Chapter 4
Longbourn
I had expected Lady Lucas and her two eldest daughters, Charlotte and Maria, to visit the next day to talk over the ball, but I was to be disappointed, for a message came saying that Charlotte was suffering from a slight cold, and they thought it unwise to venture further than their own parlour.
More likely, they knew Mrs. Bennet kept a close eye on the coal scuttle and the day had turned particularly cold.
Of course, Mama thought that Lady Lucas kept her house overly warm.
We would visit—perhaps on the morrow—but I was rather fatigued after the dancing, and was pleased to be able to curl up in my chair by Papa’s fire in the library.
Thus it was with some vexation that visitors were announced.
I was presentable enough, I supposed, and made my way to the parlour where I found Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Bingley had come to visit.
For though Mr. Darcy held a higher status than Mr. Bennet, Mr. Bingley, the tenant of Netherfield Park, was of lesser standing and permitted to call.
I arrived just after the visitors had been shown into the parlour.
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley were sitting primly on the settee; Mr. Bingley had taken a seat next to Jane.
“Mrs. Bennet, my apologies for calling so soon after the assembly,” said Mr. Darcy, “but I wished to meet your husband. I understand, from conversation with Miss Elizabeth, that he has a fine collection of first editions.” Mr. Darcy was standing, having declined to take tea with the Bingleys. “Would it be possible to join him?”
I glanced at Mama, who I knew would be anxious lest Papa be interrupted in one of his more irascible moods, for the pain of his arthritis often plagued him unreasonably.
She nodded, pleased by the gentleman’s courtesy.
“Yes, Lizzy—could you escort Mr. Darcy? I am sure your father will be delighted.”
The gentleman waited for me by the door. I offered him my most polite smile, and we walked together down the corridor, my slippers making scarcely a sound on the worn carpet. Reaching the library, I hesitated just outside the room, uncertain whether Papa would welcome the intrusion.
“I am a bibliophile, Miss Elizabeth. I suspect your father had already sensed the printer’s ink and leather bindings lurking outside his door.”
“Papa?” I called softly, peering into his sanctuary. He looked up from his book with a quizzical arch of his eyebrow, spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose.
“You have a visitor, sir,” I said, stepping aside so Mr. Darcy might enter. “Mr. Darcy wished to see your collection of first editions.”
Papa’s eyes twinkled with the prospect of discussing his beloved books, and he set his volume aside with more alacrity than I might have expected. “Mr. Darcy, welcome. Any gentleman with an interest in first editions is a friend of mine, at least for the next quarter hour.”
Mr. Darcy’s lips curved, not quite a smile. He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “You are most generous, sir.”
“Lizzy, could you pour a port for Mr. Darcy and myself? We cannot discuss Donne or Milton without refreshment.”
I lingered by the window, half-listening as the two gentlemen commenced a spirited conversation about rare volumes.
Mr. Darcy’s knowledge impressed even Papa, who soon forgot to glare at his guest and instead grew animated, gesturing toward shelves and recounting the tales behind particular acquisitions.
For a few moments I found myself observing Papa’s obvious pleasure in Mr. Darcy’s presence. A rare treat—his infirmities forgotten.
After half an hour, Mrs. Hill knocked to say that the Bingleys were leaving, and would Mr. Darcy join them?
Papa looked up, oblivious to the passage of time. “Must you leave already—surely, only some ten minutes has passed.”
“My thought entirely, Mr. Bennet. However, I must return to Netherfield, for I intend to resume my journey to London early tomorrow. Perhaps, sir, if we could correspond? I believe your library exceeds my own—particularly the 17th century poets and Greek histories.”
Mr. Darcy stood, and clasped Papa’s hand.
“Mr. Bennet, it has been a pleasure. My physician recommends fish oil, as very efficacious for relieving arthritis—while many such men are quacks, I trust his judgement implicitly. Why, some five years ago I was close to death’s door, and his treatment pulled me through, whereas all others had declared me only fit for a grave. I shall have him write to you.”
He turned, bowed and briskly left the room.
“A true scholar, Lizzy,” said Papa. “Though his Greek leaves a little to be desired—a Cambridge man I believe, though I shan’t hold that against him. Now child, leave me. I have enjoyed myself, but my joints are protesting something terrible.”
As I left the library, I saw Papa reach for his book.
How lonely his life had become. So few of his friends from Meryton came to visit.
Of course, Sir William came at least once a week, but while he was a jovial man, he had very little interest in the histories, or poets whose works were considered old-fashioned long before Wordsworth or Lord Byron became society’s favourites.
I returned to the parlour, where Mama was talking softly with Jane. “My dearest Jane,” she said, reaching across to take Jane’s hand, “how well Mr. Bingley looked this afternoon! So attentive, so amiable—did you not notice how often he addressed himself to you?”
Jane’s cheeks flushed, as they had last night when Mr. Bingley’s name was uttered. “He is certainly very obliging, Mama. But he is so civil to everyone.”
“Nonsense, child! He hardly spared a word for me, and never spoke to his sisters. No, no, Jane. It is you he admires. I am certain of it.”
Jane smiled, though she bent her head to hide it. “You must not build hopes on so little, Mama. We scarcely know the Bingleys.”
