Chapter 5
On a damp and cloudy December morning, Elizabeth expected neither visitors nor much else of interest. The family had gathered in the drawing room, each listlessly pursuing their own amusements with little enthusiasm.
Mrs Bennet sat looking over the menus for the coming week, though her attention wandered away from her task with alarming frequency.
Jane was settled near the window with her embroidery, her manner composed but subdued.
Kitty idled between chair and hearth, while Lydia complained about the dullness of the weather and the still greater dullness of remaining at home.
Mary read from a great tome of morality for young ladies, pausing at intervals to consider a passage with solemn care.
Elizabeth had also taken up a book, more from habit than inclination.
She had turned several pages without retaining a word of what she read, her thoughts wandering beyond the printed lines to matters far less easily ordered.
It was not often that reading failed her so entirely, and she found her inability to focus considerably vexing.
Charlotte Lucas — soon to be Charlotte Collins — occupied her thoughts, making a grey day seem yet more dispiriting.
Elizabeth had told herself that her friend’s engagement ought not to disturb her so deeply. Charlotte had chosen practicality over love with her eyes open. No deception had been practiced, no promises broken.
Still, Elizabeth could not reconcile herself to how easily Charlotte had surrendered not only the hope of a husband she might love, but of one she might respect. That such a sacrifice should be made willingly, and even defended, unsettled her more than she wished to admit.
Perhaps still more disturbingly, it was not merely disappointment she felt, but a loss of certainty.
Charlotte had always been her confidante, her steady counterbalance, the friend whose judgement she trusted even when she did not share it.
To discover now that their principles diverged so completely forced Elizabeth to reconsider assumptions she had never thought to question.
If Charlotte could be content with so little, what, then, did Elizabeth require to be happy?
The question had no immediate answer.
She was roused from these reflections by the arrival of the post. There were several letters, one to Elizabeth herself from her aunt in London, two for Mrs Bennet, and one for Jane which interested Mrs Bennet considerably more than her own correspondence, as it was addressed from Netherfield Park.
Before Jane had read so much as a line of her own letter, her mother had snatched it from her and was poring over it with excitement that quickly turned to agitation.
“Well, this is beyond endurance,” Mrs Bennet remarked angrily.
Elizabeth watched in concern. Mrs Bennet was waving the letter as though it had gravely offended her. Jane, who seemed to have given up on recovering her mail, had coloured and lowered her eyes.
“What is it, Mama?” Kitty asked eagerly.
“What is it?” Mrs Bennet repeated. “Why, the very worst news imaginable. Miss Bingley writes to say that they are all leaving Netherfield. Leaving it, I say, and for an indefinite period. There is not a word in it of their return.”
Elizabeth’s attention was fixed on Jane. Her sister’s composure was admirable, but it was not difficult to detect the effort it required. She had returned to her work with careful precision, but her hands moved more slowly than before.
That was simply too much. Elizabeth crossed the room and took the letter from her mother, gently but firmly, before giving it into her sister’s hands. Jane gave her a look of wordless gratitude before beginning to read the news for herself.
“They are going to London,” Mrs Bennet continued loudly. “To London, at this season, when every sensible person knows attachments are formed and fixed with time spent together. And Jane is to be left behind as though she were of no consequence at all.”
Having reached the end of the brief note, Jane spoke up quietly. “Miss Bingley writes very civilly. She expresses every hope of seeing us again.”
“Civilly,” Mrs Bennet scoffed. “Civility costs nothing. If her brother had the slightest regard for you, he would not be persuaded away so easily.”
Elizabeth felt a familiar irritation stir within her. “Perhaps the decision was not made lightly,” she said.
Mrs Bennet harrumphed indignantly. “Little enough you know of it, Miss Lizzy. It does no good to say so, for whether Mr Bingley goes lightly or reluctantly, still he goes. But you will sit there and think nothing of it, though you will be sorry when your father dies, and none of us have anywhere to go.”
Elizabeth did not reply. She glanced again at Jane. Her sister’s expression remained gentle, but the brightness that was so much a part of her spirit had dimmed. That her mother’s complaints should be voiced so freely, and at Jane’s expense, struck Elizabeth as particularly cruel.
