Into Hertfordshire (4 page)

“I was hungry, Caroline!” Bingley protested.

“I dare say Mr. Darcy was too, yet he could control those urgings we share with the rest of God’s creatures long enough to present a civilised appearance. A man, however pleasant his character, must always endeavour to overcome his animal nature.”

Darcy could find nothing in this speech to which he could take exception. Indeed, he had to admit to himself that he quite agreed.

Not so with Bingley. “‘Animal nature’, Caroline!” he expostulated. “You make it sound as if I were a ravening beast, when all I have done is to sit here quietly in the most composed manner and eat a piece of cake.”

“Well, you certainly smell like a beast,” said his sister with a disdainful sniff.

“I pray you, Darcy, support me here,” he implored his friend.

“Readily, Sir, but for one, small, inconsequential detail.”

“Which is?”

“Your sister is right.”

Throwing up his hands, Bingley rose and fetched himself more cake from the sideboard. Then he sat himself down at the greatest possible distance from the table. “There! Now no one need be troubled by my savage ravening or my bestial stench.”

During the rest of the afternoon Miss Bingley, being engaged with her sister on some needlework, had little to say, save to enquire once in a demur manner if Darcy required anything. Therefore, as Darcy ascended to his apartment he found himself in rather greater charity with her than when he had descended. Had he been the truly rational creature he wished to be, he would have seen that Miss Bingley’s impertinence had merely been directed at an object other than himself, and resented it with equal intensity. But since he agreed with her, her expression of distaste seemed to him only good sense, and he quite overlooked the fact that, as a younger sister and an unmarried woman, the dictates of civilised behaviour she so highly esteemed gave her no right to criticise her older brother at all.

Darcy’s selection for his evening attire was that of the neutral grouping, although he looked appreciatively at those quarrelsome garments lying so temptingly to one side. When Perkins had got him to the stage where there was little more to do than don his coat, a strong fit of lassitude overcame him, as the short night and long day’s activities worked on him. He sat down heavily and looked longingly at his bed.

“Perkins, I have a mind to lie down for a bit.”

“Sir!” his man protested, “you would be all over wrinkles!”

“It is only a country assembly, man, not St. James’.”

“All the more reason, Sir!” Perkins’ tone momentarily took on the admonitory accents of injured propriety. This was quickly subdued, however, and he explained with dignity, “If you were to turn out at court with wrinkles it would be a mark of distinction, owing either to some great need or to your disdain of convention. But here in the country, Sir, wrinkles are common, in both senses of the word. Why, it would be as much as my place is worth if I was to let you go out so; I could never hold my head up again below stairs. Let me go fetch you a cup of tea, instead, Sir.”

“You had better make it coffee, Perkins; I fear tea would be insufficient to the task.”

As Darcy sat waiting for his man to return, he sank into a brown study as the day’s bustle dropt from him, leaving him enervated and stupid. His thoughts began drifting; they first stopped on Georgiana. He had had no letter from her for nearly a fortnight, which was unusual and troubling. Her last had been troubling, too: merely a recitation of her reading and musical studies, it was more like a journal entry than a letter from his closest relation. The woman he had engaged as her companion sent him weekly reports which assured him that his sister was not unwell, but still…. He dwelt on this for a time, feeling how wrong it was for him to be frivoling here in the hinterlands when she needed his care; but then she had practically begged him to go back to London that she might have whatever comfort she could find in solitude. From there his thoughts drifted to Wickham: how dearly he would like to visit some great ruin on that man—no, not a man; a monster. Nothing could be too horrible for a creature like Wickham. If only this were an hundred years earlier, when the laws of society were bent more in favour of the
victims
of such acts as Wickham’s, rather than treating them as though they themselves were the villains…society: hmmph! Society, indeed! Society and all its nattering, idle, venal women; untouched by cares themselves, they could feel nothing for the cares of others. Georgiana’s inconsolable pain would have been nothing more than a delectable morsel of gossip for them. Scavengers and carrion-feeders, all of them. His imagination brought them instantly before him, gasping and tittering behind their fans at the scandal, their eyes watching him every where but never meeting his own; whispering, passing secretive little notes…. Why had not Georgiana written? She never went more than two or three days without writing…. He should be at Pemberley looking after her, not wasting his time amongst the unlettered and unwashed at a country dance…. Dancing, what a foolish waste of human energies….

His thoughts continued in this slow revolve until Perkins arrived with a cup of strong, black coffee and a covered tray. “I took it upon me to bring you a bite of food too, Sir. The ‘refreshments’ at the assembly might not live up to the name, Sir, if you take my meaning.”

“Ah, Perkins, that was well thought of.” Darcy roused himself and went to the small table near the window. The sun was just setting, and the sky was sharp and clear. The night will be cold, he thought with a sort of bleak satisfaction.

