2. A Mutual Ennui
A Mutual Ennui
Where is Bingley?
Darcy rolled his neck as he walked through Netherfield’s front hall towards the library.
He was tired. No visit to a country estate should be this fatiguing, nor should it require two rides a day to alleviate tedium or escape his hosts.
He slept poorly, read and rode too much, laboured fruitlessly with Bingley over the details of managing an estate, and argued with him over whether this was the appropriate choice.
Bingley was preoccupied with concern for Miss Bennet, but he was, rather oddly for such a lively prattler, keeping his thoughts to himself.
As do I, but my thoughts would be unsuitable for company. Especially for the company of one lady.
Darcy had faced the affected interest and flirtations of ladies since reaching his majority and was well-accustomed to Caroline Bingley’s ingratiating attentions.
He was not, however, familiar with the standoffish yet beguiling charms exhibited by Elizabeth Bennet.
Nor was he immune. He had been hiding smiles for two days as she parried Miss Bingley’s mean-spirited questions and comments.
Tired and preoccupied though she must have been caring for her sister, Miss Elizabeth was unbowed as she deflected slurs and slights so skilfully and sweetly that her tormentor was left perversely uncertain as to whether she was being laughed at.
The back-and-forth was delicious entertainment and relieved him of any need to show his temper to one or his preference to the other.
It was dangerous, this irrational liking he felt for Elizabeth Bennet’s company. He desperately hoped her sister would be well and that the two ladies would leave Netherfield the following day. Neither he nor Bingley could afford such dalliances, real or fanciful.
I can scarce afford another restless night, with that lady under the same roof. He opened the door to the library. This house has the dullest assemblage of books I have encountered. If I am to sleep, I must find the most tedious.
Devil take it. She was there, leaning against the window, her hands fisted at her sides. Had her sister taken a turn? Had Mrs Bennet threatened another visit? Distress, anger, illness… The myriad possible explanations for her demeanour raced through his mind.
“Miss Elizabeth?”
She spun towards him, markedly unsettled.
She was pale, even wan, but as she stood staring at him wordlessly, a blush rose from her bodice to her cheeks.
She shrugged off his concern for Miss Bennet and his thoughts of books—the very purpose of the room in which they stood—before she practically flew past him towards the door.
Had she received distressing news from Longbourn? Or had Miss Bingley, from her own ‘sickbed’, at last managed to land one of her arrows?
Much as he wished to know, it was none of his business, and the lady obviously did not consider him a confidant.
Darcy strode to the spot by the window where she had stood.
Her scent, hinting at lemon soap and lavender, lingered.
He breathed it in and considered Miss Elizabeth Bennet, she of the dark eyes and charmingly pleasing figure.
He had never been in company with a lady so eager to flee his own.
Granted, he was splattered with mud and likely smelled of horse, but she was a lady who had shown her own penchant for windswept hair and mud-soaked boots.
She exhibited no fear of the out of doors but had been trapped inside Netherfield for two days now, unable or unwilling to leave her sister’s bedside for more than an hour or so.
He could admire her for it even as he resented her presence in the house—and resented that she had confined that maddening presence to her sister’s company.
There was no reason his weariness with Bingley’s family party should require that he temper his desire to converse with the most intelligent person he had met in this town.
Perhaps Bingley will persuade her to join us for dinner.
Perhaps I should hint that he must persuade her.
Despite the risks, knowing Miss Bingley would be made unhappy with jealousy was one more incentive to do so.
That lady might be his hostess, but she deserved no grace from anyone, not after her relentless incivility towards and about the Bennet sisters.
First, he must find his friend and ask after Miss Bennet’s condition.
Nothing but a turn in her health could have so distressed Miss Elizabeth.
Though she had claimed her sister was well, her expression—a mix of surprise and distress—plagued him.
Something had afflicted the lady that she had been unwilling to tell him.
Concealing her distress from Jane proved more difficult than usual for Elizabeth. While her sister was accustomed to Elizabeth’s impatience with her mother and younger sisters, hiding her disgust with the man she had thought might be her future brother was challenging.
How was she to keep Jane away from Mr Bingley?
How could she allow him to keep his attentions, his large, endearing blue eyes, on her sister?
She found herself unable to shake the image of Mr Bingley whispering to the maid.
She tried to convince herself it was nothing more than an innocent conversation, attempted to remind herself of his sociable manner, but she could not banish the memory of what she had witnessed, and it cast a shadow over her opinion of the otherwise amiable gentleman.
After two days spent viewing Mr Bingley as the only welcoming face at Netherfield, it distressed her that it was impossible to think of him as she once had.
Elizabeth had thought him to be decent, though it had puzzled her how a man so considerate of her and Jane was incapable of curbing his sister’s sharp tongue and preening behaviour.
He could not be oblivious to it—Mr Hurst snorted loudly in amusement at times—yet Mr Bingley took no action to hush her.
Even Mr Bennet roused himself to quiet Lydia or Mrs Bennet when irritation overtook hilarity.
Mr Bingley is so much altered from the man I thought he was. If not a profligate who plans assignations with young servant girls, he is a cork-brain to act with so little discretion.
