Gay Pride and Prejudice (13 page)

“Far better, then, would you say, to sublimate those feelings into a more acceptable vein?”

“Perhaps. But is that always possible? For wouldn’t one still feel one’s sentiments, suppressed or not?”

“I would argue just so. However, I have yet to find a situation where sentiments that challenge the accepted order are not cruelly received, even by those closest to us.”

Elizabeth pictured Mrs. Hurst, seeming to watch Caroline all the time with something akin to disgust in her countenance. Even now, Caroline’s elder sister was half-turned from her companions, another group of fine ladies in from town, to observe their exchange. In contrast was Jane, who stood with Mrs. Philips occasionally sneaking curious glances at the two of them.

“I must admit,” said Elizabeth, “I have found the opposite to be true. Sometimes the bosom of one’s family is the only place one can safely confess one’s differences and find a reception free of prejudice.”

Caroline followed her gaze to where Jane conversed with their aunt. “In that case, you are truly fortunate, Eliza.”

“To be sure.”

“Still, I would own that we women have it easier than men, in many ways. We can spend the majority of our days at home with family and friends, unseen and unknown to the outer world, while most men do not have the same luxury of retirement, not until they reach a certain age.” She was watching Darcy as she said this, and Elizabeth was struck by a thought that had not reached full maturity when Caroline laughed lightly and spoke again: “But what a serious conversation, given our surroundings! Perhaps I should engage you on a topic far less commodious, such as the line of your gown or the dismal nature of the weather with which we have been accosted of late.”

“Indeed. And I might talk about my dance card, or the number of couples present.”

“Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones.”

“Are they? I do not have significant experience with the latter.” Elizabeth stopped, realizing that she had just called attention to the social division between them, a line that had seemed important to her companion on previous encounters.

“Truly, you have not missed much. Although I do enjoy a good masquerade, with everyone in costume and the expected state of affairs credibly disrupted for the whole of an evening,” said Caroline, smiling at her with such warmth that Elizabeth could not help but smile back, missing as she did so the approach of Charlotte Lucas.

“Eliza,” said Charlotte, touching her elbow.

“Charlotte! How are you?” The question was genuine. Despite exchanging regular letters, Elizabeth had not seen her dear friend for an entire week. “Miss Bingley, do you know Miss Lucas?”

“We have met,” said Caroline, inclining her head regally.

Charlotte nodded back, her usually open face veiled. “Miss Bingley. Thank you so much for the invitation.”

“You are quite welcome. Please excuse me—the music is about to begin, and I promised Mr. Darcy the first two dances.” She bowed slightly, again opting for a masculine gesture of leave-taking, and swept away in her London gown while Elizabeth and Charlotte stood awkwardly together, done up in their Meryton finest.

“I did not know the two of you were on such familiar terms,” said Charlotte at last, her voice stilted.

“We are not. Or perhaps we are, but only because of Jane. Look, there is Mr. Collins. Is he not just as I described in my letters? I believe he might actually have it in his designs to try to make a wife of me. Can you imagine me, the wife of a rector?”

“And why not? Are you somehow above assuming the duties of mistress of a parsonage, owing perhaps to the quality of your new connections?”

“Charly,” Elizabeth said, her hand on her friend’s bare arm, the skin of which only a matter of weeks before she had caressed pleasurably as they enjoyed a few rare stolen hours together at Lucas Lodge. “Do not be cross with me. I am sorry I have not been to see you. The weather was abysmal, you know it was.”

“A bit of rain does not seem to have prevented you from forming a friendship with a woman you previously assured me you despised. But perhaps I am no longer privy to the inner workings of your mind, Lizzy, and for that, I am sorry indeed.” Abruptly she turned away, her cheeks bright spots of red in her otherwise uniformly pale countenance.

Elizabeth made to go after her, but then glanced around, aware of their surroundings. It would be a serious mistake to allow herself to be observed running after Charlotte, in what must look to all the world like nothing more than a lover’s spat. Instead, she approached Jane and their mother’s sister and forced herself to engage spiritedly in what suddenly felt like odious small talk.

