Mr. Bennet disliked London, but his daughters had prevailed upon him to come into town, if even for just a week. In truth, it took no great effort of persuasion for he was eager to see his favourite child. Whilst all her letters indicated that she was well and happy—she spoke nothing but goodness of her husband and her new sister, and wrote easily and with good humour of those things that were less than ideal—he knew his Lizzy’s disposition was to always seek gladness even where there was little cause for the same and therefore he could not be entirely assured of her happiness until he witnessed it for himself. For the truth was that as he had watched their carriage pull away on the morning of their wedding, and he had listened to Mrs. Bennet loudly admiring the elegance of the conveyance, Mr. Bennet had been unable to suspend his doubt: how could two such contrasting dispositions not struggle to find concord in domestic life? He, who knew so painfully the daily misery of an unsatisfactory domestic life, could not bear the thought of his favourite child similarly regretful of her choice.
Reflecting on the courtships of his two eldest daughters, Mr. Bennet had concluded that there had been something too public about the entire situation between Jane and Bingley. From the first it was as though it had been played out in the town square: the initial meeting and infatuation, the disappointment of Bingley’s long absence, his eventual return and subsequent satisfaction of all Meryton’s long held expectations. Now they were married, the doings of Netherfield were considered of general concern. Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth, quite in contrast, had come together in complete privacy and intimacy, surprising all those who knew them, even Jane and Bingley. So perhaps it was only natural that they had continued to be so discreet in their affections throughout the period of betrothal. Yet it had been precisely that fixed discretion, particularly on the part of Mr. Darcy, that had given him pause and left Mr. Bennet uncharacteristically eager for just the public displays of affection he generally was want to find so comical.
Walking into the foyer of the house on Portman Square for the first time and seeing his Lizzy standing within, so prettily dressed and glowing with good cheer, her obvious happiness delighted him, as did the unmistakable harmony between the couple. He had not anticipated such an evident easiness. Certainly Mr. Darcy displayed no inclination to openly flatter and cosset his wife with the sort of puppyish devotion Mr. Bingley so regularly poured over Jane, and whilst he continued to be a gentleman of notable reserve and discretion, there were tones, gestures, looks of warmth that passed between them that were revelatory.
In truth, Mr. Darcy was proving to be a persistent conundrum for Mr. Bennet. Although an enthusiast of human folly, Mr. Bennet had, upon first acquaintance, found it rather simple to regard Mr. Darcy as nothing more than a rich, proud and unpleasant gentleman well above the country company in which he found himself as a result of his friendship with the congenial Mr. Charles Bingley. But Mr. Bennet found he was forced to no longer carelessly disregard the man when he so very unexpectedly found Mr. Darcy standing in his library seeking Mr. Bennet’s consent to a marriage between himself and his beloved daughter Lizzy. At that moment it became an issue of the utmost importance for Mr. Bennet to understand the aloof gentleman who had so surprisingly won the love and admiration of his daughter.
He had resolved to understand the man, but the wish proved further to the course and the larger picture remained quite unresolved. Even after the engagement became generally known, he had found that Mr. Darcy could not be at ease at Longbourn, much as he had made the attempt. Indeed, at moments of their courtship Mr. Bennet had begun to feel something like pity for the man, for Mr. Darcy had tried valiantly to show a more amiable face, but he obviously could not find comfort in Mrs. Bennet’s often boisterous and unrestrained drawing room. She seemed to grate at Mr. Darcy’s sense of propriety as no other person could, and he had not Mr. Bennet’s well-developed delight in the ridiculous to ameliorate the discomfiture. Poor Mr. Darcy had as foil the always-amiable Charles Bingley who never was offended, never could be put out, and was always smiling. They had not been circumstances propitious to improving the general opinion of the man.
