Chapter 10 #2
He made no answer.
“You write uncommonly fast.”
“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”
“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year! Letters of business too! How odious I should think them!”
“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours.”
A moment later, she said, “Pray, tell your sister that I long to see her.”
“I have already told her so once by your desire.”
“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.”
“Thank you, but I always mend my own.” Elizabeth hid a small smile at Mr Darcy’s evident desire to be left alone and Miss Bingley’s wilful ignorance of it.
“How can you contrive to write so even?”
He was silent.
“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley’s.”
“Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice.”
“Oh, it is of no consequence! I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr Darcy?”
“They are generally long; but whether always charming, it is not for me to determine.”
“It is a rule with me that a person who can write a long letter with ease cannot write ill.”
“That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline,” cried her brother, “because he does not write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?”
“My style of writing is very different from yours.”
“Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words and blots the rest.”
“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them, which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”
“Then they serve no purpose,” Darcy proclaimed, “and should be set aside until you possess the time needed to compose an informative missive.”
“If I did that,” Mr Bingley said with a laugh, “no one would ever receive any correspondence from me.”
Elizabeth had become a bit lost in thought during this exchange, recalling a letter she had once received from Henry.
In the brief time of their acquaintance and marriage, there had been few letters written.
Indeed, from the time they met in Bath until his death, they were scarcely separated, save for the time she returned to Hertfordshire to tell her parents of her intention to marry.
Even then, he was hard on her heels and in Hertfordshire only two days later to speak to her father.
In that short time apart, she had received three letters from him.
Those letters were now her most prized possessions, but she permitted herself no more than occasional perusal of them.
One was written exceedingly ill. It, too, had words that were blotted and blotched, scratched out and underlined, and she had wondered that such an educated man would write something so disordered.
However, at the end of it, Henry had written the loveliest words:
Pray, forgive my poor excuse for writing.
When you are in my thoughts, my darling girl, I can scarcely hold onto my pen, for my hand trembles with the wish to touch you, and my heart pounds so, it threatens to expel me from my seat.
All of it speaks to my extraordinary love for you, but alas, it does not make for a neatly written letter.
I shall send it anyway, that you might see how great your effect is on me, and also, how we must never be parted again, for my letters are too illegible for us to bear it.
She glanced over at Mr Bingley, whom she realised was a good-natured soul. No matter the way or the determination with which his friend and sister tried to slight him, he greeted it with good humour, and she found herself wishing to defend him.
“A letter can express many things besides the words that are written. Quickness of opinion, emotion, and the regard of the author are contained in the writing of it, and if those things are conveyed through an unsteady hand, even that may be a compliment to the reader.”
She drew the attention of everyone in the room, and all of them stared, having not before seen the inclination of Miss Elizabeth Bennet to voice an unsought—and contrary—opinion.
Mr Darcy was quick to respond. “I cannot think of any better way to compliment my reader than to present to him or her a letter that I have composed carefully enough to make it legible.”
“Yet, in your caution, do you not suppress any indication of the true state of your being that carelessness could not constrain?”
“The state of my being, such as I wish it to be known, is made evident in the words I have written.”
“A person who chooses his words carefully does so because he wishes to convey a specific message that does not always reflect his true condition. You write to your sister, and perhaps you do not wish her to know that your state is one of disorderly sensibility. Thus, you make every effort to write a stately and calm letter.”
Mr Darcy wrinkled his brow. “What guardian would wish his ward to know he is filled with riotous emotion?”
Elizabeth smiled. “That is my very point. You write in such a way as to conceal anything you do not wish made known. Mr Bingley’s writings, such as they are—and I do beg your pardon, sir, for I have not seen your writing and cannot attest to any blot upon it—are honest.”
Miss Bingley stood hastily. “Miss Elizabeth, perhaps you will favour us with some music?”
Elizabeth did not answer straightaway as she found herself locked in one of Mr Darcy’s intent gazes.
With great deliberation, he raised one eyebrow at her and dipped his pen back into the ink.
With an untidy flourish, he added one more line and his signature to the letter.
After a moment’s consideration, he dipped his pen into the ink once more and flicked a rather generous blot onto the bottom of the page. Elizabeth watched him with amazement.
Gravely, he said, “There you go, Miss Bennet. Do you suppose that my sister will be better able now to discern the truth of my fondness for her?”
Elizabeth sat motionless and mortified, fully comprehending Mr Darcy’s rebuke. A flush rose to her cheeks, and she was confused by what, if anything, she should say in reply.
She was saved by Miss Bingley’s urging, “Miss Elizabeth, I beg you would play for us.”
“Forgive me, Miss Bingley—yes, I would be pleased to play.” With great alacrity, she went towards the instrument.