But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though most of her prospects for gentle amusement seemed to have been destroyed for the evening, this loss could not dwell long on her spirits. The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn, apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give, while Darcy and Miss Bingley moved elegantly about the floor, looking as if they were made for one another. Each time the dance pattern brought her near Caroline, Elizabeth was careful to avert her eyes. The notion that Charlotte had any need to be suspicious of their interaction was ridiculous, of course—Caroline would never allow herself to care for one such as her, while Elizabeth could not imagine overlooking Caroline’s arrogance, no matter if they happened or not to share a preference in the type of companionship they sought.

After Mr. Collins, Elizabeth danced with an officer, and had the refreshment of hearing from him that Wickham, their mutual friend, was universally liked. When those dances were over, she returned to Charlotte to make amends. Her friend, not being prone to the enjoyment of rancor, received her courteously and soon engaged her in a discussion of all that had passed during their week apart. They were deep in conversation, when Elizabeth found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy, who took her so much by surprise in his application for her hand that, without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of mind.

Charlotte tried to console her: “I dare say you will find him very agreeable.”

“Heaven forbid! Do not wish on me such an evil.”

When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper, not to appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man of Darcy’s consequence. Elizabeth made no answer to this incitement, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite Mr. Darcy, and reading in her neighbours’ looks their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent.

Recalling her earlier conversation with Miss Bingley, she said: “It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or on the quality of the musicians.”

“Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?”

“Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible.”

“Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?”

“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly; “for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.”

“That is hardly a very striking resemblance of your own character,” said he. “How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You believe it a faithful portrait, undoubtedly.”

“I must not decide on my own performance.”

He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added, “When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance.”

The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread his features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said, “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 has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,” replied Elizabeth, “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”

At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr. Darcy, he stopped with a bow to compliment him on his dancing and his partner.

“Such very superior dancing is not often seen, my dear sir. It is evident that you belong to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza”—glancing at Jane and Bingley, who were dancing together—”shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in! But let me not interrupt you, Mr. Darcy. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me.”

The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir William’s allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and Jane. Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner, and said, “Sir William’s interruption has made me forget what we were talking of.”

“I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted 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?” said he, smiling.

“I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of something else.”

“The present always occupies you in such scenes—does it?” said he, with a look of doubt.

“Yes, always,” she replied, without knowing what she said, for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, “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.”

“I am,” said he, with a firm voice.

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

“I hope not. May I ask to what these questions tend?”

“Merely to the illustration of your character,” said she. “I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”

“I can readily believe,” answered he, “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.”

“Then I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,” he replied.

She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for in Darcy’s breast there was a powerful feeling which directed all his anger toward another.

They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her again, her expression far more serious than before.

“I hear you have found a friend in George Wickham. Is that true?”

Elizabeth frowned. “He is a new, not unpleasant acquaintance, that much is accurate. Why do you ask?”

“Your younger sisters have been talking to me about him, and Darcy told me of your conversation.”

“Already? We only finished our dance a moment ago. If I may ask, what is the nature of the disagreement between him and Wickham?”

Caroline paused, her glance seeking out Darcy where he stood beside her brother half a room away, surveying the dance scene. “I am not at liberty to tell you everything, but let me recommend you, as a friend, not to give implicit confidence to all Wickham’s assertions. As to Darcy’s using him ill, it is perfectly false. On the contrary, Darcy has always been remarkably kind to him, though Wickham has treated him in a most infamous manner. I imagine he failed to inform you that he is the son of the late Mr. Darcy’s steward, a longtime servant at Pemberley. “

Her voice had taken on shades of the haughty tone Elizabeth had learned to detest during their earliest meetings, and she could not help but take exception. “Their enmity appears to me to be entirely mutual, Miss Bingley. And so far I have heard you accuse Wickham of nothing worse than being the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward, a fact of which, I can assure you, he did inform me himself.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied Caroline, after a moment. “Excuse my interference, Miss Bennet—it was kindly meant.” She turned away without another word, her previous warmth replaced by cool indifference.

Elizabeth watched her go, with warring emotions. Perhaps Caroline truly had been trying to help, and her own presumptions of the lady’s prejudice against Wickham’s low beginnings were erroneous. And yet, Caroline had demonstrated more than once an offensive air of superiority in matters of rank and fortune; surely it was only natural that Elizabeth would treat her comments regarding Wickham with circumspection.