Exposing

Exposing

Fitzwilliam Darcy greeted his guests in a state somewhere between confusion and amusement. He truly believed his long discussion with Mr Bingley leading him away from the eldest Miss Bennet would be the last meaningful interaction with anyone from Hertfordshire (at least during daylight hours). By a curious coincidence, he had spent much of that morning thinking about Miss Elizabeth, and it seemed the gods of fortune were obliged to deliver her directly to his parlour. Whether her arrival was for good or ill remained to be seen.

Those thoughts disturbed his equanimity somewhat but did not prevent him from exercising basic civility. “Mr Bennet. Miss Bennet. Welcome to Darcy House.”

He refrained from asking their purpose, though he was burning with curiosity, and gestured to a set of sofas surrounding a small tea table. “May I offer refreshments?”

“That would be lovely. Thank you,” Elizabeth said demurely.

He nodded to a footman, and they sat down to a brief discussion about the trip from Longbourn until the tea appeared, along with several plates of biscuits.

“Miss Bennet, would you mind?” he asked politely.

She nodded and poured. Darcy appreciated that she did her task with a grace and economy of movement unusual in his experience. In his two months in Hertfordshire, he had only observed her as a guest. After months in the house of Miss Caroline Bingley, and years in the homes of the marriage-minded ladies of the ton; he was duly impressed to see she simply did the job without the fawning or chatter usually accompanying such gatherings—giving him no more deference than she would give any other casual acquaintance.

As they continued the standard pleasantries, Darcy became more and more curious about the pair. Mr Bennet was clearly in Miss Elizabeth’s brown books. She would happily speak to Darcy as would Bennet, but the lady seemed singularly disinclined to say anything directly to her father, or even look at the gentleman when he spoke. Bennet occasionally sallied forth with a clever witticism that could be construed as being directed to either party, followed by watching his daughter to see if she would take the bait. His efforts were in vain.

Finally, the refreshments and social niceties were over, and he once again observed curiously as Miss Elizabeth turned and took a deep breath.

“Mr Darcy, I request a confidential conversation with you. Not a private conversation obviously, but I would prefer my father occupy himself out of hearing—if you will allow it.”

Burning with curiosity, he looked at Mr Bennet, who gave him a smirk, which he did not much care for.

Darcy wondered what the subject could be, though he surmised the two most obvious candidates would be Wickham or Bingley. He was not precisely comfortable having such a discussion privately, but eventually decided with Mr Bennet in the same room, it could not be improper.

“I have no objections.”

She looked at her father, but Darcy could see the look was far closer to demanding compliance than begging permission.

The gentleman spoke more to Darcy than Elizabeth. “I assume you possess an adequate library, sir. Perhaps you could ask a footman to direct me and assign a maid to act as chaperone. You seem trustworthy enough, and I feel no great compulsion to intrude on my daughter’s private business.”

Darcy nearly gasped at the suggestion, feeling there was something not quite right, but not entirely improper either.

Elizabeth spoke encouragingly. “Come, Mr Darcy. We spent a half-hour alone together in the Netherfield library without speaking a word, and my business today will probably take half that.”

Darcy admitted she had a point, so he directed Mr Bennet to the library, and asked a maid to sit in the hall with the door open—mostly to make sure his guest was not worried about propriety. Darcy led Elizabeth to a pair of chairs in front of the fire, hoping the more intimate setting would not discompose his companion.

“Would you be comfortable here? You seem pensive and I would do what I can for your comfort.”

“Thank you. This setting is tolerable.”

They sat for a few minutes as Elizabeth seemed to gather her thoughts while Darcy watched curiously.

Eventually, she shrugged and blurted out her question. “I apologise for disrupting your privacy, but I came here with a purpose in mind. Would you be willing to tell me candidly about your aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”

“I beg your pardon!” he snapped in complete confusion, wondering what connection the lady could possibly have with his aunt.

“Perhaps I should explain,” she replied quietly, not entirely shocked by the gentleman’s reaction.

“Probably for the best.”

“Do you remember the parson who introduced himself at the ball—or more accurately, started babbling without benefit of introduction?”

“Yeeeesssss,” Darcy dragged out, not liking the direction of the discussion thus far.

“He is my cousin, Mr Collins, the heir presumptive to Longbourn. He is presently serving as rector in Hunsford, under the patronage of your aunt,” she said with a sigh.

Darcy frowned even more ferociously, while attempting to say something at least marginally gentlemanlike. “He seems… ah… well suited to an occupation involving… speaking.”

