Miss Darcy's Diversions

by Ronald McGowan

  The presence of the other ladies did away with that particular objection, but raised others which were to my mind, far more potent. Mr Bingley is a very pleasant gentleman, but has not been as blessed as I have in the article of his relations. His brother-in-law makes Mr Kerr look a wit, and his sisters are simply poisonous. They are of course, my great friends, in their own estimation, at least.

  It says a great deal about our society that, even in these days of progress and enlightenment, when steamships plough the waters, and the French have killed their king, a gentleman cannot be content with the possession of mere vast amounts of money, but must have great swathes of land to go with it.

  Why this should be so, I have never been able to fathom, but it is so. A lady may be quite content with money, provided she has lots of it, but a gentleman must have his own estate.

  Netherfield, it is true, was not quite Bingley’s own estate. He was only renting it for a while, to see if it would suit, but even its temporary possession gave him a certain standing in the local community that he would never have attained otherwise.

  I am not greatly enamoured of the county set, whatever the county. I suspect Fitzwilliam did not realize what he was doing when he sent me to be schooled among the daughters of farmers and – dare I say it? – tradesmen.

  I was perfectly innocent at the time of the situation at Meryton, as the small town near which Bingley’s house was situated was called, and was rather surprised that Fitzwilliam did not press me to join them when he returned from his first visit there.

  I know now, of course, why that must be, and applaud his discretion. Even now I cannot say how I should have felt, coming face to face on the streets of a strange town with my Mr Wicklow.

  What came of that first visit to Meryton, and those that followed it, is now quite generally known, and I do not propose to add my small contribution to the many reactions to it that have been recorded. Fitzwilliam had deposited me with Lady Catherine before joining his friend, and said no more on the subject upon his return than that Bingley seemed to have involved himself with a ‘sweet girl’, but he did not think there was anything more than that in it, which was just as well as there were ‘objections to the lady’s family’.

  This same phrase, ‘objections to the lady’s family’ was repeated by Cousin Edward the next time I saw him, and I began to wonder what these mysterious objections could be. As far as I could find out –for both Fitzwilliam and Cousin Edward were singularly uncommunicative on the subject – these consisted chiefly in her having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in business in London. Regrettable as these disadvantages might be, they did not seem to me so insurmountable as to bar the course of true love. I admit, however, that I have had a somewhat democratic education, and at that juncture I had been growing increasingly jacobinitical as a result of my captivity.

  I call it so in jest, but it is true that since Margate my guardians had both been taking the term ‘custody’ in rather a literal sense. I was not exactly under house arrest, but I was never allowed out except in the presence of a jailor, nor left alone in the house to my own devices. For short absences Mrs Reynolds sufficed, until my old nurse, Mrs Annesley was induced to resume her old post, and her surveillance was light and congenial, but all-encompassing none the less. When my brother must be away for a longer period, which increasingly was the case, he always escorted me personally to Rosings, and left me under the critical eye of my Aunt Catherine. How much of the truth he told her, I know not. Perhaps it was only my imagination that made her tutelage seem more close than before, or perhaps it was merely the contrast with having been, for a while, my own mistress.

  The only break in this routine was the cancellation, for my part, of a projected visit to Hunsford at very short notice some few months after Fitzwilliam came back from one of his Meryton visits.

  My brother was still to go, but I was to go to the Fitzwilliams instead. By way of reason for this last minute change of plan, Fitzwilliam would merely say that there were visitors at Rosings that he did not chose for me to meet.

  This, of course, had been his attitude ever since Margate. He would make my choices for me, and those choices could not be questioned. I was to be ten years old again, with my omnipotent brother knowing best in everything.

  But I was not ten years old again, and it was during this period that the scales began to fall from my eyes when I looked at my adored brother.

  We are both Darcys, of course, with the true Darcy pride. Mine had been humbled, a little, by my adventure at Margate, but Fitzwilliam’s was still supreme. I knew now that I was fallible, and began to wonder, for the first time, whether it might not be possible to think my omniscient brother mistaken at times.

  Chapter Twenty-four :A New Connexion

  When Fitzwilliam returned from Rosings with Cousin Edward, to convey me from the Towers back to Pemberley, he seemed strangely subdued, almost chastened. About his visit he would only say that it had been most enlightening, and that Aunt Catherine had been on her usual form. Cousin Edward, by contrast, was full of praise for a ‘delightful young lady’ who had been staying with the family at Hunsford Parsonage, and who had formed part of the circle at Rosings. Apparently they had often walked together in the park, and had had many interesting conversations.

