Miss Darcy's Diversions
Page 21
This was not the best method of Miss Caroline’s recommending herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a determination of making him speak, she continued:
"I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, 'She a beauty!—I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time."
"Yes," replied Fitzwilliam, who could contain himself no longer, "but that was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance."
He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.
Caroline Bingley’s way of dealing with pain is to share it around among those within reach, and she wasted no opportunity to do so for the rest of the day. It was worth it, however, for the knowledge that any designs she might have had upon Fitzwilliam were not progressing as she might wish, and I had the following night’s dinner with our new friends to look forward to by way of consolation.
Such consolation was not to be, however, for Fitzwilliam called upon our friends in Lambton the following morning, and returned to Pemberley looking very grave, and downcast.
“There will be no extra guests for dinner tonight,” he announced. “Mr and Mrs Gardner and Miss Bennet have had letters from home, and must return immediately to Meryton on family affairs of pressing urgency.”
He refused to say any more for the present, and after a long day airing her views on country girls, ‘Dear Caroline’ spent the time after dinner by inviting me to take a turn about the room with her, while she dwelt, loudly and at great length, upon the shortcomings of Miss Bennet, her coarseness, her dark complexion, her confident manner and many other deficiencies. She seemed quite unaware of the effect she was having on my brother, which was evidently just the opposite of what she intended. I was aware of it, however, and rather enjoyed playing up to her and seeing how far I could encourage her to go.
At last Fitzwilliam would have no more of it.
“Our guests may do as they please, of course, but when I am in the country I like to adopt country habits, and I am for bed. Goodnight to you all, Mrs Hurst, Mr Hurst, Miss Bingley, Bingley. Georgiana, a word with you, please, before we retire, in my study.
I could see what was coming, and could not blame him.
“I am sorry,” I said, before he could start, “it was wrong of me to encourage Miss Bingley in her peevishness, and I promise never to do so again. I am truly sorry if it gave you pain.”
“Oh, Miss Bingley,” he snorted, “forget Miss Bingley, I care not a fig for her. But tell me what you think of Miss Bennet. Do you like her?”
“Miss Elizabeth is charming, witty, engaging, beautiful and easy to talk to. I have but just met her, but, yes, I do like her. I think I should like her very much, as a friend.”
“As a friend? Well enough. But tell me this, how do you think you should like her as a sister?”
“As a sister! Why, Fitzwilliam Darcy, you amaze and delight me. I hate to copy Caroline Bingley, but when am I to wish you joy?”
His face was unreadable. Mixed feelings fought in his countenance.
“Probably never,” he replied, “I wished only to hear your view on the subject.”
“My view is that I should adore her as a sister, especially if she were to make you happy.”
“I think she could. I really think she could. She is the only female I have ever met that I have thought that about. And yet…”
“There are objections to her family? For if those objections apply to her sister they must apply equally to her. What objections? If the objections consist of her aunt and uncle I think they have just been overcome.”
“It is not just the aunt and uncle. There are other obstacles, not least the lady herself.”
“What? You cannot mean that you expect her to refuse you?”
“I have very good reason for such an expectation since she has already done so once.”
“You amaze me even more. But I see there is a story behind this and you must tell me.”
“I will tell you, but to do so I must touch upon a subject that must be painful to you, for it involves Mr Wickham.”
“Wickham! How can it involve him?”
“He is the Militia Officer to whom Miss Bingley has been referring all day. It was his scandalous version of my dealings with him in the past that largely formed the basis for Miss Bennet’s refusal of my proposal, which I made to her at Hunsford while we were staying there. I felt it necessary to my own honour that I acquaint Miss Bennet with the true facts of the case, so, you see, she knows your story, and it is only right that you should know hers. But there is much to tell, so perhaps I had better start by asking if you are sitting comfortably before I begin.”
There was, indeed, much to tell, and by the end of it I knew not whether to blame Miss Elizabeth for her dismal lack of taste and discretion in refusing my brother, or praise her for her singular perspicacity in avoiding Wickham’s snares.
I said as much, and was pleased, very pleased by his reply that I had done as much myself, with even less reason to suspect impropriety on Wickham’s part.
One thing was clear, however. Miss Elizabeth’s sister must not be allowed to suffer at the Wickham’s hands, nor must the villain go scot-free again.
“You must go to London,” I cried, “you must find Wickham and Miss Lydia Bennet and… and.. oh, I know not what you must do, but you must make it all right. You must make it all right. You always do. And surely Miss Elizabeth will love you then?”
“You think so, my pet? I wish I had your faith in me. But you are right, I must go to London and see what can be done. But can you cope with our guests while I am gone?”
“Oh, leave them to me. They will soon find reasons to move on elsewhere for a while, perhaps even, if I can contrive it, to Hertfordshire.”