Elizabeth laughed nervously, but it only lasted a few seconds before changing into a frown. “He certainly enjoys the sound of his own voice.”

“If it helps, I will assert that most of my aunt’s rectors are of similar disposition. She prefers them that way. ”

“We come to the crux of the matter. Your aunt seems… ah… fond of instruction … apparently on every conceivable subject, if Mr Collins can be believed.”

“Without descending into ungentlemanly gossip, I can tell you she does in fact, enjoy giving… ah… instructions… to anybody and everybody on every subject, whether she has useful knowledge or not,” he said with a grimace.

Elizabeth frowned at both the assertion and the grimace, but gamely ploughed on.

“Therein lies my conundrum, and the reason for my visit. I need to know if your aunt’s habit is… relentless. She obviously controls much of Mr Collins’s life, but would she continue to do so after he marries?”

Darcy’s eyes shot up in alarm, and he blurted out, “Why do you ask?” then belatedly added, “if I am not being indiscreet.”

Elizabeth sighed again, stared at her hands for some time, then shrugged inelegantly. “Because he asked for my hand, and I am giving the question serious consideration. Your aunt is the biggest stumbling block.”

Darcy let out a most ungentlemanly snort. “Mr Collins! Impossible!”

“No sir. I am deadly serious,” she said with a hard, exasperated stare.

He shook his head in confusion. “Is your cousin, in some way I could not observe, a better match than he appears? Unless I am very much mistaken, I would assert you did not enjoy his company the least little bit at the ball—quite the opposite, in fact, if your obvious attempts to avoid him were any indication.”

“No, he is as he presented,” she said with another sigh, “but beggars cannot be choosers. He is an eligible match, probably the most eligible, or perhaps only, offer I will ever receive.”

“I do not understand,” he said in exasperated confusion .

“Which aspect confuses you? Do you think me, or my family below Mr Collins?”

“Of course not! Quite the contrary.”

“You think me above ?”

“Like a hawk and a worm.”

She let out a long sigh. “That is a poetic sentiment, but it misses the point entirely. In your rarefied world of unlimited wealth, consequence, and maleness; you may pick and choose. I cannot! Longbourn is entailed on heirs male, and the Bennet daughters are not particularly marriageable. One of us must marry, and our choices are far more limited than you can imagine. Mr Collins has asked, he is eligible, and accepting him would protect my mother and sisters after my father’s inevitable demise.”

“He does not seem that eligible to me,” Darcy said, unaware he sounded even haughtier than usual.

“Why not? He has a good living and an acceptable home in a presumably decent parish. I assume your aunt is at least respectable. He does not seem vicious, intemperate, or a spendthrift. He will eventually inherit Longbourn, as will his eldest son. In what way is he ineligible?”

“He does not suit you at all,” Darcy said, far more stridently than he intended.

“In what way?”

“The man is an idiot,” Darcy grumbled. It was probably unwise, but it slipped out and he did not regret it—not precisely.

Elizabeth sat preternaturally still, staring for some time before replying with a shrug and a resigned sigh.

“Yes, that is entirely true, and nobody of sense can dispute it. That said, any man who proposes to me is likely to be an idiot. My mother says it makes little difference who I marry, and she is probably right for once.”

Darcy frowned ferociously and started to speak several times before finally giving up and asking, “Pray, explain. ”

She looked downcast. “In the bloom of optimistic and ignorant youth, Jane and I swore that only the deepest love would induce us into matrimony. Recent experiences put paid to that silly idea.”

“How so?” he said, more gently than before.

Elizabeth sighed deeply and stared until he felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. Darcy felt as if she were winding herself up for a tirade, but when it came, it was nowhere near as strident as expected.

“Let us face facts. As I said, any man likely to propose is an idiot; but that is just a description of the odds, since in my experience, most men are.”

“How so?” he asked with less stridency.

He noticed the lady examining him closely as if she were trying to decide whether to trust him or not. Apparently, he barely passed muster when she started speaking.

“Let us examine the men I know. My father is a well-educated but indolent man. With an estate of ￡2,000 a year, he has failed in a quarter-century of marriage to save a farthing for his daughters’ advancement, or to ensure we are at least marriageable. He cannot even be bothered to keep his wife and daughters in check.

“Sir William Lucas has done only one thing of note his entire life and spent the next decade endlessly reliving it—while exchanging the very profitable store his grandfather built for his barely solvent estate.

“Mr Long uses the same farming methods his great-grandfather employed. My Uncle Philips is an excellent attorney—if you catch him before luncheon. Most of my father’s contemporaries have similar stories.” she said, then glanced at the man to see how he was taking the news.

