by K C Kahler
* * *
Elizabeth spent the day in equal parts recollection of that morning’s tête-à-tête and anticipation of the next morning’s conversation. Mr Darcy thought her handsome.
Mrs Bennet’s ill humour had not abated, but the volume of her complaints certainly had. Elizabeth suspected that Mr Bennet’s intervention deserved credit for this improvement, though he still kept to his library.
As for Mr Collins, his feelings were chiefly expressed not by embarrassment or dejection or by trying to avoid Elizabeth, but by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. Oddly enough, he had gone out for his own morning walk that day, though considerably later than hers. Elizabeth looked forward to his further absence to bid farewell to his Hertfordshire acquaintances. In another indication of her father’s clever avoidance, Mr Collins had been given free use of the carriage, and he availed himself of it immediately following luncheon. His first destination: Netherfield. Elizabeth smiled to herself with the thought of Miss Bingley entertaining him. Would Mr Darcy entrust Mr Collins with a letter to his aunt? Or perhaps one to his cousin? The latter possibility nettled Elizabeth. One of the handsomest women of his acquaintance.
The other residents of Longbourn were now able to resume their various pursuits in blessed quiet. Mary made extracts quite enthusiastically. Kitty suggested they walk into Meryton, only to be met with indifference from her sisters. She testily resigned herself to trimming a bonnet, complaining every so often that she lacked the right colour of ribbon to do it justice.
Kitty’s persistent grumblings were enough to finally convince Lydia—but only after at last finishing Robinson Crusoe—to agree to the desired trip into the village. They would visit Aunt Philips and the millinery shop and hopefully happen upon some of the officers. As the certainty of the excursion increased, Mary expressed a need for some exercise. The trio set out together shortly thereafter.
Elizabeth was thus left happily to the company of Jane, who seemed to be suffering some melancholy in Mr Bingley’s absence.
“When will Mr Bingley return so that you might stop pining for him, dear Jane?”
Jane smiled. “He returns Friday. Are my moods now so very easily deciphered?”
“In a way. You have gone from completely impossible to read, to only slightly more scrutable.”
“I am a little ashamed to admit it, since I saw him only yesterday, but yes, I miss him terribly. I never thought my happiness could be so entirely dependent upon another person. It is a little frightening.”
“You have no reason to be afraid. I am sure Mr Bingley returns your feelings. Very soon, I think Mama will forget about the last marriage proposal and instead be entirely overjoyed by one with a somewhat more felicitous outcome.”
“I shall not indulge your teasing.” Jane looked at her earnestly. “It is one thing to think you are in love; you very well may be. But to confess it and then to stake your happiness on the hope that your feelings are returned, well, that is a decision that takes much courage. In short, you must allow yourself to trust someone else entirely.”
“And you fear your trust in Mr Bingley will be misplaced?”
“No. I trust him, but he is not perfect. We must accept each other’s faults along with the virtues.”
“I suppose it is a very risky business,” Elizabeth replied. “But I think in this case you take on all the risk. You see, you are a collection of nothing but virtues.”
“Someday you will not be able to make light of such weighty matters. You will fall in love and embrace it with all your heart, for you certainly do not lack courage. I only hope the man you choose deserves you.”
“Oh, I am sure he will be a paragon of virtue. Someone who can discuss Fordyce with Mary. Perhaps the clergyman for a parish of no mean size.”
Jane laughed. “Lizzy, you are quite absurd!”
“I may be, but you are no longer sulking and sighing into your needlework, so I consider my absurdity amply rewarded.”
“I do not sulk!”
“Very well. You only pine prettily. Or languish delicately. Or brood—”
“Enough! Have mercy. I pray the man you eventually choose is made of stern enough stuff to withstand your impertinence, else it will be a very short romance indeed.”
“My teasing is a mixture of sweetness and archness; no one can be affronted by it.” How had that slipped out? He had said it this morning.
“Well, I am glad you think so. It remains to be seen if others do.” Jane tried to keep the banter going, but Elizabeth was too discomposed by the encroachment of her secret life into her usual one.
“Jane, in all seriousness, Mr Bingley is a good, kind, honourable man who loves you. If you trust in that, I am certain all will be well.”
The two sisters were left to their own thoughts, and Elizabeth’s were turbulent indeed. Tomorrow, she would meet Mr Darcy again. He wanted her advice. This pleased her more than it ought. It meant he was not simply seeking diversion and amusement through her. He would bring his gloves for her.
After another hour or so, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia returned. Mr Wickham had been most attentive, escorting them from the edge of the village to their aunt’s house. Lydia grimaced at Kitty’s glowing praises of him. The much-needed ribbon had been acquired for Kitty’s bonnet along with some less-needed ribbon. But the most perplexing bit of information was that the Bennet carriage had been spotted returning from Netherfield towards Longbourn not two hours after Mr Collins had left them. Yet he had not come back.
“He must have gone to Lucas Lodge. Perhaps Charlotte is keeping him occupied, patient soul that she is,” Elizabeth reasoned.
