Chapter Twenty-Three #2
Elizabeth laughed; he was always polite and correct, and it was vastly amusing to her, for she was rarely so formal.
“My powers of observation are limited only to yourself at present. I generally prefer to watch everybody with whom I am in company; since I cannot do so without the quality of my painting suffering, you must be my eyes, sir. Tell me what everyone is doing – and then tell me what you think of them.”
“You would have my opinion on a dozen people, most of whom I have known scarcely above a week?”
“Certainly. What do we live for, if not to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn? Or do you imagine none of them have anything to say about you, sir?”
“Having heard your first impression of me, I would rather not know,” he drawled.
“But we are in league together, Mr. Darcy – I comprehend you perfectly, and now wish only to know if we are of similar turn of mind regarding our companions. Unless perhaps you should prefer to hear me fill the silence with details of my last trip to the modiste.”
Mr. Darcy laughed and hastened to oblige her by describing the scene unfolding behind her. They chatted idly about all their friends, finding they were in perfect agreement, for they liked and disliked all the same people – with the exception of Emma Woodhouse.
“I shall own that she does appear in fine spirits, despite Bingley’s determination to pester her with his chatter,” Mr. Darcy admitted.
"Do you not think your friend capable of wooing his lady? He is perfectly amiable,” Elizabeth said.
“Ought he challenge Mr. Churchill to a duel?” Elizabeth frowned as that name passed her lips; she was relieved, at least, that he was not amongst their party.
He had apparently ridden all the way to London that morning to have his hair cut.
“I should rather see you do so,” Mr. Darcy teased her, his voice uncommonly solemn but his eyes sparkling with mirth.
“If I were a man, he would already be run through,” she huffed.
“It cannot have been easy for you to see your sister so distressed last evening,” he said gently. “Would that it were in my power to make it all well between them.”
“Would that we might uncover some miraculous method for making Emma fall madly in love with the man she is promised to marry,” Elizabeth quipped back at him. “If I were the Almighty, I could not have designed a man so easy to like.”
Mr. Darcy looked offended for a moment. “No, indeed. I have known him for many years, and I have seen him form attachments every season, but his affections are never returned. I think such ladies as Miss Woodhouse do not like an easy conquest.”
Elizabeth screwed her face up at him. “Quite right. We prefer gentlemen who are taciturn and silent, who distrust us ladies and hold us to exacting standards.”
“ You seem to; you had every opportunity to drown me in the lake instead of extending a helping hand, you know.”
Her mouth fell agape at his boldness, and Elizabeth tossed an empty paint jar at him, but he easily swatted it away from himself. He plucked one of the large hydrangea blossoms and threw it at her face, and Elizabeth shook her head as the loose petals tangled in her hair.
“Do you mean to convince me that ladies prefer wicked men?”
“Your sister and friend seem to, though one of them does not know the truth, and I fear the other resents having seen it.”
Elizabeth lowered her paintbrush and let out a heavy sigh. She turned to look over her shoulder. It gave her a modicum of satisfaction to see Miss Bingley looking at her with vexation, but she was sorry indeed to see Jane doing the same.
“I believe Jane is angry with me for obliging her to witness his inconsiderate behavior. I am sure the entire problem might be solved merely by her speaking plainly with Emma. My friend would be repulsed and appalled if she knew Mr. Churchill to be already betrothed.”
“And yet you cannot take matters into your own hands, I suppose.”
“I cannot; pray do not tempt me,” she chided Mr. Darcy. She softened a little as she added, “I suppose there is no simple solution to your estrangement from your own sister, either.”
“No, there is not; I hope for your sake that your present difficulty is more easily remedied.”
“I had not thought it noticeable to anyone besides myself that Jane is angry with me,” Elizabeth sighed.
“I share your penchant for observation, and I am at your command in relating all that I have noticed of our companions. I fear this gives neither of us any advantage in discerning what is to be done about what displeases us.”
Elizabeth gave him a look of commiseration. She understood that his situation with his sister had occurred more than a year ago; she had but a few weeks to spend with Jane, and there was a great deal they wished to accomplish.