What became of all that, the world knows only too well, and suddenly I, who had been an only child, became possessed of five sisters. It is true that the two eldest would have been quite enough, and that they cost me a cousin and an aunt, for a while, at least, for intercourse between Rosings and Pemberley must cease as surely as the between Rosings and Longbourn, but I cannot say I lost on the exchange.
Indeed, I gained, for my new sisters Elizabeth and Jane both proved to be true treasures, especially after Jane married her Bingley in the end.
But they were not the only treasures added to my family, for old Mr Bennet, their father, I believe was a true original.
He was not a conventional man of learning, no ‘clerk of Oxenford’ but he had done a good deal of reading, and had spent most of his life working on a treatise that was to astonish the world one of these days. He readily admitted that it might not be one of his days, for so huge was the subject that it might not be adequately covered in one lifetime. All this sounds like an excuse for spending long hours in his library avoiding most of his family, and he did not deny its usefulness in that respect. But he was writing something, something, moreover, which had already run to thousands of pages. He showed me it, when I had convinced him that my interest was serious, and I have never seen anything so bestrewn with quotations and footnotes.
And yet, he was not a conventional bookworm, neither. He readily took his part in society, and just as readily gave his opinions of it. These opinions usually gave rise to far more grievance than comprehension on the part of his wife, for Mrs Bennet was not one to let a grievance pass her by without catching at its coat-tails, nor to neglect to make the most of it when she had caught it.
For the rest of us, apart from perhaps his two youngest daughters, he was a valuable s
ource of innocent amusement. He had a dry, rather understated wit, which he was perhaps a shade too fond of exercising at the expense of his wife, but which gave those of us who could understand it a great deal of pleasure. I believe before we became acquainted, only his daughter Elizabeth had understood him fully, and the value we both placed upon Mr Bennet only strengthened the bond between my new sister and me.
I only came fully to appreciate Mr Bennet, however, some years later, when the entire family (youngest daughter and husband excepted) were staying with us while their father took the cure at Buxton.
Meanwhile, time passed, as it has such an inconsiderate habit of doing, and Cousin Ned, who had lately been spending as much time –or, indeed, rather more time - at Pemberley as at the Towers was recalled to Spain. I was greatly touched when he asked me to write to him regularly, with all the home news, while he was away.
“For receiving a letter from home makes a soldier’s day special, you must know, even if it brings no more news than that the hens have ceased laying, or the weather has continued fine. It makes him feel that he has not been forgotten, that someone at home still values him, that he is a person as well as a pike-trailer.”
“But do you really receive letters from home, at the front?” I asked. “Do they not often go astray?”
“All too often, which makes the ones that do get through all the more valuable.”
“But will you write and answer me if I write to you?”
“Of course I will. Apart from any pleasure such an activity might bring me – for I cannot undertake to inspire pleasure in the mind of the reader – it will be my duty to do so, as your guardian. And since I am your guardian, there can be no suspicion of any impropriety in such a correspondence, as even Mrs Annesley must agree. You will understand, however, that there are times in the life of a soldier when the pen, mighty as it is, must give way to the sword, and I may not have leisure for an immediate response.”
“Oh, I expect Mrs Annesley will be going back into retirement before very long. Fitzwilliam and I are come to an understanding of each other, I believe.”
Pemberley felt strangely quiet and empty without Cousin Edward, but writing to him, and, above all, receiving his letters in return, was always a joy.
The Bennets did not stay more than a few weeks with us before receiving news that the youngest daughter of the family – she who had married Wickham and was therefore never to be spoken of in my presence – was with child. This news induced them to cut short their stay with us and hasten to Newcastle for the lying in.
The next we saw of them was on their way back from the far North-East, when they brought the famous Lydia and her new baby with them.
I was packed off instantly to Rosings, for fear of contagion from the wicked Wickham, even if only in the shape of his wife and son, so I saw very little of them. It was, perhaps, just as well that this was so, as Wickham himself turned up on our doorstep and had the effrontery to demand admittance to the family. I believe that in my absence some kind of reconciliation was patched up. Fitzwilliam seemed to accept, grudgingly, that Wickham might have changed, but I have made sure to avoid that side of the family ever since.
To do so has been no great hardship, since Fitzwilliam used family influence to have Wickham packed off to the antipodes, where he has since done very well for himself, if all one hears be true. If so, then England’s gain has been New South Wales’s gain too.
They had all gone by the time I returned to Pemberley, but not before my brother had given way to Mr Bennet’s urgent entreaties, ably seconded by my sister Elizabeth, that we should visit them all at Meryton. I came home, in fact, to find that it had been arranged that we were to stay at Longbourn the following summer, and would be there for my birthday.
