Chapter Seven
Jonathan Darcy was in no tranquil state of mind that evening as he rode back toward Longbourn. The confusing early stages of their investigation had their own claims on his attention and spirit, but above all he was preoccupied by personal concerns.
Laurence Follett, proposing marriage to Miss Tilney?
Absurd. It could not possibly come to pass.
Despite her refusal to discuss the matter, Jonathan sensed that Miss Tilney had rejected this idea as vehemently as he, if not more.
Still, when she spoke to Jonathan, Miss Tilney seemed to wish to put him at a distance, to consider the potential for a match between them as irrevocably ended, as if she had lost all regard for Jonathan already.
Yet, if he judged correctly, her protests were too fervent to be sincere. If she truly had put aside any hopes for a shared future life, if she had any real notion of wedding Mr. Follett, then there would be little need for protestations.
Or would there? Jonathan hesitated, doubting himself.
His fundamental tendency was to assume that people meant what they said—to take them rather literally.
(This tendency was one of his “peculiarities,” though Jonathan personally felt that, if it were truly odd to assume honesty, this was more an indictment upon society than upon his comprehension.) Yet the more he considered the matter, the more assured he felt in his judgment.
He believed that he had, during the previous three years, improved greatly in his understanding of the nuances of behavior—and into that of Miss Tilney most of all.
So he returned to Longbourn in better spirits than he was accustomed to having upon his entering that house.
Better yet was the sight of one of the Bingleys’ carriages, suggesting his aunt Jane remained present; she generally tempered his grandparents somewhat.
Yet Jonathan’s pleasant temper was not to be of great duration.
“Well, and here you are, after spending all the day bothering those at Netherfield, and without learning anything of consequence,” said Grandmama, who sat by the fire, a half-forgotten bit of knitting in her lap.
“You are impatient, my dear.” Grandpapa smiled at her, but not fondly. “I understand it may take two or three days to solve a murder, occasionally even more. We must not hold Jonathan to a standard even higher than that set by the London constabulary.”
Jonathan stopped himself from protesting that generally even more time was required.
All his hard-won knowledge of behaviors such as “sarcasm” and “exaggeration” seemed to dissolve when he was in the presence of his grandparents.
“We have only just begun our efforts. It is important to be careful in such matters.”
“I should think it important to be quick, too, if murderers are to wander about slaughtering whomever they will,” Grandmama insisted.
“Like as not we will all be killed in our beds before you have made heads or tails of it! Though I still think it must all come to nothing. Mr. Hurst drank himself into his grave, mark my words.”
Grandpapa turned toward Jonathan as though they were conversing warmly. “You see that Mr. Hurst’s complicity in his own demise does not save us from the danger of being slaughtered in the night.”
“Oh, you will laugh and make your little jokes,” Grandmama retorted, “but when we are all dead, you will be sorry!”
From the back entry came his aunt Jane, doffing the simple smock she wore over her gown. “There, now, Mamma, the herbs are hung to dry in just the way you like. I am sure Pine sees the correct method now.”
“That is as may be,” said Grandmama, “but Pine ever wishes to do things in her own way, as though she were the mistress.”
Jonathan said, “Aunt Jane, I had thought you came only for luncheon.”
“As did I, but Mamma and Papa needed me to look after a few things, and of course I read them our latest letter from your cousin Sarah. She settles into married life very well, which is a great comfort to her father as well as to me.” Aunt Jane had begun readying herself to return to Netherfield.
“Good evening to you both, and I will be back. Come, Jonathan, will not you walk me to the carriage?”
This seemed unnecessary, as her driver stood at the ready not twenty feet from the door, but he was happy to have another moment’s liberty. “Are you well, Aunt Jane?”
“Indeed I am,” she said, glancing back at the door behind them, where a diffident servant paid them no notice.
“I have given much thought to the matter of any peculiarities on the morning of Mr. Hurst’s death.
Three have come to mind, though they are all so small—irrelevancies, I am sure, but you did say anything might be of use. ”
“Anything at all,” Jonathan affirmed.
Aunt Jane stood next to the carriage, and began counting off points upon her gloved fingers. “First, I remembered the peacock.”
“Peacock?”