  I found I did not care too much for hearing Cousin Edward praising another young lady. Why this should be I cannot say. I have no claim on my cousin in that way, after all. But he is not all that older than I am, and I found I did not like the way he talked about this unknown young lady.

  “And am I to wish you joy,” I could not help asking, although I hated myself as soon as the words left my lips, “since you seem so taken with the young lady, and I take it there are no ‘objections to her family’?”

  “I cannot please myself in that quarter, as you know,” was his reply, “A younger son, you know, must be inured to self- denial and dependence."

  "In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?"

  "These are home questions—and perhaps I cannot say that I have experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where they like."

  "Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often do."

  "Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are not many in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to money."

  "And pray, what is the usual price of an earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds."

  “Oh, thirty thousand would do me very well, thank you.”

  This answer alarmed me strangely, and I thought it best to drop the subject.

  The months that followed settled back into their old pattern at Pemberley. My brother made a very charming, even indulgent turnkey, but he took his role as Cerberus seriously, even importing my old governess, Miss Annesley, to serve as an extra custodian..

  I thought, perhaps, I had served my time when, early the following summer, a visit to London was announced. This turned out, however, only to be to visit the Bingleys for a short time before escorting them back to Pemberley for the summer.

  I had, in any case, taken against London since the outcome of my previous stay there, and expected no great joy of the visit. Staying with the Bingleys merely increased the number of my jailors, since Fitzwilliam had told his friend something of my misfortune, and to tell Mr Bingley is to tell the world. It is not that he is a gossip, but rather that the need for discretion never seems to occur to him, so open is his nature. Caroline Bingley particularly relished her task of surveillance, and made sure that I knew it, and I found myself longing for Pemberley, where at least I should know how to be out of her w
ay.

  The day of our return approached at last, and Fitzwilliam announced that he would leave the day before the rest of us, to be sure that all was ready for our arrival. He resisted all my suggestions that I should travel with him, and so it was that I had the long, weary journey home with only the Bingley clan – for Mr and Mrs Hurst had joined us, to add to the general cheer – for company.

  On our eventual arrival, I found my brother strangely agitated. His greetings to our guests were almost perfunctory, and it was quite obvious that he had something he wished to say to me in private.

  “Well, what is it?” I asked, when the visitors had retired to their apartments. “Has Cook run off with the Head Groom, or the roof blown off in the gales? Something is exercising your mind to be sure.”

  “It is nothing like that,” he replied. “Nothing like that at all. I will tell you what it is, though, there is a young lady staying at the inn at Lambton whom I should very much like you to meet, and that as soon as may be. It is a great imposition, I know, but I should take it very kindly.”

  “Why, brother,” I replied, “what is this mystery? Are you about to admit to a paramour?”

  “Nothing of the sort. Everything is quite proper. The young lady is in the company of her aunt and uncle, and is an old acquaintance. The Bingleys know her as well, but I should very much like it if you would meet her first, and let me know what you think of her.”

  An idea came to me at once.

  “I know,” I cried, “it is Mr Bingley’s young lady, the one with the objectionable family, and you want me to agree with you how objectionable they are, so as to have an excuse not to invite them here. But how did you come to meet them if they are in Lambton?”

  “They were here at Pemberley, yesterday, when I arrived, being shown round by Mrs Reynolds. The meeting was unavoidable. I found the aunt and uncle surprisingly conversible if you must know, and I had been wishing to meet the young lady again for a particular reason. She is not Bingley’s young lady, by the way, but her sister. Will you come with me to Lambton later?”

  “You have piqued my curiosity so much that I could not possibly refuse. Let me but wash off the dust of the journey and we shall go. I leave you to make your excuses to your friends as to why we must leave them so soon to their own devices.”

  “There will be no need for quite such haste. Tomorrow will be perfectly soon enough. And now I think about it, I will tell Bingley just before we set off. Then, if he wishes to renew old friendships, he may follow on.

  So off to Lambton we must go. I was all agog to discover what was so special about this mysterious young lady, and Fitzwilliam seemed even more anxious that the meeting should go well.

