Chapter 5
Men of sense, whatever you may choose to say, do not want silly wives.
— MR KNIGHTLEY, EMMA
“That was interesting,” said Emerson after the ladies had bid them adieu and entered the house. “Are you certain you do not want to take Miss Bennet up on her offer for refreshment? You look as though you could use a glass of port.”
Darcy snorted. “I doubt that Mrs Bennet would serve port with her biscuits at this hour. And she would likely take it as a personal affront should I happen to ask. She may be a bit…high-strung, but she sets the finest table in all of Hertfordshire.”
“Are you not curious about this Drummond fellow?”
“No,” Darcy lied, and set off at a brisk pace towards home.
Whether Mr Drummond awaited Elizabeth or whether he had yet to arrive was inconsequential. They would share the same space, and breathe the same air, and perhaps even walk out together. Would they go to the bluff? Would they watch the sunset and return home at dusk, breathless and giddy and in love? The very idea made Darcy feel ill. Then there was the matter of Mr Collins. How in the world could that man have thought Elizabeth—who was bright and whose opinions were given freely regardless of one’s rank—would ever be suited to such a life?
“Miss Bennet,” said Emerson, catching him up, “seems delightful. Her younger sisters are less so, but they are indeed quite young. Perhaps they will improve with time…or a firmer hand from their father.”
Darcy was barely paying him any attention, wondering instead how he had gone from spending time alone with Elizabeth to escorting her home so she could appease her mother by receiving another gentleman—a gentleman who her mother hoped would marry her?
“They are handsome, the lot of them. Is the mother a beauty, too?”
Darcy was in no mood to speak of Elizabeth’s mother, but he said, “I understand she was quite attractive in her youth.”
“And now?”
“Her eldest daughter resembles her in appearance if nothing else. I have known Mrs Bingley nearly a year, and she is indeed a very beautiful woman.”
“And Bingley married her? Your cheerful friend with the red hair and a penchant for falling in and out of love as often as he changes his stockings?”
“He did,” said Darcy, frowning as he recalled Mrs Bennet had informed him the newly married Bingleys would soon join them in Kent. Clearly, she had no idea that Bingley had severed their friendship. Had he told his wife? Had Mrs Bingley then told Elizabeth? Darcy had no clue, especially as Elizabeth had made no mention of it. What he did know, most assuredly, was that once Bingley arrived in Evermore on Sea and saw him sitting at her mother’s supper table, he would probably be vexed.
That Bingley wanted nothing further to do with him pained him exceedingly. They had been good friends for many years. Now, all ties between them were severed, all communication had ceased. Darcy had learnt of Bingley’s engagement not from Bingley himself, but from a mutual friend.
That had stung, as had being excluded from the wedding breakfast. Darcy had sent a gift regardless, addressed to the happy couple with a note saying how very pleased he was to hear they had married, and how he had no doubt of their being exceedingly happy together. Every word he wrote was sincere.
It was Mrs Bingley who had written to thank him. Her note was as generous as she was, going so far as to invite him to call upon them when they were in town that winter. As much as Darcy would like to accept her invitation, he doubted Bingley would appreciate him showing up on his doorstep. He had made it abundantly clear that he wanted nothing to do with Darcy, now or ever.
The rift between them did not bode well for his newfound friendship with Elizabeth. Darcy rubbed his brow with his hand. It was a miracle she had agreed to speak to him, never mind that she wanted to be his friend. Darcy expelled a harsh breath as he wondered what would become of them if Bingley claimed a brother’s privilege and insisted on interfering.
“You like her,” said Emerson.
Darcy blinked at him. He had been so absorbed in his own thoughts that he had forgotten his cousin was beside him. “Forgive me. I was wool-gathering and heard not what you said.”
“I said you like her. You like Miss Bennet.”
When Darcy did not reply, Emerson rolled his eyes. “It is pointless to deny it. I saw you smiling at her like a lovesick fool through the confectioner’s window.”
If Fitzwilliam had spoken the same words to him, Darcy would likely have confessed every mistake he had made with Elizabeth throughout their acquaintance then and there. But Emerson… Emerson was not Fitzwilliam. He was sarcastic instead of perceptive and appallingly superficial instead of sentimental.
He would laugh.
He would say that Darcy did not deserve her.
He would tell him to forget her and move on.
He would never understand.
“Come now, Darcy. Why not tell me all about it?”
“So that you can have a laugh at my expense?” Darcy shook his head. “I think not.”
“Ah. It is a funny story, then.”
“No.”
“Sad?”
“Leave off, Emerson.”
“So, it is a tragic story.Like Romeo and Juliet, except that no one is dead.”
“This,” said Darcy exasperatedly, “is why I have no inclination to confide in you.”
“You need not, you know,” said Emerson with a haughty sniff. “I thought it might help you to talk about it. ‘It’ being Miss Elizabeth Bennet of Longbottom.”
“Longbourn,” said Darcy, rolling his eyes.
“Whatever. She could live in Loch Ness for all I care, so long as she is not a simpleton.”