“It is a little china ornament, on one of the tables in the first-floor hallway. When I went down that morning, I saw it had been knocked on its side. Most likely that was only Becky’s doing. She tries very hard, but I fear she is a clumsy girl.”
If this was the best their inquiries were to solicit, Jonathan’s hopes were not high—but he had asked. “Very well. The peacock had been knocked over.”
“Then, second, I remembered that something had disturbed the hens.” Aunt Jane seemed very pleased to be helping, so Jonathan would not discourage her, though going from peacocks to chickens did not seem a promising direction.
“Of course, our roosters always greet the morning, and one expects the poultry yard to be lively early in the day, but as my maid did my hair, we heard the chickens squawk and flutter mightily. I feared a fox might have got at them, and I meant to check, but then Mr. Hurst—Well, I did not even remember until the next day, and then Mrs. Mulgrew assured me all the poultry and livestock were well.”
Jonathan realized he had judged too quickly: This might prove useful.
The Netherfield stable, dairy, coop, and other outbuildings were somewhat closer to the house than was commonplace for such an estate, close enough to sometimes hear a whinny or cluck from the rear of the house.
Therefore, someone slipping out of the house—Mrs. Hurst, to be specific—could well have disturbed them.
And yet, he wondered, how could that action have related to the murder of Mr. Hurst?
“Third, and last,” said Aunt Jane, “as we were waiting for Mr. Lucas to arrive that terrible morning, I saw that someone had taken out my latest copy of La Belle Assemblée. It sat in Mr. Bingley’s study, and you know he has no interest in such things.
Someone had gone through my own private sitting room upstairs and brought it down.
It lay open to a page describing the new Limerick gloves.
Perhaps one of the maids wished to daydream, but why not do so in my sitting room itself? ”
“That I cannot say,” Jonathan admitted. Could gloves possibly be important in this matter?
“I am sure nothing will come of any of it, but at least I have told you.” Aunt Jane’s smile widened.
“Now, I will return to Netherfield. Do not fear, for I shall look after Miss Tilney.” Her carriage had rolled away, onto the country lane, before Jonathan realized his aunt understood the nature of his interest in Miss Tilney and did not disapprove.
He might have thought upon this discovery at more length had he not walked back into Longbourn to find dinner about to be served, and the Bennets once again in dispute.
“Jane should insist upon proper deference,” Mrs. Bennet said, “from Mrs. Hurst and Mrs. Lofton and Mrs. Whomever-you-like. They have her running about after that as though she were one of their servants!”
“It was you who had tasks for her all afternoon, madam,” Mr. Bennet pointed out mildly.
Mrs. Bennet did not receive the comment in the same way. “Why should she not help her mother? Is it not in the Bible, to honor one’s parents?”
Confusing as his grandparents’ bickering ever was to Jonathan, his dismay had fixed upon another source entirely.
Their first course was pea soup, a dish he had ever found repellent; its vivid green color and usual texture damaged his appetite.
His parents humored him by seldom serving this, and on the rare occasions when they wished to please a guest for whom it was a favorite, they made certain that the cook strained the soup over and over again until it was entirely smooth.
The version served at Longbourn was altogether more grainy, and it was this that changed the soup from one Jonathan disliked to one he abhorred.
He had mentioned his displeasure with pea soup to his grandparents before—rudely, during childhood, to his parents’ dismay, then more politely as he grew older. At no time had his grandparents taken any heed.
I must eat it, Jonathan told himself. When I turn down food at their table, they see it as an insult.
So did many people. The extremities of disgust he endured when faced with certain food textures were not those he could easily express, not with any degree of decorum.
So he forced a spoonful into his mouth. Then another.
And another. His throat tightened convulsively, but Jonathan managed to get it down.
At least his parents would have been proud, had they seen him.
However, he had not taken care to disguise his expression as he did so, and to judge by his grandmother’s pointed sniff, his loathing must have been all too clear.
I must eat this and be unhappy, Jonathan thought, and she must watch and be unhappy, and somehow this is all preferable to my simply asking to skip the soup course.
It comforted him somewhat to think that Miss Tilney might be given a more palatable dinner at Netherfield—though what could be truly palatable in a house where poison recently had been served?