Chapter 3
Several days of steady rain had kept Elizabeth indoors more than she liked.
Jane, who had ever been her best friend and a steadying force in the household, continued to act out of character at random intervals.
Elizabeth became increasingly reluctant to speak to her about either Mr Darcy or Mr Bingley, skittering away from the unending negativity towards one and the too-fervent positivity towards the other.
When Elizabeth realised that she had never clearly explained to her sister why Darcy’s memory of Mr Wickham had upset him, she felt certain that trying to explain that would result in more negativity, in Jane’s mind, for Mr Darcy.
So she obviously could not speak of Mr Wickham, either.
Not wishing to speak about three different men to her dearest sister resulted in Elizabeth not speaking about any man to anyone. It seemed wisest to avoid conversation— especially speculation—about romance or marriage or, really, anything in the future.
But living at Longbourn, it was impossible not to hear endless musing and dreaming about marriage. It was all that her mother spoke of.
After days of endlessly grey skies and soft rain, Elizabeth awoke on Sunday to a pale sunrise. Seeing only a few fluffy clouds in the sky, she gladly threw on her oldest clothes—for surely there would be mud—and some warm layers, and she silently slipped outside to take a walk.
Some of the paths she walked were low-lying and would be especially mired in mud, so she chose to take the path to Oakham Mount.
Not only was the slope of the trail conducive to the rain water pouring away, rather than pooling, much of the trail was covered with gravel and outcroppings of larger stones.
She had to do a bit of scampering—like a goat, she thought with a chuckle—to avoid stepping in a few gloppy spots, but she managed to ascend to the top of the mount without getting too much mud on either half-boots or skirts.
To her surprised pleasure, Mr Darcy was there.
He looked quite a bit worse for the wear. His Hessian boots had been, at some point, six inches deep in mud, and there were smaller spatters higher, even on his trousers.
“Mr Darcy!” Elizabeth cried.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said with one of his little smiles. “I was hoping I might see you this morning.”
She took her usual full-circle turn to enjoy the fresh-washed green, gold, and reddish orange fields and forests and meadows. Then she closed her eyes and lifted her face up to the sun, feeling its autumn-enfeebled warmth.
Opening her eyes, she saw Mr Darcy staring at her with an intensity that had become characteristic. She caught her breath but did not speak. Instead, she listened for the quiet natural sounds she so enjoyed.
At first, the whispers of the breeze moving through leaves and pine needles were the only sounds she heard, but then she heard a trilling robin song.
She lifted a finger, and she watched as Mr Darcy lifted his head but stilled his body, apparently listening.
A few moments after the robin’s singing had stopped, they both heard a thrush with its repetitive dawn song; this time it was Mr Darcy who lifted a finger, pointing in the direction from which the tweets and chirrups came.
Elizabeth nodded and smiled. Then she walked to stand next to him, on the highest point of the hilltop—a relatively flat boulder that emerged from the ground as if for the purpose of aiding sightseers to see just a bit farther.
She faced towards the millpond at the far edge of the Longbourn estate, and Mr Darcy pivoted to face the same direction.
She whispered, “I love this time of day. Everything is fresh, and anything seems possible.”
“I wish I felt that positive,” he said. His voice was lower than usual, almost a rumble. Elizabeth felt a pang for him.
“A sunny outlook might just be a habit I have,” she said. “Something one could strive for, something one could practice and improve upon?”
“You are as unique as I imagined that you would be, when I espied you nine years ago.”
“I find it hard to believe that you imagined anything about me back then.”
“Well, honestly, Wickham was quite a bit of trouble that particular day, so I only thought of you for a short while. But Richard and I did speak of you briefly. I believe I said something like ‘The younger girl was quite a spitfire.’ And Richard responded, ‘Lovely and fierce. I should enjoy meeting her when she is grown.’ And I said, ‘She seemed so strong, so protective.’ Richard had the last word, saying something like, ‘Pity we stepped in, really, we should have seen how she would handle a villain like Wickham.’”
Elizabeth turned away from the panorama and narrowed her eyes at Mr Darcy. “Are you being serious, sir? You did not even remember the incident at first. Now you remember an entire conversation…about me?”
Mr Darcy swept an amused sideways glance her way.
“Of course I am being serious. I cannot pretend that I ever thought of the incident again, until your ‘stop that behaviour this instant’ scold of your sisters reminded me. Still, despite any evidence to the contrary, I am not deficient in memory capacity. After you saw us, Richard and I had our quick conversation about a certain feisty girl as we hustled Wickham along the street to my carriage. The two of us bundled Wickham into the vehicle, but Richard had an appointment and had to leave, so it was just me in the carriage with Wickham. And while we were in transit back to Darcy House, where I could supervise him sobering up, Wickham opened the other door and leapt out, and I had to give chase. As usual, Wickham’s conduct dictated my actions, and he distracted my own and others’ attention and time and monies from the more important things we were supposed to be doing. ”
“You must have been so bitter,” Elizabeth said. “I know I would have been!”
“I always thought of it as the battle of resentfulness. My father provided Wickham an education equal to mine—Eton, then Cambridge—and he had an allowance equal to mine, for clothes and such. But of course, I was the son, the heir—my father’s first child and only son—and somehow, despite all that my father gave to Wickham, he resented me and my father’s preferential treatment of me. ”
“That is absurd!”
