Chapter Seven #2
Indeed, Juliet Tilney’s evening meal proved to be a trial.
The food itself (pork braised in red wine, spiced mushrooms) tasted so delicious that it much revived her appetite, which had weakened greatly during the past months of shame.
However, even this could not distract her from the general temper at the table, which was—put as kindly as possible—wary.
All of Juliet’s prior investigations had obliged her to spend considerable time at the premises of the crimes, and with the persons suspected of having done the wickedness.
However, she now realized how thoroughly, in every such prior situation, those present had convinced themselves that the miscreant could only have been an unknown intruder, or that the death had been but an accident.
In other words, they had most often believed that no murderer was in fact in their midst.
Such assurance was lacking at Netherfield.
Despite the Bingleys’ best efforts to remember any anecdote in which the late Mr. Hurst seemed somewhat congenial, and otherwise to make brighter conversation about such mundanities as the weather, talk remained subdued.
Mrs. Lofton glanced from person to person—in suspicion, or afraid of it—but spoke rarely.
(The only other individual concerned, Mr. Isaac Lucas, had wisely taken himself back to Lucas Lodge to dine in safety.)
Propriety dictates that young unmarried ladies should be the quietest at table, speaking only to answer questions or compliment the hostess.
Juliet sometimes thought whoever had determined “propriety” had not actually met many young ladies.
Certainly, in practice, the best conversation included all those present, and she had never felt shy of volunteering a comment when she felt she had an observation worth the saying—until this evening.
Made uneasy by the unspoken disharmony at the table, and burdened by the occasional sharp glance from Mrs. Hurst, Juliet finished her meal as silently and swiftly as courtesy allowed.
Afterward she pled a traveler’s weariness to escape what promised to be a long, mirthless evening.
Once in her chamber, she breathed out a sigh of relief to be alone, but this was followed by a rap at the door. Her visitor proved to be Mrs. Bingley.
“I wished to ask—I meant to before, but the tumult regarding poor Mr. Hurst—” Mrs. Bingley put her hand over her mouth. “I should not even mention him when you are seeking rest. But, Miss Tilney, I have realized that you traveled without a maid to attend you. However did you manage this morning?”
Like many young ladies of gentility, Juliet could manage a simple bun well enough; if the style was somewhat outdated, it was nonetheless proper.
She had lost so much weight the past few months that her stays were unnecessary.
Juliet said only, “I am come here to help if I can, and no finery is needed for that.”
“We do not speak of finery, Miss Tilney, but of your comfort,” Mrs. Bingley insisted. “I shall send my own maid to you as soon as she is free, and as of tomorrow morning, you shall have someone of your own to attend upon you.”
Her promise, though civil, was not beyond the normal duty of a hostess. However, the gentleness with which Mrs. Bingley spoke, her evident desire for Juliet to be taken care of—this was more than uncommon, and unquestionably sincere.
Paradoxical though it may seem, during times of travail, we are often able to endure even the greatest cruelties with fortitude, only to be completely undone when shown kindness.
So it was with Juliet, who to her mortification felt her eyes welling with tears.
Within but moments, she found herself sitting on the edge of her bed, her hand clasped in both of Mrs. Bingley’s, and her head upon that lady’s shoulder.
“I am so very sorry,” Juliet said, between sniffles. “You will think me a hysteric.”
“I think no such thing.” Mrs. Bingley petted her hand. “You have been through a great deal. In your place I should be all but insensible—and yet, you are here, taking on such difficult work only to help us! It is very good of you, and I think you a most courageous young lady.”
“You know, then…about the portrait, the scandal…”
“Yes, all of it, from the papers but also from my dear sister Lizzy. How very shocking for you! How very wrong of the painter, too, so unkind.”
“Unkind indeed,” said Juliet, “and yet, my grandfather would have me marry him.”
This information had the most extraordinary effect upon Mrs. Bingley, who rarely demanded anything of anyone, but who insisted upon hearing more of this at once.
After Juliet had explained all regarding Mr. Follett and his misdeeds, she then took the letter from her writing box and allowed Mrs. Bingley to read it.
“Note how he thinks our marriage would help him resume his career as a portraitist.” Juliet pointed at the offending line on the page held in Mrs. Bingley’s hands.
