Chapter Four The Horrors of Polite Society #2
The bowl produced a loud, protesting clang against Fletcher’s waistcoat. He tightened his arms around it, bowed low, and retreated hastily to the family apartments before it could escape again.
Elizabeth remained frozen in the passage after both valet and heirloom had disappeared into the shadows. The library no longer presented sufficient attraction to justify any further exploration, and she returned to the blue chamber, closed the door, and verified that Jane continued to sleep.
The small cot provided for Elizabeth stood near the opposite wall. She lowered herself onto it, folded her arms, and released a long, exhausted huff aimed at the painted ceiling.
Everyone at Netherfield was freezing cold, no one ate a bite, and Mr Darcy’s silver punch bowl had just attempted to adopt her.
JANE’S FEVER WAS UNCHANGED by evening. She had slept through much of the afternoon, awakened long enough to drink tea, and assured Elizabeth that she felt much better before falling asleep midway through the assurance.
Mr Jones had promised steady improvement rather than a miracle, but Elizabeth found the fine distinction far less reasonable each time she touched Jane’s warm forehead.
Mrs Nicholls came shortly before dinner, accompanied by a maid carrying fresh water and yet another tureen of rich broth. Elizabeth hesitated at the door until the housekeeper gently reminded her that Jane would gain nothing from having two women watch her sleep.
The Netherfield party had gathered in the main drawing room. Mr Bingley abandoned the roaring hearth the moment Elizabeth entered and reached her before his elegant sisters could offer the formal enquiry expected of them.
Mr Bingley wrung his hands. “How is Miss Bennet this evening?”
Elizabeth offered a reassuring nod. “Much the same as she was this morning. Her fever has not risen, and Mr Jones remains satisfied.”
Mr Bingley leaned closer. “Has she eaten?”
Elizabeth smiled. “She has taken tea and a little broth.”
Mr Bingley’s eyes moved to the bell pull.
Elizabeth placed herself squarely between him and the cord. “There are already two tureens upstairs, Mr Bingley.”
He looked sheepish. “A third might contain a variety she prefers better.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Unless it contains a miraculous cure, I believe the kitchen may rest for the evening.”
Mrs Hurst approached and touched Elizabeth’s arm lightly. “Your sister could not be in better hands. Mrs Nicholls has ruled Netherfield far longer than Charles has occupied it, and the household obeys her much more readily.”
Mr Bingley accepted the gentle rebuke, although he continued directing his wide eyes at the ceiling. Miss Bingley offered a polite hope for Jane’s swift recovery, then turned the conversation to dinner before her brother could propose rebuilding the kitchen nearer the blue chamber.
The meal followed the curious pattern Elizabeth now understood to be ordinary at Netherfield.
Elaborate food arrived, was formally distributed, and remained uneaten, while the dark contents of the household decanter diminished at an astonishing, frightening speed.
Elizabeth received her claret from a separate bottle and consumed enough roast beef to confirm that she had not adopted her hosts’ advanced interpretation of fruit.
Mr Bingley attempted to eat for her benefit, but placed the same piece of potato into his mouth twice without successfully swallowing it.
Mr Hurst devoted himself to his glass. Mrs Hurst shifted food around her plate with useless industry, while Miss Bingley appeared to regard eating as a vulgar accomplishment beneath women of superior breeding.
Elizabeth allowed her eyes to travel around the large dining room.
An ornate frame occupied the wall above the sideboard, but it contained a landscape where she would have expected a mirror.
The candle branches had plain metal backs rather than reflective mirrored plates.
Even the decorative cabinet displayed painted panels where glass might ordinarily have appeared.
The drawing room had been arranged in the same fashion.
Expensive paintings, thick tapestries, and polished wood occupied every wall, yet not one mirror interrupted them.
The blue chamber contained a small dressing glass, but the downstairs rooms appeared to have rejected reflection as firmly as they rejected luncheon.
Mr Bingley placed his fork beside the potato he had utterly failed to conquer. “Miss Elizabeth, you are very quiet. Have we neglected you?”
Elizabeth took a sip of her wine. “Not at all. I was admiring the decoration.”
Miss Bingley inclined her head smoothly. “Netherfield was heavily furnished before Charles took possession. Some alterations were necessary.”
Elizabeth looked at her. “You do not favour mirrors?”