  We found the party in their private drawing room at the inn at Lambton. They had obviously been expecting us, but not quite so soon, for the lady’s dresses still bore traces of creases from their travels, and there were signs of hurried tidying up when we were announced. Fitzwilliam, I am sure, did not notice – I do not believe that any man would – but there are little things that tell a tale to the eyes of a woman, or at least to one who has kept house, and the travellers could not quite hide their uneasiness.

  We exchanged bobs, and introductions were made. Mr and Mrs Gardner were just such specimens of the best kind of city merchant as I had met during my season in London. They struck me as eminently reliable, and had quite the gentlemanly air, not at all like tradesmen.

  Miss Elizabeth Bennet, their niece, and the sister of Mr Bingley’s famous temptress, I found to be perfectly agreeable. She was quite as handsome as I, but in such a completely different way that it was impossible to be jealous, and she was evidently of a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous. This became very clear from the description she gave of Mr Collins, the parson at Hunsford, and the only acquaintance, apart from my brother and the Bingleys that we had in common. It was rather a scandalous description, I allow, but perfectly recognizable. Indeed, I wish I had thought of it myself, and it quite broke down my remaining reserve. Up to then I had been shy and almost silent, not really knowing what to make of these newcomers and the trouble my brother was taking with them.

  This, however, encouraged me to ask what impression Fitzwilliam had made on his first appearance in Meryton.

  "You shall hear then,” she replied, “but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact."

  "I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party."

  "True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. But I believe we got to know each other better later on, did we not, Mr Darcy, especially at your aunt’s?”

  Fitzwilliam seemed to choke upon his glass of sherry.

  “Yes,” he said, when his coughing fit had subsided, “I hope we did grow to understand each other better during the time we were both of us at Hunsford.”

  Shortly after this we were interrupted by the arrival of Mr Bingley. Mercifully, neither of his sisters had accompanied him, and the atmosphere remained as cordial as before his arrival. He was obviously anxious to speak to Miss Bennet, presumably for news of her sister, and I heard him say to her, while Fitzwilliam and Mr and Mrs Gardner were engaged in a discussion of the fishing at Pemberley, and in a tone which had something of real regret, that it "was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing her;" and, before she could reply, he added, "It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield."

  “How very exact!” I thought to myself. “How very romantic! And yet Fitzwilliam thinks there was nothing in it.”

  We stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when we arose to depart, Fitzwilliam called on me to join him in expressing our wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the country. I was then little in the habit of giving invitations to Pemberley, but I readily obeyed.

  Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, evidently desirous of knowing how she, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its acceptance, but Miss Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however, that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.

  Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends.

  What I made of all this may be surmised, and how I questioned Fitzwilliam on our return may also be conjectured but not a word of any interest could I get out of him.

  “Let us see how get on first,” was all he would say.

  We saw how we got on sooner than we expected, for Mrs Gardner and her niece called upon us the following morning while the gentlemen were out. They had the misfortune to be ushered in before I had had the chance to escape from the Ugly Sisters, as I had taken to calling Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst to myself. They had so much to say to Miss Bennet – or rather so little to say but at such great length- that it was hard for anyone else to get a word in. I had much I greatly wished to talk to Miss Bennet about, but none of it could be said, as it were, in public, and so I needs must hold my tongue. I fear Miss Bennet must have thought me either profoundly shy and nervous – and I defy anyone not to be nervous in the circumstances – or else exceptionally proud and reserved.

  Mrs Annesley, however, who has lived by her ability to do just such a thing for most of her life, kept up the sort of flow of unexceptional conversation that sufficed to avoid any awkwardness.

  Awkwardness
, however, seemed to be Miss Bingley’s goal, for she constantly plied Miss Bennet with questions about her ‘dear friends in the Militia’, and ‘Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ——shire Militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to your family.’

  This last question was addressed to Miss Bennet just after the gentlemen had joined us and I saw that Fitzwilliam did not take it kindly. The lady, however, answered coolly enough, and I could not really make out what it had all been about, although it was obviously meant to be a significant question.

  Our visitors did not stay long after the question and answer above mentioned; and while my brother was attending them to their carriage Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Miss Bennet's person, behaviour, and dress.

  She evidently expected me to join her, but I declined to give her the satisfaction. My brother's recommendation was enough to ensure my favour; in this, his judgement could not err, I was sure. He had spoken in such terms of Miss Bennet as to leave me without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable.

  When Fitzwilliam returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to me in his absence.

  "How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy," she cried; "I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again."

  However little my brother might have liked such an address, he contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer.

  "For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character—there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether there is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable."