Into Hertfordshire (18 page)

“I must not decide on my own performance,” she deflected his enquiry. Her manner throughout, however, had been playful, and Darcy was in no doubt that this exercise of her charms was entirely for his benefit.

A short silence followed, and Darcy felt it incumbent on him to start the next subject. It had often occurred to him that his youth in Derbyshire must have had many similarities with Elizabeth’s in Hertfordshire, as Country life was much the same no matter where one was raised. As a boy he had always looked forward to a walk into Lambton, the little town that was to Pemberley as Meryton was to Longbourn, and, with this in view, he asked, “Do not you and your sisters very often walk to Meryton?”

Her reply was not at all what he had anticipated. “Indeed, we do. When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”

Wickham! The warmth within him vanished like the light of a candle blown out. He paused for a moment to adjust his thoughts; here then, was the opportunity he had been waiting for—although now that it had come, he wished it had not. Choosing his words carefully, so as not to expose too much ill-will, he made his attempt: “Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his
making
friends—whether he may be equally capable of
retaining
them, is less certain.” He paused to see how she might respond.

He had not long to wait. “He has been so unlucky as to lose
your
friendship,” Elizabeth retorted in an accusatory tone, “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”

With astonishment did Darcy realise that Wickham had somehow already reached Elizabeth with his lies. He hardly knew what to say; clearly Wickham had fed her some tale that put Darcy in a bad light, but, even if he knew what Wickham had said, the middle of a ball-room was hardly the place to defend himself. Yet he must somehow make her see the truth about Wickham. Still, he was painfully aware that he had ever been weak in persuasion; it was in reasoned discourse and logic that his strengths lay. What could he say that might convince her? He found himself trapped within the same doubts and tangled thoughts that had plagued him since the Thursday prior.

Before he could adjust his thoughts and render them into some form of speech, Sir William Lucas made as if to pass them; but, stopping, he offered them a compliment on how well they looked dancing together. Darcy, trying yet again to adjust his thoughts, was struggling to find words to reply when Sir William went on to say, “I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Miss Eliza, shall take place,” and with this he bent a significant glance in the direction of Miss Bennet and Bingley, who were standing out of the dance behind Darcy and his partner. “What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy—but let me not interrupt you, Sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.” He beamed kindly at them and turned away.

Darcy met this news regarding his friend with irritation; at every turn this evening, some one was waiting to step between him and his wishes. Now what was Bingley about? Forcing down the anger and frustration that, he knew, would render him unable to think clearly, he turned his attention to Bingley. He could see he was deep in conversation with Elizabeth’s eldest sister: so deep, indeed, that he was unaware of several people who were standing near him, obviously waiting to speak with him. Just then he took Miss Bennet’s hand, and, without so much as a glance at his other guests, led her out into the dance. Several of those waiting shared tolerant smiles at this, together with a knowing shake of the head. Darcy had never before seen his friend so enraptured by a woman as to fail in civility to others—and at his own ball! Only a true attachment could explain, or excuse, such behaviour.

He turned back to his partner and found that she, too, was watching the couple with interest. What with the consternation caused by this new intelligence and his anxious desire to warn her about Wickham, it took several moments before he could arrange his thoughts sufficiently to take up the conversation again. He had lost the train of their last subject, and turning back to her, he apologised: “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.”

“I do not think we were speaking at all,” answered Elizabeth. She seemed out of humour as she said, “Sir William could not have interrupted any two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine.”

“What think you of books?” Darcy ventured, knowing how devoted she was to reading. He kept his tone studiously light, and he smiled as he spoke, for he heartily wished to change the tenor of the conversation to a more congenial one. He hoped gradually to be able to bring their discussion back around to the subject of Wickham in a way more conducive to the communication he had in view. But the lady was not inclined to cooperate.

“Books—oh! no,” said she. “I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”

He failed to understand why she should object to the topic, and observed: “I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”

“No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of something else.”

