my other girls after they marry…”
Inwardly, Darcy cringed to hear his friend’s marriage prospects discussed in such terms. Bingley was certainly besotted with the eldest Miss Bennet, Darcy knew. That young lady appeared to gracefully return his affection. So far, there could be neither doubt nor objection.
The vulgarity of Mrs Bennet’s conversation, however, did the prospective couple no service in opening them up to public gossip and speculation.
Darcy felt certain that neither party would have welcomed it.
Thankfully, they had spent almost the entire evening in one another’s arms on the dance floor and remained unaware that their feelings were being made a subject of public discourse at the refreshment table.
Turning on his heel, Darcy walked away from the supper room. Upon encountering Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst on their way over towards the refreshments, he paused and spoke to them.
“I would advise you to wait a little while for your supper,” he said in an undertone. “One of the young Bennets is creating an unfortunate and rather disgraceful scene. Personally, I would rather eat later than watch it unfold.”
“Thank you for your advice,” murmured Miss Bingley with a fixed smile, and both ladies gave him a small curtsey before proceeding into the refreshment room regardless.
Was it Darcy’s imagination, or had Charles Bingley’s sisters been cooler with him since the incident with Louisa Hurst’s letter?
Surely, they had not truly believed the gossip its writer had passed on?
It might also be that Mrs Hurst held him responsible for the burning of her correspondence, he supposed. That could not be helped now.
As Darcy walked away, he decided that Caroline Bingley had certainly been more distant since that day.
In itself, this did not concern Darcy. He even welcomed it, having long wished that Bingley’s younger sister would find another, more willing subject for her attentions.
The reasons underlying such a change in attitude did bother him, however.
Darcy felt increasingly that he was fighting an enemy he could not see. The battle ranged over many different fronts and seemed to be growing every day as his unknown adversary invisibly recruited everyone around him to their cause.
“…they say so…yes, Mr Darcy of Pemberley…”
“…not his father…”
“…dubious birth…”
The whispering really was everywhere, here at Netherfield Park as well as in Meryton every time he walked out.
Careless with punch and merriment, the words were even more clearly audible at tonight’s ball, and the impudent stares even harder to ignore.
The supposedly respectable inhabitants of Hertfordshire invited here tonight were not even bothering to hide their ill-bred curiosity.
The scene in the nearby music room was no easier on Darcy’s nerves, and he winced to hear the mechanical playing and doleful singing of the middle Bennet daughter. All around the pianoforte, other young ladies stood rolling their eyes and waiting their turn in vain.
“Mary Bennet has sung for a full half hour!” he heard one small freckled girl complain.
“Has it really been so long?” her companion enquired.
“It certainly feels that way!” replied the first girl, causing much hilarity and mocking attention towards the figure at the pianoforte.
“It feels so to me too,” remarked a grey-haired man in silver spectacles, who had been watching events unfold with curious detachment. “Ah, well, I suppose I must say something.”
Darcy’s lip curled as he recognised Mr Bennet making his way to the keyboard to finally terminate the unwanted and poorly received performance.
Why was the man doing so little to rein in his unruly family?
Did he really find their undignified behaviour and consequential humiliation a laughing matter?
Thinking briefly of Jane and Elizabeth Bennet, Darcy felt a twinge of compassion.
This was tempered, however, by concern for Charles Bingley.
Whatever the beauties and virtues of Jane Bennet, could they truly compensate for tying himself to such a family as the Bennets?
Maybe Darcy had a duty to discourage the match after all, regardless of his preoccupation with his own personal predicament.
While seriously considering this step, Darcy felt a plucking at his sleeve and moved from the doorway, assuming that someone was trying to pass. The plucking only continued, however, and Darcy turned his head to see who was trying to attract his attention so assiduously.
At first, there appeared to be no one there, and he almost walked away. Then, Darcy realised that an odd man in clerical dress was standing beside him but had bowed so low as to render himself briefly invisible.
“Mr Darcy of Pemberley!” said the man excitedly before he had even raised his head, briefly giving the appearance that he was addressing the floor. “I am Mr Collins.”
Darcy frowned. Who was this clown, and what did he want?
“Yes?” he said tersely.
“I am honoured, truly,” the absurd cleric stated as he straightened himself with an odd flourish and smiled at Darcy with far too much enthusiasm and too great a display of teeth.
“To finally meet the great man himself, after hearing so much of you from Lady Catherine de Bourgh, is an unexpected boon indeed.”
Darcy stared blankly at the man’s damp and obsequious face.
Aside from having some unspecified connection with his aunt, he could guess nothing of the man’s identity or his purpose in making this approach.
Under Darcy’s stony glare, the clergyman hesitated only briefly and then spoke again in fulsome tones.
“I am pleased to be able to tell you that when I left Kent almost two weeks ago, my noble patroness Lady Catherine was in good health and very pleased with the operation of the flues in the main hall at Rosings Park.”
“What?” Darcy remarked in astonishment, still unable to make any sense of the encounter.
“I felt it my duty to assure you that, for the sake of Lady Catherine, I am entirely at your service during my stay in Hertfordshire, although I must caution that I leave tomorrow for Hunsford once more. Until then, however, you will find me with my cousin Mr Bennet and his gracious wife and daughters at Longbourn…”
“Good evening, sir,” said Darcy, frostily taking his leave.
Baffled by anything else the clergyman had said, he had at least understood Mr Collins to be some relative of the Bennet family. Knowing this much, he supposed that nothing else should surprise him in the man’s want of propriety and sense.
Though, Darcy recalled with both irritation and dark amusement, the man had also said he had the patronage of Lady Catherine. Such being the case, his own family was perhaps equally to blame — a fact that was hardly cheering.
Wherever he turned tonight, Darcy seemed to find something to irk him. He wished he could simply retire to his rooms, but out of respect for Bingley, he felt it his duty to remain at the ball until at least the first wave of guests departed.
Unfortunately for Darcy, that likely would not be for some hours yet.
In a gloomy mood, he walked towards the ballroom and immediately saw Bingley and Miss Bennet sailing together across the dance floor in a waltz, their faces shining with happiness.
At least someone here was enjoying themself tonight, he reflected, and changed his mind again about the idea of trying to turn Bingley away from this latest object of admiration.
“Oh, I do hope the next is a reel!” declared the sword-stealing Bennet daughter. Darcy noticed the weapon was now reunited with its owner, who was escorting her back to the dancing. “I should love to dance a reel, Denny.”
Turning his back on the pair, Darcy’s eyes followed the dancers, although his mind saw nothing but the reeling of thoughts inside his own head. Red coats seemed everywhere tonight, but Darcy had noted early on that none of these contained the contemptible figure of Mr George Wickham.
Darcy had apprised Bingley of his unfortunate history with Wickham in the broadest terms, but he knew it would never have been possible to exclude a single officer without giving rise to comment. That suggested that Wickham had voluntarily excluded himself from the party.