Page 14 of Beyond Pride, Past Prejudice

Ever since the guests had arrived at Rosings, the party from the Parsonage had rarely dined at home.

“We had grown accustomed to dining at Rosings,” Maria spoke in a slightly regretful tone that still held a note of cheerfulness. She was the only one in the household who spoke her mind without restraint. Mr and Mrs Collins accepted her words with indulgence or even pleasure.

“Lady Catherine undoubtedly wished to make her guests’ stay as pleasant as possible, which is why we have been invited so frequently,” Mr Collins said, then added, “But now that their departure is approaching, they must have wanted to be alone. We shall not be invited again until after they have left…”

The ladies turned their eyes to him, for his tone had been strange, suggesting he had meant to say more, only to hold it back.

Whatever the case, Elizabeth felt sure there was more to this sudden change of plan than a simple wish for family intimacy.

She glanced at Charlotte, but her friend seemed just as surprised, as if the matter were new to her as well.

In the weeks Elizabeth had spent in their home, she had realised that the air of mystery with which Mr Collins sometimes spoke of affairs at Rosings concealed nothing more than his immense desire to be regarded as an intimate of the great house across the way.

Yet this time, she was mistaken, for after a brief silence, Mr Collins spoke again. “Most likely, the engagement will be announced today.”

“What engagement?” asked Charlotte.

“The one between Mr Darcy and Miss de Bourgh,” declared Mr Collins with solemnity, as if he were speaking about his closest kin.

The news startled Elizabeth, and she blushed enough for Charlotte to notice. A hollowness engulfed her heart, one she instinctively sought to conceal from the others even as she struggled to comprehend it herself.

Beyond the initial surprise of the news remained the question of why it left her so downhearted.

Not once in those weeks, though they had seen each other frequently, had she felt any genuine affection for him.

At times, she had taken pleasure in conversing with an intelligent and refined man; at others, she had indulged in a bit of vanity at having caught the attention of one accustomed to the company of beautiful and elegant women—but nothing more.

On the contrary, in recent days, their encounters had lost their initial charm, becoming monotonous, even dull.

And yet, the news of his engagement had scratched at her heart in a way she could neither control nor understand.

She longed for dinner to end so she could withdraw, blaming a migraine, and retire to her chamber, hoping that Charlotte would not knock at her door that evening and instead leave her alone with those odd emotions, unable to make sense of her own heart.

∞∞∞

Her wish was granted when Charlotte and her husband withdrew and Maria followed shortly after, excusing herself on account of her fatigue.

Elizabeth was relieved; she needed to be alone and re-read the older letters received from her aunt and then open the latest, hoping to find answers or at least to regain the indifference she had always exhibited towards Mr Darcy in one way or another.

But before anything else, she sat at her dressing table and lit a few candles.

She felt an inexplicable need to look at herself, as if the Elizabeth in the mirror might be able to earnestly answer the question that tormented her: Why did she feel that hollow ache in her heart at the thought of Mr Darcy becoming engaged less than a mile away?

Her green eyes flickered in the trembling candlelight, yet no answer revealed itself.

No matter how much she had enjoyed his company, she could not forgive his arrogance and the disdain he had displayed in Hertfordshire, nor his indifference—if it had only been indifference—towards Mr Wickham.

She recalled Mr Darcy at the Netherfield ball, the last time she had seen him in November, but not during their dance.

Rather, she remembered him standing apart with Mr Bingley’s sisters, seemingly conspiring, as they cast glances in turn at Jane, who danced on, blissfully happy.

She had every reason to dislike him, and yet, to her misfortune, she admired him.

It was not love, certainly not the feverish sentiment she had so ardently anticipated, but there was pleasure in the company of a refined, intelligent man whose wit matched the very humour with which her father had taught her to view life.

Yet again, no matter how he behaved at Rosings, he remained the conceited gentleman she had once met in Meryton, and she did not like that man.

She opened and laid out the four letters she had received in front of her. Her eyes caught the words from her aunt’s first letter after she had arrived in Kent, which seemed to urge her to abandon the prejudice she sometimes crafted for herself.

We all have flaws, significant or minor, dear Lizzy.

We cannot live together if we do not accept one another with tolerance.

We harbour frustrations and futile discontents that might be resolved by looking upon the world with greater goodwill.

Most of all, we imagine stories about others that are not always true.

Elizabeth read everything eagerly, feeling that an answer may be somewhere in the lines that her aunt had written so elegantly.

Look at Diana. I once believed she lived in paradise, and indeed, she is happy in her marriage.

As she told me, her husband’s parents are kind and attentive, and London society has welcomed her warmly.

Yet, as she sat on my sofa, she confessed that she had not made a single friend in ten years.

None of the ladies who pass through their house, those she meets at tea, at the theatre, or at balls, have drawn any closer to her beyond polite smiles and idle conversation.

Perhaps that is the only reason she stepped down from her carriage when she saw me.

And it may be so. But on the other hand, the fact that she needs a friend is no fault of hers, and her interest in me remains just as sincere, regardless of what prompted it.

Elizabeth reflected deeply upon that passage. Ought she to accept Mr Darcy’s friendship in spite of his faults, and accept with composure the kinder feelings she had, of late, begun to experience for him?

I have found what I was curious to see and experience in another society.

It is no better than ours, the only one I have ever known; in fact, it is different in few ways.

And like in our case it is composed of all sorts of people.

I met Miss de Bourgh during my first visit to Matlock House, and I was shocked by how timid she was.

Diana told me that she would not utter a word for hours and that she and Lady Matlock had made great efforts to draw her out into the world.

She is a wealthy heiress who does not know how to take joy in anything.

When she first arrived in London, her gowns were made in the fashion of twenty years past, but when I met her, she had already become an elegant young lady, one who, at over twenty, was only just learning how to smile.

Her mother wishes to see her married to Mr Darcy, but Diana doubts such a thing could ever come to pass.

She knows him well—a man of action like him will choose a wife he can love and a woman to share his world with.

These were Diana’s words, so you may rest assured: you betray no one by allowing yourself to enjoy the presence of a man who sees in a woman a life companion rather than merely seeking to ‘hire’ a mistress for his estate and a mother for his heirs.

Is he arrogant? Perhaps. But from what you tell me, he has changed.

You owe no one the duty to despise him forever for how he once behaved towards the people of Meryton.

What do you feel for him? Only you can answer that. But when you search your heart, lay aside your prejudices.

Enjoy the time that remains for you in Kent and forget these needless anxieties.

Mr Darcy is a gentleman who holds you in esteem because you are an accomplished lady.

If you ask for my opinion, from all that I have learnt about this gentleman, it is not the timid heiress of Rosings who would make a suitable wife for him but you.

Now, you may laugh as much as you wish at my notion, but I assure you, a woman like you is drawn to a man like him.

Do not forget that the carriage arrives on Wednesday.

She leapt from one letter to another, searching for a passage she recalled but not well enough, and then, after reading the last letter, she would always return to the first. This carousel of thoughts and pages went on for most of the night.

At last, exhausted, she stretched out on the bed, and just before sleep claimed her, she remembered the dance at Netherfield and Mr Darcy’s eyes, which seemed to tell her that his admiration was far more than a mere passing fancy.

And with utmost sincerity, in that final moment before slumber, she hoped Mr Darcy had not become engaged that evening.