Page 3 of Mistress of Pemberley

With deliberate care, Elizabeth left her room, her steps light and cautious as she descended to the hall below. To seek solitude was rare for her, yet this morning, she found herself unable to endure the overwhelming cheerfulness that had pervaded Longbourn since their return from the Netherfield ball the previous evening.

Even the housekeeper, typically measured in her demeanour, bustled up and down the stairs, tending to the gown Mrs Bennet had commanded Jane to wear, ensuring every detail was flawless. The air was charged with anticipation, the servants themselves caught up in the general buzz, while Mr Bingley’s name had been spoken at least a hundred times since the household had stirred from sleep.

They were expecting Mr Bingley to propose. Mrs Bennet, with her incorrigible will, had swept the entire household into a frenzy about the forthcoming engagement, which, unfortunately, was nothing more than a wish in her mind for the moment. Elizabeth tried to temper her sister, but Jane was already under their mother’s spell, and her own desire for that event to occur was just as strong.

Elizabeth glanced with a certain apprehension at the drawing-room door, unable to face either her mother or her sister, and at the library, where her father was taking a rest after the late breakfast. He was the only person in the house who might have understood her unease, yet she was also avoiding him. What could she say to him? That she had seen no signs of an impending engagement? Or that, with each encounter she had with one of Mr Bingley’s sisters, she had begun to sense that their evident disdain for the neighbourhood was gradually extending to include Jane.

Only on the path to the Meryton did she begin to breathe fully again, needing that moment of solitude to gather her thoughts, calm her fear, and even find words to temper Jane’s expectations. Elizabeth loved her sister deeply; their affection was a matter of common knowledge to all who knew them. Yet, on this particular morning, she found herself estranged from Jane’s happiness, her heart weighed down by a disquiet she could not overlook.

At the end of the ball the night prior, her watchful eye had fallen upon Mr Bingley’s sisters with a clarity she had neither sought nor welcomed. As her sister danced with their brother, their malevolent glances at Jane had shocked her to her core. The two had conferred in hushed, urgent tones before retreating from view, only to reappear moments later, deep in conversation with Mr Darcy. Together, the trio had directed long, meaningful looks towards Mr Bingley and Jane; Elizabeth had seen enough to kindle a profound unease that seemed to seep into every corner of her being.

Since then, she had struggled to dismiss the weight that pressed upon her heart. Strangely, the buoyant atmosphere at Longbourn served only to deepen her discomfort. That Mr Bingley’s family disapproved of his growing affection for Jane was obvious; what remained uncertain was the extent of their power to act on their displeasure.

Immersed in these melancholy reflections, she was unaware of another’s approach until it was too late to avoid. Startled, she raised her eyes to see Mr Darcy, still some distance away, who, like her, was approaching the crossroads near Meryton.

They exchanged greetings, both parties wholly aware of the surprise their meeting produced in the other. Yet, while Mr Darcy’s sudden smile betrayed an uncharacteristic warmth, Elizabeth’s sole desire was to extricate herself from the encounter.

“Are you on your way to Meryton?” he asked.

“No,” she replied hastily. “I merely stepped out for a brief walk.”

She hoped he would take the hint and continue on his way, but to her surprise, he said, “May I accompany you, Miss Elizabeth?” His voice held an unfamiliar cordiality, his countenance alight with an unexpected affability.

Prepared for confrontation, Elizabeth found herself disarmed by his tone and eyes, which had a playful light.

“Certainly. The road is open to all,” she replied, her tone measured, her mind swiftly calculating whether this unlooked-for meeting might yield insights into Mr Bingley’s true intentions regarding Jane.

“Did you finally find enjoyment at the ball last evening?” he asked, his enquiry delivered with a civility that probably masked its true intent. Elizabeth understood his purpose: to extol the superiority of Netherfield’s assembly over all others in the vicinity.

“I did. I take pleasure in seeing my friends on any occasion,” she replied. “For me, the character of a ball is determined not by its setting but by the company it gathers.” Her response, though measured, made plain her awareness of his intent and her refusal to concede that Netherfield’s splendour outshone Meryton’s assembly rooms. To her astonishment, Mr Darcy nodded, agreeing with her sentiment.

