Charles Bingley
PS I forgot to ask. You will stand up with me?
C.B.
I wrote to him, sending him my heartiest congratulations and telling him that of course I will stand up with him. I was tempted to return to Netherfield and give him my best wishes personally, but Georgiana is unwell and I intend to remain in town until she is better.
As I sit with her, I cannot help thinking of Elizabeth. The two of them would be friends if Elizabeth consents to be my wife. It is in every way such a longed-for conclusion of everything that has happened, and yet I am apprehensive. I have seen no sign in Elizabeth’s words or manner to make me think my feelings are returned. And yet I saw nothing to make me think she is irrevocably set against me. I am almost afraid to return to Longbourn. Whilst I am with Georgiana I still have hope, but once I return to Longbourn it may be dashed for ever.
Thursday 2nd October
Colonel Fitzwilliam called to see how Georgiana was getting on. She is much recovered, and I will be able to return to Netherfield in a few days’ time.
‘You have been to Netherfield, I understand?’ he said.
We were eating in the dining-room. Georgiana, still listless from her illness, took dinner in her room.
‘Yes.’ I told him of Bingley’s engagement.
‘And do you mind?’
‘No. I am very happy for him. I am happy for them both.’
‘Did Miss Elizabeth Bennet speak to you about your letter? Has she accepted that you did not ruin Wickham?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘She has said nothing, but I think she has accepted it.’
‘And has it softened her feelings towards you?’
I did not know how to reply.
‘These affairs are painful whilst they last, but they should not be allowed to last for ever,’ he said. ‘It is time you looked to the future again, Darcy. You should marry. It would be good for Georgiana to have a woman in the house.’ He took a mouthful of turbot, then said: ‘Anne has been expecting your proposal for several years.’
‘Anne?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Come now, Darcy, you know Lady Catherine has regarded your marriage as a settled thing since you were in your cradles. I was surprised you offered your hand to Elizabeth, but as it was none of my business I held my peace. Now that she has rejected you, however, I think you should formalize your engagement to Anne.’
‘I have no intention of marrying Anne,’ I said.
‘But Lady Catherine expects it. She and your mother betrothed you and Anne in your cradles.’
‘She is not serious in that? I have heard her say it many times, but I took it for an idle fancy, such as: “When you were a baby, my sister and I decided you would go into the army”, or “When you were a child, I decided you would go into politics”.’
‘I do assure you, she means it.’
‘And Anne?’ I asked.
‘Yes, she too expects it. It is why she has never married.’
‘I had thought it was because she was so young…’
‘She is eight and twenty, as you are. Have you forgotten that you were in your cradles together, and that all three of us played together when we were children?’
I had forgotten. She used to trail after my cousin and me. No, not trail after us. She could run almost as fast as I could. My cousin, being five years older, could outstrip us both.
‘Do you remember how she beat us to the top of the oak tree?’ he asked. ‘She was not meant to climb it. She tore her frock, and was confined to the nursery on bread and milk for a week.’
‘I remember. I also remember how you took her a cold beef sandwich and slice of pie, wrapped up in a handkerchief. I thought you would surely fall as you climbed across the roof to her window. Did you ever get caught for stealing from the kitchen?’
‘No. Mrs Heaney blamed it on the dog.’
‘Poor Caesar! I had forgotten about Anne’s exploits. She was much more lively as a child, when her health was good,’ I remarked.
‘And when she had Sir Lewis to defend her. He found out about Lady Catherine’s orders that she be confined to the nursery, and he went there himself to give her half a sovereign.’
‘Did he indeed?’ I said with a smile.
I could imagine it. Sir Lewis had always been very fond of Anne, and she in turn had been very fond of her father. It had been a sad blow to her when he had died.
‘I have often wondered…’ began my cousin.
‘Yes?’
‘Have you noticed that her cough is always worse when her mother is by?’
‘No.’
‘And not only her cough, but her shyness. She is much more spirited when she is with me.’
‘She is never spirited with me,’ I said in surprise.
‘But then, she is in awe of you.’
‘Of me?’
‘You are quite a figure, Darcy, particularly when you are out of sorts. Let the weather be bad, and your boredom turns you into an ogre.’
I was about to tell him he was talking nonsense when I recalled Bingley saying something similar.
‘I am sorry for it. But Anne need suffer no further. I will visit Rosings and tell her that a marriage between us is out of the question.’
‘There is no need. Lady Catherine is in London, and Anne is with her. I saw them both this evening, before I came here. Lady Catherine means to call on you before she returns to Rosings.’
We finished our meal, and after sitting with me for an hour Colonel Fitzwilliam left. He is remaining in London for the next two weeks, and has promised to call on Georgiana every day to make sure she is well and happy.
Saturday 4th October
Lady Catherine called this morning, bringing Anne with her. I was about to enquire after their health, when my aunt began without preamble.