She had a distracted air as she spoke, leaving him in doubt of her true thoughts. He asked uncertainly, “The
present
always occupies you in such scenes—does it?”

“Yes, always,” she answered absently. Darcy was at a loss as to what might next be said, as his partner’s mind was clearly elsewhere. She suddenly took his eye with hers, saying, “I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave—that your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its
being created
.”

Surprised at this sudden change of topic, he nevertheless declared confidently, “I am.”

“And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?”

“I hope not.”

“It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.”

He was confused by these questions and her sober manner; was she thinking of Wickham, or Bingley, or something else entirely? —“May I ask to what these questions tend?”

She pursed her lips and frowned, looking as though she were trying to clear her thoughts. “Merely to the illustration of
your
character. I am trying to make it out.”

“And what is your success?” That she should make such an attempt was pleasing, but the substance of their exchange up to that point was such that he was uncertain that he should be equally well pleased with the result.

“I do not get on at all,” she replied, with a shake of her head. “I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”

Here was the illumination he sought; her manner as she spoke and looked at him convinced him: he was quite sure he knew the source of those “different accounts”—he wished that he could know what manner of lies Wickham might have given her. “I can readily believe,” he said, trying with all the sincerity at his command to make her understand the gravity of his words, “that reports may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.”

“But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity,” she declared. Her manner was not contentious, but neither was it accommodating.

Darcy’s irritation and frustration, which had been struggling to break free almost since he had first approached to offer her his compliments, and fuelled by all the times he had found himself thwarted by Wickham throughout his youth, flashed into anger: she
would
not oblige him; she
would
not understand; she had rather believe Wickham, a man of no standing whom she had known only a week! As had always been the case with his father where Wickham was concerned, his words had fallen on deaf ears. Controlling himself with difficulty, he replied, “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” and bit down to hold back the heated words that wanted to follow. They proceeded down the dance, each one holding their own counsel; on his side, however, his anger was soon replaced by remorse, as he realised that the trouble lay not with her, but with Wickham. He cursed himself for losing his temper, yet he was prevented from regaining his composure by the memory of ancient injuries, and a crushing sense of impotence in the face of Wickham’s lies, which overwhelmed his emotions and overset his thoughts. While he could, and did, pardon Elizabeth for her acceptance of Wickham’s lies, whatever they might be, he knew himself to be powerless to combat them. Stiffly following the pattern of the set, he led her through the end of the dance, struggling against his emotions and racking his brain for a way to overcome his dilemma. He blamed himself bitterly, but his thoughts were too undisciplined, and his thoughts on the subject of Wickham too heated, too illiberal, to allow him to express himself judiciously, and he knew he would only make matters worse by speaking aloud what he truly wished to say. Nor did the lady speak, and they finished the dance as they had begun, in silence. He handed her to her seat and left her with a formal bow, and a deep and disturbing sense of something lost.

Chapter Twenty

After having seated Elizabeth, Darcy had barely time to draw breath before Miss Bingley approached, a malicious and triumphant smile playing about her lips. Linking her arm firmly through his, she said, “Here you are! And so, Mr. Darcy, I see you have finally been so overcome with
ennui
as to make the leap into Hertfordshire society; so good of you—and even before you had had opportunity to dance with your hostess! I am certain the good people of Hertfordshire were highly gratified to see it, as was I! As you
are
my guest, I can wish nothing more than that you should enjoy yourself.” Darcy looked down at her rather dejectedly, but made no reply; he had not the strength of will at the moment to engage Miss Bingley in repartée. The lady continued: “And were you well pleased with Miss Elizabeth Bennet as a partner? You seemed very quiet in the last dance, I must say. But perhaps you did not care for the conversation? I can sympathise with you, there; I have just been talking with her sister, who wished to hear every thing she could concerning a certain lieutenant under Colonel Forster; Miss Eliza apparently has a great interest in that quarter.”

