3. A Fractured Image
A Fractured Image
Twice! Twice Elizabeth had seen Mr Bingley in close conference with…
with her. His mistress, his lover, his paramour.
The situation was beyond imagining, but any doubts had been erased.
She had read of such arrangements, had heard her mother and aunt allude to old Mr Johnson’s roving hands with bar maids and servant girls, but this?
Elizabeth felt sick. Her opinion of Mr Bingley was now permanently altered, and she feared allowing that change to be seen during their last full day at Netherfield.
She would suffer quietly through the anger she had towards Mr Bingley and the sadness she felt for Jane. The turbulence of her emotions manifested in a lack of spirits and a cool regard for any gentleman within Netherfield’s confines.
While Jane rested, Elizabeth spent the day avoiding company.
First, she found a seat in a secluded part of the garden, then upon hearing voices, she moved to a chair in an unoccupied parlour.
She had depleted her reading material and turned instead to a fashion magazine she had found tucked under a cushion.
Its illustrations did not answer her questions as to the source of Miss Bingley’s guidance on fashion.
The lady had no sense of how to dress like the mistress of a home in the country, but perhaps she thought she was enlightening the ignorant country-folk with her feathered accoutrements.
Tossing aside the periodical, Elizabeth determined she must find a book and walked to the library.
There, amongst the paltry offerings, she found a volume of Lamb’s poetry.
Sighing with resignation, for she disliked his mawkish prose, she sat with it in a large wing chair by the window.
A moment later, she heard the library door open and close.
She jumped up, ran to the door, and peered each way down the corridor.
A tall figure walking away from her was just turning the corner.
With that height and broad shoulders, it was unmistakably Mr Darcy.
Well.
She walked to the chair he must have abandoned and found a copy of The Lady of the Lake. Having heard of the work but not seen it even in her father’s book-room, she eagerly sat down to read the poem.
If Mr Darcy returns, I shall surrender it to him. But otherwise, I will believe it forsaken for now.
The day passed as slowly as any Darcy could remember.
He spent some of it regretting the rudeness shown to Miss Elizabeth in the gardens and another part of it ensuring his absence from any rooms and corridors in which she might be.
He met with success until she appeared in the library, where he had been contentedly re-reading Robinson Crusoe.
The book was an adventure he had enjoyed years earlier and had hoped it would help relieve his mind of any guilt he felt in evading Miss Elizabeth and abandoning his hosts.
Scott’s most recent volume of poetry had not held his attention and sat discarded beside him.
Chased from his lair by Miss Elizabeth’s arrival, he wondered whether she realised it was he who had slipped through the door.
When she paid him no notice at dinner, he wondered whether she was avenging his earlier avoidance of her or was perhaps irritated with the lot of them after the incident in the garden.
She made little effort to speak, replying briefly to Bingley’s eager questions about Miss Bennet and pretending not to notice Miss Bingley's occasional barbs.
The guilt that had hung over him all day weighed heavily when she rose to go to her sister and he saw the tightness in her expression.
The arrival of Miss Bennet changed the atmosphere in the drawing room.
Bingley bobbed about like a young rabbit, enquiring as to her health, her comfort, her meals, her contentment with the furnishings of her room, and the brightness of her candles.
When all that could be learnt of the lady had been canvassed and she was able to sip her coffee, now undoubtedly cool, Darcy determined he would ask Miss Elizabeth whether she, too, had been comfortable and entertained here at Netherfield.
He was trying to choose the best words, ones that might provoke a teasing reply, when Miss Bingley spoke.
“The weather will turn tomorrow evening and leave us with mud and wet paths. Does it always rain so in Hertfordshire? You had best return to Longbourn with your family after services lest your little trunk need replenishing for an even longer confinement with us.” She tittered, but it did nothing to deflect that she clearly wished the Bennet sisters to leave Netherfield.
“As we plan to do, for nothing could dismay us more than imposing our company upon you further when we are so keen to return to our own estate,” Miss Elizabeth replied with what Darcy perceived as a sweet coating on her choice of words.
“Our familiar chairs and beds and sewing baskets will welcome us almost as much as our family will, and our servants—whom we have long known and respected—will see to Jane’s well-being, particularly. ”
The glance at Bingley that accompanied her final words seemed to impart some underlying meaning.
Surely she did not imply that Bingley had not ensured Netherfield provided comfort to Miss Bennet or that the servants had not ensured her well-being?
Although Darcy could not take her meaning, only Miss Bingley appeared put out by any of it.
Miss Bennet only smiled. If not the picture of full health, she had colour in her cheeks and a steadiness she had lacked three days earlier.
Soon enough, the Bennet sisters went upstairs, and the drawing room filled with Miss Bingley’s biting comments.
It was wearisome to listen to her tirades.
Against the protests of his hosts, Darcy decided it was time to retire to his chamber for the night.
Reaching the top of the stair, he heard a door open and, both hoping and fearing it might be Miss Elizabeth, moved more quickly.
The effort was for naught. The corridors to both the family wing and guest wings were empty.
Sighing, he opened his door and nodded for his valet, Burke, to help him with his boots, jacket, and cravat before dismissing him for the night.
He wished to be alone with his thoughts—his muddled, dissatisfied thoughts.
As he paced the carpet, tossing his clothing here and there without his usual care, Darcy hardly knew whether to congratulate himself for evading Miss Elizabeth’s notice or chastise himself for not conversing with her and learning more of her amusing opinions.
He reluctantly acknowledged, however, that she had made no attempts to garner his attention.
She had not shown him the least awareness—never a glance or comment—and it vexed him more than he wished to admit.
After pulling on his nightshirt, he stretched out on his bed, thinking about her behaviour before finally understanding her position.
She had perceived his determined aloofness and, realising he could not pay her the attention she desired, had saved her pride by responding with her own coolness—extending it even towards Bingley.
The thought was odd, but overall, Darcy was pleased to have gained a deeper understanding of the lady’s cleverness.
Finally, content that he had unravelled the mystery of Elizabeth Bennet’s behaviour and exhausted by his day-long effort to ignore her, he slipped under the counterpane and fell asleep.