Chapter Twenty-Four
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Early one blustery Tuesday morning, breakfast at Longbourn was proceeding amid a lively dispute between the two youngest Bennet girls when a note arrived from Netherfield for Jane.
Mrs. Bennet, delighted that any correspondence from Netherfield should be directed to her eldest daughter, insisted upon hearing it at once, and Jane, with a small smile at her mother's impatience, unfolded the note and read aloud.
Netherfield Park
My dear Miss Bennet,
The men of the house are engaged to dine with Colonel Forster and his officers today and are not expected to return before evening.
I confess the prospect of passing the whole afternoon with only my sister for company is not sufficiently tempting to prevent me from seeking a more agreeable alternative.
Will you and Miss Elizabeth do us the very great favour of taking tea with us? Louisa and I should be excessively glad of your company, and I promise you a far more pleasant afternoon than either of us is likely to enjoy without it.
Yours affectionately,
Caroline Bingley
Mrs. Bennet's delight required no encouragement whatever.
“There, you see! An invitation, and from Miss Bingley herself. I daresay she means to become very great friends with you, Jane, which is only what one would expect, considering how particularly Mr. Bingley has distinguished you these last weeks.”
Elizabeth made a small sound of disbelief at that.
She had encountered Miss Bingley twice more since the assembly and was quite certain that friendship, at least where Elizabeth was concerned, had not occupied the lady's thoughts.
At Lucas Lodge in particular, when Mr. Darcy had asked Elizabeth to dance, Miss Bingley had watched them with such severity that Elizabeth had half expected her to cross the room and separate them herself.
At Mr. Bennet's direction, the carriage was ordered to convey Jane and Elizabeth to Netherfield.
Mrs. Bennet protested that they might very well go on horseback, but Elizabeth, who had never possessed any great fondness for riding, readily preferred her father's arrangement.
The sky was already threatening rain, and she suspected her mother's enthusiasm for horseback had rather more to do with the possibility of a downpour than with any concern for their enjoyment of the journey.
“You will take the carriage,” said Mr. Bennet, without looking up from his breakfast. “I see no reason to sacrifice two daughters to the weather merely because your mother hopes to have them stranded somewhere advantageous.”
“Mr. Bennet!”
Elizabeth hid her smile behind her cup.
Thus deprived of what Elizabeth strongly suspected had been her plan all along, Mrs. Bennet was obliged to watch both daughters depart for Netherfield shortly after breakfast, comfortably enclosed against the approaching rain.
~
Netherfield
Elizabeth
Netherfield was much as Elizabeth had imagined it.
She had seen the house often enough from without, and had known something of its former occupants before it stood shut up and empty for more than three years, but she had never once crossed its threshold.
The hall alone spoke plainly enough of Mr. Bingley's fortune, with its lofty ceiling, handsome staircase of dark polished wood, and several pieces of fine furniture which had plainly belonged to the house long before he did.
Elizabeth privately doubted that a gentleman so cheerfully indifferent to his own library had bestowed much thought upon the placing of a single chair.
Whatever curiosity she might have indulged in examining the house lasted only until the Bingley sisters had conducted their guests into the drawing room.
Before the door had properly closed behind them, Elizabeth had already begun to suspect that she and Jane had not been invited for the pleasure of their company alone.
They were being examined.
Mrs. Hurst, at least, extended towards Jane something which might almost have been called warmth, and at moments her attention appeared sincere enough.
Toward Elizabeth, however, and even toward Jane whenever either sister forgot herself, their true opinion showed beneath the sweetness of their smiles and the studied civility of their questions.
Neither seemed quite so successful in concealing her contempt as she evidently supposed.
Once tea had been served, the conversation assumed a character considerably less easy than ordinary visiting.
Miss Bingley wished to know a surprising amount of the Bennets' connexions, who their relations were, where they lived, whether they possessed much acquaintance in town.
Mrs. Hurst enquired after the society of Meryton with the politeness of a woman already persuaded of its inferiority, and both sisters found frequent occasion to mention some entertainment lately enjoyed in London, some fashion not yet reached Hertfordshire, or some acquaintance of such consequence that the neighbourhood could hardly hope to produce an equal.
