Into Kent (2 page)

Chapter Two

The next morning at breakfast, Bingley was again moved to defend his sentiments and intentions towards Miss Bennet: “Darcy, I have given it full consideration, and I cannot but believe you must be mistaken: I am convinced Miss Bennet has a regard for me.” He spoke with certainty, and the look he gave Darcy was almost challenging.

Darcy knew his friend could be stubborn, if pressed, and so replied with all mildness, “All I can say, Bingley, is that no matter how many times I go over it, I come to the same conclusions; I have even put myself in your place, and tried my best to see a mutual regard and esteem between you—but I could not do so, when it came to the lady. It is possible that I might be in error, no matter how certain I may be, but where there can be such equivocation, where the case is so fraught with potential error, is the risk justified? And have you truly reflected on what life in the Bennet clan would compass? Can you imagine that the mother would not be at Netherfield daily? That the younger girls would not make it more their home than that of their father? Or that they would not have every officer in Meryton constantly at your door, and in your drawing-room? Heavens, man, you would never have a moment’s peace!”

“Perhaps that is true…But we could always come up to Town.”

“Oh, Lord, Bingley—that would be ten times worse! They would never leave! Constantly underfoot—you would have to present them to your entire acquaintance as relations; what then?”

Bingley made no reply.

“Truly, Charles,” said Darcy with quiet sincerity, “I have gone through the matter with greatest care, and I cannot but counsel you against the marriage. I think you know I wish only your happiness—your
abiding
happiness—and I hope you would not think I could take up this attitude without being sure of my ground. Nine Seasons in London have surely taught me enough to see a deep regard where it exists, and you have seen it yourself not a few times, or something very like, from the ladies whom you have honoured with your favour.”

Bingley remained quiet, his eyes thoughtful and doubting. Darcy went on, “Assuming it were only the lady concerned—amiable, reasonable, and lovely as she unquestionably is—if she returned your feelings from her heart, I should say you could do no better; but, when one takes into account her family, and, to say no less, the uncertainty regarding her feelings towards you, the conclusion must be contrary.”

During this speech Bingley listened attentively to his friend, clearly weighing Darcy’s words; at its conclusion he said dispiritedly, “I cannot argue with you, Darcy, I never could; nor could I swear that you were in the wrong, given the study you made of us together; and when I compare it with my own memories of her company, I can find nothing to contradict you. And, while I know how far you are willing to go in pursuit of a debate, I am also certain that you do not persist in this solely to win your point: you are not a man to toy with others’ feelings for your own amusement. But…still, I had thought Miss Bennet…” he did not finish, and Darcy did not belabour the subject further; it would be best to let Bingley’s own good sense guide him, and let him make of it what he could. Darcy knew his friend’s honour and principles would never allow him to persist in his attentions to a lady of whose esteem there could be any question, and, moreover, who had so much to tempt her into the union. And, convinced as he was of Miss Bennet’s own delicate sense of honour, it were an ungentlemanly thing to place before such a lady a choice so easily misled by interest; Bingley, he knew, was incapable of acting with such disregard for what was upright and fitting.

Shortly after breakfast, however, Bingley’s sisters arrived and the topic was again canvassed at length; Bingley showed a much greater inclination to argue with his sisters than with his friend. Having to stand by, unable to say anything that might help his friend while he listened to the sisters’ more interested views and protestations, was very distressing to Darcy. Listening to them urging their own embarrassment, their sense of the match being a degradation, and how
they
must suffer from having such relations, while their brother was clearly suffering to a much greater degree from the pangs of loss and love unrequited, made Darcy wish from his heart that he could take sides with Bingley against them; but he could bring no arguments to bear that might aid his friend. In Bingley’s disappointment he saw a magnified reflection of his own, and he could therefore easily imagine how Bingley, who obviously cherished much deeper intentions towards Miss Bennet than any he had let himself feel towards her sister, must be the more affected in having to let them go. And that it should be by Darcy’s own hand that his friend’s hopes were dashed, made him all the more sensible of Bingley’s distress. And, certainly, having the two sisters adding their voices to his, did nothing to relieve his mind of those qualms he could not help but entertain from time to time in the face of his friend’s heartsick protests; he continually challenged his observations against the arguments going forward, to ensure that nothing which might contradict his reasoning escaped his notice; however, no such benevolent contradiction came to light.

