To Teach the Admiring Multitude

by Eleanor Wilton

  Mr. Darcy entered the room first and with a quick encompassing glance saw how things lay. Immediately he understood the cause to be Kitty. His antipathy rose fast and visibly and he shot her a look of such withering dismissal that Kitty could only wonder again at her sister’s wishing to marry such a severe gentleman for all his ten thousand pounds a year. His thoughts were no more generous than hers. When Elizabeth had told him that Kitty was to accompany Jane and Bingley into London he had wished more than expected that Lydia’s absence would soften the girl’s tendency towards impropriety and that his own sister would not be made to suffer for such company. It had apparently taken Kitty no time to discomfit both his wife and his sister. Dinner had been a delight—the conversation excellent and the company congenial—and he was irritated to have such a pleasant evening marred by her impropriety. He went to Elizabeth. She looked up at him, then closed her eyes and shook her head, plainly indicating she wished to leave it all alone, indicating that she was mortified. “Perhaps a little coffee?” was all he said and she was grateful.

  Bingley soon succeeded where Jane and Mrs. Gardiner had failed, and with his infectious good cheer was able to restore somewhat the prior mood of cordiality. He was soon requesting Georgiana play for them, as Jane had never had the pleasure of hearing her perform. Acquiescing with greater readiness than was her wont—a little music, she thought, would alleviate the strain—Georgiana went to the pianoforte and began to look through her music. Her brother joined her.

  “Sister, are you well?” Darcy inquired softly.

  “Perfectly.”

  “You need not disguise your displeasure from me. I can well imagine the cause.”

  She looked up at him and saw on his mien a look of gravity she had lately grown unaccustomed to seeing. “Leave it, Brother. It would be unkind to add to Elizabeth’s present discomfiture and displeasure.”

  Darcy smiled gently. “When did you become such a mature young lady? Thank you for your consideration and for reminding me of the same.”

  Georgiana blushed at his compliment. He kissed her gently on the forehead and walked across the room to where Elizabeth sat. He stood behind her chair and gently laid his hand upon her shoulder. She reached up and grasped his hand, turned her face to his and smiled her gratitude for his forbearance.

  Having selected a popular, cheerful sonata, Georgiana sat down to play. Jane was not the only one who had not previously heard her perform. Neither Mr. Bennet nor Kitty had enjoyed the privilege. For indeed it was a true privilege to hear Georgiana perform. She played not only with great technical ability—for she practiced constantly, music having long been her close companion in a life that had often seemed to her silent and lonely—but as well with great musicality. When she sat at the keyboard to perform, the accolade of accomplished young lady which her brother was known to lament as too easily offered, was in no manner misplaced.

  Kitty had been sitting visibly sulking, ignoring Mrs. Gardiner’s whispered admonitions to behave in a manner less discreditable. As Georgiana began to play Kitty sat up in surprised admiration. She was two years older than Georgiana, and it had never occurred to her that one so young could be so accomplished. She was a very weak-willed young lady, had always been influenced by her younger sister Lydia’s dominant, flighty personality. A new kind of influence, very different from Lydia’s, might have begun to take root in her very susceptible character, if not for Mr. Bennet’s unfortunate remark at the conclusion of Georgiana’s performance.

  “Miss Darcy, that was a marvellous performance, truly pleasing. You see, Kitty,” he added turning to his daughter, “what fine things can be accomplished with diligence and dedication and good taste. Not all young ladies spend their days thinking of nothing but bonnets and balls.”

  Kitty felt immediately that she had once again offhandedly been relegated to mediocrity. Indeed, the remark was so unnecessarily provoking that Elizabeth’s ire at her sister’s earlier behaviour took a more generous turn; Kitty had never been given proper guidance, and such public remonstrations were hardly what were required for rectification. Even Mr. Darcy, who felt no sympathy for the unrefined, indolent girl, was sorry for her humiliation at the hands of her own father. He wondered privately, for not the first time, how two such superior women as Elizabeth and Jane had emerged from such an environment of carelessness as was to be found at Longbourn.

  He recalled one evening, a few days before the double wedding, he and Bingley were returning to Netherfield after a particularly loud and disorderly dinner party at Longbourn. “How two such superior women come from that family I shall never comprehend,” he had observed to Bingley.

