The Road to Pemberley (17 page)

 

“WHAT A LONG, STRANGE TRIP IT'S BEEN.”

—THE GRATEFUL DEAD

 

Jane was by no means better, and Elizabeth was grateful to Miss Bingley for having invited her to remain at Netherfield until such time as her sister was recovered sufficiently to be removed back to Longbourn. Still, her gratitude was tempered by her feeling that she was intruding and unwanted among the family party, and so, at half past six, when she was summoned to dinner, she was reluctant to quit Jane's beloved presence and descend the stairs. Yet propriety demanded that she must. And having eaten very little indeed since arriving at Netherfield that morning, her constitution demanded it as well.

Mr. Bingley asked after Jane's condition with anxiety, and although Elizabeth would rather have given him a more encouraging answer, she was pleased at his concern. Mr. Darcy inquired, too, though it seemed more out of politeness than any actual unease. He then afterward remained silent, although he continued to fix his attention on her in a most vexing manner, causing her to suspect she had done something amiss with her toilette.

Not long thereafter, Elizabeth found herself seated at the end of the table next to Mr. Hurst and knew conclusively that dinner would hold little pleasure for her. Sighing to herself, she stared at the savory concoction of meat, potatoes, vegetables, and mushrooms that was even now being ladled onto her plate by a servant.
Under ordinary circumstances she would eschew such rich fare. But now her stomach growled in a most unladylike fashion—though thankfully none in the party seemed to hear it—and she delicately began to indulge.

“There is nothing I like better than a fine ragout,” said Mr. Hurst, digging into his serving with gusto. “Do you not agree, Miss Bennet?”

Suspecting that any meal set before Mr. Hurst would be quickly labeled his favorite, Elizabeth declined to concur.

“In truth, Mr. Hurst,” Elizabeth said, “I much prefer a plain dish. A simple roast beef with boiled potatoes is my favorite dinner.” Nevertheless, her hunger was such that she ate what was before her in its entirety, and after being served a second time, consumed that as well. The rest of the party seemed in agreement with Mr. Hurst, for they all consumed hearty portions. Only Miss Bingley seemed cross.

“I despise mushrooms,” Caroline said, pouting. “Cook has
ruined
the ragout with the horrid, slimy things.” She pushed the offending fungi aside. “Dinner is completely spoiled.”

“Not at all, Miss Bingley,” replied Darcy amiably. “For it has been much enjoyed by the rest of the party, and I see that because they have been added as more of a garnish, and not cooked together with the rest of the ingredients, you have easily separated the mushrooms from the meat and vegetables. There is no reason not to enjoy the remainder of your meal.”

Coming as it did from Mr. Darcy, this comment was sufficient to cheer Miss Bingley, and she complied with his suggestion, leaving the mushrooms on the side of her plate.

It was not long after dinner was completed—indeed, the entire party had just retired to the drawing room, the gentlemen declining their usual after-dinner solitude, claiming fatigue—when Elizabeth began to feel rather queer. She found she could no longer attend to
her needlework. The room began to swirl around her, the colors of the draperies blended with that of the rug, and the sound of the others' voices took on unnaturally deep tones. She turned her head slowly, for that was all she could manage at the moment, and stared wonderingly at the woman across from her.

“A witch!” she cried, pointing, with great effort, at Miss Bingley. “Fie! Leave us, creature of darkness!” Her own voice sounded slow and wrong in her ears. She tried to stand and run, but found her legs strangely rooted to the spot, her head in a muddle. The walls had started to melt. Trembling, she could only gaze at Miss Bingley in terror.

Miss Bingley was affronted in no small way. “Miss Eliza, what did you call me?” she demanded, aghast.

“There, there, Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Darcy comfortingly, making his way on unsteady legs to sit beside Elizabeth on the sofa. He awkwardly began to stroke her arm, as one might stroke a cat. “There is nothing to fear, Miss Bennet. I will protect you. Besides, it is no witch, after all,” he added, laughing, “simply a scarecrow!”

“Witch! Scarecrow!” Miss Bingley sputtered. “How dare you!”

Darcy continued to stroke Elizabeth's arm, and she quieted. He was feeling more than a little peculiar himself, and Elizabeth's bare skin fascinated him. It flowed like silk. It
was
silk. Pink silk. How extraordinary! He was using both hands now, drifting his touch delicately over her face, neck, and shoulders. Her usually subtle scent overwhelmed him, and he found himself in a garden of giant pink roses, fondling the tender petals and pressing his whole body into them. He was entranced. His head was spinning—but it was not an unpleasant sensation. Moreover, the satiny feel of the roses was exquisite. Would their taste be as well? He tried one; it melted on his tongue. Delightful! He wanted more.

