Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

D arcy led Elizabeth back to Netherfield, caught between exultation and worry. He had not meant to ask her to marry him—all the same concerns he had had since the beginning advised against it. Yet, he was not sorry he had, nor that she had agreed to think about it. It was surprising, he could admit, that she had not immediately accepted his proposal—not a woman in a thousand would have turned him down. It is all part of the beauty of Elizabeth , he decided—she was unlike a thousand others. She wanted a happy, compatible marriage, just as he did. She recognised the foolish marital decisions of her father, and would never repeat his mistakes. It told him just how right he had been—she was a jewel, a diamond amongst paste stones, a miraculous creation, and far too good for the Bennets of Longbourn. He was confident that she would decide in his favour, and once she had, he would whisk her away to a new life where she could, finally, shine .

There was but one problem, however: his friend, young Charles Bingley.

It was ludicrous for Bingley to think of marriage at his age, when he fell in and out of infatuations every other month, it seemed. Yet, Darcy had seen how the man fussed over Jane Bennet as if her slight fever meant she lingered at death’s door.

There was nothing wrong with Miss Bennet, per se . She was perfectly correct and polished, and nothing like her awful family. It did not change the fact that Bingley could do much better, and had an obligation to raise his fortunes, not drain them with an absent settlement. Such a marriage would be enough of an encumbrance upon Pemberley, much less upon a youth who had not yet purchased an estate. Darcy had no idea, of course, whether or not the young lady returned Bingley’s feelings—she had been ill, and hardly able to carry on a conversation, much less a romance. Nevertheless, I am certain that, should I announce a betrothal to Elizabeth, Bingley will take it as encouragement to pursue one with her older sister.

He glanced down at the woman upon his arm, her head bent, her silence understandable. He had surprised her; he had surprised himself. A wave of affection washed over him, along with the ever-present desire, and he stopped walking.

“Are you well?” he asked, wanting very much to hear that she was happy, as well as surprised.

Her dark eyes met his, and he could not read her gaze. What would she do, he wondered, if he pulled her in for a kiss, as he so nearly already had?

“I am,” she replied. “Jane was improved this morning. I suppose, especially in light of our conversation, I should send a note home and ask them to collect us.”

“’Tis too soon for her to be moved.”

Darcy heard his protest escape before his mind acknowledged that it would be much easier to keep Bingley out of his business and away from Miss Bennet if the young ladies were safely out of Netherfield. But he loved seeing Elizabeth often, having her nearby. Besides, how would he hide frequent visits to Longbourn? The answer was, he could not—and he would be unable to visit her near so often as he might wish without announcing his interest to the world.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “The weather appears to be holding. I do not think there is any danger.”

“You cannot be certain,” he said, and it occurred to him that there was a way to resolve his concerns about Bingley and hers about propriety. “I do promise to remain a perfect gentleman—a disinterested one, if you prefer—until you make a decision. I shall not remove any choice of yours by pressing my suit and creating expectations.”

She bit her lip, and it was all he could do to keep from tugging her closer and doing his best to convince her via the passion he held.

“I suppose it would be unexceptional to remain, in that case,” she said at last, and he rejoiced in his victory.

That evening was the oddest in Elizabeth’s life.

To all outward appearances, nothing had changed. She spent the rest of the day with Jane, who continued feeling improvement as the day wore on, and said nothing to her sister about Mr Darcy. A small part of it was guilt—she had not meant to spend an hour in the garden while Jane languished—but only a small part.

Until I decide how I feel about this, about him, I am unable to say anything!

She could not forget his admission that his nature was a resentful one. Mr Bingley admires Mr Darcy beyond anything—it might destroy Jane’s own chances, if he resented my rejection and communicated that resentment!

This line of reasoning, however, brought another question to the forefront. Would I truly refuse a proposal from Mr Darcy?

From a purely mercenary point of view, it would be stupidity itself, and her mother would likely never recover if she learnt of it. Of course, her mother would also never know that had John Lucas, Reginald Goulding, Herbert Long, or Sidney King asked her to marry, she would have refused.

Elizabeth had vowed long ago that she would never repeat her parents’ mistakes. She had tried imagining, to the best of her ability, giving one of those men her heart and body, and could not fathom it. There was no possibility of love between them. To remain unwed, or to suffer every day of her life with dislike, disdain, or disinterest? It was no contest.

At least a year ago, Elizabeth had begun to realise and accommodate yet another truth: the odds of her own marriage were not good. She had of course never been required to decline anyone; she had captured the interest of the young gentlemen in her circle, and she knew it—but she had been summarily disregarded. If those men, knowing her as well as they did, had been unable to overlook her lack of fortune, what were the chances of some hitherto unknown male of the future doing so?

However, those odds had now been defeated—in the form of Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, a prosperous gentleman from Derbyshire. He had not overlooked her. He had not, in the end, judged her upon riches and relations. The very fact of this weighed heavily in his favour, and she laughed aloud at herself.

My opinion of his intelligence has risen dramatically, simply because he was shrewd enough to offer for me!

“What is so amusing, Lizzy?” Jane asked. “I am glad to see you smile—you have been so quiet today. I wish you would share the joke.”

“Nothing terribly humorous, I promise. I am so pleased at your recovery thus far. I wish for you to rest as much as possible,” Elizabeth replied, turning her attention back to her sister’s countenance, pale in the grey light of late afternoon. “I have not wanted to disturb you.”

“You never could,” Jane assured. “I am feeling so much better. Perhaps you could write to Mama and ask her to send the carriage?”