“She is not a simpleton. She is one of the most intelligent young ladies I have ever had the pleasure to know.” He exhaled heavily. “Only, I never truly did. Know her.”
“Do you mean to say that you know her, or that you know her?”
“I am not some libertine who goes around tupping everything with a skirt, Emerson. I am not you.”
“Well, if you are going to be a bore about it, forget I enquired. I only meant to be helpful. I know you would prefer Richard’s counsel, but he is on the other end of England, rallying his troops and polishing the major general’s arse. In his stead, you are stuck with me.”
“And Anne,” Darcy muttered in annoyance. “And Lady Catherine.”
“Ah,” said Emerson, frowning. “I suppose that does pose somewhat of a problem.”
“Yes, it poses a problem. It posed a problem the moment you paid them a visit, coerced them into a carriage, and delivered them to my doorstep. I will thank you to interfere no more, lest I end up throwing myself from the top of the bluff and into the sea.”
Sandstone Cottage, Evermore on Sea, Kent
Dear Fitzwilliam,
I am at my wit’s end. Emerson has done me the disservice of dragging Lady Catherine and Anne all the way from Rosings and depositing them on my doorstep. Regrettably, all three of them are now installed in various bedchambers upstairs and have shown no inclination to depart.
As it happens, Miss Elizabeth Bennet is also in residence with her mother and three younger sisters. Their father has taken a house for them on White Street. We have met twice in as many days, and things are slowly progressing for the better. She has been very generous, going so far as to speak with me at some length on both occasions. Two days ago, we had a delightful time together in the confectionery, where we enjoyed cake and tea and conversation. She has expressed a desire to be friends, and I mean to show her every civility in my power, even if that entails opening my mouth and speaking more than a handful of words together.
I know what you are thinking, and you would be correct: I do not really want to be Miss Bennet’s friend, but her husband; but having the gift of her friendship is far better than having her contempt. It is better than being without her in any case, and so I will take what I can get and hope that I may be successful in my attempt to make her like me enough to want to marry me someday. If that fails, perhaps I can persuade her to visit Pemberley, where she will be so taken with the house and its grounds that she will agree to have me despite herself.
I am jesting, of course, for in my heart I know I would never be truly happy as Miss Bennet’s husband without having her heart in turn. I shall see how things progress and simply hope for the best.
That said, since your duty to the crown requires your service in the north, I will not end this missive by begging you to abandon your post and come to the south, but by telling you to take care of yourself and to remember how dearly you are loved and missed.
I remain your servant, your cousin, and your friend,
FD
After returninghis pen to his escritoire, Darcy concerned himself with the sanding and sealing of his letter. When he had done, he wrote the address in a firm, exacting hand and set it atop the others—four letters of business for his steward, two for his solicitor, a detailed account of Lady Catherine’s recent involvement in the escalation of a dispute between two tenants for his uncle, and an overdue reply to an old schoolfellow who requested his attendance at a house party in Yorkshire the following month. Although Upchurch was a decent fellow, his friends left much to be desired; the majority were entitled first sons with deep pockets, a shallow depth of character, and no inclination whatsoever for prudence. As yet, none were burdened by the weight of real responsibility. Their most pressing concern was for their own amusement—not the tenant farmers who worked their families’ holdings, or the livestock who grazed in their pastures, or the harvest that would see them all through the winter. Darcy had sent his regrets.
“To whom have you written now?” his aunt demanded. They were in the drawing room. Darcy had chosen it on purpose so that he might be left alone for half an hour complete, for it turned out that the west-facing windows did indeed annoy her ladyship to no end. Not only had she joined him there despite her dissatisfaction with the windows, but she had commandeered the most comfortable seat in the room—his uncle’s favourite tufted leather chair.
“Surely, you can put off your letter writing until later, Darcy. Anne is desirous of your company. Does she not look well today? Does she not appear to be in excellent looks?”
Expelling an exasperated but inaudible sigh, Darcy glanced at his cousin, but noticed no discernible difference in her appearance. Her complexion was still pale. Her posture was still rigid. Her entire countenance still resembled that of a person who had sucked on a lemon. “Anne looks quite well,” he replied evenly. “I daresay the sea air agrees with her.”
The sea air did not agree with her, for Anne had barely set foot out of doors the other day before she had shut her eyes against the overcast sky and demanded to return to the house. Not even her lunch had agreed with her; she had taken one look at the cold ham, buttered bread, and cheese laid out on the sideboard and turned up her nose with a peevish little huff. It was entirely likely her supper would not agree with her either.
Lady Catherine smiled with satisfaction. “You may take Anne for a drive as soon as the weather improves. She would enjoy it above all things.”
Darcy barely managed to refrain from rolling his eyes. The darkening sky and fat drops of rain splattering the windows ensured he would be going nowhere in a curricle that afternoon, most especially with Anne.
Across the room, his aunt was speaking enthusiastically of carriage rides and courtship while Anne stared glumly at the hearth. Emerson, the feckless nuisance, had disappeared hours ago and had not shown his face since. Darcy felt his patience grow impossibly thin. Gathering his letters, he rose from his chair and informed her ladyship he was going out.
