Chapter Four
Elizabeth thought about Mr. Darcy more often than she liked.
That he had flattered her vanity while at the same time insulting her dearest friend made it necessary that her kind thoughts about the gentleman must be mixed with a mild sense of guilt.
Despite this, before events where she knew that Mr. Darcy was to be present, she indulged Sarah and herself by letting the maid spend an extra fifteen minutes making her hair and the light application of rouge on her cheeks just so.
A compelling man to look at! And he found her attractive too—enough to class her as an immoral woman!
—that was a more extravagant compliment than any gentleman had ever paid before.
She was aware of how he looked at her. His gaze was steady, and she supposed he must be thinking disapproving and cold thoughts about how her lovely form only covered the vile lewdness of a loose woman.
That was said in frustration to Charlotte a day after their dinner party.
Charlotte replied in quite a different manner from the one Elizabeth had expected.
“If you can secure him, you ought to do so. I think that he means to marry quickly to provide a step-mother for his daughter. His entailed estate must provide an additional impetus for making his second marriage sooner rather than later.”
“A mother for his daughter! I shall not audition for that role for a girl that I have not even met, no matter how delighted dear Georgie is with her niece—not even if Mr. Darcy looks very handsome in his dark mourning colours.”
“You have a chance to succeed with him. You must know what such a thing would mean for your family.”
“I do not wish to marry without affection. Yes, that affection must point towards someone well-padded in the pocket—I cannot forget about Jane’s well-being—but I also cannot approve of Mr. Darcy.
His insult to you—his manners. They are cold, forbidding.
He dislikes my manners too. He dislikes dancing.
He dislikes society. He sits by himself at every gathering and looks like Blake’s vicious tiger whenever he is approached. ”
“It has been less than six months since Mrs. Darcy’s death. You must not judge him so harshly for his behaviour at this time, and—”
“And if I believe my mother, he killed her! You cannot expect me to marry a wife murderer.”
“Neither of us believes that story. If Mr. Darcy asked me to marry him, I would without any hesitation. Whatever the truth of his difficulties with his first wife, I do not think that Miss Darcy could speak of him so affectionately if he was a monster.”
“Yes, when the subject of Mrs. Darcy did come into conversation, she mentioned them ceasing to speak frequently to each other but not of beatings, chains, whips, or implements of medieval torture. Though she did not deny that her brother locked the poor woman in her rooms for a week before her death.”
“I would trust,” Charlotte replied, “that you would not behave in such a manner as would lead to him to feel obliged to lock you in your rooms.”
“Or which would oblige him to toss me from a window? I tell you, as much as I refuse to believe such melodramatic tales, Mr. Darcy is a strong man with a gaze that intimidates. I could imagine him engaged in an act of raw brutality more easily than I could imagine any other of my acquaintances.”
Elizabeth nearly shivered, and not with disgust. That was part of what made it impossible to not look away from Mr. Darcy.
“Much like a character from Walter Scott,” Charlotte offered.
Elizabeth laughed. “Seriously. Not Mr. Goulding or Mr. Lucas. Not Mr. Bingley. I could never imagine such a thing of your father or mine. But if Mr. Darcy were in a proper passion, if his rage had been rightly roused, if that grim demeanour or if that lethargy he sometimes displays were broken, I could imagine him committing an act of violence and regretting it forever more… But he would never kill a woman, no matter the provocation. No, his nature has too much of the gentleman in it. It would be another man whom he killed.”
Charlotte laughed at that extended speech. “What a romantic notion,” she said. “I see that you study him a great deal as well.”
“You would not wish me to risk being murdered just so that I might marry well. And if I were murdered, who would care for Jane?”
“I would trust you,” Charlotte said, “to not cuckold the man—I assume that tale to be true.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Thus, I must marry with affection. For who knows what might happen if I marry where there is none. What did Livy say? Human nature not being perfect. To suppose that I could live in pure innocence is, to put it mildly, risky—yet…”
Charlotte took her arm. “Yes?”
“I think I never would. If I married a man without love, and if I then came to love another, I cannot imagine that I would break my vows. It is a serious thing—once one has sworn a thing, one has a duty to it. I am better than such a sin—at least I could never face Jane again after doing so, and that would keep me safe from temptation. That is what I imagine about myself, but one cannot trust the strength of such inclinations till they have been tested.”
