Chapter 5
An Unfortunate Observation
The week following the assembly passed with little alteration to Darcy’s outward routine, though his thoughts proved far less orderly.
Netherfield retained all its comforts. The house remained well appointed, the servants attentive, and the grounds inviting.
Bingley’s spirits never faltered; indeed, his satisfaction with his new residence seemed only to increase with time.
Invitations began to arrive with greater frequency, and the neighborhood, once distant, drew steadily nearer with each passing day.
Darcy received it all with his usual composure.
His habits remained constant. He walked whenever the weather permitted, read during the hours between engagements, and wrote when correspondence required his attention. To any observer, his manner would have suggested the same quiet contentment he had enjoyed upon first arriving.
The memory of the assembly refused to recede as he had expected. It returned without invitation, often when his attention ought to have been elsewhere. A phrase overheard. A gesture recalled. The image of a lady rising from her seat and turning away.
Tolerable. The word echoed in his thoughts, a reminder of his dismal mood and petulant behavior.
Morning at Netherfield began with its usual order. Breakfast was served at a proper hour, the table laid with care, the windows admitting a pale autumn light that brightened the room without dispelling its shadows completely.
Darcy entered as Bingley was already engaged in conversation with his sisters.
Miss Bingley sat with a degree of elegance that suggested both ease and intention. Mrs. Hurst occupied her place with less animation, though no less awareness of her surroundings. Mr. Hurst attended to his plate with singular focus.
“My dear Caroline,” Bingley was saying, “you cannot mean to spend another morning wholly indoors.”
Miss Bingley set down her cup. “I cannot imagine how one might do otherwise in such a place, unless one is determined to discover its deficiencies firsthand.”
Mrs. Hurst lifted her eyes. “You propose an expedition.”
“To Meryton,” Miss Bingley said. The name carried with it a suggestion of distaste.
Bingley’s expression brightened. “An excellent plan. The shops are small, but you may find something to amuse you.”
“I am not accustomed to seeking amusement in such quarters,” she replied, though her tone suggested she had already resolved upon it.
Mrs. Hurst’s response was not verbal. Her gaze moved briefly toward the window, then back again, accompanied by the slightest narrowing of her eyes. The gesture passed quickly, but Darcy observed it.
It struck him as unusual. The sisters rarely displayed even the appearance of disagreement. Their inclinations tended toward unity, or at least toward the appearance of it. That Mrs. Hurst should allow such a reaction, however subtle, suggested a divergence not often made visible.
Bingley continued, untroubled. “You will find the inhabitants very agreeable.”
Miss Bingley smiled. “I shall endeavor to appreciate them.”
Her attention shifted. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, “you must accompany us. I cannot think how we are to judge the place without your assistance.”
Darcy had anticipated the request. “I am engaged this morning.”
“With what?” she asked.
“Correspondence.” It was not an untruth. He had a small stack of letters awaiting his attention. The correspondence could be delayed, but it provided an adequate excuse to avoid going out with Miss Bingley, thus inflating her sense of self-importance.
Her smile remained, though its warmth altered. “Surely that may be delayed.”
“My sister expects a reply.”
At the mention of Georgiana, Miss Bingley’s expression shifted again, though she recovered quickly. “Miss Darcy remains in London?”
“She does.”
“How fortunate she is,” Miss Bingley said, her tone light, though the meaning beneath it carried a sharper edge.
Darcy made no reply. Georgiana’s most recent letter still lay upon his desk, though he had read it several times. Her words were deliberate; her meaning was perfectly clear. She preferred London. More specifically, she had no desire to be at Netherfield.
Miss Bingley’s attentions, offered freely and with unmistakable purpose, had not been welcomed with equal ease. Georgiana, whose nature tended toward gentleness, seldom expressed her discomfort so directly. When she did, Darcy paid close attention.
He had never pressed her to come. There was no reason to do so.
Miss Bingley, unaware of the depth of that decision, gave a graceful nod. “We shall miss having your company, sir.”