  “Did it never occur to you, Darcy, that perhaps they are as they are precisely because they come from such a family?” Bingley had replied.

  “Are you suggesting that I ought to be thankful that we are to have for a mother-in-law an indisputably preposterous and irritating woman and for sisters-in-law three of the silliest girls in England, as our very singular father-in-law himself so unabashedly proclaims?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps? Perhaps, Bingley, you have had too much wine this evening.” Bingley had only laughed in response. It remained a confounding mystery for Mr. Darcy.

  The Gardiners and the Bingley party, which included Kitty, departed early. No one was inclined to linger after Kitty’s impropriety had marred what had been a pleasant family evening. Mr. Bennet was to remain at Portman Square for the duration of his brief stay in London and he soon wandered off to the library. Georgiana retired for the evening and Elizabeth urged Darcy to do the same. She had no desire to discuss Kitty’s behaviour with him. “I must speak with my father,” she insisted.

  Elizabeth found her father ensconced in the library, but when she entered his book lay on his lap unattended and he was deep in thought. She walked to his side and kissed his brow. There had been a time—most of her life—when she looked at her father and all she could see was a gentleman of great wit and charm. She saw him differently now, recognized his grievous faults as a father and husband, but she loved him no less. Perhaps loved him even more, for there was a compassion now for his human frailty that was lacking before and gave poignancy to her affections.

  “Are you not to bed, my child?”

  “As you see, Papa.”

  “It will be pleasant to converse with you a little, Lizzy, before you retire.”

  “Is Longbourn very quiet now, with only Mary and Kitty?”

  “Longbourn is never quiet, never shall be quiet. Your mother is always running back and forth to Netherfield and complaining of the carriage, complaining that Jane does not come enough to Longbourn now she is married and she must always be at Netherfield instead. Even Bingley occasionally seems incapable of such continuous amiability and patience with your mother’s poor nerves.”

  “Papa,” Elizabeth laughed.

  “I am incorrigible, Lizzy. I never will learn to be solicitous and sympathetic. I shall always look to folly and foolery for my entertainment, and admit to the convenience of finding it in my own drawing room. Is it not peculiar how few of us trouble ourselves when in the comfort of our home to be as solicitous and courteous to those most dear as we are to the indifferent acquaintance? Not like your Mr. Darcy. Such exquisite propriety is not something I ever did master. You have done well, my child.”

  “He is an excellent husband.”

  “I have been thinking about Kitty. I did not do well by you girls. I have been too careless a father. You and Jane are well settled because you are very superior young ladies, but your sisters. Alas, they have not your natural talent and discernment. But Kitty is not ungovernable, not intractable. She will never improve at home. It would do her well to spend more time with you and Jane, and less time at home with her mother. It is a dreadful thing for a husband to say of his wife, but I must try in the only manner I can to rectify. She can learn to be less stupid if she is with you and Jane.”

  “Are you asking Jane and me to take
on Kitty? Permanently?”

  “If I could send her for a period of time to you or Jane, do you not think she would have some hope of improvement?”

  “She is with Jane now. Can you keep her with Jane for the time? Neither Mr. Darcy nor I have the forbearance that both Bingley and Jane have in such abundance,” Elizabeth replied mordantly.

  “My dear child.” He smiled, and patted her hand affectionately.

  “Jane and I will do what we can for Kitty,” she replied more seriously. “Do not, however, ask me to have Lydia for a visit, not yet. Wickham you must understand will never be permitted to step foot onto any property of Mr. Darcy’s and I am not ready to have Lydia with me.”

  “Lydia has cast her lot, my dear, she must look to her husband now, for whatever he is worth. Let us hope Kitty will do better. Whatever you can do for Kitty, my dear child, you must see to your own happiness first. We can none of us be of any service to another if our own lives are not firmly established.”

  “I have missed you, Papa.”

  “And I you, my dear Lizzy. But such is life. We have children so that they may leave us not so that they will remain seated at our knees. You shall experience it yourself one day. When the time comes I have no doubt you and your husband will have managed it all far better than did your mother and I.”

  “Papa.”