Darcy, however, was already well aware of that fact, which robbed Miss Bingley of much of her intended effect. She made one or two more attempts to draw him into speech, until, failing to arouse either his curiosity or his ire, she released him and went in search of Elizabeth, as she very much wanted some one whom she might regale to greater effect. Darcy watched her rather dismally as she left him, his emotions in turmoil—charged with frustration, regret, and disgust. His crusade against Wickham had failed; his hopes for the evening were ruined—at least as far as Elizabeth was concerned; he now had a new worry: Bingley and Miss Bennet; and, to make the evening complete, all his warm hopes, and his best efforts to bring them off, had merely given Miss Bingley a new source of ammunition for her ill-natured teazing. He gave one more look across the room at Elizabeth, fleetingly remembering her hand in his: she would have to do the best she could with Wickham; at least she could not be the object of a serious campaign, he tried to assure himself, as her father’s fortune was wholly insufficient to Wickham’s needs; and her own goodness and sense would protect her from any attempts at a harmful dalliance, regardless of Wickham’s charms. After all, she was not a naïve and open-hearted girl of fifteen, but a clear-sighted young woman who would certainly know how to avoid an imprudent entanglement. With this attempt at reassurance he would have to be satisfied—he could see nothing more that could be done at the moment. He straightened his shoulders and, forcing aside the distraction of his mind, turned his attention to his friend. What was Bingley about, that his affairs were become a matter of open discussion?

“Mr. Darcy?”—a man’s voice came just then from his side. Turning, he was surprised to find himself being addressed by that same parson who had so publicly and thoroughly embarrassed Elizabeth during the opening set. He looked first back to Bingley, then reluctantly looked down at this fellow, rather desperately trying to keep his mind clear of the torrent of events that kept thrusting themselves upon his attention.

“Mr. Darcy,” the parson repeated with a deep and affected bow, “My name, Sir, is William Collins, and I must apologise most humbly for not having made myself known to you before now—but I have only this moment become aware of the fact that you are related to my most noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.” Here the man stopped, as though waiting for a reply. Darcy could do nothing but stare at this walking affront to propriety: first he accosts a gentleman unknown to him, then he throws about the name and station of a lady so far above him as to render it an impertinence to claim any knowledge of her. Undeterred by Darcy’s silence, the clergyman went on: “I can assure you, Sir, that your esteemed aunt was in perfect health yesterday se’nnight.”

Darcy had heard that his Aunt Catherine had acquired a new parson, and this man appeared to be just the sort of sycophantic fool she would add to her menagerie. Much was explained, though nothing excused. “I thank you for the information,” he replied in a cool and dismissive tone; his eyes again sought Bingley and Miss Bennet.

The man refused to take the hint, however, and continued, “Lady Catherine de Bourgh has but lately condescended, with greatest affability, to give me the living in her gift at Hunsford. She has kindly given me leave to come into Hertfordshire to visit the worthy Mr. Bennet—
and
his fair daughters.” At the latter portion of this speech the man gave a knowing smirk, as one who would say, “You take my meaning, I’m sure.” Darcy, who had reluctantly looked back at him during this speech, at first felt defiled by this too-personal communication, then was thunderstruck by the memory of this fellow’s look as he took Elizabeth to the dance floor. He had danced the first two dances with her! Darcy realised with horror that this extraordinarily offensive clergyman had set his sights on Elizabeth! Convinced that the world had gone mad, and that Fate had declared him its plaything, he dared not ask what further evils this evening might hold.

Disgusted with the man—his odd manner, his boorish behaviour to Elizabeth, his effrontery in introducing himself and in sharing a confidence which Darcy would now give a great deal to be ignorant of—he replied with a voice as cold as humanly possible, “I am certain my aunt would never bestow a favour without reason.” He did not add, “I imagine she was only too happy to see your back.”

Making the mental gesture of shaking off a clinging besmirchment on his person, he turned brusquely away from this odious individual. He walked once about the room to clear his thoughts. Miss Bingley found him during his circuit, and greeted him with a smile of even greater malice than the one before: “I see you have met Miss Eliza Bennet’s cousin—so pleasant to meet one’s future in-laws, is not it? And a parson, too; perhaps he might perform the ceremony! How delightful
that
would be!”

Darcy looked down at her in shock. “I beg your pardon,” he replied rather blankly, “I am not sure I take your meaning.”

“Why, only that the Reverend Mr. Collins is Miss Eliza’s cousin,” replied Miss Bingley with a great show of innocence. “Did not you know?”

The clergyman, another relation! Darcy, with a bemusement which left him nearly unable to make sense of his own thoughts, had not the energy to repel Miss Bingley’s attack; ceding her victory to her, he withdrew, saying only, “You must not ignore your other guests, Miss Bingley—do not let me keep you.” He could not fail to observe the hard satisfaction that glittered in her eyes as he made a brief bow and turned away.

Appalled and reeling from this latest revelation, he recalled that he had only just been wondering what further unpleasantness might await him, and surrendered himself to the irony of receiving such immediate return for having challenged an angry Fate.

His thoughts disordered by too many discoveries coming too quickly together, he roamed vaguely through a number of rooms without attending, deaf to the gaiety around him, until he came upon Bingley and Miss Bennet holding a quiet conversation in a corner of the drawing-room; this brought him back to a sense of purpose, and he determinedly turned his attentions towards his friend. He did so with relief: here, at least, was a problem that was not so directly and pressingly his own; one that he might pursue with a clear mind. A quarter-hour later, however, he could not feel such happy detachment: the degree of attention Bingley devoted to the lady must give pause to all his friends. He had seen Bingley partial to a lady before, but the present case went well beyond any he had observed in the past: so far as Darcy was able to see, Bingley was utterly unaware that he was at a ball, or that he was the host at that ball, or, indeed, that there was any one else about, aside from Miss Bennet. On the lady’s side there appeared to be less consuming interest; she smiled pleasantly, as she always did, and certainly Bingley held her attention, but there was a persevering complacency to her air that argued against any great attachment, or, indeed, any great depth of feeling at all.

Having made this observation, Darcy became cautious. He must not rush to judgement on so delicate a matter. If, as he feared, Bingley were to be greatly attached to Miss Bennet, he, Darcy, must be very sure of the lady’s regard before venturing to influence his friend. Knowing as he did that his prejudice against the match must colour his judgement, the happiness of his friend, as well as that of the lady, must be protected from injury by an unwarranted officiousness on his part. He therefore bent his powers of observation upon the couple, most seriously endeavouring to gauge the degree of attachment the lady felt for his friend.

There certainly was no want of matter for study, for they almost never parted company. Darcy watched them for at least three quarters of an hour, during which time they engaged in a set of dancing, consumed two cups of punch each (chivalrously fetched by Bingley’s hand), and largely ignored six more people who sought to speak with them. The only times, in fact, when others might gain any recognition at all were during those moments when Bingley absented himself from her in search of refreshments; he then became again the host and master of the evening, and she indulged in conversations with her sisters.

Supper soon being served, Darcy followed them into the dining-room and found a seat affording a good view of the couple. Shortly, however, Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by Lady Lucas, sat down directly opposite him. He resigned himself to the aggravation that must arise from her company, however, consoling himself with the thought that whatever vexations he endured would be in the service of his friend. Elizabeth followed her mother shortly after and sat on the other side of Lady Lucas, two down from him. Having her near gave him no gratification, however; he had given over any hope in that direction for the evening—Wickham had quite effectively blocked any expectations he might have had for pleasure in that quarter, and, in any event, the question of Bingley’s and Miss Bennet’s attachment was now become the more grave and weighty matter. He did look Elizabeth’s way often enough, but the remnants of that frustration which had ended their dance guarded him from serious thought with regard to her.