Lydia nodded. “That’s what I said. I told Kitty we should not visit Maria precisely because he might be there.”
“We owe Charlotte a great debt.”
They all agreed, some more vocally than others, before once again taking up their separate activities. Lydia, Elizabeth, and Kitty trimmed bonnets. For Elizabeth, the simplicity of the task gave her a respite from her overwrought thoughts and an opportunity for silly conversation with her youngest sisters.
“Kitty failed to mention who else we saw in Meryton today.” Lydia winked at Elizabeth.
“Who might that be?” Elizabeth turned to Kitty, who blushed a deep shade of scarlet but adhered most diligently to her bonnet.
“Henry Long,” Lydia answered in a lilting voice.
“And how does young Henry Long?”
“Much better now that he has seen Kitty.”
Kitty could keep silent no longer “Lydia! I wish you had not told me your suspicions. I shall never be able to meet him with any tolerable degree of composure again.”
“Henry Long admires Kitty,” Lydia said matter-of-factly.
“How can you tell?”
Lydia enumerated her reasons for suspicion. “He stares at her, he blushes and stutters when in her presence, yet he seeks her above all others, and he all but admitted it to me at the ball.”
“Well, it is nothing to be ashamed of, Kitty. You can hardly control who fancies you. You must always be polite but do not give encouragement if you do not wish his attentions to continue. And do not let Mama know about any of this. Imagine her making up excuses to visit the Longs for the purpose of constantly throwing you into his path.”
Kitty’s eyes widened in horror. “Lydia, you will not say anything to Mama, will you?” she pleaded.
“If you give me a scrap of that ribbon, I shall be silent as the grave.”
The ribbon in question was promptly and enthusiastically handed over.
“What is wrong with Henry Long?” Elizabeth asked, only to be answered by a shrug. “Is he not bound for Oxford? There’s no point in spurning him quite yet. He may forget all about you. Or you may find him much more appealing after he returns.”
“I remember how much more handsome John Lucas looked after his first year at Cambridge,” said Lydia.
Elizabeth laughed. “But you were too young to notice such a thing.”
“I had eyes.”
“Well, just imagine how well he will look after two years spent at sea and exotic ports of call.” Elizabeth allowed her sisters to imagine a newly dashing John Lucas while keeping her own thoughts to herself. He will not have developed dimples though.
The afternoon wore on into evening, and still, Mr Collins did not appear. They ate dinner without him, a circumstance that caused little hardship but much interest. The curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in very direct questions upon his return to Longbourn soon after the meal concluded. He replied simply that he had made several calls during the day, ending at Lucas Lodge, where he was asked to dine. His new reticence was a delightful alteration to Elizabeth’s mind.
As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave taking was performed when the ladies removed for the night, and Mrs Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality given the situation, said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again.
“My dear Madam,” he replied, “this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive, and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible.”
With proper civilities, the ladies then withdrew. To say that they were all astonished would scarcely give credit to the dismay they felt to find that he meditated a quick return.
The five girls gathered in Kitty and Lydia’s room. Kitty whispered, “Mary must be next.”
Mary’s stoic countenance cracked with alarm. Elizabeth could not tell who started giggling first, but Mary certainly was the last to join in.
Elizabeth rose the next morning in a state of agitated impatience, which only grew as she waited behind her closed door while Mr Collins’s trunk was carried downstairs and loaded onto the chaise. She slipped out the back of the house before he departed and was therefore required to stay off the road lest she be spied. She kept to the smaller paths instead. The sounds of the stream and her arrival from an unexpected direction caused Mr Darcy to be taken quite unawares. His startled breath escaped him in a visible puff.
“Perhaps I should wear a bell around my ankle,” she said with a smirk, referencing their first clandestine meeting nearly a month ago.
“Or simply stomp your feet.” He grinned, and she felt lightheaded at the sight of those dimples.
“I took a more circuitous route to avoid being seen by Mr Collins as he leaves,” she blurted, hoping to get herself under better regulation. Just then, they heard the sounds of a carriage from the road.
“So the good parson has retired to Kent to lick his wounds, has he?”
“Would you believe me if I told you he wishes to visit with us again? And soon?”
“No, I would not believe you.”
She laughed. “I assure you, he avows a desire to come again as soon as may be. Mary is feeling apprehensive about the whole affair.”
“I would imagine so. What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always coming here?”
He sounded so exasperated that Elizabeth had to laugh again. “Surely you will depart Hertfordshire before he returns, and therefore be spared more of his civilities.” She immediately regretted mentioning his impending removal. It was not a subject that brought her much satisfaction and that, in and of itself, was disturbing.
Mr Darcy made no reply but reached into his coat. He pulled out a pair of gloves and approached her. “For your comfort,” he said quietly.
“Thank you,” she murmured, happy for some object to tear her eyes from his. The gloves were, quite simply, the most exquisite article of clothing she had ever touched—fine leather lined with fur. She wished to rub them against her cheek but somehow managed to stop herself. “Shall we walk downstream today?”