There was a vivacity in her manner—a mingling of wit and candour—that Darcy found increasingly irresistible. Never before had he been so drawn to a woman. He could not deny that, but because of the inferiority of her connections, he was in danger of forming an attachment beyond his control.

“Miss Bingley mentioned that you eagerly anticipate your sister’s arrival at Netherfield. It is a pity she could not participate in last night’s impressive ball,” Elizabeth ventured, her words light yet laced with irony.

“My sister will not be joining us,” he responded, seeming not to have captured her sarcasm. “She is to travel from Pemberley to London in a few days to join our family and friends.”

“And why, pray, does Miss Darcy deny us the pleasure of her company?” Elizabeth continued to press, her tone playful, yet her intentions still not wholly innocent. “Miss Bingley fervently praises her accomplishments. I wonder whether such excellence might render her uneasy amidst our simpler society,” she added with a teasing smile.

Darcy, though surprised, enjoyed the conversation about his sister, whom he adored. “Georgiana possesses the truest nature, and I have no doubt she would find much to admire in your neighbourhood,” he replied, his words more generous than sincere, his admiration for Elizabeth subtly influencing his speech.

“I shall hope, then, that Miss Darcy may alter her plans,” Elizabeth remarked.

“That is unlikely. I shall soon leave for London myself,” he confessed, a shadow passing over his features.

“You seem sad to be leaving,” said Elizabeth, her voice, quite unintentionally, sounding surprised rather than sarcastic.

Darcy studied her face intently, searching for any trace of acerbity, yet he found none. Thus, he replied with measured caution, “I shall be glad to see Georgiana, and that more than compensates for any regret I might feel about leaving.”

Elizabeth, once again, despite herself, admired the finesse of his response—a reply that asserted nothing definitively, not even the disdain he had so often shown towards them. Except, perhaps, towards her, for she had to admit that he had displayed an interest in her on more than one occasion that could not be overlooked.

“I feel the same when I am away from my family,” she said. “I always look forward to our reunion.”

“I understand you. Family is important,” Mr Darcy replied, his tone once more strikingly sincere, as though she were someone before whom he did not need to conceal the pain of losing his parents. Elizabeth touched his arm lightly—a small gesture of comfort he acknowledged with a gentle smile.

A rare moment of serenity passed between them, leaving them both to wonder whether their relationship could ever have been something different—perhaps a friendship tempered by a quieter harmony.

“My parents and sisters are the most precious things in my life. There is not only love in my feelings but also loyalty,” she said, confident that he felt the same way. “You must be eager to see your sister.”

He just nodded. He was indeed eager to see Georgiana, but Elizabeth’s enthusiasm when speaking about her family made him reflective. Her declared loyalty to them was a massive obstacle to his intentions towards her.

“You remind me greatly of my sister… If you will allow me such a comparison,” said he.

Elizabeth turned to him, astonished, and smiled. It was most unexpected that this man, who had regarded their community with an air of hauteur born of his belief in his family’s elevated station, should liken her to the person dearest to him in the world.

“Of course you may. It is pleasing to hear such a thing,” she replied.

“Georgiana has matured greatly of late and has shown that she can make significant decisions by employing reason rather than being governed by her heart,” he continued.

“Really?” exclaimed Elizabeth. “And you think this is what connects us?”

“Indeed. My sister is still young, but maturity is not necessarily bound to age. Even though she is still shy, Georgiana has already clearly demonstrated how she wishes to live her life.”

“And you believe I have done the same?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Yes, do you not agree?” he returned, halting in the middle of their walk. Then, as if seized by a sudden impulse, he asked, “How do you wish to live your life?”

Elizabeth also stopped, her spirits lifted by the question, eager to find and give an answer.

“I should like to possess a freedom that women in our world are seldom granted. To have the right to choose my own path in life rather than have it imposed upon me,” she declared with quiet conviction.

“Interesting,” he said, and once more, Elizabeth found herself surprised. This man, who had appeared so unyielding and conventional, now seemed interested in her unconventional aspirations and not shocked.