Chapter Four

Darcy was the first one downstairs. This was not unusual—rather the opposite—so he was by no means surprised, but still it annoyed him that no one in Bingley’s entire household could contrive to be on time. Next to arrive were Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, and as they descended the stairs they were the picture of Darcy’s Society women; their fans aflutter, giggling and whispering, they were the very creatures of his imagination, and unconsciously drew his resentment down upon themselves. Miss Bingley came up to him, her smiles fading. She viewed his attire with a quizzical look. Her gown was of lively colours; his own stark black and white, as Perkins had predicted, added nothing to her appearance, though it did not contrast with it. Darcy thought with some satisfaction of the “quarrelsome” grouping: it would indeed have made her look a scarecrow.

“How...striking…you look this evening, Mr. Darcy,” she drawled, stepping back from him, her lips drawn into a thin line of dissatisfaction. “Your man has turned you out most carefully.”

“I thank you, Miss Bingley,” he replied. Since her own compliment was patently insincere, he did not feel compelled to offer one in return. As the silence lengthened between them, her eyes flashed and she turned back to her sister with a toss of her head. Darcy was thus left in the full enjoyment of a marked contempt for them both, and, indeed, the society of all women. When Hurst and Bingley came down, the party went out to the carriages. Miss Bingley very pointedly entered her brother-in-law’s carriage, leaving Darcy and Bingley to themselves in Bingley’s coach. Darcy could not be sorry for the fact, but her obvious disdain did little to appease his mood.

Bingley was in high spirits, and Darcy was in a frame of mind to be offended even by the heedless cheer of his friend. He knew from experience that Bingley would enjoy himself to the hilt, would immediately and effortlessly become familiar with the entire company, would draw the prettiest woman exclusively to himself for a dancing partner, and would very soon develop a discernible partiality towards her. How he contrived all this in the space of a single evening was beyond Darcy’s understanding, but he had seen it often enough to be convinced of the inexorable nature of the proceedings.

At length Bingley became aware of his friend’s withdrawn attitude and asked whether he was quite himself. Darcy made but small reply and Bingley looked at him with concern. He spent the rest of the short trip attempting to brighten Darcy’s mood, but to little effect.

Bingley himself brightened again when they arrived at the edge of the little town of Meryton. The faint strains of a lively air reached their ears. “There, Darcy, you shall see: I am sure we shall enjoy the evening. And who knows? —that certain she might well be within.” Darcy gave a listless snort in reply. They pulled up in front of the hall and descended. Darcy brought himself to his full height, squared his shoulders like Guy Fawkes about to mount the hangman’s scaffold, and turned to escort Miss Bingley into the assembly.

The appearance of the newcomers naturally caused a stir and a wave of whispers to spread through the room. And certainly Darcy, given his stature, his fashionable attire, and well-featured face, received his full share of the attention. Unfortunately, that very attention, which for most persons would have been a welcome sign of consequence and notice, served to fix in him the dark mood he had carried in with him; he felt like a caged bear being paraded at a country fair for the peasantry to gawk at. And, even more regrettably, the scrutiny he received created among the revellers a general awareness of his marked lack of enthusiasm for his surroundings; this was soon interpreted as scorn for the company in which he found himself. Such was his mood that when the early smiles and flutterings turned to blank stares and cold shoulders, it brought him, not a sense of his wrong-doing, but a perverse sense of vindication. That they should dislike him was proof of his acuity and insight. Society was the same every where, thought he with some bitterness; well enough, let the cats say what they would—it mattered little. Here, at least, he was not compelled to cater to it. He would never see any of them again in his life, so what did it signify? He was vaguely aware that he was behaving churlishly, and the better part of him felt it, but not so strongly that he was minded to break from the manner of his beginning.

While his friend was dancing, Darcy spent most of his time drifting about the room, having been introduced only to the family of one Sir William Lucas, whose conversation he found less than captivating. Under the circumstances, his strict sense of propriety would not allow him to enter into conversation with the others attending—even if he had had a desire to. But he was aware that his neighbours at the assembly looked at him with little approbation, and he allowed his sentiments to mirror theirs, leaving him with little reason to seek acquaintance with any of them. He watched with scant enthusiasm as his friend led his third, or possibly his fourth, partner down the dance, while he was left to amuse himself. Looking about the room he saw a number of young ladies without partners, and more than one whose countenance would satisfy all but the most exacting critics of female beauty; but in Darcy’s present state of mind, their presence served only to remind him of how ill-suited he was to his surroundings: while he might in certain circumstances find himself able to enjoy their company, these were decidedly not such circumstances. The truth of the matter, not often admitted even to himself, was that Mr. Darcy was slow to feel comfortable with new people, and the force of will it would take on this occasion, to seek introduction and enter into conversation with a strange young woman, was simply not within his compass this evening. Nor did he wish to converse with either of Bingley’s sisters, given how things stood, and so he was left with no alternative but to simply wander about the place, trying to stay out of people’s way, and, quite irrationally, becoming more and more provoked by the situation. At length Bingley left the dance to fetch his partner of the moment a refreshment, and found Darcy standing near the table of drinks. He took the opportunity to persuade his friend to enter into the spirit of the evening: “Come, Darcy, I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”

“I certainly shall not,” replied Darcy irritably. Here Bingley had left him to his own devices for well over an hour, and now spoke to him only in passing—and to persuade him to dance, of all things. His glance travelled around the room, seeing again the same collection of strangers’ faces; not a few of them turned coldly away from his gaze. “You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.”