But Darcy was not one to shirk a duty: why it always fell to him to act, he did not know—others of his acquaintance did not seem to carry that burden in life—but he persevered nonetheless, lending his support to Bingley’s sisters’ when necessary. Reminding himself frequently of the careful observations he had made of Miss Bennet’s demeanour towards his friend, and, just as importantly, of the many instances of improper behaviour in the Bennet family—and, most particularly, the kind of home-life his friend could expect with the Bennets as near relations—he was able to continue in good faith, if not without regrets. At length, therefore, Bingley’s confidence in his friend’s judgement, his doubts as to his own acuity and, in truth, his own worth, finally convinced him that Miss Bennet was not, after all, to be his.

When his sisters were gone, carrying all their acrimony and contention with them, there was a long period of quiet; at length Bingley asked: “What should I do about Netherfield, Darcy?  I do not know that I could face going back, now.”

“My advice would be to do nothing, for the time being,” Darcy gave as his opinion. “Netherfield is not a problem that needs solving right away, so I suggest you leave it till a better season for thought. You have made no plans, I think, for the holidays?”

“No; none at all,” Bingley replied.

“Then leave it at that. Dismiss all but a caretaker staff, and wait to see what lies in the future.”

There being a marked lack of gaiety amongst the Bingley family at this time—Bingley’s sisters having been exceedingly generous and unreserved in their condemnation of the Bennets, and their brother’s intention of forming a union with them—Darcy was prompted to invite his friend to stay with him for a time. While this arrangement spared his friend the trouble of opening the house in Manchester Square for the holidays, of greater import was Darcy’s very real concern on his friend’s behalf; Bingley’s spirits were exceedingly low the days following these events, and Darcy knew he would receive little enough sympathy from his sisters. He had observed that, when secure of themselves in the house in which they had been raised, the sisters were wont to exercise their opinions even more vocally than usual, and he wished to shield his friend from their gentle persuasions on the subject of his disappointment.

For his part, Darcy had persuaded himself with reasonable certainty that a few weeks’ diversion over the holidays, away from Miss Bennet’s charms, would be sufficient cure to relieve Bingley of his current infatuation, as had happened in the past. Bingley had known Miss Grantley much longer than Miss Bennet, Darcy assured himself, and he had got over her well enough; there ought to be no great delay in Bingley’s return to his own, lively self. Darcy’s confidence might have been less if he had stopped to consider his own feelings towards one of the Bennet sisters: he was daily experiencing surprising difficulty in overcoming that regard for Elizabeth which he knew must end, for both their sakes—yet he had, in fact, known her for less time, and pursued their acquaintance with less interest, than his friend had Miss Bennet.

Indeed, with each passing day, Darcy was becoming more aware of how much he felt Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s absence—how much he missed seeing her, missed indulging himself in her conversation, and watching her serenity in repose and grace in activity. He wished from his heart that he had done more at the ball to have countered Wickham’s lies, to have convinced her of Wickham’s want of character and honour; that she should think ill of him now was a persistent and acute source of regret, and added yet another injury to the list of those received at Wickham’s hands. He could only hope that her regard for him and estimation of his character, based on the six weeks of acquaintance and four days of close association they had shared together, would eventually restore him to her good graces.

Yet each time he entertained these thoughts, in the next moment he would be asking himself, how could it matter? They were never to see each other again, so her opinion of him could have no effect for either good or ill, nor was there anything he could do that might make it right.