Elizabeth was now standing under a waterfall of a thousand shining colors. The water flowed down her head, over her shoulders and bosom, and down her legs. The experience was unlike any she had ever known, and was almost unbearably pleasurable. She parted her lips to catch the delicious sparkling waters and found her mouth immediately filled. She had no thirst, yet she was inclined to keep drinking, drinking deep of the sparkling water, while the colors swirled around her.

Miss Bingley gaped in disbelief as she watched Mr. Darcy draw Eliza Bennet into his embrace on the sofa, caressing that unsophisticated chit in a most intimate fashion, his hands flowing over her features, her skin, the material of her gown…gracious Lord, her bosom! Her legs! The brazen hussy was not even resisting his advances. What a harlot! And now he was kissing her in a most outrageous fashion, his open mouth shamelessly prying open her lips. Good heavens, did he actually have his
tongue
in her mouth? Disgusting! Disgraceful!

Her face burning, her chest heaving in jealous distress, Caroline finally tore herself away and turned to remark on this contemptible scene to Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, but found them sitting opposite each other, snorting in barely restrained laughter. The more they tried to control themselves, the louder their mirth became. Finally, they slid to the floor in each other's arms, shrieking uproariously and most unbecomingly. Miss Bingley could not determine what was so frightfully amusing, for they did not acknowledge her presence and seemed quite incapable of rational conversation. Despite her attempts to interrupt their hilarity, their laughter continued unabated.

This was a nightmare; had the world gone mad? Finally, Caroline turned to importune her brother for help. But Mr. Bingley only sat smiling in his chair, staring at nothing, waving his hands in the
air, humming loudly. Miss Bingley could not distinguish a melody. “Charles!” she demanded, seizing him by the shoulders and forcing him to look at her. “Charles! What has come over everyone?”

Alas, it did not work. Charles was in heaven, flying through the air amid blue skies and rippling white clouds, attended by an angel. A blue-eyed, blonde-haired angel whose voice was at once all the notes of a heavenly choir. “Charles!” she said. And again: “Charles!” He smiled. Jane. His angel.

Fleeing the room, Miss Bingley nearly collided with a servant. “Do not enter that room. See that no one enters that room,” she hissed, slamming the door shut behind her. It would not do to have the servants gossiping about the extraordinary events taking place behind that door. The family's reputation would be ruined. She ran up the stairs and burst into Jane's room. “Jane, my dear,” she cried, breathlessly, “what sort of illness besets you? Could it be contagious?”

Awakened from a doze and startled by her friend's sudden entrance, Jane looked up at Miss Bingley with fever-glazed eyes. “I am so sorry, Caroline,” she said and coughed slightly. “Of what are you speaking? I fear I am not the best company at the moment.”

Caroline could easily see that, despite Jane's illness, she was not afflicted in the same manner as the rest of the household. Aware that it would serve no useful purpose to apprise Jane of the events unfolding downstairs, Miss Bingley apologized for disturbing her, smiled insincerely, and excused herself.

Heading slowly down the stairs, Miss Bingley attempted to make sense of the madness in the drawing room. Were they all possessed? She shook off the idea. Caroline Bingley was not given to superstition. The malady had come upon them very suddenly, not long after dinner. Perhaps they had imbibed too much wine? But no, no one had drunk immoderately, save Mr. Hurst, and that was, after all, his common practice.

What else could have effected such a change in demeanor? Caroline mentally numbered the courses: the hors d'oeuvres, the soup, the fish, the ragout—the ragout! They had all partaken of the ragout, of course, but she was the only one who had not eaten the mushrooms. How could eating mushrooms cause such a reaction? Perhaps they had been tainted. She was suddenly very nervous. What if her relations—and Mr. Darcy and Miss Eliza—were truly ill? Worse yet, what if they all died from contaminated food? Miss Bingley hastened back to the drawing room. She was not yet willing to call a doctor—fear of scandal held her in check—but she did feel it would be best to keep watch over everyone.

When she entered the room, she saw that nothing had changed in the five minutes that she had been gone. No one appeared to be in peril. Charles—the fool!—was still smiling and humming, Louisa Hurst and Mr. Hurst were still upon the floor, laughing boisterously at nothing (one would think they would have run out of breath by now), and Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth were still engaged in mischief on the sofa.