Mary looked up from her book. “We must remember,” she said solemnly, “that disappointment is often sent to strengthen the character.”
Lydia laughed. “I should like to have my character strengthened in London,” she said. “There is nothing here to be endured but boredom, and that surely cannot strengthen anybody’s character.”
Mrs Bennet resumed her lamentations, but Elizabeth heard little of what followed. Her thoughts had already turned elsewhere, gathering force with each repetition.
Her mother was right about one thing — empty civility did cost nothing, and it was just like Miss Bingley to practise it.
Elizabeth had never doubted Caroline Bingley’s desire to separate her brother from any attachment that did not meet her approval, and she could not believe this sudden departure unconnected to that wish.
Nor could she exclude another influence, one she found still less excusable.
Mr Darcy.
It would be just like the man. He made no secret of the fact that he regarded her family with disapproval, that he considered Jane’s connection to Mr Bingley anything but desirable.
That he should exert his influence to prevent it now seemed entirely consistent with his character.
Pride and consequence governed his actions.
The happiness of others, she suspected, did not.
She rose and crossed to the window, needing the excuse of movement to steady herself.
The December air lay cold and pale beyond the glass, and the familiar grounds of Longbourn offered little comfort.
Jane’s distress weighed upon her, and Elizabeth felt the injustice of it keenly.
Jane had done nothing to deserve such uncertainty, not to mention having to endure such public lamentation.
As she looked out, Elizabeth breathed out a long, slow breath, hoping, though not believing, that it might settle her disordered emotions.
The morning had begun by being dull but peaceful and was now neither.
She could not shake the sense that matters were being decided elsewhere, without her knowledge and without her consent.
That Mr Bingley should be removed so suddenly, that Jane should be made to suffer for it, and that all should be accomplished under the guise of prudence, seemed deeply unfair.
Still more so if Mr Darcy had a hand in it, as she suspected he did. Who was Mr Darcy to make a decision of such weight for his friend? Such interference would be unforgivable.
The thought had scarcely settled when the door opened, and their housekeeper entered the room.
“There is a gentleman to see you, ma’am,” Hill said.
Mrs Bennet started to her feet at once. “A gentleman? It must be Mr Bingley. I knew he would not leave without speaking to Jane.”
Elizabeth turned, her surprise sharpened by the certainty in her mother’s tone.
Hill hesitated. “No, ma’am. It is Mr Darcy.”
Mrs Bennet’s astonishment was so complete that it rendered her silent.
Kitty’s eyes widened. Lydia, who had been midway through another complaint about the weather and the dullness of country life, stopped at once, as if uncertain whether she ought to laugh or to be offended.
Jane’s needle paused above her work, and though she did not look up, the slight stillness of her posture told Elizabeth that she had heard every syllable.
Elizabeth rose with a composure she did not entirely feel. That Mr Darcy should call at Longbourn at all was unexpected. That he should do so on the very morning they were told of the Bingleys’ departure struck her as a pointed circumstance, and one she could not yet interpret to her satisfaction.
“Mr Darcy,” Mrs Bennet said at last, recovering herself with a sudden flutter of agitation.
“How very odd! What can he possibly want? Upon my word, Mrs Hill, you might have told us at once. Pray, show him in. Well, perhaps there may yet be some advantage in it. Jane, my love, come forward. You must not sit so far back.”
Jane coloured faintly and shifted her chair a little, though she did not meet her mother’s eye.
Elizabeth, who knew perfectly well that Jane would rather have remained where she was, felt her irritation stir.
She held herself back, knowing it was better to say nothing.
There were times when it was useless to oppose Mrs Bennet, for the attempt only provided her with fresh opportunities for hysterics.
Mr Darcy entered a moment later. The effect of his presence was immediate. He was grave, as Elizabeth expected, and his manner was formal almost to the point of coldness. He bowed gracefully in the exchange of greetings, his attention resting upon each of them with careful correctness.
“Mr Darcy,” Mrs Bennet said civilly, as though she had not been railing against him to all the neighbourhood since their first meeting, “how very good of you to call. We had thought you all at Netherfield in the midst of preparations. I am sure we are vastly obliged. I hope you find our poor little drawing room tolerable.”