“I have had little success with my own sister, as much as I have apologized,” he said, his voice thick with feeling. “Though I believed my actions were correct, I was heartily sorry that they wounded her.”
Elizabeth let out a little groan. “When I went to comfort her last evening, I do not think I actually said that I was sorry; only that I was correct. I have been a horrid fool.”
Mr. Darcy gave her an encouraging smile. “You have known me to be tardy in my own apologies, but that must be some proof that it is better late than never. Go and speak with her; I will sit for you again another time, if your painting is not complete.”
Elizabeth thanked him and went to find her sister.
She wished to run to Jane’s side, but she kept a sedate pace, anxiety rising in her chest. It was not seldom that she behaved wickedly, but she was not often in the habit of making pretty apologies, and she feared for the fragile newness of her relationship with Jane.
She came to stand at her sister’s side, and she admired Jane’s portrait of their mother.
“Jane, this is marvelous,” Elizabeth cried.
“It is as though you have replicated that torn watercolor from so long ago. She even wears the same shade of gown and holds a bundle of wildflowers!” She lowered her voice and leaned in conspiratorially.
“Shall you paint her on a blue and green sofa, with Papa at her side?”
Jane looked up from her work, bristling at the interruption. “I daresay I am as clever as you, Elizabeth. I shall paint our father separately; neither of them has any notion of what I intend.”
“How wonderfully mischievous!”
“Yes, I expected you should be pleased by what is devious.”
Elizabeth hung her head. “Oh, Jane, I am so very sorry. I should not have directed any of my meddling toward you. I only wished to-”
“Yes, I know. You have made your thoughts and wishes abundantly clear.”
“Jane! I will stop, I promise; I shall leave it for you to sort out between yourselves.”
“And I daresay you shall carry on as the dearest friend of my tormentor?”
Elizabeth took a step back, aghast at her sister’s coldness. “Emma does not know that she is hurting you, Jane – only Frank Churchill is aware of the fact, and chooses to willfully torment you.”
“You said quite enough last night; I comprehend you perfectly. I have faults enough, but I hope they are not of understanding.”
“I never meant to suggest that I find you foolish,” Elizabeth pleaded with her.
“You must think me a fool to love such a man; you certainly look upon me with pity.”
Elizabeth held up her hands in frustration. “Jane, what can I do?”
“Leave me be.”
Elizabeth did just that. She and her sister spoke little for the rest of the afternoon, and Elizabeth did not visit the cottage the next morning, though she dearly wished to be present when the final two gowns from Mrs. Bartlett were sent to Miss Bates.
That evening Isabella Knightley hosted a dinner party in honor of Emma and Mr. Bingley’s engagement.
Elizabeth hardly knew what to expect of Jane’s behavior toward her, but she was not prepared to find her sister mortified at once again being the topic of speculation.
It seemed that a large and elegant pianoforte had been delivered to the cottage that afternoon, bewildering its residents.
Emma and Mr. Churchill found the topic massively fascinating, though it was obvious to Elizabeth that the latter was certainly the sender of the lavish gift.
She knew there was little she could do to silence the chatter of her companions, who had, according to Mrs. Knightley, been treated to far more gossip than Highbury usually aroused in a twelvemonth.
Miss Bates insisted the gift must have been sent by Colonel Campbell, for she could not imagine who else would have gone to such expense.
Emma led the charge of convincing the other ladies it must be an offering of love, and Elizabeth overheard Miss Taylor privately attempting to convince Emma that it must have been Mr. Knightley who sent the instrument.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Knightley told her father that she had overheard Mr. Darcy praising Jane’s abilities at Milton Hall, and he was wealthy enough to think nothing of such a grand gesture.
Elizabeth only rolled her eyes at this. It was a foolish gift, in her opinion, for there was no space for it in the small parlor of the cottage, and it must have been more of an inconvenience than a blessing.
It was far too great an expense for a gentleman who could not afford his own independence, especially when a simple apology and immediate reformation might have sufficed.
She meandered through the room, torturing herself as she heard the chatter, and she was at least gratified when Mr. Knightley told his brother he, too, thought the gift was rather thoughtless.