Chapter 7
Longbourn
Mr. Collins had come into our lives, then left as though he had never been.
I prayed that when I next saw the man, it would not be because he had come to claim his inheritance—because, then, dear Papa would have passed.
I could scarce bring myself to think of it.
But it was clear that his arthritis was worsening, for he could scarcely move between his bath chair and his bed.
Mama and I continued to read to him, and letters from Mr. Darcy cheered his spirits so much that he would take his meal with us, and we could believe, amidst the lively chatter of the dining-room, that all was well, that everything was as it should be.
Papa insisted that he attend the ball. It was in honour of his daughter’s engagement, and it was only proper that he should be present, if only to demonstrate his approval of Mr. Bingley.
James, our footman, assisted him into the carriage.
Mama sat next to him, gently holding his hand.
Did she have memories of when, following their wedding, she had sat beside him, he shyly taking her hand in his?
Alone for the first time, as husband and wife.
We waited in the queue of carriages on Netherfield’s gravelled driveway, then disembarked, with James, who had travelled on the roof, handing Mama, Jane, and me down.
The bath chair was carried up the steps, and once Papa was safely seated upon it, I saw the very great relief that cleared his countenance.
As a family, the Bennets entered the house, ready to be amazed by the decorations, the hundreds of candles illuminating the hall, and the chalk decorations on the floor.
The musicians, who had come from London, were playing a quiet overture as the guests mingled and greeted neighbours and friends.
Miss Bingley had returned from London. Her arrival was anything but discreet.
She swept in at the head of her party, her laughter pitched to carry above every conversation in the room.
She wore a heavily ornamented gown of burnt orange silk, likely intended to emphasise her wealth, contrasting unfavourably with the elegant pastel muslins of the ladies of the neighbourhood.
The gentlemen and women who accompanied her were equally ostentatious—the ladies wearing feathers and silk, and the four men, all in varying stages of disarray, seemed more suited to a gaming club than a country ball.
It was not long before their presence had altered the mood of the evening. Conversations stilled as Miss Bingley called for the attention of the room, demanding that the musicians play a faster tune, then bustling past Jane with a careless flick of her fan.
“Why, Miss Bennet, how pale you look!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “Is the country air too bracing for your delicate constitution?”
She made no effort to lower her voice. Jane merely smiled and assured her she was quite well, but I saw colour rise in her cheeks.
Bingley led Jane to the head of the line, and the first dance, I'll mak ye fain to follow me, began. By some mischance, I found myself paired with one of Miss Bingley’s party—a gentleman introduced to me as Mr. Hargrove.
He was tall and broad, with a ruddy complexion and eyes that never quite focused.
His breath was tinged with the unmistakable scent of spirits.
Nevertheless, I resolved to acquit myself with civility as we proceeded through the steps.
Mr. Hargrove’s conversation was loud, his jokes coarse, and he stumbled more than once, gripping my hand rather more tightly than was proper.
I glanced around, hoping the dance would soon end, and caught Mama’s anxious gaze from across the room.
When the music ceased, Mr. Hargrove insisted, in a voice that brooked no refusal, that I accompany him for some air.
“The night’s too fine to waste indoors,” he declared, already steering me toward the open doors that led onto the balcony.
I protested, but he would not hear it. The cool night air was a relief, but I became acutely conscious of how isolated we were.
“Sir, this is most improper, I must return to the hall.” I attempted to step around him, but he leaned in, much too close, his words slurred.
“You’ve the prettiest eyes in Hertfordshire, Miss Elizabeth. Let me show you how we compliment a lady in London.”
His arm snaked around my waist, and he pressed his mouth against my cheek. I recoiled, pushing at his chest with all my strength.
“Mr. Hargrove, release me at once!” My voice trembled, but he only laughed, tightening his grip.
It was at that moment that I heard the creak of wheels on stone.
Papa was but a few paces away, his bath chair halted at the threshold to the balcony.
What followed was a blur—my father, his face twisted in fury and something like terror, rising from his chair, his cane forgotten.
With a force I had not thought possible, he struck Mr. Hargrove across the shoulder, knocking him aside.