“Unrealistic,” she added, with a note of subtle regret, yet nevertheless he detected it. For a fleeting moment, he wished to tell her that marriage to him might provide a path to a freedom that not many men were ready to offer. Yet he remained silent. He could easily imagine her at Pemberley, but his dear house invaded by her ‘tribe’ was an image that made him sick.

“And Mr Bingley? Does he intend to remain at Netherfield for the winter?” she asked, breaking the silence that had settled between them, her tone light, though her heart beat faster in anticipation of his reply.

“I am unaware of his plans,” Darcy said, his tone abruptly colder. “Yet, even if we depart in a short time, with the officers stationed in Meryton, I trust your neighbourhood will find no lack of entertainment.”

The sardonic inflexion of his words rekindled Elizabeth’s long-held grievances against him. His haughty disdain, his affronts to her family, and his treatment of Mr Wickham all rushed to the forefront of her mind. In that instant, she found his company unbearable. Neither his newfound capacity for engaging in conversation nor the peculiar interest he appeared to harbour towards her could obliterate the memory of the haughty, pompous gentleman who had deemed her unworthy of his notice and had shown only contempt for those dearest to her.

With no further interest in prolonging their conversation, she offered a courteous yet cold excuse as she caught sight of Jane in the distance before making her departure with swift determination.

He remained motionless in the middle of the road for some time, a peculiar sadness settling upon him, for he recognised with unwavering certainty that this would mark the final occasion on which their paths would cross. Despite his feelings, he would never seek to make that remarkable woman his wife.

∞∞∞

Elizabeth met Jane close to their home, and together, they resolved to take the road back to Meryton, towards Mrs Phillips’s house.

“What were you doing with that gentleman?” Jane asked, though she did not pause for Elizabeth’s reply, her attention fixed on the path ahead. “Noon has come and gone, and he has not made an appearance,” she continued, her tone betraying neither concern nor doubt but rather a quiet eagerness. It was clear that she was not worried but still steadfast in her confidence that Mr Bingley would come.

“You should have seen him when you left,” Jane said, glancing at Elizabeth, yet her absent face showed clearly that she was not waiting for an answer. Her only interest was Mr Bingley and his eventual appearance.

“Whom?” Elizabeth replied, attempting to mask her thoughts.

“Mr Darcy. When you left him, he stood in the middle of the road, watching you as if seeking a final glimpse.” Jane could not help but smile, for she found the notion preposterous. It was inconceivable to her that Mr Darcy harboured any feelings for Elizabeth—or, indeed, for any member of their community. “I wonder what brought him to this particular road.”

Once more, she seemed indifferent to any answer, allowing Elizabeth to reflect on the question. Until then, she had not dwelt on why Mr Darcy might have walked in the direction of Meryton when there were many more enjoyable paths around Netherfield.

In that instant, an unsettling realisation swept over her. Every detail of Mr Darcy’s behaviour—the measured stillness of his stance, the weight in his gaze, even that morning walk—conveyed a single truth: they were preparing to leave. His presence on that road was no coincidence. He had sought an encounter with her—though she found herself indifferent to his reasons when faced with a far more pressing dread. It stood to reason that the others at Netherfield might also depart if he was leaving.

A faint hope flickered that perhaps only he intended to go. Yet his parting remark to her lingered ominously: When we depart, your neighbourhood will not lack for entertainment with all the officers around. Stripping away the layers of sarcasm and disdain, Elizabeth now recognised his words as an announcement. The gravity of that realisation settled upon her. Mr Bingley might already be preparing to leave—and her heart ached at the thought.

She turned to Jane, who continued to observe the road to Meryton and Netherfield with unwavering diligence, though no figure appeared in the distance.

Perhaps no one ever will , Elizabeth thought bitterly, though she kept such musings to herself. It was mere speculation, and she clung desperately to the fragile thread of hope.

By the next day, however, that hope was utterly gone. When they returned from Meryton, they found a letter from Miss Bingley to Jane. In clear and unapologetic words, it said that she, Mr and Mrs Hurst, and Mr Darcy had followed Mr Bingley to London, where they planned to stay for at least six months. None of them would return to Hertfordshire that winter.

Elizabeth’s heart sank as painful certainty settled in her chest. The fragile ties between their family and the Netherfield residents were broken, leaving only silence and regret.