“Out where?” she demanded.
“To the inn. I have letters of business that ought to have been posted this morning, but I put them off.”
“Send a servant,” said Lady Catherine, waving her hand dismissively.
“No. I will go myself.”
He was rude, but spending one more moment in that house with his aunt would have him either climbing the walls or pouring French brandy down his throat until he was maudlin drunk. He would forgo both and go for a walk instead. The brisk air, even if it was raining, would do him far more good than remaining at home with his aunt and cousins.
By the time he changed his attire and collected his greatcoat from the butler, the rain had let up. It was not to last, however, for as he entered the high street, it began to come down harder than ever, much as it had for the last two days. The inn was at the end of the street, next to the church and the blacksmith’s shop. On the way, he came upon the confectionery and paused beneath its colourful awning. Through the window, he saw it was nearly empty save for Mrs Holland, who was wiping down the counter with a cloth. The little table by the window, where he had sat with Elizabeth drinking tea and eating sweets, was vacant. A nostalgic little smile tugged at his mouth. Their conversation had come so naturally. She had asked him about Pemberley, and he had taken pleasure in describing it to her. He had pictured her there on countless occasions—enjoying his park; exploring his woods; loving him in his bed…
Two days of rain had kept them apart.
Deciding that a cup of hot tea would be much pleasanter in the quiet warmth of Mr Holland’s confectionery instead of the bustle of the crowded inn, he entered the shop.
It was Mrs Holland who brought the tea things, and there he sat at the little table before the window, watching the rain and sipping his tea. Thus far, he had not informed his aunt of Elizabeth’s presence, nor had he mentioned her ladyship and Anne being in residence to Elizabeth. The nature of his reasoning was purely selfish; he wanted to spend as much time as possible with Elizabeth alone.
They had misunderstood each other on so many occasions throughout their acquaintance. Now that they were friends, Darcy felt they needed time to comprehend each other properly. He needed time to let her know him, and to convince her to want his company often and to miss him when they were apart.
He passed a peaceful half an hour in the shop with Mrs Holland plying him with tea and scones until he could eat no more. Eventually, the rain tapered off to a light mist. Darcy drained his cup and donned his greatcoat and went to the counter to settle his bill. On impulse, he purchased some marchpane, which Mrs Holland wrapped in a pale green box with a bow. Elizabeth had been delighted by the candy’s rich flavour, and the fact that each piece was painstakingly sculpted to resemble a variety of animals—pigs and elephants and countless others. Unlike other ladies he knew, she made a point of admiring each piece of candy, remarking on the details that pleased her—the impression of fringe on the lion’s mane, and the colourful feathers on the peacock’s tail—before popping it into her mouth with a smile.
By the time he posted his letters with the innkeeper, the sun was attempting to make an appearance through the clouds. In no hurry to return home, Darcy set off in the opposite direction, towards the shore. The streets in those neighbourhoods were not paved with cobble but packed with dirt and sand and shells. Puddles of various sizes had formed, but nothing that posed so much of an impediment that he was forced to abandon his present course.
Eventually, he arrived at White Street and, more specifically, the house where the Bennet ladies resided. Through the front window, he could see a maid lighting a fire in the hearth, likely to ward off the dampness in the air from the rain. Darcy withdrew his watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at the time, which was well past half five. Too late to pay a call.
He was poised to leave when he remembered the marchpane—a dozen pieces nestled within a pretty box. He could leave it with his card for Mrs Bennet with his compliments, and a promise to call the next day.
Darcy knocked upon the door.
A maid answered, took his card, and asked him to wait.
In less than a minute, she returned and bid him enter; her mistress would receive him.
Surprised yet pleased, he followed her into the house, through the foyer, and into a small parlour where Elizabeth, her mother, and an attractive-looking gentleman were seated upon high back chairs upholstered in tartan fabric. They rose to greet him, and Darcy bowed.
“Mr Darcy,” said Mrs Bennet. “How good of you to call upon us. This is Mr Drummond, who has an estate in Surrey—Gateshead Hall.”
Darcy offered Drummond a polite inclination of his head. “It is a pleasure,” he said.
It was not a pleasure, especially since the man looked very much at home in Mrs Bennet’s parlour.
“Mr Darcy’s estate, Mr Drummond, is in Derbyshire,” said Mrs Bennet. “I have not seen it myself, but I understand that the park alone is nearly ten miles around.”
Mr Drummond’s brows rose to his hairline. “That is something, sir. Gateshead is only half that size including the orchards and a bit of woods. Your property must be considerable.”
“Mr Drummond’s mother,” said Mrs Bennet, “has proclaimed his estate the most beautiful in all of Surrey, and I am certain it must be so, for she sounds like a very sensible woman.”
“She must be sensible indeed,” Darcy replied. “As are all mothers with regard to their children’s concerns.”
Such a comment appeared to gratify Mrs Bennet exceedingly, for she smiled and said, “Ring the bell for some more tea, Lizzy. Mr Darcy must be in want of refreshment. It was very considerate of him to come all this way to call upon us when the roads must be flooded from the rain.”