Uncharacteristically Mama pressed on, undeterred by Jane’s caution. “We know quite enough, I think. He has four thousand a year and is quite handsome. And a friend of Mr. Darcy. Why, what could be a better reference? Mark my words, Jane, it will not be long before he comes again.”
Jane squeezed her mother’s hand gently, her voice warm and soothing. “Let us not anticipate, Mama. If Mr. Bingley is to return, I am sure it will be because he wishes to, not because we expect it.”
Mrs. Bennet sighed once more, but this time it was softer, her eyes lingering fondly on her eldest daughter. “I only want to see you settled, Jane. You deserve every happiness.”
Indeed, Jane did. And Mama had seen how Jane’s eyes had lit up when Mr. Bingley entered the room—just as her eyes, I am sure, had lit up when Mr. Bennet had first caught her glance—or she his.
* * *
Thus life changed at Longbourn, for Mr. Bingley became a frequent visitor, and the Bennet ladies visited Netherfield in return.
I noticed that Jane’s pleasing manners grew on the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, whereas, I believe, Mama and I were tolerated but without any intimacy.
Perhaps they had already seen the admiration that their brother displayed towards Jane and wished to know her better.
It was generally evident whenever they met that he did admire her; and to me, knowing my sister as well as I did, it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the first. Yet, I thought that Jane was being too guarded in hiding her feelings; Charlotte was very much surprised when I mentioned Jane and Mr. Bingley’s growing attachment.
“I trust she does not conceal her affection from Mr. Bingley,” commented Charlotte, “for she may lose the opportunity of fixing him. We can all begin freely—a slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better show more affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her if she does not help him on.”
I thought on this, and shortly thereafter spoke to Mama, saying that we must encourage Jane to be more open, so that Mr. Bingley should be left in no doubt that Jane returned his attention.
“I am loath to interfere,” replied Mama, “but I suppose Charlotte is correct. Perhaps, Lizzy, we could encourage her to be more open. I am beginning to like the man, and if Jane will have him, then all to the good.”
“Oh, Mama, you appear a little disheartened. Why so? Surely, Jane marrying well is all that we can hope for?”
“I am a selfish creature, for if Jane leaves us, then you are sure to follow shortly after.”
I immediately knew her concern. Mr. Bennet’s health was uncertain, and his company was increasingly strained due to the aches and pains of his joints. Mrs. Bennet would find little comfort of an evening, sitting alone in the parlour.
“Mama, would you not sit with Papa and read to him, just as I do? I am sure he enjoys your company better than mine—his eyes follow you whenever you accompany me as I play or read to him in the afternoon or evening.”
“Lizzy, I do not understand half the words in his books. Surely it would only distress him more if my reading was uncertain, mispronouncing those words which add the most meaning to the passages I am relating.”
“Did you not say that I should practice on the piano-forte if I wished for some modicum of excellence? Then you must practice your reading aloud. If you wish, I could sit with you in the parlour, and we could select some passages from the library which I know Papa would enjoy. Come, put aside your embroidery and, while Papa is in his room, let us sneak a book from his shelves. I know the very one!”
Mama protested, though with a smile, as I took her arm. “You are a most determined girl, Lizzy,” she said, “and I see I am not to have a moment’s peace until you have your way.”
She gave a little sigh, but I saw that her spirits were lightened by the prospect of doing something for Papa, and perhaps by the novelty of our little conspiracy.
We tiptoed to the library, where I selected a volume of essays which I knew Papa favoured for their wit. Mama, upon opening the book, wrinkled her nose at the title page, but I assured her that the first essay was both short and amusing.
“There, Mama, you see? Only three pages, and I promise you, no words which are not in your daily conversation!”
She laughed at that, and together we repaired to the parlour, where Mama, with some trepidation, began to read aloud. At first her voice wavered, but as the words grew familiar, her confidence grew, and I found myself quite content to listen, my own hands taking up my embroidery.
Daily life at Longbourn shifted, almost imperceptibly. Jane, encouraged by Mama and me, seemed, over the following days, more at ease in Mr. Bingley’s presence; and I, observing them, felt a hope kindling in my breast for her happiness.
But there was another change, which came a week after Mr. Darcy had sat with Mr. Bennet in the library. A letter arrived, which Papa eagerly read, carefully breaking the seal and unfolding the pages with his curled fingers.
“Ah, Darcy has found a copy of Ben Jonson’s elegy Epitaph on Elizabeth, L.H.
, and wishes to compare it to that printed in my copy of the Workes.
He believes it could be a modern reproduction, and not a 17th century printer’s proof, as the bookseller purports.
Lizzy, would you retrieve the folio and copy out the verse for him? ”
Thus began one of my most pleasant activities over the long winter months.
Each week, Papa would have me transcribe passages from his books—English, Latin, French—and then dictate a commentary in reply to letters from Mr. Darcy.
Naturally, he could not write—he could not hold a pen!
—and I became his scribe. Over time, the correspondence became both more general and more personal.
In particular, Mr. Darcy sought his friend’s advice—not just on book purchases, but also on his frustrations when dealing with the upper circles of the ton, and similarly with tradesmen, servants, acquaintances, and even, on occasion, his children.
* * *