Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
“Is that what you are going to wear?” Kitty enquired, tilting her head to the side.
Elizabeth stood before the full-length looking-glass in her bedchamber, turning this way and that way, admiring the intricate pattern of white work on her gown.
It had long been one of her favourites because of its understated elegance.
The cut and fit of it flattered her. The bodice; the length of the sleeves; the fineness of the muslin and the way that it draped so beautifully, made her feel feminine and pretty.
“I believe so,” she replied, making a slight adjustment to the skirt.
“It suits you, Lizzy,” said Mary, who was sitting on Elizabeth’s bed with a book on her lap.
After thanking Mary, she looked to Kitty, who, along with Lydia, had always loved flipping through their aunt Gardiner’s fashion plates and shopping for ribbons and all sorts of frippery. “What say you, Kitty? Do you approve?”
“Hmm…” Kitty murmured, examining Elizabeth with a critical eye. “The gown is beautiful, and you look very well in it, but it is not what I expected you to wear to take tea with a countess.”
The corners of Elizabeth’s lips lifted in a smile. “And what, pray, would you recommend that I wear instead?”
“Something more…oh, I do not know. Something more sophisticated, I suppose. Something like what Miss Bingley and her sister Mrs Hurst wore when they were at Netherfield Park.”
Elizabeth laughed. “You would have me wear a turban covered in peacock feathers? Or an extravagant, gaudy gown of apricot silk and puce trim and a diamond brooch? That seems a bit excessive for tea.”
“Perhaps a more subdued colour palette would have better suited her,” said Kitty with a smile, “but you cannot deny that the cut and style of Miss Bingley’s gowns was always au courant.”
“I cannot, especially as Miss Bingley took considerable pleasure in relating that information to us herself. Repeatedly.”
Kitty wrinkled her nose. “Mr Bingley was very different from his sisters.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed, thinking of his cheerful, friendly nature as opposed to his sisters’ air of superiority.
“I liked him, but I am glad that Jane did not marry him. Having Miss Bingley as a sister would have been…difficult.”
Mary sniffed disapprovingly. “If you recall, Mr Bingley never asked Jane to marry him. He paid her marked attention at dinners and parties, danced twice with her at every assembly, left Netherfield for London the day after he gave a ball in her honour, and none of us ever saw him again. It was poorly done.”
Kitty sneezed.
“Poorly done indeed,” Elizabeth agreed, returning her gaze to the looking-glass.
She had seen Mr Bingley again—and his superior sisters—at Pemberley.
While he had been every bit as friendly and cheerful as he was in Hertfordshire, she had detected no particular symptom of regret pertaining to his defection.
He was ‘very glad’ to see her again, and to hear that her family was in good health, but he did not enquire about Jane. Not even once.
Jane had loved him, and his abandonment had not only injured her deeply, but humiliated her.
The neighbourhood had spoken of little else for months.
Discovering that Mr Bingley’s attachment to her dearest sister was not as serious as he had led everyone in Hertfordshire to believe both angered and saddened Elizabeth.
Mr Darcy, too, had appeared displeased by his friend’s apparent indifference, not to mention uncomfortable.
In Kent, Elizabeth had made it clear to him that Jane was broken-hearted.
It was, after all, Mr Darcy who had separated them; but Mr Darcy could not keep Mr Bingley in town indefinitely.
If Mr Bingley had loved Jane, he would have returned for her, regardless of his friend’s interference.
He certainly would not have remained in London as long as he did, gadding about with his friends, visiting his club, and doing who knows what else gentlemen did whenever they were at leisure.
“I like Mr Anderson,” said Kitty, recalling Elizabeth to the present.
“As do I,” she replied. “He is far more deserving of Jane’s heart than Mr Bingley ever was.
His manners may not be as easy or as open as Mr Bingley’s, but he is steady, dependable, and sincere, and has not given any of us cause to doubt that he loves her.
He may not be a gentleman in name, but he is a gentleman in all the ways that matter. ”
“You are correct, of course,” said Mary. “Mr Anderson is the better choice by far.”
Deciding she looked as well as she likely would, Elizabeth tucked a loose curl behind her ear and walked to her dressing table, where she selected a simple gold chain with a delicate amber cross from a japanned box.