“Jane would forgive you and tell you that while it is shocking, you must not think so terribly of yourself, and then she would speak of the forgiveness that is preached by religion, etc, etc.”
“I would never be able to face her again! No, Charlotte, no. I will not marry without strong affection. I am practical enough that I shall not insist upon the deepest and most passionate attachment. But there must be attachment.”
“Perhaps the question is whether you can attach yourself to Mr. Darcy, rather than whether you can attach him to you.”
“No, no.” Elizabeth laughed. “You ask me to court heartbreak. I shall convince myself that I am in love with him, then I shall fall sincerely in love with him. And then he will leave without making an offer—he is convinced that my character is of the worst sort. What shocks me is that you encourage me towards a man who insulted you. I refuse to think kindly of him on those grounds alone.”
“My dear Eliza, you would be a fool to throw away such an opportunity because he merely said that which was true—I am not a pretty girl. I never thought otherwise. I do not mind, and I have never minded. You know that I do not think well of men.”
“What has that to do with anything? Whether you hold a proper resentment or not, I cannot forgive him so easily.”
“I beg you, Eliza,” Charlotte said firmly. “Do not let this prejudice you against him. I beg you to look at him with rational judgment.”
A few days later, while they sat at breakfast, a letter from Georgiana arrived:
My dear Lizzy,
I do hope you are not upset by me writing to you in such familiar terms. Oh, I half want to crumple the paper now and simply address it to Miss Elizabeth, but my brother always insists that I must be braver, so I shall leave it.
And you have already told me to call you Lizzy.
But that was in conversation and this is a letter.
I suppose they are not so different. But do tell me if you are offended.
Except you hardly could say that so easily, for to admit to being offended, even if you are, would be impolite.
That does seem an unfair sort of difficulty, does it not?
I am rambling, but I merely meant to write to ask you to visit me at Netherfield today.
Mr. Bingley and my brother are to dine with the officers, and I shall be alone with Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst—and dear Emily, of course.
They are excellent women, but our interests and tendencies are so dissimilar that I could not find a whole day in their company congenial.
Fitzwilliam suggested that I invite you to spend the day with me, and I adored the idea.
So please do come.
Eagerly awaiting you,
G Darcy
After Elizabeth said that she had been invited to Netherfield for the day, Mrs. Bennet seized the letter from Elizabeth and scanned it quickly.
“Dining with the officers! No, you would not see the gentlemen. We must find a way to keep you there until they return. Here is your chance to steal Mr. Bingley from Miss Darcy.”
“That would hardly be a kindness to her.”
“Nonsense,” her mother said. “As an heiress, she must have dozens of wealthy gentlemen wishing to marry her.”
“And that means,” Mr. Bennet said with his eyes twinkling, “you can have no guilt at imposing any heartbreak upon her in this case. Well, Lizzy, are you equal to it?”
“I am afraid, sir, that Mr. Bingley is not to my taste.”
Jane exclaimed, putting down her fork sharply in a way that suggested she had forgotten the exact height of the table.
“Oh, but he speaks so kindly! He has a most pleasant voice. And there is nothing bland about him, not like you said. I am surprised that you do not like him more. Every time I have met him, he has improved in my opinion.”
“My dear Jane,” Elizabeth replied, smiling, “I give you leave to like him, and his pleasant voice, as much as you wish. You have liked many a stupider person. I do not dislike him at all. But I do not mean to catch him—whether it would cause heartbreak for Miss Darcy or not.”
Jane had an odd look on her face.
Their father laughed. “My dear, on such occasions I am obliged to say—the lady doth protest too much.”
Elizabeth resisted the impulse to toss a bread roll at her father.
“Lizzy, your duty is to get Mr. Bingley if you might,” her mother interjected. “I insist upon it. You will go on horseback. Then if it rains, you cannot come home until the gentlemen return with the carriage.”
“On horseback!” Elizabeth exclaimed. She looked out of the window. “It looks like rain. I would not like to walk in that.”
“Walk! You would not be fit to be seen by anyone,” Mrs. Bennet cried, aghast. “After three miles in the mud?”
Elizabeth sighed. “I dare say you are right. Papa, might I have the carriage?”
Mrs. Bennet replied for her husband. “The horses are needed on the farm today, are they not?”