‘You must put an end to this nonsense at once, Darcy,’ she said, as soon as she had seated herself.
I did not know what she was talking about, but before I could say anything, she went on:
‘I heard from Mr Collins that you were about to propose to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Sit down, Anne.’
Anne promptly sat down.
‘Knowing such a report to be a grotesque falsehood, I visited Longbourn in order to have Miss Elizabeth Bennet deny it. The audacity of the girl! The perverseness! Though what else can one expect with such a mother and an uncle in Cheapside? She refused to give the lie to the report, though I knew it must be false. I have never met such an impudent girl in my life. She trifled with me in the most vulgar way. When I told her that she must contradict the report, she replied only that I had declared it to be impossible, so it needed no contradiction. Of course, it is impossible. You are too proud a man to be drawn in, whatever arts she employed. To ally yourself with such a family! And through them, to ally yourself with George Wickham, the son of your father’s steward. He, to call you brother! It is not to be thought of. To put an end to her schemes, I told her you were engaged to Anne, and do you know what she said to me?’
‘No,’ I said, not knowing what to make of Elizabeth’s speech, but hoping – for the first time having reason to hope – that she was not firmly set against me.
‘That if it was so, you could not possibly make an offer to her! She is lost to every feeling of propriety. Honour, decorum and modesty all forbid such a match! And yet she would not tell me the rumour was false. She thought nothing of the disgrace she would bring to a proud name, or the pollution she would inflict on the shades of Pemberley. Pemberley! When I think of such an ignorant girl at Pemberley! But of course it is impossible. You and Anne are formed for each other. You are descended from the same noble line. Your fortunes are splendid. And yet this upstart, without family, connections or fortune, would not give me an assurance that she would never marry you.’
My hopes soared. She had not decided against me! If she had, she would have told my aunt. Then there was still a chance for me.
‘Well?’ Lady Catherine demanded.
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‘Mama – ’ began Anne timidly.
‘Be silent, Anne,’ commanded my aunt. ‘Well, Darcy?’ she demanded.
‘Well?’ I asked.
‘Will you assure me that you will never ask this woman to be your wife?’
‘No, Aunt, I will not.’
She glared at me.
‘Then you are betrothed?’
‘No, Aunt, we are not.’
‘Ah. I thought not. You could not be so lost to what is right and proper, and to all common sense.’
‘But if she will have me, I mean to make her my wife.’
Her silence was awful, and was followed by a torrent of words.
‘You need not think you will be welcome at Rosings, if you marry that upstart. You will not bring such shame and degradation on my own house, even if you are absurd enough to bring it on your own. Your sainted mother would be appalled to discover what woman is to succeed her at Pemberley.’
‘My mother would be glad I had chosen so well.’ ‘You have a fever. It is the only explanation,’ she said.
‘If you marry that girl you will be cut off from family and friends. They will not visit you, nor invite you to visit them in turn. You will be ostracized, cast out. I will give you a week to come to your senses. If I do not hear from you in that time, saying that you have been wholly mistaken in this preposterous plan, and if you do not beg my forgiveness for sullying my ears with this objectionable nonsense, then I will be aunt to you no more.’
I made her a cold bow and she swept out of the room.
Anne hung back.
‘I am sorry,’ I said to her. ‘I never knew you took our marriage as a settled thing until my cousin told me of it, or I would have made sure you knew that I did not regard myself as betrothed to you.’
‘There is no need to be sorry. I did not want to marry you,’ she said.
She smiled, and I was taken aback. There was no timidity in her smile, and as she walked up to me she looked confident and assured.
‘Am I then so terrible?’ I asked.
‘No, not that. As a friend and a cousin I like you very well – as long as the weather is fine, and you are not forced to remain indoors – but I do not love you, and the thought of marrying you made me miserable. I am glad you are to marry Elizabeth. She is in love with you. She will tease you out of your stiffness, and we will all be friends.’
‘She is in love with me? I wish I could be so sure.’
‘One woman in love recognizes another,’ she said.
She smiled again and then followed Lady Catherine out of the room.
Monday 6th October
I am once again at Netherfield. I arrived here with more hope than I have ever felt, but still I dare not take Elizabeth’s love as a settled thing. Bingley and I left Netherfield early and soon arrived at Longbourn. Miss Bennet was full of blushes and had never looked more becoming. Elizabeth was harder to understand. She, too, blushed. I wish I knew the cause!
Bingley suggested a walk.
‘I will fetch my bonnet,’ said Kitty. ‘I have been longing to see Maria. We can walk to the Lucas’s.’
Mrs Bennet frowned at her, but Kitty did not notice.
‘I am not a great walker, I am afraid,’ said Mrs Bennet, turning to Bingley with a smile. ‘You must excuse me. But Jane loves to walk. Jane, my dear, fetch your spencer. That man, I suppose, will go, too,’ she said, looking at me as though I was a disagreeable insect.
