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Wednesday, December 4, 1811

Longbourn

Darcy

The moment Darcy entered the parlour at Longbourn, he found himself confronted by Mr. Collins. The clergyman’s presence, which Darcy had hitherto managed to avoid, had completely slipped from his mind. But now, with the unexpected discovery of not one, but two nephews of his revered patroness in the same drawing-room, Mr. Collins was so overcome with a sense of his own consequence that not a soul in the vicinity stood a chance of being heard.

He, in the full bloom of his servility, proceeded upon a stream of addresses, observations, and deferential compliments so unremitting that Darcy, a man little inclined to outward display, found it increasingly difficult to disguise his displeasure. He endured the torrent for nearly ten minutes, replying with only the briefest civilities, while his eyes often returned to Miss Elizabeth, who sat in quiet conversation with his aunt.

When Mrs. Bennet proposed her customary walk in the garden, Darcy remained seated. Nothing could be less desirable than to attend Miss Elizabeth on a stroll that Mr. Collins might later recount, in tiresome detail, to Aunt Catherine. A mere mention of such a stroll could call for his aunt’s immediate presence at Longbourn within the week. No, he determined, it was far wiser to remain indoors, though it meant submitting to another discourse on the superior composition of the gravel at Rosings Park.

Yet when Darcy glanced toward his cousin, he caught a look of studied significance on Richard’s face—an expression which, had it possessed the benefit of speech, would have said, with unequivocal clarity: Walk with Miss Mary.

Darcy hesitated. To walk with Miss Mary might expose him to nearly as much danger as to walk with Miss Elizabeth; for either circumstance, once observed by Mr. Collins and faithfully conveyed—with embellishment—to Aunt Catherine, could summon precisely the sort of familial interference he most desired to avoid.

Nevertheless, assuming a composure more resolved than he felt, Darcy rose and crossed the parlour to where Miss Mary was seated. With a formal bow and a civil inquiry, he offered her his arm. She accepted, though not without a moment’s visible confusion, and together they followed Bingley and Miss Bennet to the door.

They had but just reached the threshold when Darcy, glancing back, observed his cousin step forward.

“Miss Elizabeth,”

said Richard.

“may I have the honour of your company?”

“I shall join you, Colonel Fitzwilliam,”

cried Mr. Collins at once, springing up with the eagerness of one persuaded that his participation was not merely welcome, but essential.

Darcy was obliged to turn away, lest his countenance betray him. Richard, for a moment, stood wholly bereft of invention—a rarity which might have disconcerted him more keenly, had not assistance come from an unexpected quarter.

“Mr. Collins,”

said the Countess, her voice composed and immovable.

“I understand you are but lately come from Kent, and hold the living at Hunsford. I should be obliged if you would share any intelligence concerning my sister. I have not heard from her these several weeks—at your leisure, of course.”

There was no further danger of Mr. Collins joining the party.

As Richard and Darcy led the ladies out, they could scarcely contain their amusement.

“I daresay,”

said Miss Elizabeth archly.

“your mother little suspects what awaits her.”

“On the contrary, Miss Elizabeth,”

replied Richard.

“my mother is well acquainted with the sort of gentlemen my aunt commands—and perfectly equal to managing them.”

By the time they reached the turn of the path, Richard, with all the subtlety of a seasoned campaigner, had fallen in beside Miss Mary, leaving Darcy at liberty to walk with Miss Elizabeth.

Darcy had no cause to repine.

“I had not imagined,”

said Miss Elizabeth, casting him a smile.

“that a courtship would involve quite so many little manoeuvres. Perhaps your aunt’s notion of a year-long courtship is worth considering, if it promises to be so diverting.”

“Indeed,”

replied Darcy, with a smile tinged with irony.

“if I do not expire from sheer vexation and anxiety before then, I shall make my proposal at the end of it.”

Miss Elizabeth raised her brows with mock solemnity.

“A most encouraging prospect, sir. I shall hold you to it—provided, of course, that you survive the interval. You seem to wither somewhat under suspense, sir.”

He halted, turning to regard her with an expression verging on offence—softened, however, by the faintest glimmer of amusement.

“Then you do find the notion of a proposal from me encouraging, Miss Elizabeth?”

She coloured, instantly aware she had revealed more than she intended.

“Oh, no! You mistake me entirely, sir. Is it not pitiable that a gentleman should seize upon the merest idle remark as though it were a declaration?”

“Indeed, madam,”

said he, with grave formality.

“I would not presume to dwell upon such trifles.”

And then, with a look not entirely free of mischief—perhaps even touched with triumph—he added.

“Though I must own, it is something of an improvement upon being the last man in the world you would ever be prevailed upon to marry.”