“And the more Wickham acted poorly, the more I resented having to work so hard to solve the problems he created or reduce the suffering he caused. Hence, his resentment caused my resentment, which further fuelled his resentment…and so the entire relationship, along with Wickham’s behaviour, became worse and worse. ”
Elizabeth began to ask a question: “Did you also resent—” but then she hesitated, realising that it was quite an intrusive query.
“My father?” Mr Darcy shifted on his feet, but his face remained impassive.
Still, Elizabeth had seen him wear that impassive expression like a mask, and she studied him with sympathy.
As she expected, there was pain in his eyes.
He finally answered, “I suppose I did, a bit. Now that my father is gone, I wish I had not.”
“I did not realise that your father had passed. I am so sorry.”
He turned and studied her, for some reason looking surprised. “You really are sorry.”
“Of course! What—why would I not be?”
“I have heard too many ladies celebrating that I have already inherited. As in, if they married me, they would not have to wait an unknown number of years to be mistress of my estate. As in they would not have to worry about following the dictates of in-laws. Even the ladies who do not say these heinous things seem to be operating on the principle that being an orphan is a lucky thing.”
“Oh! An orphan! Your mother has died as well?” Elizabeth shook her head and said, “I am ever so sad for you and your sister. If she is much younger than you, she must have been very young when you lost your parents.”
“I was twelve, and my sister was a newborn, when my mother died. I was two and twenty and my sister ten when our father died.”
“How devastating.”
“Thank you.”
“Sir, I should go quite soon so that my family does not worry about me; we will be having breakfast and then going to church. But, before I go, I wondered if I might ask a most impertinent question.
Mr Darcy’s imperturbable mask did not slip for an instant, but those expressive eyes showed a flash of anxiety. Elizabeth wondered what sort of question he was expecting as he replied, “Certainly.”
Elizabeth explained, “You see, my sister Jane has the rosiest outlook possible, and she seems incapable of seeing ill-will or fault in anyone.” Naturally, she did not tell Mr Darcy that Jane made an exception for him, and she puzzled over it again, but then she went on: “So, when she tells me that your friend, Mr Bingley, is perfect in every regard, I do not actually trust her statement, since she would say the same of Mr Hurst or even, likely, Mr Wickham. I know that, being your friend, Mr Bingley must be a good man. But I wonder if you could tell me if, in your opinion, Mr Bingley could be considered a candidate for a good husband?”
The corners of Mr Darcy’s mouth twitched as if he was denying a smile access to his face.
“I must say, this is not at all what I might have expected you to say.” He then raised his eyes up to the sky, obviously giving the question thought before replying.
He finally said, “I assume you will not be quoting me to anyone?” Elizabeth vigorously shook her head.
“I appreciate that you understand that I would not be friends with a rogue or a rake. And, yes, Bingley is a good man. But I would say that, at this point in his life, I am sceptical that he is ready to be a good husband.”
Elizabeth did not feel surprised. She hoped he would explain further, and she kept quiet to make it more likely.
“My first reason is that Bingley is young yet—only three and twenty. He has been set a task, by his now-deceased father, and he seems to wish to achieve it: he is to purchase an estate. Therefore my second reason for worrying that he is not ready to marry is that it would likely be better to purchase the estate and then marry. Doing it in the reverse order could be putting the cart before the horse.”
Elizabeth nodded. She would not say anything of this to Jane, she thought, but she was determined to counsel patience if Jane asked for her input.
To Elizabeth’s surprise, Mr Darcy was not done.
He said, “My third reason is that Mr Bingley has ever been popular with ladies, which I admit is quite natural. He has an ease of manner and a lightness, a friendliness, that makes him likeable and approachable. And Bingley, for his part, enjoys ladies, too. The result of all this mutual regard is that he has fancied himself in love quite a few times since I have known him. I have always counselled him to be patient and be certain that his feelings are a mature and steady love, rather than infatuation, and I have been right so far; in each case, up to now, his feelings have waned.”
Mr Darcy said softly, “While I might hope this time is different, I would hesitate to confirm his readiness to wed just now. I hope that does not pain you or your sister.”
“Well, I will not be telling my sister a syllable of this discussion. I only wanted to feel comfortable giving advice, if I am asked. Without knowing any of the three points you have made, Mr Darcy, I had come to the same conclusion on my own, but I feel eager to increase my respect for Mr Bingley if he earns such. Thank you so much for your candid opinions.”
“Your servant.” Mr Darcy gave a little bow, and Elizabeth wished him farewell and strode down the hill to Longbourn.
She felt a bit uncomfortable having learnt that Mr Bingley had “fancied himself in love” before—and apparently many times. Of course, she found herself wondering if Mr Darcy, too, had either thought himself in love or actually been in love.
The idea gave her a ping of disquiet, but she hushed it.
She might have strong feelings for Mr Darcy, but she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was so far above her in wealth and consequence, and of course there was her ridiculous family; there could be no possibility of a future with him.
She paused to find her smile before she opened the door and joined the fracas that was breakfast time at Longbourn.