These and other thoughts regarding Elizabeth plagued him more and more in the days succeeding his return to London; while it irritated him to find such conflicting and ill-regulated feelings in himself, it was also beginning rather to anger him to feel Society interfering with his wishes. The thought that a man like that parson might court her, but he could not, made him want to strike something. Indeed, the thought of that repellent man paying his addresses to her, and the appalling apprehension that—for the sake of her family at any rate—it was conceivable she might be compelled to accept him, made him want to lash out. If the purpose of society was to promote order, harmony, and justice amongst the populace, he thought angrily, he failed to see how the proscription of any possible union between himself and a lady like Elizabeth Bennet served any of the three; and surely there could be no justice or harmony in her union with the parson, or with Wickham—Dear God, the very idea! —or any one else she was ever likely to meet with in Hertfordshire.

Chapter Three

The first week of December was gone, and the holidays were fast approaching; it was time to be bringing Georgiana up from Derbyshire. Darcy had requested the favour of his friend’s company on the trip to escort Georgiana back to Town, he had often thought that, should they happen to suit one another, Bingley and his sister would make a fine match. She would benefit greatly from his general amiability and social ease, and he, especially now, might find happiness in her soothing sweetness and quiet accomplishment; in addition, the thought of being related to Bingley was highly gratifying to Darcy. Until now, indeed, there had not seemed to be any attraction between them, but they had both of them undergone some trials of the heart of late, and given the vagaries of spirit humankind is prey to—in short, who knew but what they might suit now? This seemed to Darcy a perfect opportunity to bring them together and let their mutual goodness have a chance to exert its influence.

The second week in December, therefore, the two friends set out for Derbyshire on a cold Monday morning under heavy skies and a light snow. Bingley, who for the past week had lived entirely with Darcy, had little to say as they passed through Buckinghamshire, and sat gazing out the window eastward towards Hertfordshire. He spoke but little, and when he did, it was without his accustomed good spirits. As they were leaving the outskirts of London he had observed in an abstracted manner, “When last we came through here, it was to go down to Netherfield.”

Darcy nodded, but did not reply.

“Do you recall how eager I was to go to the Meryton assembly? I told you we might meet some one special.”

“Yes, I do recall,” Darcy said. “But, Charles, to allow such license in your thoughts cannot increase your happiness.”

“No, of course, you are right; I shall get the better,” Bingley assured his friend. Then, almost as if to himself, he said, “But I was right about that evening: I did meet some one special, even if…” he trailed off into silence. Darcy’s thoughts naturally turned to the singular young lady whom
he
had met—well, not met, precisely—but had been in company with, that night. After this, neither gentleman spoke for some time.

Bingley did not fully revive until they reached Dunstable for dinner, and throughout the afternoon Darcy would often find
his
gaze drawn eastward towards Hertfordshire in their periods of silence; his too-brief acquaintance with Miss Elizabeth Bennet certainly had not left his heart unaffected, for all his rational side sought to deny the fact. Unlike Bingley, however, he was able to console himself, to a degree, with the assurance that the pangs he suffered were borne on Elizabeth’s behalf, which at least allowed him to feel that his trials of the heart served some worthy purpose.

Their journey the day following proceeded much as had done the one before: colder perhaps, but no more conversible; they reached Pemberley late in the morning of the third day. Georgiana, who had been wandering about the ground floor all morning awaiting their arrival, ran to greet Darcy as soon as he entered. She stopped short of him, however, and looked up uncertainly; Darcy reached out and gathered her into a glad embrace, which she returned with great relief; notwithstanding the reassurances he had given her in his letters, she still needed to see the proof of his continued love and esteem in his eyes. He held her thus briefly, until Bingley approached to offer his greetings. Georgiana extricated herself hastily from her brother’s arms, embarrassed by her show of feeling, and welcomed Mr. Bingley with warm, yet quiet, propriety; then, tucking her arm demurely but happily into her brother’s, she led the gentlemen directly to the south dining-room, where the servants were just finishing laying out an early dinner. “I was certain you would be hungry on your arrival,” said Georgiana.

“You remembered rabbit,” Darcy observed to his sister fondly. She coloured and nodded without speaking; Darcy could see she was pleased that he had noticed, but anything resembling a compliment always sent her into an embarrassed silence.