Chapter Twenty-Five :Meryton
The following summer came surprisingly quickly, even with no London Season to amuse us in the meantime, and we found ourselves on the way to Longbourn before I had had the chance to do more than resolve to be perfectly ready for the occasion. How many of us make that resolution every day, and how few of us succeed in its performance! I must number myself among the failures, alas, for the day came and but one of the new dresses I had ordered was ready, and none of the gifts I had resolved to bestow upon my hosts was wrapped as I should have wished.
The journey passed as journeys do, tediously and uncomfortably. At least we did not have the added vexation of having to spend a night in London, as was invariably our fate when travelling to Rosings.
The picture I had formed of Longbourn owed much to Rosings, I fear. Fitzwilliam, I confess, is not much given to describing places, not in any way calculated to leave a detailed impression in the mind of the listener, and Elizabeth when applied to, would only say that I must not expect another Pemberley. I was left, therefore, with Lady Catherine’s description of it from her one, historic visit, as an ‘insignificant, mean little house, with a deplorably small park, hardly distinguished in any way except for a sort of little wilderness in one corner.’
This did not inspire any great confidence in our future comfort, but fortunately, as she grew nearer to her childhood home, Elizabeth also grew more talkative about it, and it very soon became clear that she loved it dearly and had no doubts about the adequacy of its accommodations, nor of the society we were likely to meet there. I saw Fitzwilliam’s lips twitch at mention of the latter, but he has learnt how to be a happily married man, and he held his peace.
It was with pleasure, then, and not a great deal of surprise, that as we swept down the drive at Longbourn, I beheld a perfectly acceptable country house, such as may be seen and admired in every county of England, set at no great distance from the road, to be sure, but of a size more than adequate for a private gentleman’s residence. The ‘little wilderness’ I took to be the well-kept shrubbery, through which a gravel path led to a pergola in the distance, and I amused myself by recollecting what I had heard of the famous tête à tète there between my sister and my aunt. Elizabeth caught me looking that way, and nodded slightly, a faint smile curling her lips.
Then we were stepping out of the carriage straight into the arms of Mrs Bennet, who straightway assailed us with more questions about our health and the privations of the journey than we could comfortably answer before each was succeeded by the next, and eventually by exclamations at what good time we had made –
“for I made sure you should never be here before tea time, but then it never occurred to me that you might have four horses, although, to be sure, for Mr Darcy the expense is nothing I dare say and quite right too for nothing can be too much for my darling Lizzy…”
At this point Mr Bennet intervened with more polite and reasoned greetings, and a suggestion that some refreshment might be welcome while the servants unpacked our baggage.
“It is true that we did not expect you quite so soon,” he said, “but you are all the more welcome for that. I am sorry that Mary and Kitty are not here to welcome you, however. They are gone to Meryton for some last-minute addition to the finery deemed appropriate to welcome such important visitors. Or, rather, Kitty is gone for that purpose, and Mary is gone to supervise. You may recall that she sets not so very great store by finery herself, but she does take her duties as the regnant Miss Bennet very seriously, and will not let her sister go about unchaperoned. But let us go in, and no doubt they will join us before long.”
Nothing was said further on the dangers of inadequate chaperoning, dangers from which both families had suffered, but that nothing hung heavy in the air above us as we sat down to the tea table, and I resolved that I must very soon lay the ghost of Wickham for all time. But how to start upon it?
Fortunately, Elizabeth gave me the opportunity straight away.
“I, for one, would like to stretch my legs after being cramped up in the carriage for so long,” she said. “Perhaps Georgiana would care to walk with me into Meryton, where, god willing, we may find our sisters and bring them back to make up the party?”
“How cruel you were to my brother, Lizzy,” I said, once we had passed onto the Meryton road, “to abandon him to make conversation with your mother while you escape to your childhood haunts.”
“It will do him good to be forced to be sociable again,” she replied, “I think one of the reasons he sticks to Pemberley so much is so as not to be obliged to make conversation. But never worry about making conversation with my mother. No-one makes conversation with my mother. One may listen to what she says, and endeavour to make sense of it, which way madness lies, shall we say? Or one may ignore it, treat it as background noise, making the appropriate, or indeed random, interjections from time to time and thus come at last to the end of it. The odd ‘yes’, ‘indeed’, or even ‘ah’ will do very well for this purpose. Or one may do as my father does, and attempt to make her aware of what she is saying, and derive amusement from one’s inevitable failure. But we all love her dearly for all that, and I should be sorry if you did not love her also.”
“Oh, I should love her even had I never met her. She gave you to the world, did she not, and I will always be grateful for that.”
“Where have you been studying these outrageous compliments, Georgiana? But I will tell you something we have all been studying for far too long, and that is how to avoid mention of a certain young man who is, after all, in a certain sense now brother to both of us.”
“You are perfectly right, but, darling Lizzy, I know you have made your peace with Wickham, and I assure you that I have no great feelings for him either way. You need not feel that mention of his name may jar my sensibilities. If it were to, it would only be proof of how much they need jarring, to convert them into sense.”