“You must find it excessively quiet here after town, Miss Elizabeth,” Miss Bingley said, setting down her cup with particular care.
“I confess I cannot imagine passing an entire season without a single ball worth speaking of, nor any company beyond the same dozen families one has known from infancy.”
“We contrive to amuse ourselves tolerably well, Miss Bingley, though I grant our resources are somewhat less extensive than London's.” Elizabeth kept her tone light, unwilling to give the observation more consequence than it deserved.
“A smaller society has its advantages. One comes to know people rather better than a season of introductions generally allows.”
“How charitable of you to discover an advantage in it.” Mrs. Hurst exchanged a brief glance with her sister. “I daresay country manners answer very well in country society. It is only when the two are brought together that difficulties sometimes arise.”
“I cannot think there need be any great difficulty, provided both parties are willing to be pleased.” Elizabeth met the observation with a smile.
“Though I grant it may require some effort from a lady accustomed to town to discover that country ladies are not entirely without conversation of their own.”
The visit continued without much events though Elizabeth wished desperately that they may leave soon, but the rain had started heavily forcing them to remain indoors.
Elizabeth endured what remained of the afternoon watching Jane attempt, with admirable patience, to explain why she preferred the quiet pleasures of Hertfordshire to her visits to London, to an audience Elizabeth suspected had already judged such a preference beneath its understanding.
Miss Bingley listened with an attentiveness that deceived no one, nodding at proper intervals and offering, whenever Jane finished, some gentle agreement which somehow contrived to diminish everything Jane had just said.
At one point Miss Bingley surprised Elizabeth by mentioning that she had heard of a young woman who had once been thought to resemble her remarkably, and asking what had become of her; Elizabeth, unaccustomed to hearing Julia spoken of by anyone outside her own circle, answered only that she had left the neighbourhood some months ago.
It was nearly four before the rain began to lessen. Not long afterwards, Elizabeth, who had found herself more interested in the view from the window than in Mrs. Hurst's latest account of London society, saw a carriage turn into the drive, its wheels sending a fine spray from the sodden gravel.
She breathed a quiet sigh of relief when three gentlemen descended and hurried towards the house beneath the remains of the rain.
Mr. Bingley came first, laughing at something as he mounted the steps, followed by Mr. Hurst and then Mr. Darcy, who paused briefly to speak to the coachman before following the others inside.
They entered the drawing room a few minutes later, and the temper of the room altered almost at once. Mr. Bingley's cheerful greetings did more to restore ease in five minutes than his sisters' determined civility had managed throughout the afternoon.
“You are quite wet, Charles,” Miss Bingley observed. “I hope Colonel Forster's table was worth the state of your boots.”
“Entirely worth it, though I grant the journey home was rather more adventurous than the journey there.” Bingley went directly to the fire. “The lane beyond the mill has become something very like a river. I cannot imagine how Simmonds brought us through without leaving a wheel behind.”
“He managed it very well,” Darcy said. Having exchanged the necessary greetings, he took the empty chair nearest Elizabeth with a composure suggesting that the state of the roads had disturbed him considerably less than it had his friend.
“Though once we had passed the worst of it, I asked whether he considered the remaining ground safe. He assured me he had driven through worse.”
“Simmonds would say as much if the road disappeared beneath him entirely,” Miss Bingley said with a laugh. “I do not believe weather has ever prevented that carriage from reaching wherever it was ordered to go.”
“Speaking of the road,” Bingley said, glancing towards the window, where the last grey light was already beginning to fade, “I hope you ladies do not mean to delay your return much longer. With the condition of the road beyond the mill, I should not like you to attempt it after dark.”
“If Simmonds managed the road, I am sure Longbourn's coachman may do the same,” Miss Bingley said smoothly. “We should not wish to keep Jane and Miss Elizabeth from their family longer than necessary.”
Darcy's gaze went briefly to the window and then to Elizabeth. “Simmonds knows that lane well. I would place greater confidence in sending them with a man who knows where the road is worst, particularly with the light failing.”