While occupied in observing his friend, he could not but overhear Mrs. Bennet’s long-winded raptures over the anticipated union, as she, too, dragged his friend’s private affairs into public view, describing in glowing and highly audible terms her happiness at the prospect of having Bingley as a son. Her elation was expressed in a loud whisper, which was hardly less than a shout, as she worked to be heard above the clatter of cutlery and the din of scores of conversations. That she was delighted by the possibility was obvious; that she felt all the advantages of the match, revelled in them and gloated over them, was equally obvious. She spoke of Bingley’s income with an interest that was only just short of avarice, contemplated the benefits to her younger daughters of moving in circles where they might meet and marry other rich men, and congratulated herself on the nearness of Netherfield to Longbourn. When she declared that the Bingley sisters must desire the connection as much as she did herself, Darcy’s expression of amazement and disbelief might have been apparent to his neighbours; how she could remain insensible of Miss Bingley’s open disdain for almost the entirety of the Bennet family was beyond comprehension. Indeed, Darcy’s contempt and incredulity at the whole of this public display could scarcely be contained, so irritating it was to feelings already fraught with frustration; he did, however, earnestly endeavour to set his jaw and let it pass. But, as her panegyric on the nuptials of her daughter and his friend became more and more animated, and more and more lengthy, his disdain overcame his breeding and he allowed his face to reflect his displeasure without disguise.

Poor Elizabeth expostulated repeatedly with her mother, trying to restrain her volubility and, more especially, her volume; but in vain. At one point during such an attempt, Darcy distinguished his own name amongst the hushed syllables of Elizabeth’s entreaty. Her mother, with all her usual want of tact, replied aloud: “What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing
he
may not like to hear.” While it was hardly possible for Darcy to abominate Mrs. Bennet’s manners more than he already did, he almost admired her genius for making herself offensive.

At this direct affront, however, Darcy underwent a sudden shift in disposition; his contempt and disgust changed over to a resolute solemnity of purpose. He had a job of work to do, and an important one: regardless of any other consideration, he must determine whether he was to influence his friend and dissuade him from his pursuit of Miss Bennet. That was the long and short of it. From that point forward did he most strenuously undertake to shut out Mrs. Bennet’s effusions: at any rate there could be little left to hear that he had not heard already, and he was certain, with absolute conviction, that she would not be able to best her present mark for ill-bred incivility. There was now before him only the question of being certain of Miss Bennet’s relative indifference—or its opposite, her sincere attachment—to his friend.

He continued to observe her most carefully as the couple engaged in conversation; her steady serenity of countenance, whether she spoke with Bingley or with her neighbours, never varied. Having been exposed to the habits of display of innumerable courting couples in the course of nine Seasons in London, he was well aware of the signs to look for, but, try as he might, he could discern no such demonstration of esteem on Miss Bennet’s side; she did not reach out to touch Bingley’s arm as they laughed, her eyes were always kept demurely away from his; even when Bingley faced away from her, Darcy could distinguish no warm glances at him that would bespeak attachment. There was never a moment in which Miss Bennet crossed the bounds of absolute propriety—she might have been at a church bazaar rather than a ball; nor did he ever see any change in her manner when she would turn to one of her neighbours at table, demonstrating that her behaviour to Bingley was in no way different from her behaviour to them. He watched them throughout supper, confirming his observations again and again, until at length he became wholly convinced that Miss Bennet simply could not share Bingley’s attachment. To the very best of his ability, he could not see that Miss Bennet distinguished his friend in any way as being more than a pleasant dinner companion. On reaching this conviction, however, his thoughts became even more grave as he considered what must be his course of action. He realised exactly how much this decision must affect his friend’s happiness, and the idea of shattering Bingley’s hopes tore at Darcy’s heart; but, he felt, the head must rule—the heart could not be trusted, certainly not on such a momentous and anxious case as this. He must not let his own disinclination to be the bearer of bad news, dissuade him from protecting his friend’s future.