“You must not bother to wash and change,” said she. “I have had this prepared to be ready the moment you arrived.” As was often the case, there was a delicate mix of pride and reticence in her tone, as she was pleased with her scheme, yet remained unsure as to how it would be received.

“Unfortunately, Miss Darcy,” Bingley told her lightly, “your brother will find it absolutely necessary to change before sitting down to eat; he is very nice about such matters. Are not you, Darcy?” Without waiting for Darcy’s reply, he added to Miss Darcy: “But not to worry—I shall be sure to leave him a scrap or two from my ravening.”

Miss Darcy looked at Mr. Bingley with mild alarm, but her brother told her: “Bingley is only trying to teaze me—he is taking his revenge for some foolishness at Netherfield, Dearest. Be assured: I am perfectly ready to eat just as I am in my own dining-room.” Bingley laughed—the first open laughter Darcy had heard from him in many days, and he hoped that this might be due to his sister’s influence. The three of them sat down together to the laden table.

The meal was sumptuous, savoury, and warming: besides braised rabbit there was chicken
en casserole
, hearty soups, and fresh warm breads, and there was easily enough to feed twice their number. The two men were exceedingly glad to relax and take their ease after the long, cold, rattle-and-bounce of the chaise, and Darcy felt the weight of many months’ absence fall from his shoulders.

Indeed, in the affection and thoughtfulness of his sister’s greeting and preparations, Darcy found much to be grateful for; altogether his home-coming brought him a sense almost of deliverance. Whenever he left the estate he felt like a man setting out to sea: bracing himself for long days and short nights, storms and hardships. Returning to Pemberley afforded him an almost physical sense of relief; no longer holding himself constantly ready, set to meet whatever might come at him—he fancied at times that even his breathing came easier at home. While he could, and did, remind himself that there were few in England who lived in easier circumstances, nevertheless his journeys drained him, and being at home soothed his spirits like rain after a drought.

Although their conversation at table remained on inconsequential matters of travel and weather, Miss Darcy was in a torment to hear the details of the Netherfield ball, which her brother’s brief letter from London had not done nearly enough to satisfy. She knew but little of her brother’s dance with Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and wanted him to particularise very fully; she knew the reason for his removal to London, but not the outcome. These points were most insistently on her mind, yet, uncertain where things stood on so much that touched Mr. Bingley, his presence placed an embargo on all such topics. The gentlemen, paying rapt attention to the meal in front of them, spoke but little, and Georgiana could do no more than wait with as much patience as possible for the opportunity to speak with her brother in private.

Towards the end of a quiet, but very contented, meal, at which Miss Darcy was pleased to see her efforts well-rewarded, by the quantity of food consumed and the silent attention it commanded, her brother enquired: “Is all in readiness, Georgiana? Are we still to leave to-morrow?” On receiving her affirmation he said, “Then if you will ask Reynolds to show Mr. Bingley to his rooms, I have some necessary business with Stevenson, after which I wish to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds; I shall finish with Mrs. Annesley: if you might let her know, I should be obliged. I shall have done in the library in perhaps two hours—shall I come find you then?”

“Yes, Fitzwilliam, that would be nice. I spend much of my time in the front parlour up stairs; I shall wait for you there.” Miss Darcy, however disappointed she might be by this delay, knew her brother well enough not to attempt to deflect his accustomed activities on his arrival home. He always met with his steward, Stevenson, to hear how things stood on the estate, after which he would turn his attentions to the household staff; finally, his business finished, he might relax and be himself.

Mr. Bingley, amiable as always, suggested that, after he had managed to remove the dust of travel, he, Miss Darcy and her companion might play at cards together until her brother should be ready for them. To this Georgiana agreed with pleasure, but not before looking to her brother to be sure of his approval, which he of course gave willingly; the three of them set off to tend to their separate concerns.