“How very cautious of you,” Miss Bingley said, with a smile that did little to soften the observation. “But you forget that the Bennets and their coachman have lived in Hertfordshire considerably longer than any of us, Simmonds included. I daresay he knows the roads quite as well.”
“I would rather be thought cautious than see Miss Bennet's carriage overturned in a ditch.”
There was enough quiet finality in Darcy's answer that Miss Bingley did not immediately reply.
Miss Bennet's carriage. Yet his eyes, Elizabeth noticed, had rested upon her rather than Jane as he spoke. From the slight alteration in Miss Bingley's expression, she suspected the distinction had not escaped her either.
“However,” Darcy said, turning back to Caroline, “I see the justice of your point. I hope Miss Bennet will forgive me for suggesting only that they should not delay their departure until full dark.”
“On that point, at least, I agree with Darcy,” Bingley said cheerfully. “You must stay until the rain has eased, but no longer. I should never forgive myself if we kept you here until the roads became more troublesome than they already are.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Bingley,” Jane said. “I am sure our coachman will tell us if he thinks the road unsafe.”
“And if he does,” Bingley replied, “then you shall remain here until it is safe, and Caroline may complain of having too much company instead of too little.”
Jane laughed, and even Elizabeth could not suppress a smile at the uncomplicated sincerity with which he said it.
Mrs. Hurst rang for fresh tea while arrangements were made, and the conversation mercifully drifted from roads and carriages to safer ground.
Bingley entertained them with some small misadventure at Colonel Forster's table, while Mr. Hurst roused himself long enough to correct one particular before subsiding once more into contented silence.
Miss Bingley, having gained little from the discussion, occupied herself with the tea and directed towards Darcy only the occasional glance, each one more expressive than anything propriety permitted her to say aloud.
Darcy remained near Elizabeth when the general conversation resumed. He contributed little while Bingley held everyone's attention, but Elizabeth found herself listening for his occasional remarks with rather more interest.
“You look like you have had a trying day, I think, Mr. Darcy,” she said when the conversation allowed it.
His brows lifted. “Have I?”
“You have spent several hours dining with a company of officers. Unless I have greatly mistaken your character these past weeks, I cannot imagine you went eagerly.”
The smile that touched his mouth was immediate. “You begin to know me too well, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “Then I am right.”
“Nearly. Colonel Forster is acquainted with my cousin Richard, and I have met him before. When he learnt I was staying at Netherfield, an invitation followed which would have been discourteous to refuse.”
“So you were not forced to attend.”
“Not in any sense that would satisfy a court of law.”
“But sufficiently for your own conscience?”
“Precisely.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Then I withdraw my sympathy.”
“I had not realised it was so easily lost.”
“You valued it too late.”
“I shall endeavour to be quicker next time.”
There was something so easy in the exchange that Elizabeth almost forgot the others were present.
A fortnight ago she would not have imagined Mr. Darcy capable of such quiet playfulness, and perhaps that was what continued to surprise her most. He had not become a different man with greater acquaintance.
Rather, she had begun to suspect that the man she first observed at the assembly had been only the part of himself he permitted strangers to see.
“And what of your afternoon?” Darcy asked. “Was it more agreeable than mine?”
Elizabeth glanced towards Miss Bingley, who was occupied in saying something to Jane. “I believe it would be ungrateful to answer that question honestly while I remain beneath your friend's roof.”
Darcy followed her glance, and understanding appeared at once in his expression.
“I see.”
“I rather thought you might.”
He looked back at her, and for a moment the amusement between them needed no further explanation. Elizabeth felt again that peculiar ease she had begun to associate with his company, the pleasure of saying very little and somehow being understood entirely.
“You are glad to be going home, then?” he asked.
“I shall be glad to see Longbourn,” she allowed. “Though I cannot say the afternoon has been entirely without compensation.”
Darcy's gaze held hers. “No?”
Elizabeth became suddenly conscious of what she had implied.
“No,” she said, with rather more composure than she felt. “Not entirely.”