Indeed, whilst Elizabeth received the sincere congratulations of her friends and neighbours upon her engagement, it was generally believed that her reasons for agreeing to marry Mr. Darcy were more pecuniary than sentimental. If Mr. Darcy left the neighbourhood in possession of a modestly more favourable opinion than had been the case, it was more for Elizabeth’s sake than for his own merits, for she was genuinely well regarded by all.
Now, as Mr. Bennet watched his daughter presiding over the elegant table and observed her husband’s demeanour—so different and yet so similar to his demeanour in Hertfordshire, the same evident rectitude, softened by a disarming warmth whenever he looked at his wife, particularly if he thought himself unobserved—he recalled the conversation they had held concerning Lydia and Wickham. It was then Mr. Bennet had begun to apprehend that the young man had more merits than he was generally credited for in the neighbourhood.
When Mr. Darcy had gone to Mr. Bennet to seek his consent to his marriage with Elizabeth, the conversation had been brief and in no manner illuminating—unlike the ebullient Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy had not offered a rhapsodic ode to his intended. A lifetime of habits of restraint cannot be overnight reformed. The next morning, when Mr. Darcy had come to call on his now betrothed, Mr. Bennet had requested a private conversation with him. Upon entering the library, the gentlemen sat across from each other and remained in strained silence whilst Mr. Bennet took a few minutes to simply observe the man who was to take first place of honour and duty in his daughter’s heart and life, tried to discern what lay contained therein. But the younger gentleman was inscrutable.
“Mr. Darcy, I am sure you would prefer to be spending this time in my daughter’s company, so I will dispense with civilities and go straight to the point. I understand from my conversation with Lizzy last evening that my family is greatly indebted to you.”
At these words Mr. Darcy turned his eyes away from Mr. Bennet’s face and taking a deep breath he began to fidget uncomfortably in his chair. Indeed, there was something so removed about Mr. Darcy’s posture as to give a feeling of coldness, although it was also clear that he was far from being at ease. Giving the man the benefit of his daughter’s assertions, Mr. Bennet attempted to alleviate Mr. Darcy’s anxiety.
“I must say that I have never been so astonished in my life, excepting perhaps that half hour before when you declared your intentions of making Lizzy your wife.” Seeing that Mr. Darcy was not amused, Mr. Bennet got on with the point. “You must allow me to express my deepest gratitude for all that you did for my youngest daughter, and by extension for my entire family.”
Mr. Darcy replied in a voice that spoke of a man accustomed to the finality of his authority. “I assure you sir that I seek no gratitude,” he declared, before offering the same reasoned rational for his actions that he had expressed to Mr. Gardiner when he had solicited that gentleman’s assistance in the matter.
“I will not argue your motivation for so acting, but I will ask that you reveal all the financial dealings you had with my reluctant son-in-law that I might repay you. Given the man in question, I am sure it was no paltry sum.”
Mr. Darcy rose from his chair and walked about the room a moment before halting before Mr. Bennet. His tone was still that of the man who will brook no opposition. “Respectfully, sir, I absolutely refuse to provide you with that information. The thing is done with. It would be best for all concerned that the manner of bringing about that marriage be forgotten.”
“I do not imagine it can be forgotten, Mr. Darcy.”
“This is very difficult and unpleasant for us both, Mr. Bennet. Surely you agree it would be beneficial for all to leave the matter as settled. Had Mrs. Wickham not let slip to Elizabeth that I was in attendance at her wedding, this conversation might have been avoided. I had hoped for Elizabeth, indeed for all of you, to remain in ignorance of my role in this aff
air.”
“Mr. Darcy, that would appear to defy logic. Last evening when I inquired if your wish to marry Lizzy might not be a whim of the moment, you protested most adamantly that it was not; declared you had long held the most serious of intentions towards my daughter, intentions of which she had likewise been long aware. I will not pry into the precise meaning of those words, but I will say that if you had intentions towards my daughter long before the unhappy affair between Lydia and Wickham, and you had not yet secured her consent, why would you wish to keep from her an act of such nobility and generosity? It would have seemed to argue very much in your favour.”