“Unhand my daughter!” Papa thundered, his voice ringing out into the night.
Hargrove staggered backward, more surprised than injured, but still clutching my arm.
Papa’s effort had cost him dearly; I saw his knees buckle, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
I screamed then, desperate and afraid, my cry echoing over the terrace and into the ballroom.
Within moments, Sir William Lucas and Mr. Bingley rushed out, alarm plain on their faces.
Sir William seized Hargrove by the collar, dragging him away as he protested his innocence in a drunken slur.
Bingley’s attention was all for me, but my eyes were fixed on Papa, who had collapsed against the balustrade.
James hurried to his side, lifting him back into the bath chair.
I knelt beside him, tears spilling down my cheeks as he winced with every painful movement.
The commotion had drawn a crowd to the doors—Miss Bingley was among them, her face pale and eyes wide with shock.
The musicians faltered, and conversation in the hall dropped to a hush.
For a moment, all was chaos: Mama weeping, Jane holding her hand, and Mr. Bennet trembling, his gaze never leaving me.
The offending gentleman was led away, protesting still, and the guests began to murmur, scandalised. Papa, his face grimacing in pain, turned to Mr. Bingley.
“Bingley! You. Will. Remove. Those. People. This is my daughter’s evening. If you cannot, then we are returning to Longbourn.”
Jane gasped, looking directly to Mr. Bingley, whose own face was flushed with anger. “You have my word, Mr. Bennet. They will be gone without delay.” He turned, whispered to his butler, who beckoned two footmen to accompany him. Bingley took his sister’s arm.
“Charles, unhand me!” cried Miss Bingley, but her brother was already leading her forcibly from the room.
Footmen had gathered the remnants of her party, who were even now being led away.
The band struck up a highland reel—a lively dance to dissipate the nervous tension that had spilled across the floor.
We Bennets stood quietly by the balcony door, now closed, the curtains drawn. James brought wine, Papa carefully holding his glass with his gnarled fingers. Laughter began drifting towards us—I began to relax.
“Miss Elizabeth, my humblest apologies.” Mr. Bingley had returned and bowed to me. “If my dear Jane will excuse me, might I have the pleasure of the next?”
I laughed. “Of course, Mr. Bingley. Having already provided entertainment for the evening, I can assure you that I will not provide more by tripping over my hems.”
He took my hand, gave a longing smile to Jane, and escorted me to the floor.
Jane followed us, escorted by Sir William—oh, what a delightful man!
Both he and Mr. Bingley were excellent dancers.
Together, the gentlemen, Jane, and I wove and skipped and performed a very bouncy, lively Scottish Pas de Basque—the trauma of the preceding half hour almost forgotten.
* * *
The ball was declared a success, and we departed Netherfield with fond memories of a fine supper and the good wishes of the neighbourhood for Jane and Mr. Bingley’s coming nuptials.
Later, I learnt that Miss Bingley’s party had left the next morning, though Miss Bingley herself remained at Netherfield.
Bingley would have thrown them out that night but was prevailed upon by Jane and Mrs. Hurst to let them stay, on condition they remained upstairs.
While they called for wine and trays to be delivered, Mrs. Nichols—the Netherfield housekeeper—supplied only a cold collation, coarse bread and tea.
I suspect they were well pleased to be away to the delights of London and to escape the vulgarity of the Hertfordshire countryside.
Mr. Bennet wrote of the incident to Mr. Darcy, for they enjoyed each other’s on dits about society in Hertfordshire and in London. Mr. Darcy’s reply was quite illuminating.
Bennet, while I have great respect for Mr. Bingley, his sister, Miss Bingley, seems cut from a different cloth.
When staying at Netherfield Park, during which time I had the pleasure of meeting you, your charming wife, and daughters, Miss Bingley’s behaviour was not unusual in her flirting and attempted enticements.
Frequently, I am forced to endure such unwanted attention, my being a widower and therefore a target for marriage-minded young women—dare I say, women of all ages!
I was not in the least concerned, for I have borne such since my Lady Anne departed this world.