Breakfast continued without interruption. Bingley spoke of his steward, of accounts to be reviewed and improvements to be considered. Mrs. Hurst listened with mild interest. Mr. Hurst remained occupied.
Miss Bingley contributed where she chose, though her attention returned more than once to Darcy, as though to confirm that his resolution remained unchanged.
It did.
When the meal concluded, the party dispersed. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst departed together, their carriage prepared with efficiency that suggested long familiarity with such arrangements. Mr. Hurst withdrew, his intentions clearly directed toward rest.
Bingley excused himself to attend to business.
Darcy remained at the table for but a few moments before he returned to his chambers.
The room, when he entered it, held the stillness he had sought at breakfast. The desk stood as he had left it, the letters arranged in orderly fashion, the morning light falling across the surface in a manner that invited attention.
He seated himself and reached for the first.
Georgiana’s hand was instantly recognizable—neat, controlled, each line evenly spaced, each word carefully chosen. He knew it almost by heart now. She wrote of their aunt and uncle, of her lessons, of her music. There was no complaint, no embellishment, no attempt to draw his concern.
The absence of certain topics spoke as clearly as their presence. She did not mention Miss Bingley, nor did she ask after his activities in Hertfordshire.
Darcy reviewed the words, and then he took up his pen.
His reply was longer than his usual. He wrote of Netherfield, of Bingley’s satisfaction, of the surrounding countryside.
The description remained general; there was no need to dwell upon particulars that might prompt further questions.
He assured her of his regard, of his expectation that she should remain where she was most comfortable.
The letter concluded with his usual expressions of affection. He set it aside.
The second letter remained unopened. He broke the seal. It was from George Wickham. The name brought with it a different set of considerations.
Darcy read slowly. The contents were straightforward.
The rector at Lambton, long established and now advanced in years, had grown infirm.
His ability to fulfill his duties had diminished, and he sought relief from his position.
Wickham, acting on his behalf, conveyed the request with clarity and respect.
Enclosed within the letter was another, written in a trembling hand, the signature bearing the marks of effort.
Darcy read that as well. The incumbent made his wishes clear, recommending that Wickham take the living. He folded both letters and set them aside.
The matter required thought. Wickham’s story was one of redemption.
Darcy reflected on how much his childhood friend had changed.
Once possessing a resentful temperament, Wickham had wandered during their time at school and university, making friends with all the wrong sorts of people and succumbing to temptations such as gambling and drink.
His marks had slipped, and he had very nearly been sent down.
That had all altered after the death of the old Mr. Darcy.
Wickham’s genuine affection and respect for Darcy’s father, together with the wishes revealed in his will that his godson take orders, had spurred a lasting transformation.
He abandoned his former companions and habits, applied himself to study, and was eventually ordained.
Seeing the wisdom in the future Mr. George Darcy had envisioned for him, he had steadily grown into the role.
When Darcy became convinced his friend could manage the responsibility, Wickham was granted the living at Kympton, precisely as the old Mr. Darcy had intended.
Darcy could not have been prouder of him.
His conduct there had remained steady, his attention to his duties fully consistent, and the improvement once begun had continued without interruption.
The living at Lambton was of greater value. Its income, combined with Wickham’s current position, would provide a degree of security sufficient to support further establishment. Marriage, perhaps. A settled life.
Darcy considered the possibility. The arrangement would require some adjustment. A curate could be employed at Kympton, and the responsibilities divided.
Such an arrangement was hardly unusual.
He would write to his friend. The proposal could be laid before Wickham and settled according to his wishes.
The letters were set aside.
Darcy rose. The room, though quiet, no longer held him. He felt the need for movement and rang for his horse.
The day had advanced. The air carried the mildness of early autumn, with summer’s warmth still lingering and the change of season evident without severity. The light, weaker than in previous weeks, remained more than sufficient to illuminate the landscape with perfect clarity.
Darcy rode out.
The motion brought with it a steadiness of thought. The rhythm of the horse beneath him, the open expanse of the fields, the absence of immediate conversation—all contributed to a sense of order that had been lacking within the house.
He followed no fixed route.