Elizabeth blushed. I ignored the remark as best I could, and thought that only my love for Elizabeth could induce me to set foot in that house ever again.
Bingley looked helpless.
‘Lizzy, run and fetch your spencer, too. You must keep Mr Darcy company. I am sure he will not be interested in anything Jane has to say.’
‘I am too busy to walk,’said Mary, lifting her head from a book. ‘I have often observed that those who are the best walkers are those who lack the intellectual capacity to instruct themselves in the serious matters of life.’
‘Oh, Mary!’ said Mrs Bennet impatiently.
Mary returned to her book.
Elizabeth and her sister returned, having put on their outdoor clothes, and we set out. Bingley and his beloved soon fell behind. Kitty, I knew, would soon leave us to go to visit her friend. Would Elizabeth go too? I hoped not. If she remained with me, then I would be able to talk to her. And talk to her I must.
We reached the turning to the Lucas’s.
‘You can go on by yourself,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I have nothing to say to Maria.’
Kitty ran off down the path, leaving Elizabeth and me alone.
I turned towards her.
Elizabeth, I was about to say, when she stopped me by speaking herself.
‘Mr Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours.’
I felt myself grow cold. All my hopes now seemed like vanity. She was going to wound my feelings. I had been wrong to read so much into her refusal to deny the report of our engagement. It had meant nothing, except that she would not deign to deny an idle report for the benefit of my aunt.
She was obviously finding it difficult to continue.
She is going to tell me never to come to Longbourn again, I thought. She cannot bear the sight of me. I have given her a disgust of me that is too great to be overcome. I have not used my opportunities. I have visited Longbourn with Bingley and said nothing, because I had too much to say. Yet none of it could have been said in front of others. And now it is too late. But I will not let it be too late. I will speak to her, whether she wants me to or not.
But then she went on, even as those thoughts were going through my mind.
‘I can no longer help thanking you – ’
Thanking me? Not blaming me, but thanking me? I scarcely knew what to think.
‘– for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister.’
Unexampled kindness? Then she does not hate me! The thought made my spirits rise, though cautiously, for I did not know what she had heard of the business, or what else she was going to say.
‘Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.’
Gratitude. I did not want her gratitude. Liking, yes. Loving, yes. But not gratitude.
‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘exceedingly sorry, that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs Gardiner was so little to be trusted.’
‘You must not blame my aunt,’ she said. ‘It was Lydia who told me of it, and then I asked my aunt for greater detail. Let me thank you again and again,’ went on Elizabeth,‘in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them.’
Generous compassion. She thought well of me, but in what way? I was in an agony of suspense.
‘If you will thank me, let it be for yourself alone,’ I said. My voice was low and impassioned. I could not hold my feelings in. ‘Your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you.’
I stopped breathing. I had spoken. I had let out my feelings. I had offered them to her, and could only wait to see if she would fling them back in my face. But she said nothing. Why did she not speak? Was she shocked? Horrified? Pleased? Then hope rose in my breast. Perhaps she was kept silent by pleasure? I had to know.
‘You are too generous to trifle with me,’ I burst out. ‘If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged. But one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.’
It seemed to be an age before she spoke.
‘My feelings are so different…’ she began.
I started to breathe again.
‘…that I am humbled to think y
ou can still love me…’
I began to smile.
‘…now I receive your assurances with gratitude and…and pleasure…’
‘I have loved you for so long,’ I said, as she slipped her hand through my arm and I covered it with my own. To claim her was a joy. ‘I thought it was hopeless. I tried to forget you, but to no avail. When I saw you again at Pemberley I was overcome with surprise, but quickly blessed my good fortune. I had a chance to show you that I was not as mean-spirited as you thought me. I had a chance to show you that I could be a gentleman. When you did not spurn me, when you accepted my invitation, I dared to hope, but your sister’s troubles took you away from me and I saw you no more. I could not let matters rest. I had to help your sister, in the knowledge that by doing so I was helping you. Then, when she was safely married, I had to see you. I was as nervous as Bingley when we arrived at Longbourn. It was clear that your sister was a woman in love, but I could tell nothing from your face or manner. Did you love me? Did you like me? Could you even tolerate me? I thought yes, then I thought no. You said so little – ’
‘Which was not in my nature,’ she said with an arch smile.
‘No,’ I said, returning the smile. ‘It was not. I did not know whether it was because you were displeased to see me or merely embarrassed.’
‘I was embarrassed,’ she said. ‘I did not know why you had come. I was afraid of showing too much. I did not want to expose myself to ridicule. I could not believe that a man of your pride would offer his hand when it had already been rejected.’
‘His hand, no, but his heart, yes. You are the only woman I have ever wanted to marry, and by accepting my hand you have put me forever in your debt.’
‘I will remind you of it, when you are cross with me,’ she said teasingly.
‘I could never be cross with you.’
‘You think not, but when I pollute the shades of Pemberley, it is possible that you might!’
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