Chapter Two #3
“You believe, then, that my clothes will prove equal to the challenge,” said Mr. Bennet, who had not looked up from his book since only a few minutes after Jonathan had arrived with Isaac Lucas.
“But yours, you despair of? Take heart, madam. I never yet knew a woman who complained of a reason to order new dresses.”
Mrs. Bennet was not diverted. “Well, Mr. Lucas, you are grown quite the gentleman now. How I do remember you gamboling about the meadow with a kite or playing on your hobbyhorse. But now! Head of the family, magistrate of the county, all very proper. You do not run around like some of the young bucks do that are grown up so very wild.”
Jonathan had the distinct impression that he was being classed as one of the young bucks, an implication so patently false as to be unworthy of argument.
As a child and adolescent, he had often attempted to correct his grandmother’s erroneous assumptions, which had convinced her of nothing save that her eldest grandson was willfully impudent and terribly proud.
Luckily, Isaac Lucas possessed better manners than anyone else in the room. “When a man inherits a house, he also inherits a responsibility to his family, and his conduct must change accordingly.”
True and rational as this statement might be, it displeased both the Bennets in different ways.
Mr. Bennet was reminded that he could have attended more to his own responsibilities as head of household, but such thoughts never occupied him for very long, and within moments he was once again absorbed in his book.
As for Mrs. Bennet, she was freshly irate that Longbourn would someday be inherited by their cousin Mr. Collins and his wife, Charlotte—Isaac Lucas’s aunt.
This prospect did not daunt her so much as it had before three of her daughters had married exceedingly well, guaranteeing her comfort in old age, but she continued to resent the entailment of Longbourn on general principles.
Mrs. Bennet changed the subject to another of her dissatisfactions. “My good Jane remembers her family, to be sure, though we have not seen her in ages—”
“Jane visited three days ago,” Mr. Bennet said, with no expectation that this fact would be acknowledged, as indeed it was not.
“She has many responsibilities, and so many guests! Those ladies expect her to cater to them and entertain them whenever they please, for as long as they like. How such a good man as Bingley came to have such disagreeable sisters I am sure I do not know.” Mrs. Bennet sighed.
“At least we do see our Jane. Kitty has not set foot in this house in a month.” She continued on in this vein for some time, happy to be heard and uninterested in hearing; Jonathan was grateful not to be forced to make more conversation.
With Mr. Lucas’s deft assistance, escape was accomplished by the late afternoon.
The two young men rode together for the first half a mile, until the time came for them each to turn toward their respective houses.
“Thank you for your companionship today,” Jonathan said.
“My grandparents were pleased to see you, I think.”
“It was but a small thing; yet I will claim it as a kindness, for I wish to beg one of you in return,” said Mr. Lucas. “Mr. Darcy, would you be so good as to inform me immediately upon the arrival of the Allerdyce family at Netherfield?”
Jonathan’s heart sank. “The Allerdyces are coming?” There had been something about that in Aunt Jane’s letter, he now recalled, but he had not heeded it as well as he should have done. Mrs. Allerdyce—the former Caroline Bingley—had plans for Jonathan, plans he intended to disappoint.
“Indeed, they are to be here within three weeks. I know not the date, and I do not wish to excite undue curiosity by asking…but it is my hope you will remedy that.”
The shy smile on Mr. Lucas’s face suggested a motive he would not speak aloud.
Jonathan had in recent years made more practice of studying the unspoken wishes of others, which allowed him to now deduce that Mr. Lucas was interested in one of the Allerdyce daughters.
He very much hoped it was Priscilla, whose mother seemed intent upon making Jonathan’s bride, whether he liked it or not.
“Certainly. As soon as the information is mine, it shall also be yours.”
With that Mr. Lucas rode off toward Lucas Lodge, and Jonathan enjoyed the best moments of his entire day, the few during which he was able to be alone.
At last—liberty, privacy, room in which to breathe!
He kept his horse at a slow walk, the better to savor these simple pleasures, which had been denied him ever since the duel in London.
Thoughts of the duel brought forth thoughts of Juliet Tilney, and this, too, gave Jonathan reason to linger in his leisurely ride back through fields painted in rosy sunset light.
But he did return to Netherfield, and to dinner, and to the company assembled there. Aunt Jane and Uncle Charles had always provided the kindest, most genteel, most feeling companionship, but the same could not be said of all those who sat at table.
“It is so fine a thing to see,” said Mrs. Lofton, “when sisters are so close that they never wish to be parted, even in adulthood. Why, Mrs. Brooks, you have dined at Netherfield four times this week, all to be near Mrs. Bingley.”
Aunt Kitty’s cheeks seemed very pink. “My sister has been so good as to invite us.”
This struck Jonathan as odd, for it had never struck him that his aunt Jane and aunt Kitty were particularly close.
It was his mother who had attended Aunt Jane’s confinements, who traveled distances to see her, who wrote letter after letter.
Furthermore, on past visits to Netherfield, Jonathan had of course seen the Brookses, but he did not recall them being so often in the company of the Bingleys.
Then again—he had become fonder of his brothers once they had aged out of preadolescent barbarity and could at last hold civil conversations.
Sibling relationships might, perhaps, wax and wane.
It struck Jonathan then that Mrs. Lofton’s comment might have been a veiled jab at her sister Mrs. Hurst. If so, it had gone unheeded. “The larger the party gathered in the evening, the livelier the diversions that follow,” Mrs. Hurst declared. “Whist tonight? Or brag?”
