Chapter 4
FOUR
Darcy approached the property with a tangle of emotions difficult to swallow down, almost none of them pleasant.
This prosperous manor was the property which had ruined his great-grandfather’s life.
Since a young child, he had been raised, practically taught, to resent it.
Yet, here it was, glimmering in winter sunlight, solemnly pronouncing its quiet respectability, its rightness in the landscape.
It seemed the polar opposite of Essex, where he and his antecedents had been born and raised.
It was, in all likelihood, to be his someday. My grandfather, Benjamin Darcy, probably would have first seen it burnt to the ground before taking up residence here.
His own father had chosen the future over the past. It had not been easy; he had suffered. Duty, honour, and dignity—the path Darcy felt his father had chosen—prescribed a different action.
At his knock, the door was answered by a neat maid, and he was shown to an elegant drawing room. Within was the Bennet family, obviously awaiting him. He had never felt more awkward.
He was received with great politeness by all of them; Mr Bennet, indeed, did not say much, but the ladies were ready enough to talk.
He had learnt, mostly through working with parishioners, a ready conversation; unfortunately, it had all but deserted him now, and he could not help either his gravity or his formality.
Somewhat to his surprise, his cousins were very pretty, all of them, but especially the eldest, her fair complexion and golden curls drawn back in a flattering chignon, her smiles easy, her manners polished and perfect.
He had been preparing himself for quite the opposite—the ugliness of Bennet’s former communication had urged him towards extending his impressions to the physical.
Perhaps this will not be so horrible a task as I feared.
Still, he had a difficult time of it; every subject usual to a conversation between new acquaintances seemed fraught.
He could not compliment the fineness of their home and furnishings or the surrounding lands, without appearing as if he was tabulating a future inheritance.
Heaven forbid he make actual overtures or begin taking notice of any one of the young ladies, appearing to tabulate them.
However, as a fine meal was served, he began to see cracks in their veneer of refinement.
The two youngest seemed particularly obsessed with the militia of a nearby encampment; all their conversation was about scarlet-coated men, on how to draw their attention and keep it.
They seemed to be able to speak of nothing else.
The middle daughter, Miss Mary, frequently quoted Fordyce and the Bible in rebuking them, which was not particularly attractive, either.
This would not have been so bad, for it showed a determination to please him, even if he did find Fordyce a dreadful yawn; however, she seemed far too young for him, and he suspected her of not even having reached her eighteenth year.
Her methods of gaining his attention were too similar to many of the young ladies in his congregation, all of them assuming that he had not a thought in his head except for righteousness and morals.
Obviously, he wished to behave as a pious man ought, at all times, but it was as if they spoke to a caricature of himself—not to Fitzwilliam Darcy, an imperfect person with his own mind who tried to do his best, but to ‘The Vicar of Hunsford’; it seemed like they believed that if only they appeared saintly enough, they could captivate him enough to generate a proposal.
“Your ragout is delicious, Mrs Bennet,” Darcy said to his hostess.
“Or should I compliment your daughters in their cookery?” In Essex—where, due to its proximity to London, there were many families from various walks of life—it had grown quite popular for young ladies to display their skills in cookery, even when a cook was employed by the household.
In Kent, however, such was not the case, and he realised he ought not to have said it, even before Mrs Bennet took offence.
“My daughters have nothing to do with the kitchen. We are well able to employ a cook.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said quietly. Thereafter, he hardly dared venture a comment. It was probably the longest meal of his life.
The following day, Darcy rose early, hoping a long walk, before anyone else expected conversation or entertainment, might restore his disposition.
He was also curious, of course, about the extent of these lands, how many farms and tenants made their livings upon it, and just how prosperous it was.
Despite his unabated dislike of Mr Bennet, he had no desire to wish the man an early departure from mortality.
He certainly was not dependent upon the man’s death to have a life of his own, and wanted nothing of his behaviour to demonstrate anything of the sort.