  “No my dear, you must allow me to recognize my failings from time to time. It is easy enough when I am sitting in my daughter’s impressive London home. My dear Lizzy,” he continued, grasping her by the hand with warmth. “It is a peculiar thing about children. Before we have children we believe we will care for them all in precisely the same fashion. We do love them all, wish for all of them good things: health, happiness, prosperity. Yet our children are no different from any other person with whom we are acquainted. With some we will never have understanding or ease; we will always find them dull or tiresome or unpleasant; and with others we will share a special affinity impossible to disguise. From the time you were a babe in my arms, Lizzy, there has been no person to compare. You have been my greatest joy, child. It warms my contrarian heart to see you so well and so happy. I confess I had my doubts when your Mr. Darcy came to seek my consent. He was rather reticent in his protestations of love, and then he had unfortunately Bingley to follow, whose effusiveness was perhaps a touch ridiculous. Your Mr. Darcy’s entire countenance alters when he looks at you. It is rather a remarkable sight, and so unexpected. And you, my child, have never been so blooming. I dare say you have grown more handsome even than Jane. I think perhaps you and your Mr. Darcy are to teach the admiring multitude what connubial felicity is after all.”

  “Papa,” she blushed.

  “Go to bed now, my dear, and leave me to enjoy this lovely library. Mr. Darcy says it is nothing to Pemberley’s, of course. I shall appear one day in Derbyshire to see it myself, when I am least expected. At the moment I have much to keep me entertained. Now go, my child. Leave me to my leisure. I will not have such quiet when I return to Longbourn. Mrs. Bennet will scold me for not enquiring as to the price of every furnishing and the dimensions of every room. I will have no peace.”

  Elizabeth kissed her father on the forehead and left him to his pleasure, vaguely aware that he had this evening abdicated the responsibility for his daughter Kitty to herself and Jane. After this evening she saw the logic and the need, but was nevertheless not entirely pleased. Of one thing she was certain, she would not have Kitty at Pemberley until she had learnt to hold her tongue.

  Mr. Bennet, happy with his favourite daughter’s situation and having enjoyed the marvels of Wolfe’s, returned to Longbourn after a brief week’s visit. The morning after he returned to the comfort and peace of his modest library, he was surprised to have delivered into his hands a package containing a half dozen books. Dear Mr. Bennet, read the note accompanying the package; I have taken the liberty of instructing Benjamin Wolfe to have delivered to Longbourn a few volumes that appeared to be of interest to you when we visited his shop. Please allow me to offer them for your enjoyment and do advise me in future if I can be of assistance in acquiring any volumes you may find difficult to locate in Hertfordshire. Yours etc., Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  Mr. Bennet suspected he was apt to impose on his son-in-law’s discernment and generosity with some regularity. He was certainly beginning to think surprisingly well of the young man. He appreciated that he did not prattle away stupidly and was not wont to waste words. The tendency certainly gave him an unfortunate air of aloofness more often than not, but Mr. Bennet realized now that he possessed a mind of quality that he was forced to respect in a manner he could not likewise respect in his other sons-in-law, though they each possessed, in their own manner, charms and airs of ease Mr. Darcy could in no way equal. As he sat down in his dress gown, a glass of claret and his spectacles in hand, and began to peruse the exquisite volumes Mr. Darcy had so thoughtfully procured for his pleasure, he was feeling more gratified with his daughter’s choice of a husband than he had ever yet felt.

  Chapter 16

  Discomfiting Recognition

  Kitty Bennet was disappointed with her visit into London and found she would have preferred to be at home at Longbourn in society where she felt herself more at ease. It was evident to Elizabeth and Jane that Kitty felt particularly uncomfortable at Portman Square in the company of the Darcy siblings, both of whom, for quite distinct reasons, she found forbidding. The Bingley house was not much of an improvement, for Miss Caroline Bingley was also in residence with her brother and made no effort to disguise her feelings of antipathy towards Kitty. To give Kitty some relief, her elder sisters arranged for a morning at the dressmaker to acquire Kitty a new gown appropriate to the more formal occasions in which she might partake in future. Kitty had no desire to attend any “fastidious affairs,” as she proclaimed, but was not averse to acquiring a fine new dress. Georgiana remained in the company of Miss Bingley and the three Bennet sisters went happily off to Bond Street in the comfort of one of the fine Darcy carriages.