“I would not be so fastidious as you are for a kingdom!” cried his friend. “Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.”

“You
are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room.” said Darcy, though this was certainly untrue; Bingley was merely dancing with the
most
handsome girl in the room. But his present mood was such that Darcy was ready to disagree on any and every point.

“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld!” exclaimed Bingley. “But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”

“Which do you mean?” He turned around and saw a young woman seated nearby, happily engaged in watching the dance. He had noticed her earlier, and had resisted the inclination to let his eye linger in her direction more than once during his wanderings, but he would by no means admit as much to Bingley. Her dark eyes, alive with mirth and yet at the same time showing an astute appreciation of all that was passing, had caught his attention particularly. Now, sensing his observation of her, she turned to meet his gaze. Not wishing to see her eyes harden as she recognised who it was that beheld her, or perhaps because his more gentlemanly side felt his general incivility during the evening, he quickly withdrew his own glance. To Bingley he said, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt
me.
I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.” Bingley left him with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders. Darcy then glanced cautiously back over his shoulder for fear he might have been overheard; but the young woman had turned away and did not appear to have paid them any attention. He was relieved: ill-humour he would allow himself—open discourtesy he would not. However, had he been able to observe her while he was speaking, he would have seen the young lady’s eyes widen at his ill-mannered and disobliging description of herself.

Darcy held true to his course for the rest of the evening, dancing only one set each with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, having promised Bingley he would do so, and waited out his delivery from durance. At length the musicians, yawning and stretching themselves, packed up their instruments, forcing Bingley at last to stop dancing. The Netherfield party returned to their carriages in nearly universal good spirits; the ladies were tired but smiling, and every one save Darcy had enjoyed themselves—after their fashion. Bingley and Darcy helped Hurst stagger into his carriage and handed his lady in beside him. He was snoring contentedly before they had closed the door.

On her part, Miss Bingley was well pleased with her social conquests: introductions to her were much sought after, as was her hand for the dancing. She was sufficiently mollified to condescend to enter her brother’s coach with good grace for the ride home. He congratulated her on her success: “Well, Caroline, you must be pleased; you might have danced every dance, had you wished it.” Such was his view of things that to be sought after for dancing was of greater import than being deferred to by one’s new acquaintances. Not so his sister. She was secretly delighted by her new-found status, but could scarcely say as much; to have made a conquest among such a company was no great distinction, and to be pleased by it was therefore beneath her dignity.

“The dancing was, indeed, the best part of the evening: at least the music was well played,” she sniffed. “Certainly the people themselves had little to offer.”

“Caroline, how can you speak so?” demanded Bingley. “Our new neighbours are as a fine a set of people as any one could wish to meet—most accommodating. Every one wanted to make your acquaintance.”

“Yes, Charles, but that is more than I can say in return. Who would wish to be acquainted with such people? No fashion, no taste, no conversation; no—I can take no pleasure in being esteemed by such as these. Do not you agree, Mr. Darcy?” She looked at Darcy, certain of the coincidence of their feelings on this point, at least.

“Indeed. I have never spent a more pointless evening.”

“How the two of you can come away from such an evening as this without having received a jot of pleasure is beyond me,” cried Bingley. “Every one was most kind, and seemed sincere in their desire to be so. And I have never been in company with such a collection of pretty girls in all my life.”

“Oh, Charles!” exclaimed Miss Bingley, “a fine countenance is every virtue in your eyes.”

Bingley gave his sister a cool look. “I am not so callow as you make out, Caroline. But I defy you to find fault with Miss Bennet,” he said, naming the partner he favoured most during the evening.

“Oh! There, Charles, I quite agree with you. She
is
a sweet girl. I should not mind knowing her better.”

“Do not you agree, Darcy?” Bingley asked.

“She is handsome,” he allowed, but he could not leave the compliment unalloyed, “To my taste, however, she smiles too much.”

Bingley laughed at his friend. “There is just no pleasing you to-night, Darcy. ‘Smiles too much’, indeed. How absurd!”

As Darcy prepared for sleep that evening, he could not help but hear Bingley’s words echo in his mind. He felt that he
had
acted absurdly, and part of him wished he had shown better manners. But another part of him felt that a goodly portion of the blame for his behaviour, if not all, most properly belonged to the people with whom he was forced to consort. Whether in Town or Country, Society played the same games and with the same lack of substance. Vapid and vacuous, not all their fine trappings could disguise their lack of true depth and delicacy of feeling. His only wish was never to be in company with this present lot again.

His ill-tempered fault-finding carried him to bed. Just as he was dropping off to sleep, though, the vision of a dark-eyed face, lovely and alive with pleasure, came unbidden to his mind.