It was a gift from her father when she was seventeen years old, on a day that was both disappointing and transformative.
Mr John Miller was the first gentleman who had given her cause to believe he had some attachment to her.
He had always given her reason to be certain he admired her, until that very night, when he had abruptly transferred his affection to Penelope Harrington at a party at Haye-Park.
The two had danced twice together, after which time Mr Miller had led Miss Harrington into the dining room and proceeded to make a show of filling her plate and her wine glass.
As the ladies had outnumbered the gentlemen, Elizabeth had found herself obliged to sit out more dances than she had in the past. Not once did Mr Miller approach her.
His attention was all for Miss Harrington.
She had mused then, as well as now, how unfair it was that a man’s will should always steer the course while a lady was made to drift along his current in silence, appearing forever cheerful and accepting of her fate.
Her low spirits had not gone unnoticed, and upon her arrival home, her father invited her into his book-room, where he poured a bit of sherry into a little crystal glass and took a seat beside her on the couch.
Without preamble he said, “Young Mr Miller is a fool. You are by far the cleverest lady of his acquaintance—far cleverer than Miss Harrington—yet he prefers the company of a girl who is insipid and dull over one who is intelligent and sensible.”
“Perhaps,” she told him as she laid her head upon his shoulder, “he would have been better pleased with me had I spoken to him of horses and dogs instead of more worldly subjects.”
“Would you have been better pleased with yourself for having done it? Would you have been happy committing such a deception? I can tell you now, with absolute certainty, that you would not have been happy in the least. Nor would Mr Miller have thanked you for having done so. At the end of the day, you are who you are, Elizabeth, and Mr Miller is who he is. It is better that you saw it now, rather than later.”
Elizabeth had sighed, and her father offered her the sherry.
She took a sip and sighed again, turning the little glass around and around in her hand, admiring the way the light from the fire danced upon the cut crystal.
“Mama has always said that a woman, especially if she has the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can. Perhaps I ought to have heeded her counsel.”
Her father had scoffed at that pronouncement.
“You are no coquette,” he said as he took the glass from her.
“You are intelligent and frank. There are men who will not like that about you, but the few who will…they are the ones who are worthy of you. They are the ones who will value your society, welcome your opinions, and treat you with the respect you deserve. Do not settle for less, my daughter. Expect far more.”
And then he gave her the necklace; a necklace that had once belonged to her Grandmama Bennet, who had died before Elizabeth was born.
It was one of the loveliest gifts she had ever received, not only because it was beautiful, but because of what it represented: her father’s faith in her, and his urging her to remain true to herself and trust that the right man, a man who appreciated her, would one day come along.
Now, almost six years later, she wondered if he had given her bad counsel.
“Let me help you with the clasp,” said Mary, reaching for the necklace and drawing her back into the present. She fastened it around Elizabeth’s neck and said, “There. Now you are perfect.”
Elizabeth pressed a kiss to her cheek.
Mary had rarely been affectionate as a child, being the middle sister and plainer than the rest. For that reason, her mother had not fussed over her as much as she had her other daughters, particularly Jane and Lydia, who were her favourites.
Since Mrs Bennet’s illness, however, Mary had blossomed.
Although she still preferred books with a moralising bent, she took more care with her appearance and allowed Kitty to arrange her hair in more flattering styles.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth told her. “I wish that you and Kitty could accompany me today.”
“Perhaps we will another time, should we have the pleasure of meeting Lady Carlisle.”
Elizabeth smiled and kissed her again.
A moment later, there was a knock on the bedchamber door. Elizabeth bid whomever it was enter.
Martha, the housemaid, stepped into the room, curtseyed, and said, “Begging your pardon, Miss Bennet, but Mrs Cahill’s carriage has arrived.”
“Thank you, Martha. Please inform my aunt that I will be down in a moment.”
“Yes, miss,” she replied, curtseyed once more, and closed the door as she left the room.
Elizabeth hugged both her sisters, reminded Kitty to rest, and bid them adieu. Once downstairs, she collected her pelisse and bonnet from Martha and hastened to her aunt’s carriage.