  “This shop is certainty superior to any we have in Meryton,” Kitty giggled happily, for there was nothing she enjoyed more than a new dress or a new bonnet. “So many expensive fabrics!” she exclaimed as she lifted a particularly busy sample. “What do you think?” she asked merrily, holding it up to her face. “Shall I order a dress made of the same?”

  Jane and Elizabeth smiled kindly. Their sister was no paradigm of grace or propriety, but she was at heart a good-humoured girl who meant no ill will towards others.

  Elizabeth lifted the corner of the fabric—it was a bold and garish fabric. “Kitty,” she declared playfully, “You must recall what Aunt Gardiner has always said; half of good taste is no more than discretion!”

  “Oh, fiddlesticks!” Kitty replied and they laughed together and felt a brief return to the fellowship of their girlhood days at Longbourn when they had not yet developed into such different and at times seemingly incompatible young ladies.

  They remained for a time more, browsing the excellent stock of the shop and made a few purchases. As they were preparing to depart the bell over the door rang and Elizabeth turned instinctively to casually observe the doorway. She immediately grew pale and a cold chill passed through her. No more than a few feet away stood Glencora Morris, tall and magnificent and even more beautiful in close proximity than she had appeared from across a room. Her complexion was flawless, like alabaster, and the harmonious features of her face seemed expressly designed by nature to accentuate the disarmingly piercing blue of her eyes.

  They stared at one another and Glencora Morris immediately comprehended that her existence was no secret to Mrs. Darcy; the new wife recognized exactly who she was as surely as who she had been, and she was pleased, triumphant even. She smiled her brilliant, mendacious smile and turned to her companion, spoke in a voice clearly meant for Elizabeth’s notice. “Penelope, look, here is the new Mrs. Darcy. So surprising that such a distinguished gentleman should have married su
ch an insignificant woman.”

  Elizabeth immediately turned away, trembling with anger at such a public affront. “Jane, Kitty, we must depart,” she proclaimed quietly. Neither had heard the insult.

  “Lizzy, you are very pale all at once, are you unwell?” Jane remarked in concern.

  “Perfectly well. Let us go. Immediately.”

  Kitty protested she wished to linger a little more, but Elizabeth insisted, feeling at every moment the gaze of Glencora Morris fixed upon her. They turned and crossed the shop to exit. Miss Morris remained in the same position, blocking the doorway so that Elizabeth was forced to pause before her; she looked down at Elizabeth and examined her with open and unmistakable disdain. Elizabeth was entirely discomposed, felt the blood rush out of her face. The woman’s gaze was startlingly audacious and unafraid, possessed something that seemed to declare that she held secrets and knew truths of great interest and consequence.

  “Excuse us, please,” Jane said politely, entirely unaware of her sister’s silent distress.

  “Certainly,” Miss Morris responded, stepping aside. “Mrs. Darcy,” she whispered and curtsied mockingly as Elizabeth passed.

  Glencora Morris remained at the window and watched Mrs. Darcy exit the shop with her party and enter directly into a waiting carriage—a fine, luxurious carriage with liveried servants that roused her greed and her envy and her regret in equal parts. When life on the continent had become too precarious for Miss Morris she had accepted the invitation of an old school friend to return to England and attempt to re-establish herself in respectable society. Much time had passed and yet she had returned more beautiful than when she had departed; in this regard, at least, time and nature had been generous with her. At the period of her planned return, Mr. Darcy had still been unmarried and her vanity had wished to believe that he had never forgotten his passion for her and to become reacquainted with him had certainly been among her foremost aims. His marriage had thwarted all her plans of triumphant regeneration, but Mrs. Darcy in no manner impressed her—she was a handsome enough woman, she admitted, but it was a common, every day sort of beauty, and her style was equally unexceptional. As the carriage pulled away, Glencora Morris suspected she would yet have her moment. There was still much to be gained, for she was certain such a conventional beauty could not long hold the attentions of a gentleman of Mr. Darcy’s demanding tastes. She smiled as the carriage disappeared into the crowded thoroughfare and returned her attention to the sartorial business at hand.