She hoped the staid and pompous Mr Darcy had not seen her distress. Staid? He knew of the ‘arrangement’ and condoned his friend’s abuse of the servants! Those were the ways of the ton, she had heard. Certainly, the Prince Regent set no example of decency.
No matter if Mr Darcy had seen her misery and spoken of it to Mr Bingley. Elizabeth envisioned the two of them, feet up and fine brandy warming them, chuckling about the green girls of Longbourn.
She nearly stomped her foot in anger when the note arrived from Mrs Hurst several hours later, asking her to join them at dinner. She already had expended enough effort avoiding and fending off the insults of the others.
We are here for their amusement, for them to collect hearts and tales to take back to divert the ton. Such horrible people, and it is to them I must smile.
Elizabeth passed the rest of the day in Jane’s company. When the time came to go downstairs, she changed her gown and pinched her cheeks, angry at the need to make any effort to be in company with a rake, a drunkard, two gossips, and a proud swell.
Why can I not be more like Jane? Her sister would never think so much about a subject certain to cause her unhappiness.
If forced to do so, Jane would insist that neither party had intended to be wicked, that they were probably both determined to reform.
Perhaps that was true. Perhaps in her weariness and worry, Elizabeth had overthought it.
No. She was not Jane. She had questions, and for every possible answer, there were more questions still. And the one person who could answer them was also the man whom she did not wish to ask.
Elizabeth timed her entrance into the drawing room to within moments of the procession to dinner and assured Jane’s deceptive suitor that her sister’s health was not responsible for her own delay.
She ate quickly and quietly, anxious to avoid conversation, but her efforts were for naught.
Miss Bingley, who had claimed a headache much of the day, came to her seat, her strength and ill humour undiminished by her suffering.
Only her hair, more simply styled than was her custom, appeared to have suffered.
“Miss Elizabeth, will your mother again bless us with a visit before you and dear Jane depart? Truly, there is no need for her to call with Longbourn’s vehicle to bring you home.
Our carriage is comfortable, the seats and squabs recently restuffed.
Even for a short journey of but three miles, I daresay it will suffice. ”
Elizabeth, feeling besieged by the scrutiny of all, managed a brief nod. She felt at least two pairs of eyes searching her for some more elaborate response, but she would not satisfy either gentleman.
The following day would be her last at Netherfield, she decided.
It must be! When Jane awoke, feeling far less out of sorts, she attempted to persuade Elizabeth that she could join the others at dinner.
Concerned for her sister’s welfare, Elizabeth would not relent to such prolonged exposure but agreed Jane could come afterwards, for coffee and company.
Elizabeth’s announcement at breakfast regarding their departure was met with no small amount of delight.
She wagered the Bingley sisters were pleased to see an end to the Bennet sisters’ objectionable occupation of their home, while Mr Bingley sputtered his joy and immediately determined a special cake must be served in Jane’s honour.
Elizabeth offered a polite smile and made her escape.
That afternoon, she was joined on her perambulation about the gardens by Mrs Hurst. The lady was friendlier and more talkative when her sister was not present—yet another troubling sign of the quick alterations in character exhibited by the Bingleys.
“Your brother’s time in town is often occupied by business?” asked Elizabeth.
“Charles is a social creature. He has his club or is invited to join his friends at theirs.”
“He stays with you and Mr Hurst?”
“On Sundays. He has rooms at the Albany, so I cannot speak to his comings and goings, but he fills his calendar quickly.” Mrs Hurst chuckled softly. “My brother cannot sit idle.”
This was indeed the truth. Even when seated, Mr Bingley was not still. His fingers or toes tapped, his hands waved about, and his mouth found reason to smile.
“It seems Mr Bingley is a man with many friends and great popularity amongst them?”
“Oh yes, his only true interests are in sport and dancing and parties, where the conversation is often about sport and dancing and parties.”
“Surely not,” Elizabeth said lightly. Though she wondered at the low opinion one sister could hold for her brother, she too had often spoken similar opinions about her younger sisters’ limited interests.
Before she could think further on the subject, she heard Miss Bingley’s shrill voice approaching through the shrubbery.
“…an attachment to the daughter of a minor squire with connexions in trade—”
“Yes, although—”
Miss Bingley and Mr Darcy emerged onto their path. They startled, staring at Elizabeth and Mrs Hurst.
“Caroline, you said nothing to me of a walk!”
Amid her outrage at her sister’s thoughtless abandonment, Mrs Hurst divested herself of her burdensome guest. After gaining Mr Darcy’s free arm, she tugged them both away.
To his credit, Mr Darcy made a feeble protest, but Elizabeth ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about in her freedom and the hope of being at home again in another day.
Spotting a pretty orange leaf, she was inspired to bring Jane a bit of autumn.
She bent down to collect it before walking towards a large, brilliantly yellow oak on a small rise near the corner of the house.
The sun was at her back as she stooped to gather a few large leaves, and it threw a gleaming light onto Netherfield’s mostly unused east wing.
As she rose, a movement caught her eye, and looking at the house, she saw, framed in perfect silhouette in a large second-storey window, Mr Bingley and his flame-haired lover.