A pause passed around the table along with nervous glances and tight shrugs.
Mrs Hurst reached quickly for her dark glass. “The former tenant had an unfortunate zeal for them. Charles removed several because they multiplied the candlelight unpleasantly.”
Elizabeth smiled politely. “Did he remove all of them?”
Mrs Hurst laughed. “The house has many long passages. You cannot have inspected every wall.”
Elizabeth accepted this without agreement. “I have inspected more of them than I originally intended. The house strongly discourages direct travel.”
Mr Hurst settled deeper into his chair. “The west corridor returns everyone to the same staircase. I once spent half an hour attempting to reach the billiard room and found myself lost outside my own bedchamber three times.”
“That may have been the wine, Brother,” Mr Bingley noted brightly.
Mr Hurst huffed. “The wine had no difficulty finding its intended destination.”
Mr Bingley laughed loudly, and the momentary tension dissolved.
Elizabeth glanced at Mr Darcy. He had contributed very little during dinner, but he had followed her enquiry closely.
When their eyes met, he lifted his glass slowly without drinking, and she received the distinct, thrilling impression that he had expected her to notice the missing mirrors.
The conversation turned to female accomplishments after Mr Bingley lavishly praised Mrs Hurst’s fine embroidery and Miss Bingley’s music.
He maintained that young women possessed extraordinary abilities, listing painted tables, covered screens, netted purses, and every decorative achievement he had ever witnessed at a London exhibition.
Miss Bingley placed her pristine napkin beside her plate. “A woman cannot be considered truly accomplished on such modest evidence. She must understand music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, while possessing utter elegance in her manner and address.”
Mr Darcy set down his glass. “She must also improve her mind through extensive reading.”
Elizabeth considered the assembled requirements. “I am surprised that you know any such women.”
Miss Bingley’s gaze sharpened into a blade. “Many ladies meet that exact description.”
Mr Darcy regarded Elizabeth coolly. “I know no more than half a dozen.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Then I am surprised that you know so many. Your accomplished woman must have knowledge, talent, taste, elegance, and sufficient leisure to perfect them all. She must also read extensively, which seems difficult when she is continually busy painting tables.”
Mr Bingley’s deep amusement threatened the potato once more. “Darcy expects perfection.”
Elizabeth smirked. “Mr Darcy appears to expect impossibility and then blame society for miserably failing to provide it.”
Mr Darcy rested one large hand on the table. “You have formed a severe opinion from a very modest requirement.”
Elizabeth leaned forward. “I formed it from half a dozen requirements, each containing several smaller ones concealed inside.”
His voice lowered. “You strongly object to improvement, Miss Elizabeth?”
“I firmly object to arranging every desirable quality into one single woman and expressing disappointment when she has only one pair of hands.”
A restrained curve appeared in his lips. “Your concern is practical rather than philosophical.”
Elizabeth smiled back. “My concerns generally are. Philosophy has never successfully painted a table either.”
After dinner, Miss Bingley placed herself at the pianoforte and began an Italian song intended to demonstrate several of the accomplishments under discussion simultaneously.
Elizabeth selected a book but found the musical performance far too determined to permit actual reading.
Mr Bingley sat near the door, nervously awaiting news from upstairs.
Mrs Hurst resumed her needlework, while Mr Hurst occupied a large chair near the fire and closed his eyes.
Elizabeth watched him closely through the first verse.
Mr Hurst sat as still as the portrait above him.
His broad chest did not rise, his nostrils did not stir, and no breath disturbed the loose folds of his cravat.
Mrs Hurst displayed the same unnatural stillness whenever her hands paused above the embroidery hoop.
She resumed breathing only when Miss Bingley missed a high note, and her sister drew in air before offering loud praise.
Elizabeth lowered her eyes back to the book.
People could easily hold their breath. They could also dislike mirrors, avoid food, drink peculiar wine, and maintain skin cold enough to compete with a marble floor.
None of these habits proved anything beyond the clear danger of observing one’s hosts far too carefully.
Mr Darcy stood near the book table, listening to Miss Bingley while cleverly contriving not to encourage her. Elizabeth closed the volume she was holding and approached him.
She kept her voice low. “Mr Darcy, may I respectfully enquire about one of your family possessions?”
His composure tightened by an almost imperceptible degree. “You may enquire.”