A look of something like bewilderment passed over Mr. Darcy’s face, as though such a working of logic were quite unfathomable to his way of seeing the thing. “I wished to win your daughter’s affections, sir, not her gratitude.”
“I suppose there is some validity to that argument, although only a man violently in love would view the matter in such stark terms. Your clearly illustrated goodness of character would necessarily improve her esteem and your chances.”
Mr. Darcy grew visibly irritated with the discussion. “I suppose we could argue the point of logic for quite some time. As I said, the entire affair is done with and should be left alone. It need not be discussed further. If you will be so kind as to excuse me, sir, I would return to your daughter,” he declared impatiently.
Mr. Bennet waved his hand and nodded his assent with a gruff, “Naturally, young man.”
Mr. Darcy made to depart and suddenly halted. Turning back to Mr. Bennet he spoke in a voice so infused with kindness that Mr. Bennet found it completely unrecognizable. “Mr. Bennet, anyone who has observed you and Elizabeth together appreciates that you hold one another in a very special regard. I imagine it must be difficult for you to see your daughter taken so far from Longbourn as the wife of a gentleman whose disposition, perhaps whose very character, you have had cause to question. May I suggest that if you will reflect upon this business with George Wickham, you take from it some comfort; from it you can be secure in the knowledge that I will unfailingly do all that is in my power to ensure Elizabeth’s happiness and peace of mind.”
Bowing very formally, he had quit the room, leaving Mr. Bennet with much to ponder.
At the table this evening Mr. Bennet had similarly powerful testaments to that more amiable gentleman. For if the warmth and concord between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy had been pleasing, he was far more surprised by the cordiality between his son-in-law and his brother-in-law, Mr. Gardiner. The respect that had been born between them when they worked so closely on the Wickham business had grown into a friendship even more remarkable to witness than the friendship between Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley had ever been. The latter friendship was between two men of unlike disposition, but they were of like age and station and would have been thrown together often by common entertainments and acquaintances; whereas the former friendship was between two entirely dissimilar gentlemen—disposition, manners, station, age, connections and expectations, everything was in seeming opposition. Yet between them was a palpable accord and respect and they conversed with a fluidity that marked the regularity of their contact and an active interest in one another’s concerns. This Mr. Bennet had not anticipated.
Indeed, he felt a surprising general satisfaction. He even confessed himself satisfied with Lydia’s situation, for he had long felt she would never be happy until she had made just the kind of great scandal she had when she ran away with the man who fortuitously did at last assent to become her husband. Even Kitty contributed to this satisfaction, for he took some comfort to find that not all his past cynical dismissals were misplaced. She sat at the table this evening contributing nothing, silent and sullen. So unlike Miss Darcy, who though also quiet, was clearly engaged, interested and when she spoke, spoke intelligently and thoughtfully.
Something must be done for Kitty before she was lost to all possible improvement. He must not unlearn the lessons so painfully learnt with Lydia. Perhaps, he thought, her elder sisters could provide supervision. He understood himself to be too old and too unwilling.
Kitty was indeed quiet, but her thoughts were busy enough and were both ungenerous and unkind. When Jane had invited her to accompany her into London, she had at first been delighted. She felt Lydia’s absence from Longbourn most acutely, and was bored and restless and eager for adventure. Yet she had quickly been admonished by her father that if he gave his permission she was “not to let loose to your regular silliness and insipidness.” Even her mother had insisted she must learn from her sisters that she might find for herself so rich a husband as they had succeeded in doing. This perhaps irritated her even more than her father’s far crueller admonition, for she was tired of constantly being compared to her sisters and found wanting: Jane was the most beautiful, Lizzy the wittiest, Lydia the liveliest, and even Mary was credited with diligence. She seemed forever consigned to mediocrity. Consequently she had arrived in London neither in good spirits nor with an excess of forbearance.