Knowing that she was, in effect, unobserved made Miss Bingley bold. She viewed the two at length with a mixture of mortification, envy, and curiosity. Could this be what transpired between a man and woman during courtship? It seemed highly improper, even for those who were affianced. Perhaps these things were more in the purview of married couples. Another question arose in her mind: Were such attentions really so very pleasing? Miss Elizabeth surely seemed to be pleased, if one could judge by the sighs and moans emanating from her.

Likewise, Mr. Darcy seemed not unaffected. He, too, was making little noises that spoke of great satisfaction. His color was high, and Caroline saw how well the expression of heartfelt delight became him. In fascination, she followed his hands as they traveled over Miss
Elizabeth's person, noting which actions seemed to be responsible for which reactions. The experience certainly was edifying!

It was also most disconcerting. Miss Bingley began to grow warm, and her breathing became more rapid. She wondered if she, too, were becoming ill, but discarded the notion. She left the sofa and paced about the room, fanning herself. How long would this infernal malady last? Attempting to read a fashion publication, she found herself too distracted by the various sounds of laughter, humming, and sighing that surrounded her. Eventually, she sat down at the pianoforte and began to play.

This, finally, had an effect. Although Mr. and Mrs. Hurst continued laughing, Mr. Bingley ceased his humming, and gazed, open-mouthed in wonder, into space.
As if he has not heard this piece a dozen times!
thought Caroline. Better still, Mr. Darcy, finding that the music provided a novel stimulus for the confusion gripping his mind, withdrew somewhat from Elizabeth, and ceased to kiss her, but he did not release her, instead keeping a hold upon a section of her gown and staring intently at it as he stroked it between his fingers. Elizabeth, for her part, began swaying her body in time to the music, her hands clutching Mr. Darcy's sleeve. Meaningless sing-song syllables issued from her mouth, as if she were experimenting with the sound, yet no one else seemed to hear. Miss Bingley felt uneasily like a keeper at Bedlam.

Heartened by the improvement in the behavior of her audience, Caroline played her entire repertoire, and then repeated it two more times. She did not know how long she could perform in this manner, for her hands were cramping and her legs had begun to numb. When she was close to exhaustion and near to tears, she was gratified to realize that the silence in the room meant that the Hursts had at some point left off laughing, and they were now actually sitting up on the rug. Eventually, Mr. Darcy let go of Elizabeth's
gown and sat with his hands upon his lap, looking perplexed, while his companion withdrew her own hands and sat back against the sofa with a dazed and dreamy expression on her face.

At length, Mr. Bingley yawned, and yawned again. He stood up, and Miss Bingley held her breath, fearing partly that he would not be able to remain on his feet and partly that this heralded some bizarre new stage in his indisposition. But no. He merely blinked at her, yawned once more, and, enunciating with great difficulty, said, “I believe I will retire now.” And slowly, carefully, he made his way across the room and out the door. More yawning followed, from the other occupants of the room, as they seemed, one at a time, to recover from their stupor. Mr. Darcy wavered slightly as he stood, looking about the room in confusion and no little embarrassment. He gazed for several moments at Elizabeth's flushed face and halfclosed eyes, a look of some alarm on his countenance. Finally, his eyes rested on Miss Bingley, who had an air of expectancy about her, and said thickly, “You will forgive me. I must have dozed off. Pray excuse me.” And with one final glance at Elizabeth, he, too, quit the room, walking stiffly as a result of having sat so long in one attitude.

To Miss Bingley's great relief, Mr. and Mrs. Hurst soon followed suit, rising from the floor in bewilderment and, exhausted from the evening's exertions, heading immediately for their chambers. Mr. Hurst was heard to mutter, “I need a drink,” and for once his wife agreed. Elizabeth was the last to regain her feet, her countenance pale and her bearing uncertain. She looked at Miss Bingley quizzically, as if the latter could provide some explanation for the extraordinary recollections she now possessed, which seemed to concern a waterfall and, somehow, Mr. Darcy, but Caroline would not say a word. That fine lady had, during her marathon session upon the pianoforte, determined that her satisfaction at having caught Elizabeth in a flagrant indiscretion was far outweighed by
the frightening possibility that Mr. Darcy would feel obligated to marry the country bumpkin, and therefore resolved to reveal nothing with regard to the unusual events she had witnessed. In a calm voice she said, “The hour is late, Miss Eliza. Perhaps you would like to visit your sister and retire for the night?”