She chose a piece that did not require her to sing as the agitation of her spirits would have prevented it. Even with her hands slightly shaking, she managed to do credit to the piece. She had practised diligently in the past years, and it showed in her exhibition.
Her confusion arose from several things; the first being regret at having provoked Mr Darcy as she had. She saw readily his vexation and felt his reproof was warranted.
Why do I insist on teasing this man? Elizabeth could not comprehend what it was in Mr Darcy that raised this mischievous, impertinent spirit within her.
As she had noted on their first official introduction, something in him awakened something in her—the essential part of her that had lain dormant since those dark days in 1809.
Perhaps she was ready to regain that essence of herself, the part of her that, in the past, had always enjoyed a debate and expressed her opinions, too readily in some cases.
It was rather a good feeling to return to what once was, even though she had chosen a poor subject on whom to exercise her wit and opinions.
Darcy excused himself for a moment, going to the hall where the post was collected, wanting a moment to gather his composure.
He was both exhilarated and frightened by the exchange between them.
His little gesture with the ink on his letter was purposeful flirtation.
Now he could not decide whether he regretted it or relished it—maybe both.
What was the meaning behind their banter? Did she see through him? Did she know his feelings? Was she saying that his mask was inadequate?
In the same moment that his heart exulted in the thought of it, his reason intervened.
This was not good, and if she did suspect that he harboured a tender regard for her, it was so much the worse.
Miss Elizabeth remained entirely unsuitable, and if he raised her expectations in any manner, then he was not the honourable gentleman he had been raised to be.
That thought calmed him until he walked back into the drawing room and saw her perched so prettily at the instrument.
Willing himself to remain in the moment rather than be lost to some undoubtedly erotic flight of fancy, he sat and listened to her, permitting himself the indulgence of gazing upon her as she exhibited.
After she played, Miss Elizabeth apparently felt she had spent sufficient time in the drawing room to ensure that her obligations to her hostess were fulfilled, and she excused herself for the night.
Darcy watched her go with both regret and relief, and then, deciding that he, too, had had enough company for the evening, excused himself.
He ascended the stairs quietly, and as he passed Miss Bennet’s chamber, he heard Elizabeth speaking within.
His manners urged him to continue down the hall to his own rooms, but his wishes won the battle, and he lingered outside the door, eager to know of what they spoke.
Elizabeth was clearly relating the events of the evening to Jane.
As he listened guiltily, he convinced himself that he wished to know more of Miss Bennet’s feelings for Bingley when, truly, he wanted to hear whether Elizabeth said anything of him.
Miss Bennet mostly murmured inaudibly, but Miss Elizabeth’s responses were clear.
“It was a quiet evening. I read, and the others played at whist.”
Another murmur.
“By enquiring of the gentlemen, I can only assume you wish to learn more of Mr Hurst, who was both well in looks this evening and managed to remain sober for nearly a quarter of an hour.”
Darcy stifled a chuckle that threatened to burst forth.
Elizabeth continued on. “You wish to hear of Mr Darcy, then? No? There is only one other, a blond gentleman, I believe…”
Darcy heard Miss Bennet laugh quietly, and he smiled at Elizabeth’s ability to cheer her ill sister.
“I will torment you no longer. Yes, the indefatigably amiable Mr Bingley was charming and in good cheer. I believe that, if a tornado were to tear through Netherfield, he would smile approvingly at it. He looked dashing in a blue coat, boasted an excellent grasp of the finer points of whist, and finished nearly all of his dinner though I suspect he cares little for fish. What else would you like to know?”
Miss Bennet was now laughing at Elizabeth’s summary of the evening and spoke louder. “Oh, Lizzy, you are too much at times. Now you must tell me, was it truly so awful?”
Elizabeth was more sedate in her response.
“Miss Bingley clearly wishes me to leave, if not Netherfield then at least the common rooms. Hers is a superficial hospitality at best. I would not have you feel badly on my account; I could not abandon you to them. At any rate, I will exact a payment for this time when I drag you about London with scores and scores of ladies like Miss Bingley disparaging us at every turn!”
Darcy’s brow rose. Were the two Bennet girls off for a London Season? Some scheme of Mrs Bennet, no doubt, who was not circumspect in her desperation to secure rich and titled husbands for them.
He moved quietly down the hall towards his chambers as he considered the implication of the Bennets in London. Would they intrude upon his notice? Seek to gain invitations using his name? He briefly imagined Mrs Bennet in town with her vulgarity and pretensions, and he shuddered.
With a brief frown, he realised that, more than ever, he must cease any sort of encouragement of Miss Elizabeth. The connexion would not do—not at all—and it would be best if any familiarity was discouraged now.