He motioned for her to lead the way. She tried out the borrowed gloves as she walked. A good inch of floppy leather was left at the end of each finger and a similar length of her coat sleeve was covered up. She held her hands out in front of her. “They certainly are warm.”
He laughed at her wiggling, flapping fingers, and she revelled in the sound of it. Then she blurted again, “My younger sisters saw Mr Wickham in Meryton yesterday.”
Mr Darcy immediately sobered. “Did he say or do anything unseemly?”
“No. Lydia and Mary are already distrustful of him, while Kitty thinks him quite amiable.”
“Will you tell me what else he said to you about me and my sister, aside from his grievance over the living?”
“He repeatedly pronounced you abominably proud and pompous. He also said that Miss Darcy had become too much like you in that respect, overly proud. That was the substance of it.”
“He said nothing else?”
“No.” Elizabeth lied, not able to bring herself to repeat the other accusations nor the rumoured engagement. She quickly added, “But I must boast of Lydia’s set down. She really was marvellous that night.” Elizabeth proceeded to tell him about Lydia’s defence of him and his sister and of Mr Wickham’s stunned reaction.
He chuckled at it. “Sometimes I wish my sister could have a little more boldness like Miss Lydia.”
“You must be joking.”
“Georgiana is painfully shy, and what happened last summer has only aggravated her insecurity.”
“What happened to the poor girl?”
“In short, George Wickham.” He looked at the ground and took a deep breath. “I must go back to the death of my father to explain fully. My sister was left to the guardianship of my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam and myself. Mr Wickham requested a sum of money in lieu of the living bequeathed to him, for he claimed a desire to pursue the law. I was happy to oblige; unlike my father, who had been unaware of Mr Wickham’s want of character to the last, I knew his character was sadly lacking for a career in the church. He then returned a few years later after having wasted all the money on gambling and who knows what, only to demand the living he had agreed to give up. When I refused, he bitterly swore revenge upon me.”
Mr Darcy stopped walking and glanced at Elizabeth, who listened in rapt attention. Sighing, he continued, “Less than a year ago, Georgiana was taken from school and an establishment formed for her in London under the care of a Mrs Younge. Last summer, they went together to Ramsgate, and thither also went Mr Wickham, undoubtedly by design for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived. He was able to meet with Georgiana and take advantage of her trusting heart and childhood memories. He convinced her that she was in love with him. She is but fifteen, which must be her excuse. I shall not go into the painful details but shall only say that I foiled a planned elopement with just a day to spare. ”
Elizabeth gasped but said nothing. Mr Darcy began again, staring down at the water. “Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she looked up to almost as a father, acknowledged the whole of it to me. Obviously, Mr Wickham was after her fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but it was clear from our confrontation that revenge was also his motive. And his revenge would have been complete indeed. Georgiana was devastated, and both of us felt our share of guilt for what happened. The episode was kept secret to protect her. Besides the four directly involved, only Colonel Fitzwilliam knew of it.”
“I shall never betray your confidence.”
“I know.”
“Does Miss Darcy still suffer from her ill-advised attachment?”
“She still suffers, but I do not know whether it is because she continues to harbour tender feelings…for him or because she feels she has disappointed me. She will not discuss it with me nor her new companion. You must understand that she has always been shy.” He paused and looked at Elizabeth with a small smile. “We have that in common, I suppose.”
“But now she is even more withdrawn?”
“Her letters are so timid. Mrs Annesley, Georgiana’s companion, writes to me that she has had little succ
ess in bolstering Georgiana’s self-assurance. I do not know what to do.”
“If…” Elizabeth paused, not knowing how best to continue. “If she sees you more as a father than a brother, as you say, then she will feel even less able to confide in you about such matters. Does she have anyone else to confide in? A family member, preferably a younger female?”
“She corresponds regularly with my cousin Anne, who is about ten years older, but has not divulged anything to her about Wickham.”
Elizabeth tried not to be distracted by her own concerns upon hearing the last. “It occurs to me that the poor girl is surrounded by much older people, people she no doubt feels intimidated by or at least wishes not to disappoint. She must be perpetually afraid of doing something wrong. She has no one with whom she can be silly and giggle, no one with whom she can act her age.”
He searched Elizabeth’s face for an uncomfortably long moment. “It has unfortunately been so for most of her life.”
“Aside from intimacy with a young female friend or family member, I can only recommend patience and reassurance. Your sister likely needs to know that her family loves her unconditionally and merely wishes her to be herself, not some impossible ideal.”
He again turned a searching gaze towards her. She chafed under it. “I am afraid I have little useful advice to give.”
“On the contrary, you have been very helpful. I fear my guardianship of Georgiana has been inadequate.”
“No, you must not think so. Children at that age are bound to make mistakes, sometimes grave mistakes, as they struggle into adulthood.”
“Your younger sisters are very fortunate to have you as an example.”
“Me? Hardly. Jane was patient and nurturing to all of us as we grew up, something we needed very much with parents such as ours.”