Therefore, it seemed rude to ask any of his questions, but neither could he help what he felt was a natural curiosity.
Thankfully the weather was clear, cool, and crisply perfect.
He walked through the gardens, but quickly left them behind in favour of a forested path.
It was wide enough for a wagon, but on either side were tall pines and scattered oaks.
The shaded trail was a little chilly in the brisk breezes, but he imagined in summertime it to be a delight.
He was surprised, however, to find he was not alone in enjoying the morning in Longbourn’s out of doors; as he rounded the curve of the track, he saw Miss Elizabeth, sitting upon a large stump with her arms locked around her knees in a sunshine-filled corner of this little wilderness, smiling up at the sky as if she were some sort of dream-maiden who belonged to the billowing clouds, one who might just fly up to greet them while her wings were unhidden from more earth-bound souls.
Abruptly, he shook his head, disturbed by the fanciful thought. If there was one adjective that did not describe Fitzwilliam Darcy, it was ‘whimsical’.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, approaching her with a little bow. “Good morning.”
She glanced at him, extending her little, dreamy smile to include him, but otherwise not truly seeming to pay him much attention.
“Is not early morning the most wonderful time of day?” she asked—except, he was fairly certain she did not, principally, address him, or expect an answer.
“The past is one day stronger, and while nothing might have changed, the problems of yesterday thus far unaddressed, everything seems fresher, and we feel more resilient in the earlier hours, when we have not yet, particularly, devoted much of the day to worrying.”
“Is it worrying over them that creates the problems, then? Should we be able to discard our fears so easily by simply refusing to look at them?”
For the first time, she seemed to really see him in her look, and acknowledge his presence.
“Worry for the sake of worry never helps cure anything. If we can, instead, fix our head and heart upon life’s goodness, we should be happier.
” She laughed a little. “I sound a little like one of Mary’s good conduct books, do I not?
Counting my blessings? Oh, but sometimes, when I see the soaring views of rock and rill, and the impossible blue of the sky meeting the brilliant greens of the hills beneath, I cannot help but feel that God is in His heaven and all will be well.
It is like an answered prayer.” Abruptly, however, her expression changed to one more rueful, and she sighed.
“Please excuse my wandering tongue. I am not sensible until at least nine o’clock in the morning. ”
“I find you make very good sense, even though,” he made a show of withdrawing his pocket watch, “it is only eight-thirty. I have not come too early, after all.”
She smiled at his attempt at wit, so he did not feel too foolish.
“Would you care to join me on my ramble?” he heard himself asking. “Otherwise, I might disappear into the wilds of Hertfordshire, to be found nevermore.”
She appeared to hesitate, and he wondered if she thought him too forward. After a moment though, she rose, and took his proffered arm.
Of the five Bennet sisters, he had probably paid her the least notice.
They were all pretty enough, to be sure, but the eldest was classically beautiful—artists might fight to paint her, even.
She was also well-mannered and cordial, that sort of woman who would be an ideal mistress of any household.
He had supposed, if he chose anyone at all amongst his cousins, it would be her, and consequently his attention had lingered mostly upon Miss Bennet.
Miss Elizabeth, in comparison, was not of a conspicuous beauty, but her eyes were large and thick-lashed, her skin flawless, her mouth wide and dimpled, her dark curls barely restrained and framing high cheekbones and an ageless brow—never mind a slim but shapely figure beautifully set off by her light-coloured gown and indigo blue velvet pelisse.
Certainly, her manners had been every bit as refined as any of them, but her wit, now revealed to him, made every attraction double.
Had Bennet shared his reasons for coming to Longbourn?
At the time he had written, Darcy felt that being as unashamedly direct as it was possible to be seemed the best approach.
Now, strolling along the earthen path with a young lady he was unexpectedly finding singularly fascinating, he wondered if he had not conspired with himself to bring about the most uncomfortable, stupidest attempt at a possible courtship in the whole world.