Mr Darcy replied politely, expressing his thanks for being received, and making a remark on the weather that satisfied civility without inviting anything more.
Elizabeth watched him curiously. Mr Darcy generally seemed as though he would rather say little.
Today, she had the sense that he had something he very much wished to say, though he would say it with his usual quiet restraint.
Mrs Bennet, however, was not inclined to allow anything to proceed quietly.
“You have come, I suppose,” she continued with a meaningful smile, “to tell us that Mr Bingley does not mean to leave us after all. Jane has received a most provoking note, and I declare I have been quite put out by it.”
Mr Darcy’s expression did not change, though Elizabeth fancied that something in his attention sharpened at the mention of the letter. He offered no direct answer, only a polite acknowledgment that the Netherfield party did indeed intend to leave soon.
Mrs Bennet clasped her hands. “Soon. Well, that is a shame. It would be much better for him to remain through Christmas. Such friendships cannot be treated as though they were nothing. Jane, my dear, you must speak for yourself. A young lady must not be silent when her happiness is in question. Surely Mr Bingley’s good friend ought to know what the neighbourhood thinks of so abrupt a departure. ”
Jane’s fingers tightened around her work. “Mama, I have nothing to say.”
Elizabeth’s patience, already strained, threatened to fail her entirely.
She felt as though she must say something to redirect her mother, but was utterly at a loss for what it could be.
When Mr Darcy cleared his throat, redirecting the attention of the room towards himself, Elizabeth felt considerable relief.
Only moments later, that relief turned to astonished disbelief.
“Mrs Bennet,” Mr Darcy said austerely, “you must excuse me. I am afraid I have not come to speak about Bingley’s departure from Netherfield, but about an entirely different matter. If Miss Elizabeth would grant me the honour, and if you would permit me, I should like to speak to her in confidence.”
For a moment, the room was entirely silent.
Mrs Bennet’s face altered at once. Surprise, delight, and triumphant certainty chased one another so rapidly across her features that Elizabeth could scarcely follow them. “In confidence?” Mrs Bennet said faintly in astonishment. “You wish to speak to my Lizzy in confidence?”
Jane looked up at last, her expression startled and uncertain. Kitty stared openly. Mary, always curious about the workings of the human heart in the abstract, now appeared deeply alarmed to encounter it in the particular.
But what they all assumed to be happening could not possibly be the case.
Though not in the least understanding what Mr Darcy was doing, Elizabeth at least felt certain of that.
With an effort, Elizabeth overcame her embarrassment and met Mr Darcy’s eyes.
He looked at her steadily, and though his face had gone white and strained, he did not withdraw the request. Mr Darcy was a serious man, and though he had miscalculated in his means of achieving it, he would not have asked for a private meeting without a good reason.
A good reason other than to propose marriage. There must be one, although Elizabeth could not immediately think of what it could be.
“We may walk,” Elizabeth said hastily, before her mother could gather breath enough to invent half a future for her. “The day is not too damp, and we shall stay within view of the windows. If Mr Darcy wishes to speak with me, there can be no objection to it.”
Mrs Bennet, however, had already seized on Mr Darcy’s words as though they were a formal declaration.
“A walk,” she repeated, almost giddy. “Yes, yes, certainly. How very sensible. A young man should always speak where he may be heard without interruption. Lizzy, my love, you had better put on your warm cloak. Mr Darcy is so attentive. Mr Bennet, did you hear him? He asks for Elizabeth. For a private meeting, to speak to Lizzy in confidence! My heavens, ten thousand a year! I declare I always knew there was something in it.”
“Mama,” Elizabeth said, in a voice as calm as she could manage, “I assure you, you are mistaken.”
Mrs Bennet only smiled more broadly, as though Elizabeth’s denial were the modest reluctance of a young lady on the brink of matrimony.
Mr Darcy’s colour deepened slightly, and he looked, for one brief instant, as though he would rather face a tribunal than Mrs Bennet’s expectations. Then he bowed again, as stiffly correct as ever.
“Whenever Miss Elizabeth is ready,” he said.
And with that, Elizabeth went to fetch her cloak, feeling that curiosity might drive her mad. One thing was certain — Mr Darcy could not possibly mean what it had sounded like he meant.
But what in Heaven’s name had he meant?