“Were he still obtaining commissions for his paintings, I suspect Mr. Follett would have no thought of my shame as any motivation for matrimony.”
Mrs. Bingley’s generous temperament would not allow her to ascribe such mean motives to anyone.
“He may be both concerned for his own welfare and for yours. I am sure he would not ask to marry you for so purely venal a purpose. Indeed, his words suggest that he is truly sorry, as well he should be.”
Juliet dabbed her damp cheeks with her handkerchief. “You advise me to marry him, then?”
“No, indeed I do not. You do not love him!”
“Love is said to come after marriage for most, not before. Many a woman has married to oblige her family, or to maintain her place her society, with no great feeling toward her intended.” Juliet sighed. “I confess that I never wished to be among their number, and yet—”
“You love another, do you not?” Mrs. Bingley blushed. “Forgive my forwardness. Yet it is alluded to here in the letter, and today I myself observed the great affinity that exists between you and my nephew.”
“The Darcys will not hear of our marrying, and there is an end to it,” Juliet said, straightening and again wiping her cheeks. Here, she must be strong. “Those hopes are all in the past now.”
Mrs. Bingley would never be so swift to dismiss the possibility of love. “You must not think so! My sister is not so unkind, nor Mr. Darcy either. He can be proud, but he will always do what is right in the end.”
“The Darcys are defending their son’s honor and reputation, precisely as they should.” Juliet gently took back Follett’s letter from Mrs. Bingley and folded it shut.
“She bade me speak of it no more, so I fell silent, for what else could I do?” Jane said later, lying in bed next to Charles.
“Still, she must not marry that dreadful painter! To have a spouse one could neither trust nor respect, to say nothing of love—that is a cruel sentence indeed, particularly for a girl who has committed no crime.”
“Good heavens,” said Charles. His heart was very nearly as tender as his wife’s, and his distress scarcely less than her own.
“A dreadful thing, to oblige a girl to marry the man who has disgraced her! One hears of it from time to time, but I shall never think it any less than barbaric. Surely Darcy and your sister would not wish such a fate upon her.”
“Surely not.” Yet Jane was uncertain. Few situations could be more vexatious to her than those involving the conflicting desires of two people she cared for deeply.
“Elizabeth wrote so little to me of Miss Tilney herself—so upset was she by the duel and its aftermath that she scarcely mentioned its cause. I cannot think why they should wish to discourage Jonathan’s marriage to anyone so brave and so clever, particularly when they are so very taken with each other. ”
Bingley considered this. “Perhaps they do not wish to discourage the match at all. Sentiments run hot after such an event as a duel. The Darcys may look at the matter very differently now.”
How this brightened Jane’s spirits! She would not be obliged to keep Miss Tilney’s presence a secret forever. Everyone she cared for would be reconciled, and happiness might yet reign over all.
The mere act of having confessed her feelings and concerns to a sympathetic person did much to restore Juliet’s spirits.
Nothing could entirely dispel the gloom—Mr. Darcy was no doubt still lost to her, the question of Mr. Follett’s proposal was by no means resolved, and the fact that she almost certainly slept in the same house as a murderer was no less disquieting for being a circumstance she had encountered before.
Yet kindness is a balm for almost all wounds, and so Juliet rose in better temper than she had known in some time.
True to Mrs. Bingley’s promise, a soft rap at the door heralded the arrival of her maid. “Though I can’t say I’m truly a lady’s maid as yet, miss,” said Becky, “I’d like to become one, and Mrs. Bingley has let me practice on her a few times when no company’s expected.”
This was not the most reassuring testimonial to Becky’s skills with brush and comb, but Juliet was not overly governed by vanity. Besides, what Becky lacked in technique, she promised to compensate for in enthusiasm.
The young girl did indeed assist Juliet in dressing, exclaiming at the ill fit of her stays (“You’ll be needing new, miss!
The gowns this year are even lower at the waist, you’d hardly believe it.
Scandalous, my mam says.”), and doing her best with Juliet’s hair.
Becky dropped the comb once, and was clumsy removing the curl papers, but the end result was not too bad.
If the ringlets on either side of Juliet’s face were not precisely symmetrical, as fashion recommended, they were nonetheless flattering.
Juliet caught herself wondering what Mr. Darcy would think when he saw her—