Yesterday, Elizabeth would have obeyed with alacrity; now, she was no longer anxious to be away. How her sentiments had changed!

“There is no harm in resting here, is there? At least until Mr Jones feels you are well enough to journey home.”

Jane bit her lip. “Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst will believe I am remaining here to…to…push myself forward,” she whispered.

“If I were you, I would care solely for what Mr Bingley thinks, and I can assure you that he would be most alarmed at the idea of your taking any risks. I might remind you what Mama said about illness in our own home at the moment. I do not wish you to return to Longbourn, only to take ill with something else while in a delicate state.”

“I despise being so weak.” Jane sighed. “The idea of leaving any negative impression is awful.”

“You have impressed Mr Bingley,” Elizabeth said, reaching over to squeeze Jane’s hand. “Does anyone else truly matter?”

Judging by Mr Bingley’s obvious concern and affection for Jane, he would probably support Mr Darcy in whatever marital decision he made. Yet, the rest of the world would agree with Miss Bingley—Elizabeth was a nobody with nothing, and unworthy of him. He was nephew to an earl; how harsh would his familial objections be?

It was not just any earl either, but Matlock . Lord and Lady Matlock were in the papers constantly, reported for their celebrated entertainments, his lordship’s politics, her ladyship’s keen sense of fashion. To receive a coveted invitation to one of Lady Matlock’s affairs was proof of entrée into the pinnacle stratum of society. Lord Matlock’s vote on any bill was considered its potential for life, or its probable death.

At that moment, a tap on the door heralded Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley, who had come, they said, to provide distraction for Jane and reprieve for Elizabeth. Elizabeth was suspicious at first of their motives; was this but an opportunity to hint that their unwanted guests should leave as soon as possible? But their good humour and sympathy seemed genuine, and Jane especially was pleased with their company.

Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley were not ‘noxious degenerates’, she reminded herself. They were protective sisters, and did not trust their brother yet to know his own mind. They did not know Jane well enough to realise her beautiful character, to understand that Mr Bingley would be the luckiest man in the world to win her. Miss Bingley, further, was jealous only of Elizabeth; unrequited love must be no easy trial. Both Bingley sisters had known Mr Darcy for several years, and, evidently, both had fallen in love with him. Was that not evidence of his goodness?

So Elizabeth stayed, and watched, and contributed to the conversation when she could, and in the midst of it all, turned a single question over and over in her mind: What will I answer Mr Darcy?

The evening was pure torture for Darcy.

Elizabeth appeared thoughtful, looking at him once or twice for longer than was usual, but taking up her needlework and saying very little. He attempted to write to Georgiana—difficult enough when every bit of his attention wanted to fix upon Elizabeth, but nearly impossible as Miss Bingley interrupted again and again to pay some compliment or other.

He tried to be polite, but truly, could not she tell that her attentions were unwelcome? Why must he continually remind her of his disinterest ?

Later, he feared his envy was on too great a display as Elizabeth took Bingley’s side in a foolish dispute regarding the boy’s carelessness in handwriting. He had spoken to her of it this morning; was this her way of reprimanding him, of refuting his opinions? Then, somehow, they slipped into a conversation that had nothing to do with Bingley’s scores and crosses.

“To yield readily—easily—to the persuasion of a friend has no merit with you,” she stated, as if changing one’s mind upon a whim was a desirable habit. Or was she attempting to judge whether he would change his mind about her ?

“To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either,” he replied, hoping she would see in his answer his intention of remaining steadfast, as well as his aim of giving her whatever time she needed.

“You appear to me, Mr Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request.”

Does she think me inconstant? Does she worry my family’s possible objections might dissuade me? Does she hint that she might yield to my request? Or are we still speaking of Bingley’s silly impulses?

“Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?”

She opened her mouth to reply, and he almost moved to the edge of his seat—would she say that the parties were very intimate? Would she tell him the request was of the utmost importance to her? Alas, Bingley, with his usual oblivion, interrupted at just the wrong moment; Miss Bingley proceeded to a defence he neither wanted nor needed, and Elizabeth subsided into silence.

The true torment, however, did not begin until the music did. As Miss Bingley played Italian songs, Elizabeth tapped her foot, keeping time with the pianoforte, slightly swaying to the tune, and he could not help but remember waltzing with her in the forest glade. He had never suspected himself capable of such a foolishly romantic gesture—and yet, it had seemed so right in the moment, and a precious memory, still. To be forced to pretend she was nothing beyond an acquaintance was a punishment indeed.

He found himself drawing near her, and when Miss Bingley began a lively Scotch air, could not prevent murmuring to her, “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”

Her foot stilled, and she glanced at him and quickly looked away. “It is easier to imagine you waltzing in the woods, than to imagine that you seriously mean to dance a vigorous reel with me, while no one else is dancing, before all your friends.”

“And yet, I would do either and both. Is a reel too much a declaration of my intent?”

She looked up at him again, her discomposure obvious. “I fear it might be.”

“Just so you know, I would have asked it whether or not I had asked that other question you have yet to answer. The sight of you, so lovely, so openly enjoying the music—you were made for dancing, Elizabeth. I would never have been able to resist.”

She blushed, and it was all Darcy could do to uphold his usual manner, to keep his expression severe and disinterested as was his custom. At that very moment, Miss Bingley missed a note—something he did not think he had ever heard her do—and he glanced her way. She was staring at him and Elizabeth.

Perhaps I did not maintain my severity of expression quite so well as I believed.