Page 3 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious “Miss B”

Elizabeth

T he stairs at Longbourn creaked under Elizabeth’s feet as she climbed towards her mother’s bedchamber.

The scent of lavender water and camphor hung in the air—Mama’s nightly ritual to ward off headaches and what she called ‘attacks upon her nerves’.

’ Tonight, Elizabeth suspected, would require double the usual dose.

Due to her ongoing mourning, Mrs Bennet had left them in the care of Aunt Phillips—and given they were sisters, it had been almost as if their mother had accompanied them. Mrs Phillips had a tendency towards histrionics, same as their mother and about as much decorum.

However, Elizabeth had appreciated their aunt’s company. And now, she knew, their mother would aspire to live vicariously through them. One of the few joys she had these days as she had not been quite the same since her husband’s death.

While she had left her bedchamber after refusing to do so for several weeks, she was often half the woman she used to be.

On Sundays, when they went to church, she would return to her old self.

She would smile, converse, and even engage in gossip now and then but the moment they returned home, she would sink into melancholy.

It was painful to see her boisterous mother so diminished in both spirit and circumstance. For, while Uncle Morton had hired a steward, it had been made clear to them that the estate was in dire straits and they had been forced to tighten their purses.

Jane and Elizabeth had kept this from their mother as much as possible, but she had sussed them out—though after one conversation regarding the estate, she had decided to ignore any troubles in that department.

“Uncle Morton will see to it” she had concluded and refused to speak of the matter again.

“Girls! Girls, come to me at once!” Mrs Bennet’s voice echoed down the corridor, drawing her from her reverie. “I must hear everything—every single detail of this evening. Jane, my dearest Jane, come and tell me of your triumph!”

Elizabeth paused outside the door to see Jane ascending the stairs with Mary and Kitty close behind her. Jane’s cheeks still held a faint blush from the evening’s dancing, whilst Mary carried her usual expression of solemn resignation.

“Where is Lydia?” Elizabeth asked.

“She went straight to her room,” Mary replied. “She barely spoke during the carriage ride home.”

Elizabeth’s concern deepened. Before Papa’s death, Lydia would have been the first to burst into Mama’s room with tales of her conquests on the dance floor.

“Come, come!” Mrs Bennet called again, and the four sisters entered the chamber together.

Mrs Bennet sat propped against her pillows, her nightcap slightly askew and her eyes bright with anticipation. A tray of tea and biscuits sat on the table beside her bed—Hill’s attempt to settle her mistress’s excitement, no doubt.

“My dear girls, sit down immediately and tell me everything,” Mrs Bennet commanded, patting the space beside her on the bed. “Jane, you must begin. Was Mr Bingley there? Aunt Phillips told me how he tended to you at the bookshop.”

Jane perched on the edge of the bed; her hands folded in her lap. “Mr Bingley was very agreeable, Mama. Most courteous and well-mannered.”

“Agreeable! Courteous!” Mrs Bennet threw her hands up in exasperation. “Jane, my dear, sweet child, you must give me more than that. Did he dance with you? How many times? What did he say? Did he compliment your appearance?”

A genuine smile crossed Jane’s features—the first Elizabeth had seen from her in months. “He danced with me twice, Mama. The first and the fifth sets. And yes, he was most complimentary. He said I looked very well in lavender.”

“Twice!” Mrs Bennet clasped her hands together. “Oh, my dear Jane, this is promising indeed. Very promising. And what of his friend? Mr—what was his name?”

“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth supplied, unable to keep the distaste from her voice.

Mrs Bennet’s attention swivelled to her second daughter like a hawk spotting prey. “Ah yes, Mr Darcy. And did you dance with this gentleman, Lizzy?”

Elizabeth settled into the chair beside the bed and shook her head. “No, Mama. Mr Darcy does not dance at country assemblies.”

“Does not dance?” Mrs Bennet’s voice rose to a pitch that made Mary wince. “What do you mean he does not dance? What sort of gentleman attends a ball and refuses to dance?”