What is more, whilst she genuinely liked Jane’s husband—who could not like Bingley’s easy affability and good heartedness—she just as genuinely disliked Elizabeth’s. For all his ten thousand pounds a year, she would not wish such a husband for herself at any cost. She found his demeanour forbidding and his gaze disconcertingly perceptive. In his company she felt her every move and word to be quietly measured for rightness. Kitty had just enough consideration for her sister and just enough dread of her brother-in-law to keep quiet in his presence.
Throughout the dinner she entertained herself by imagining how she would report Elizabeth’s new life when she next wrote to Lydia. She felt she would absolutely be required to acknowledge that the London townhouse was very large and the table setting rather more splendid than she was accustomed to back home. But it was all so dull. No gaiety, no boisterousness, no promises of balls. She would surely remark that Mr. Darcy had lost none of the fastidiousness they had so often mocked with Wickham and Capitan Denny, and she would certainly share that Miss Darcy, for all her clothing was very fine and elegant, was neither as pretty as Jane, nor as clever as Lizzy. For all her wealth, Kitty would report, Elizabeth appeared to have a rather dull life.
When the ladies retired to the drawing room Kitty felt immediately relieved and gave way to just the sort of behaviour Mr. Darcy had privately feared when he had learnt that she would accompany Jane and Bingley into town. Throwing herself inelegantly into a chair, she sighed and moaned petulantly. Slouching, she fidgeted with the edges of a cushion and swung her foot back and forth with restlessness. After a quarter of an hour listening to the conversation between her sisters and her aunt, she blurted out her boredom in a loud voice. “What a dull dinner, Lizzy. What a dreary evening. Now you are married you have lost all your good fun.”
“Kitty, your posture,” Aunt Gardiner reproved in a stern but quiet voice.
“Oh fiddlesticks!” she groaned, but rectified. “Miss Darcy, how do you manage with all these dull married ladies? What a bore! Do you never have any fun? Or does your brother not allow you amusements? I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Georgiana blushed in confusion and dismay. They had not conversed beyond a few civilities at her brother’s wedding—Miss Caroline Bingley had been very attentive and protective of Georgiana during her brief stay at Netherfield. She had been hopeful when she learned that Elizabeth’s sister would be in London that she would find a companion as equally delightful as Elizabeth. All hopes of sympathy were now disabused; Georgiana could never be friends with anyone who would disrespect her brother. She stammered an incoherent answer and fell silent.
“Kitty!” Elizabeth cried.
“What? He was always such a bore and so disapproving in Hertfordshire,” Kitty replied discourteously.
“Kitty!” Elizabeth cried again in consternation.
“Come, Lizzy, it’s all in good fun. When did you become so severe? At home you laughed freely enough, even at your precious
Mr. Darcy, if I recall.”
“Enough! Hold your tongue! This is not Longbourn where you are permitted to rattle away in such a disgraceful fashion.”
Elizabeth spoke with a harshness Georgiana had certainly never heard before, and then Kitty’s remarks were so disrespectful of her brother that she knew not where to look to escape her embarrassment and offense.
“Are you so fine now, Lizzy?” Kitty persisted.
Jane stepped over and pressed her hand on her sister’s arm, “Kitty, please.”
Kitty had little self-regulation and may not have heeded Jane’s warning if not for the sound of the gentlemen walking towards the drawing room to join the ladies. Between her fear of her father’s sending her back to Longbourn before visiting a single milliner and her dread of Mr. Darcy’s critical gaze, she quieted at last.
The gentlemen were in a fine humour and their banter could be heard as they made their way down the corridor. Upon entering into the drawing room it was evident all were not of equally good humour within. Elizabeth closed her eyes and turned her face away as they entered, whilst Georgiana remained with her gaze fixed on her hands neatly folded together on her lap, a look of utter confusion upon her face. Jane and Mrs. Gardiner were attempting without success to start a fresh conversation. Amid all the embarrassment and vexation, Kitty sat stubbornly determined not to hide her irritation and pique.
To Teach the Admiring Multitude Page 16