Darcy was listening intently, so she continued.

“Most boys we played with as children with any sense joined the military (voluntarily or otherwise), or they left long ago for greener pastures—and to be honest, the pastures are greener almost everywhere. Those remaining are uniformly idiots. Even if they were not, they would be stupid to marry a Bennet, when there are good odds that he would eventually need to support her rather obnoxious mother and some unmarried sisters. Even that, rather optimistically, presumes none of the sillier sisters ruin themselves. Any man with half a brain in his head would pick Charlotte Lucas or Emily Goulding in a heartbeat over any Bennet. They at least have minimal dowries, unentailed estates, somewhat sensible mothers, and far fewer unmarriageable sisters. They are all just as pretty and just as accomplished as any Bennet.”

Darcy’s head was swimming. “But are the four and twenty families the only men you must choose from? I heard you have an uncle in town, and your father must have acquaintances from university with sons.”

“I mentioned my father’s indolence, but perhaps I was not explicit enough. Correspondence is not his strong suit—if he has one. He has lost contact with his university chums and has no desire to mend the breech. As to my uncle in town, until I reach my majority my parents would never allow me to marry a tradesman. They believe it would diminish the already poor prospects of my sisters—which is probably true. Aside from that, most of the men my uncle knows are his contemporaries, and any man of forty or fifty who would marry a woman of twenty is an idiot by definition… as is any woman who marries a man almost guaranteed to die decades before her, likely leaving her alone with a gaggle of children. In my uncle’s world, men can rarely support a wife in anything approaching comfort before thirty or thirty-five unless they are already wealthy, and the already wealthy men can easily reach much higher than the penniless daughter of an insignificant entailed estate.”

“Are those your only choices?” he asked while looking at her intently.

She paused for some time, and finally shrugged.

“Back before I put away my childish things, I believed in luck, but recent visitors put that idea to rest. One gentleman showed such great promise as to even override my inherent cynicism… for a while. Six weeks later, he revealed himself as just another city rake fishing for a few months in our country pond—the same as every other rake who preceded him, and those who will follow. After essentially courting my sister—or at least paying her obvious and particular attention for six weeks—he left without a word, breaking her heart and assigning her the neighbourhood’s derision for disappointed hopes.”

Darcy gasped and started to speak, but Elizabeth forestalled him by raising her hand.

“I did not come here to argue about Mr Bingley. I do not care anymore—but can you blame me for believing most men are idiots? Can you truly blame me? I thought myself a fine judge of character, and seriously believed he was an honourable, upright, and amiable man—a cut above the rest. If even Mr Bingley has feet of clay… well… what else can I conclude? Either most men are numbskulls, or my ability to separate the wheat from the chaff is sorely deficient,” she said, staring at the fire in defeat.

“Do you include me in your list of idiots?”

“Not particularly. You are entirely irrelevant.”

That assertion startled Darcy, and he asked curiously, “How so?”

“Aside from the fact that we never even liked each other, you are a man of the first circles. We are chalk and cheese. Whether you are an idiot or not is as immaterial as how many hounds you keep. I am only here to ask if your aunt will allow me to run my own home if I marry the specific baconbrain who serves as her rector.”

Darcy reeled at the assertion that they did not even like each other, but he did not have the heart to tackle it head on.

“Is that truly all you came for?” he asked suspiciously, but then wondered if it had been wise when he saw the lady’s eyes light up in anger.

“ What more could I possibly want? To warn you that Mr Wickham is slandering your name to everyone who will listen—without any real opposition; which you probably already know? To ask you to help me find a less stupid husband; which is an impossible task? To ask you to drag Mr Bingley away from your sister and return him to mine ; which, even if it were possible, I would oppose for obvious reasons? I repeat; what more could I possibly ask?” Elizabeth snapped, showing far more vexation than Darcy expected.

“Excuse me!” he nearly shouted, jumping out of his chair; then thinking better of it, he sat back down, though without his customary elegance.

Elizabeth looked ready to jump up and flee, and even stood halfway up, but then fell back into the chair with a sigh.

“I apologise, Mr Darcy. I let my temper get the best of me. To answer your question simply… yes, I only came here to ask about your aunt. I have nothing further. I should leave…” she said, and then punctuated her words by standing up abruptly.

Darcy nearly panicked and jumped up to match her. “Pray, have a seat. I cannot blame you when I practically shouted at you, but I humbly request you allow me a chance to discuss this rationally.”

“Discuss what?”

“All of it,” he said with a sigh.