An irrepressible laugh escaped her, despite her attempt to contain it—much to Darcy’s satisfaction.

Elizabeth

“Well,”

said Elizabeth, after composing herself.

“you must allow, Mr. Darcy, that your position has improved. Formerly the very last man in the world I could be prevailed upon to marry, you now occupy a place—though still precarious—somewhere between merely tolerable and faintly intriguing.”

Darcy inclined his head.

“Then I am gratified. I prefer a narrow ledge to the abyss I once inhabited. To be no longer a villain in your eyes is no small advancement.”

“Indeed,”

she replied, her eyes alight.

“You are nearly unrecognisable. I recall a time when you would scarcely address a lady unless her dowry was considerable and her opinions conveniently absent.”

“That is hardly just,”

said he.

“I have always respected opinions—when kept at a reasonable distance.”

“Ah,”

she said, with feigned dismay.

“then we are most ill-suited. I am extravagant in both thought and speech. My sentiments, I fear, are worn like my bonnet—askew and impossible to overlook. I am, I must confess, remarkably accomplished in the art of offering an opinion and, if required, issuing a reproof—sometimes both at once, and never without flourish.”

He laughed quietly.

“Of that, I have no doubt. There is a peculiar satisfaction in being reprimanded by one so gifted in the delivery.”

She dropped into a mock curtsy, her elegance undermined only by the mischief in her expression.

“Take care, sir. Such compliments hint at humility. I preferred you when you were cold, exacting, and reliably displeased. One could always depend upon your disapproval. Now I scarcely know what to make of you.”

“If I am altered,”

said he.

“I know no cause but yourself. You confound and compel me in equal measure.”

She tilted her head, cautious, though her smile belied it.

“Was that an avowal, sir? How very improper. I shall be forced to reconsider you entirely if you persist in such intimation of feelings.”

He bowed slightly.

“Only in your presence, madam. Elsewhere, I am perfectly unfeeling.”

She laughed—and in so doing, came perilously close to abandoning her feigned indifference.

“You are dangerously improved, Mr. Darcy. One more step upon this course, and you may find yourself hopelessly entangled—in virtue, no less.”

He smiled then—genuinely, and with the air of a man perfectly aware of the havoc such warmth might occasion.

“If such entanglement leads to you, Miss Elizabeth,”

he said, low and deliberate.

“then I shall deem myself most abundantly rewarded.”

Her breath caught—but, as ever, she recovered at once.

“Then do be cautious not to trip on your own improvement,”

she returned smartly.

“We cannot have you stumbling into respectability, only to arrive there with your coat torn and your dignity entirely ruined—six inches deep in mud or not.”

A smile curved his mouth—one far too assured to be accidental.

“It would be worth the fall, Miss Elizabeth.”

The way he said her name, along with his smile, was nearly her undoing. God, he was handsome.

For once, she found herself at a loss—and, most astonishingly, so did he. Thus they remained, their eyes fixed upon one another, until at last he moved, breaking the spell with the simplest of gestures: he offered his hand. She accepted it without hesitation, and so they walked on, in a silence not awkward but companionable—indeed, the sort of silence that speaks far more than words.

Mary

“What book were you reading when I encountered you in that grove?”

asked the Colonel.

At once Mary recalled Lizzy’s counsel—Whatever you do, do not speak of sermons.

So simple a direction for Lizzy, who could quote Shakespeare and tease Mr. Darcy with equal ease. But for Mary, whose reading had long been confined to the moral and devotional, no such resource was at hand. For years her studies had consisted solely of sermons.

Yet she would not dissemble. Mary Bennet might want vivacity, but she would never want honesty.

“I—I was reading a book of sermons,”

she stammered, her voice betraying a slight uneasiness.

“Sermons?”

he repeated, not with the disdain she feared, nor with amusement, but with a quiet curiosity that made her falter.

Mary did her utmost to appear untroubled. This—exactly this—was how she had imagined her conversation with the Colonel would unfold: a frank revelation of her own character met with polite, though puzzled, attention. She was, and ever would be, the plain and unremarkable Mary Bennet. Her accomplishments were not of a nature to command the admiration of any gentleman of discernment—least of all one who had known battlefields and drawing rooms alike.

Still, he had not mentioned her appearance, though he had, to her enduring shame, seen her with her hair unbound in that shaded grove. A part of her, foolish and wounded, had feared this was the sole reason for his attention now—that he had come to deliver, in gentlemanly terms, some observation upon it. That he had not touched upon the matter at all left her both relieved and bewildered.

"And tell me," said he, after a moment’s pause, "have you ever read Mrs Wollstonecraft’s treatise—A Vindication of the Rights of Woman?"

Mary looked up, her countenance betraying dismay. “No,”

she replied, with more warmth than she intended.