Darcy strode purposefully to his library and his business with Stevenson; on reaching it and closing the door behind him, however, he became suddenly irresolute. A discontented sigh escaped him as he looked about the familiar surroundings where he spent so much of his time at Pemberley. He drifted aimlessly about the room, lost in thought. He could tell from certain looks during dinner that Georgiana had a good many questions on her mind—and some regarding Miss Elizabeth Bennet most certainly among them. His ideas revolving around the discussion of Elizabeth he knew was to come, combined with the nearly palpable relief of being home, which enabled him at last to relax his guard, brought forward many of the feelings he had striven to hold in check during his journey homeward. On the way north he had been troubled to find his heart much heavier than he could have imagined it might be; he had been nearly continuously preoccupied by thoughts of Elizabeth. Indeed, over the last several days, even in London, he had found himself deeply engrossed by such thoughts, and perplexed by the persistence of his feelings for her. Her face had been before him constantly, and throughout their journey he had had to resist introducing her into conversation with his friend almost hourly. Her relationship to the object of his friend’s attentions naturally placed a bar on the subject that could not be breached—yet he longed to speak of his own difficulties, and perhaps, to let his friend know he was not the only one to have found something to regret in leaving Hertfordshire.

As he wandered about the room, he saw her about him in imagination; her smile shone at him from every chair and corner, by every window and doorway; at this moment, the dearest wish of his heart was that she might truly be there, and not merely a phantom of his imagining. While musing thus, his mind pictured her standing at the door, dressed for the evening, come to find him at his work before dinner; he realised with an ache of longing that he would have no difficulty whatever envisioning
Elizabeth as mistress of Pemberley House: her bright laughter, her quiet purpose and grace, her wit…she would win the servants over in a day’s time, and Georgiana would be so
very
pleased with her as a sister. The thought that followed hard on this one—that it could never be—gave him an almost physical pain. When they had been together in Hertfordshire, while knowing that they could have no future together, still—being with her and knowing he was protecting her by his silence, he had been able to support the idea that it was all for the best, even to the degree of feeling a sort of pride in his sacrifice; but now, with no prospect of ever seeing her again, all he could feel was the bleak emptiness of her absence.

When he had met Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Darcy had all but given up on the other sex, insofar as any romantic attachment might be considered. Then, to find some one whose nature seemed so completely to complement his own, had struck him with more force than he could have had any idea of—so unforeseen that it seemed nearly miraculous—and, unanticipated as were his emotions, he was wholly under their influence before he could realise their existence. Now that his feelings for her were become clear to him, as well as their utter hopelessness, he was the harder struck by his loss because his feelings for her
had
been unexpected and miraculous. And now, his emotions having broken free, he found himself unable to force them back down, although he tried daily to do so; his awareness, however, of Elizabeth’s superior claims, in almost every aspect of her character and person, made this a daily, in fact, an almost hourly exercise in futility.

Determinedly pulling his gaze away from the door, where her image still stood before him, he forced his thoughts away from the tempting illusion of felicity she represented. Why should she dominate his mind in this way? he demanded of himself. His judgement and his resolution concerning her were unaltered, so whence came this unrelenting and self-imposed affliction? He prided himself on his discipline over his thoughts and emotions: this want of regulation was almost as troubling to him as the feelings that caused it. Their acquaintance was over, it was done: the decision made, he must move on. Before the thought was even fully formed, though, he knew he was lost, for he had had the same thought before, and a hundred like it: whether he would or no, he could not keep his mind from straying to her: not in London, nor in the chaise coming northward, nor here in his own familiar library.

The arrival of his steward finally brought his thoughts to order. What little news he had to offer was good, and as the winter months were quiet on the estate, there was little to be put in motion. Towards the end of the interview, Mr. Stevenson said to him, “There is, Sir, a difficulty in the village that I should like to place before you.” When Darcy was at the estate he was often asked to intercede in local affairs, as his father had always done before him. He had not exercised his right to the post of magistrate for the county, as he felt himself too often absent; if he should ever have a settled life in Derbyshire, though, he would probably find himself assigned that duty whether he would or no, since his tenants and dependents always seemed to prefer to come to him with their troubles.