“The proud sort,” Elizabeth replied, thinking of Darcy’s dismissive appearance when Mrs Phillips had suggested their introduction. “He made it quite clear that he considered the company beneath his notice.”

Mrs Bennet’s face flushed red. “Beneath his notice! The impudence! Who does he think he is? I never heard of such rudeness in my life. Jane, tell me this Mr Darcy was not discourteous to you as well?”

“Oh no, Mama,” Jane said. “Mr Darcy was perfectly polite to me. Though I confess he seemed rather reserved.”

“Reserved,” Mrs Bennet huffed. “That is a charitable way to describe such behaviour. Lizzy, what exactly did this man say to you?”

Elizabeth hesitated. The full truth would send her mother into hysterics, but a partial account might suffice. “He declined to dance and made it clear he preferred the company he had brought with him.”

“Abominable man!” Mrs Bennet declared. “To think such a person exists in civilised society. Jane, you must tell Mr Bingley that his friend’s behaviour was most offensive. Perhaps Mr Bingley might speak to him about proper manners.”

“Mama, please,” Jane said. “I could never presume to criticise Mr Bingley’s choice in friends. That would be most improper.”

Elizabeth watched the exchange with growing unease. Her mother’s spirits seemed to be reviving with remarkable speed—the prospect of Jane catching a wealthy husband was proving more effective than any of her usual remedies.

“And what of Mary?” Mrs Bennet turned to her middle daughter. “Did you dance, my dear?”

Mary straightened in her chair. “I danced once, Mama. With Mr Quinn—the new clergyman.”

“Once is better than nothing,” Mrs Bennet said with obvious disappointment. “Though you must try to be more animated next time, Mary. Gentlemen prefer ladies who appear to enjoy themselves.”

“And Kitty?” Mrs Bennet continued her interrogation.

“I danced twice,” Kitty replied. “With Mr Denny and Mr Carter.”

“Very good, my dear. See Mary? Two dances is a minimum,” Mrs Bennet said with pointed satisfaction.

“Which reminds me—where is Lydia? Surely, she danced the most of all of you. She always does. Given this was the first dance since—since…” She paused, took a deep breath, and forced a smile. “I am sure she too was a triumph.”

The silence that followed was telling. Elizabeth exchanged glances with Jane whilst Mary shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“Actually, Mama,” Mary said with her characteristic bluntness, “Lydia did not dance at all this evening.”

Mrs Bennet’s face went blank with shock. “Did not dance? What do you mean she did not dance? Lydia always dances. She is the liveliest of all my daughters, surely, she must have longed to dance after this wretched period of mourning.”

“She refused every partner who asked her,” Mary continued. “She sat in the corner for most of the evening and barely spoke to anyone. She was quite sullen, I am afraid.”

“Refused?” Mrs Bennet’s voice cracked. “But why? Was she unwell? Did something happen?”

Elizabeth’s chest tightened. “She has not been herself since Papa died, Mama. None of us have been, but Lydia…” she trailed off, unable to voice her growing concerns about her youngest sister.

Mrs Bennet’s excitement crumbled, replaced by the haggard appearance that had become all too familiar these past months. “My poor Lydia. She loved her dear Papa so very much. He spoiled her terribly, but she brought him such joy.”

The room fell quiet; each woman lost in memories of the man who had shaped their lives in ways both wonderful and complicated.

Elizabeth remembered how Papa would chuckle at Lydia’s antics whilst chiding her for her more outrageous behaviour.

He had indulged her far too much, but his love for his youngest daughter had been genuine.

“Perhaps we should speak with her tomorrow,” Jane suggested.

“Yes,” Mrs Bennet agreed, some of her energy returning. “Yes, we must help her. But tonight, let us focus on happier news. Jane, tell me more about Mr Bingley. Do you think he might call upon us?”

Jane blushed prettily but said nothing. Elizabeth could see the hope in her sister’s eyes and prayed their mother’s confidence was not misplaced.

“Now then,” Mrs Bennet continued, her mood shifting once again, “tell me more about this dreadful Mr Darcy. What does he look like? Is he as handsome as Mr Bingley?”

Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. “He is tall, dark-haired, well-dressed. I suppose some might consider him handsome, if they could overlook his superior attitude.”

“Rich men often develop superior attitudes,” Mrs Bennet observed with the wisdom of someone who had spent years studying the behaviour of the gentry. “They are so accustomed to deference that they forget common courtesy. Still, it is no excuse for rudeness to my daughters.”

“I hardly think it matters, Mama,” Elizabeth said. “I doubt we will see much of Mr Darcy during his stay in the neighbourhood. He made it quite clear that country society holds no appeal for him.”

“Good riddance,” Mrs Bennet declared. “We do not need such people around here. Jane shall do very well with Mr Bingley, and that is all that matters.”

As the conversation continued, Elizabeth’s thoughts drifted to the evening’s events.

She replayed her brief encounter with Mr Darcy, not with embarrassment, but with a kind of curious detachment.

His comment about her being ‘tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt him’ had been rude, certainly, but it had also revealed something about his character—or lack thereof.

***

After another hour of discussion and speculation, the sisters finally dispersed to their own chambers. Elizabeth walked down the corridor, her mind still occupied with the evening’s events and tomorrow’s uncertainties.

She paused outside Lydia’s door, hearing nothing from within. Part of her wanted to knock, to try once more to reach her youngest sister, but she suspected Lydia needed solitude to process her grief in her own way.

Instead, Elizabeth continued to her own room, where she sat at her small writing desk to record the day’s events in her journal.

As she wrote, her thoughts kept returning to the contrast between Mr Bingley’s genuine warmth and Mr Darcy’s cold arrogance.

How could two friends be so different in temperament?

A soft knock at her door interrupted her writing. “Come in,” she called, and Jane entered, already dressed in her nightgown.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Jane said, settling on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed. “I keep thinking about Lydia. She was so different tonight—so withdrawn and sad. What are we to do about her?”

Elizabeth set down her pen and turned to face her sister. “I do not know, Jane. I have tried speaking with her, but she pushes me away every time. She blames herself for Papa’s death, you know.”

“Blames herself? But why?”

“She thinks if she had been a better daughter, less wilful and demanding, Papa might not have worked himself into such a state. She believes her behaviour contributed to the apoplexy that killed him.”

Jane’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, the poor dear. How could she think such a thing?”

“Grief makes people believe all sorts of nonsense,” Elizabeth said. “And Lydia was always Papa’s pet. His death has hit her harder than the rest of us, I think.”

“We must find a way to help her,” Jane insisted. “Perhaps if we gave her some responsibility, something to make her feel useful?”

“What sort of responsibility?”

“I do not know yet. But Mary was right earlier—sitting alone in her room will only make things worse. She needs purpose, engagement with the world again.”

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. Jane was right, but the question remained: how could they help Lydia when their own future was so uncertain?

“Jane,” Elizabeth said, “what do you really think of Mr Bingley?”

A soft smile crossed Jane’s features. “He is everything a gentleman should be—kind, considerate, well-educated. When he speaks, I feel as though he truly listens to my responses. And his manners are so natural, not studied or affected like some men of his station.”

“Do you think you could care for him?”

Jane’s cheeks flushed pink. “I think… yes, I think I could care for him very much. But Lizzy, I must not allow myself to hope too much. We danced twice, nothing more. For all we know, he was being polite to a neighbour.”

“Jane,” Elizabeth said, “you are allowed to hope. You are allowed to feel happiness, even in the midst of our troubles. Papa would want that for you.”

Tears gathered in Jane’s eyes. “Do you think so? Sometimes I feel guilty for enjoying Mr Bingley’s attention when we are still mourning Papa.”

“Papa would be delighted to see you happy,” Elizabeth assured her. “He always said you deserved the very best in life. If Mr Bingley makes you happy, then Papa would approve.”

The sisters talked for another hour, sharing hopes and fears about the future. When Jane finally returned to her own room, Elizabeth felt better than she had in weeks. Perhaps some good could come from this evening after all.