“Nor have I any desire to. I should be sorry to so much as open its pages.”

“Ah,”

said he, with a gentle smile.

“so you are acquainted with it by reputation—that is something. But I must ask: why such distaste? Surely, to hold an opinion with confidence, one must first comprehend its opposite. True conviction is not undone by inquiry, but confirmed by it.”

“And why should I read such a book?”

Mary returned, though her tone carried a trace of unease, not wholly masked by indignation.

“No young lady ought to read such things. Indeed, it is a wonder it was ever allowed into print.”

“Then you feel strongly, Miss Mary,”

he said, still smiling faintly.

“Though you have not read it, and know it only from the reports of others—whose judgments, I dare say, vary as widely in discernment as in temper. What you may find in its pages could be quite unlike the impression they have conveyed.”

“But what purpose can there be, Colonel,”

said she.

“in reading that which may only disturb what is already settled? If one has found the truth in a purer source, why risk sullying it with what is less certain?”

“It is by trial, Miss Mary, that we prove what is pure. That which is genuine fears no comparison—for it gains by the contrast.”

Mary, though inclined to protest, could not truly dispute that reasoning.

Before she could shape a reply, he continued, more gently.

“There is another reason. You will allow, I trust, that I have seen more of the world than yourself.”

She inclined her head; on that point, at least, there was no dispute.

“From what I have observed,”

said he.

“truth seldom lies wholly on one side. It is most often found between opposing views. Sermons have their place; and a noble one at that—but that does not render contrary opinions void of sense. Indeed, reading them may serve only to confirm what you already hold. Then, Miss Mary, your principles will not be merely inherited, but truly your own. You will know their strength, having tested them—and found them enduring.”

Once more, Mary had no ready reply. She could not refute his reasoning, for she felt its truth.

A pause ensued—not uneasy, yet not altogether at ease. Then, with a slight shake of the head and a quiet laugh, the Colonel said.

“I confess, I am not quite sure how we came upon this topic.”

Mary allowed herself a small smile—perhaps her first in his company.

“I find no objection in it,”

she said.

“May I ask, Colonel—have you yourself read either volume?”

“I have not, Miss Mary,”

he replied with modest candour.

“Though I may be found with a book in hand from time to time, I am hardly what one would call studious. My tastes run rather to histories, military letters, and the like—accounts of campaigns and affairs of state. My mother, however, has read both, and I recall her opinion was no less decisive.”

“And what did she think?”

Mary asked, with a manner somewhat absent—already anticipating the answer. A Countess, after all, could hardly countenance anything so radical as a vindication.

The Colonel smiled faintly.

“She declared—if I may quote her precisely—that both volumes ought to be removed from every drawing room and library in the kingdom, heaped together and cast into the flames without ceremony—utterly destroyed, that not a word might remain to mislead the minds of the young.”

Mary started. “Both?”

she repeated, scarcely able to credit it.

“Both,”

he said, with a nod.

“My aunt—Lady Anne, Darcy’s mother—held much the same opinion, though she expressed it with greater moderation, if not with less conviction.”

Mary stood; her composure wavered. That the Countess should condemn Mrs. Wollstonecraft was expected—almost reassuring. But that such wrath should extend even to the sermons she had long held dear was deeply unsettling.

“Miss Mary,”

the Colonel said gently, perceiving her unease.

“I fear I have spoken without sufficient care. I ought not to have expressed myself with such freedom. I meant only to show what I mentioned before—that truth seldom resides with the loudest voices, and that those who hold the firmest views, on either side, are not always the wisest judges of what is most reasonable—or most just.”

Mary turned again to the path, her expression more thoughtful. The Colonel, with commendable discretion, followed at a modest distance.

When she had accepted his invitation to walk—against her better judgment—she had expected a conversation awkward, perhaps mortifying, but of no lasting consequence. She had not foreseen that her convictions would be so gently shaken.

Perceiving perhaps the effect of his words, the Colonel soon turned their talk to safer ground. He spoke, with amiable modesty, of his family's peculiarities, and then of the absurd exploits of a dog belonging to his commanding officer—a creature named Dot, who, by his account, lacked sense but not spirit. The tale, told with dry amusement, served its purpose admirably.

Mary, though not wholly at ease, was thankful for the change, and still more for the delicacy that had prompted it. She had already observed the solicitude Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley showed in the company of Lizzy and Jane. That she might be the object of such attentions had scarcely occurred to her.

Still, the harm was done. One conversation—civil, well-meant, and entirely polite—had introduced a subtle tremor in what she had long thought secure. Her principles, once so firmly held, now seemed—if not overthrown—then gently unsettled.

She cast him a glance, uncertain whether she ought to feel defensive—or somehow understood.