“Could have some music,” said Mr. Hurst, gesturing impatiently at the servant to refill his wineglass. “We need not always have cards.”
“They weary me,” said Mrs. Lofton. “I cannot see the point of sitting up all hours in search of knaves or deuces or whatever is not in one’s own hand.”
“Card games provide much exercise for our powers of reason,” said Mr. Brooks, a comment that no one seemed to have any interest in following up on.
“Tonight we may be able to set up two tables!” Mrs. Hurst said brightly. “You will play, will you not, Mr. Darcy?”
“Not this evening, I think. The journey was long, and I am much tired.”
Jonathan suspected he would not be able to escape Netherfield without winning at least some of Mrs. Hurst’s money, but he did not intend to begin tonight.
A whist table was nonetheless convened, with the Hursts, Mr. Brooks, and Aunt Jane set to play (though Aunt Jane seemed to participate only out of politeness).
Uncle Bingley busied himself at the writing desk, saying only that he needed to write a letter.
Jonathan fancied he once or twice saw Aunt Jane peer toward her husband curiously, or perhaps she only longed to escape from whist. The Loftons conversed with Aunt Kitty, and Jonathan was free to take up a book; most of Mr. Bingley’s library was kept in Staffordshire, but volumes enough were present for his old friend Tacitus to be found.
As much as Jonathan enjoyed Roman history, this work was familiar enough to him that he attended somewhat to the conversation around him.
Aunt Kitty: “Your father must have had many stories to tell of his adventures in the West Indies, Mr. Lofton. Why have not you shared more of them with us?”
Mrs. Lofton: “When gentlemen have ought to do with the navy, they should leave all such behind upon returning to their lives and estates. So I have always held.”
Mr. Lofton: “My good wife means, of course, that I am meant to conceal the less genteel sources of our wealth. But I am not ashamed of my father’s naval history nor its role in our prosperity.”
Mr. Hurst: “What are trumps again?”
Aunt Kitty: “One should never be ashamed of serving the crown. Indeed, I have always held so. Whether in army or navy! When the militia was stationed here in my youth, how I swooned over a red coat.”
Mrs. Lofton: “The army is the proper pursuit of a gentleman.”
Aunt Jane: “Oh, no, no, we must not wager. That is not the way of a friendly game.”
Mrs. Hurst: “It is the way of society.”
Mr. Lofton: “Some boys have tree houses, but I had a tree ship. My father let me use old ruined tablecloths as sails, taught me to tie rigging, quizzed me on direction of the wind.”
Aunt Kitty: “How delightful that sounds!”
Mr. Brooks: “I believe the hand is mine.”
None of this fitted together for Jonathan, and he was grateful not to be obliged to make sense of any of it.
More grateful yet was he to be able to retire for the evening.
Once in his bedchamber, eagerly he took up his writing desk, ready to begin the fateful letter to Miss Tilney…
but what, precisely, did he intend to say?
So preoccupied had he been with finding the opportunity to write this all-important missive that he had not properly reckoned on what he would include.
Jonathan wished to propose marriage, but on what terms?
Certainly he did not have his parents’ approval.
Jonathan was accustomed to think of himself as an eligible bachelor—everyone he met did so—but without Pemberley, how would he support a bride?
He had considerably more savings than most young men in his situation, as he neither gambled nor drank his allowance away, but these means could hardly provide the living of a wife and family.
My parents would not disinherit me, Jonathan thought, unless I wed without their consent.
His father could be stern but never cruel, and his mother had shown more sympathy toward Miss Tilney.
Where Mrs. Darcy approved, Mr. Darcy’s opinion often followed.
This could take some time, however. Months.
In so grave a matter as this? Years might pass.
Could he truly ask Miss Tilney to endure so long an engagement?
Ultimately, Jonathan’s inkwell remained stoppered that night. He went to sleep determined to think again upon the practicalities of the matter tomorrow. He would write—would propose, would find a way—but the doing of it must require as much pragmatism as passion, as much delicacy as hope.
—
He awoke early the next day and submitted to the assistance of an unfamiliar valet.
Jonathan often found the constriction of clothing a great distraction, at times even troubling; his tailor had relaxed the seams and collars of Jonathan’s shirts, jackets, waistcoats, and trousers as much as possible while maintaining fashion and decorum.
The valet at Pemberley went through the dressing process slowly, giving Jonathan time to accustom himself to every layer.
This new man’s speed made Jonathan feel uneasy—the pressure at his waist, at his neck.
As the cravat was being tied, he remembered the sight of a strangled man—one of the murders he had helped to solve in London—and Jonathan thought he might be overcome.
He raised one hand, then stopped, resisting the urge to swat the valet away—when a scream from below startled them both into stillness.
“Who was that?” Jonathan said. His nerves, already strained, made him feel taut enough to snap.
“I know not, sir,” said the valet. A second scream sounded, as shrill as the last and even longer, and Jonathan could wait no longer.
He dashed from his room toward the sound of the screams, which seemed to be coming from downstairs.
Most of the others remained abed; only his aunt Jane stood at the broad doorway of the breakfast room, one hand at her chest, her eyes wide.
Next to her stood a servant girl who had been carrying a plate of pastries—and had dropped it with a thud upon the discovery of Mr. Hurst lying dead upon the floor.