Page 11 of Mr Darcy Gets Angry

The party that departed from Mrs Phillips’s house soon divided into two groups: the greater part of the ladies remained in Meryton to make purchases, while Elizabeth chose to return to Longbourn. In truth, she felt the need for solitude, that she might reflect upon her present perplexities.

“Lizzy, may I walk with you?” asked Mary quite unexpectedly.

Elizabeth was on the point of declining—to find any excuse to be alone —yet altered her intention. Mary seldom sought the company of her family, and such an instance ought not to be wasted. She took her sister’s arm, and they began the walk together, ignored by the rest.

For a time, the sisters walked in silence.

Yet Elizabeth soon perceived that Mary wished to speak, though she knew not how to begin.

As curious as it seemed, her interest appeared centred upon Miss Henry—a matter to which, since the first moment of its mention, Mary had attended with an unusual and marked concern, quite at variance with her usual manner, which was to remain aloof from the family’s daily affairs.

“Is it Miss Henry you wish to speak of?”

Mary turned to her with a look full of admiration.

She loved Jane for her kindness and took little notice of Kitty or Lydia, but Elizabeth was different.

She admired her sister’s merits and longed, though timidly, to draw nearer to her.

Yet, shy by nature, she had let pass many occasions on which Elizabeth had opened the way.

Each time she missed her chance, she resolved to read more, that she might, by diligence alone, become Elizabeth’s equal.

“Yes,” she said softly, blushing deeply. Her face was so coloured that Elizabeth feared she might faint. They halted by a low stone bench on the road to Longbourn and seated themselves.

“Come, my dear,” Elizabeth said kindly, “if you have something to tell me, there is no cause to be uneasy. Speak freely. I am your sister.”

Mary nodded, gathering her courage. She knew there would be no better moment in which to confess what weighed upon her.

“I have done something dreadful,” she said at last, her eyes cast down. Elizabeth smiled, without the least trace of mockery—only affection. What great harm could Mary have done? Misplace a book? Break a teacup?

“My dear girl, I do not believe you capable of anything truly dreadful. Tell me the tale, and we shall decide together what is to be done.”

Mary drew a breath and nodded again. “You may not know, but Mr Bingley granted me leave to use the library at Netherfield.”

Elizabeth did not know it, but it struck her as not improbable, for they had passed some time at Netherfield during his stay.

“I was unaware,” she said gently, “but he was our friend.”

“No, you do not understand. I knew nothing of his regard for Jane—”

That was unsurprising. Mary seldom observed the feelings of others.

“He gave me permission to use the library a week or two before the ball when he surprised me…hidden among books when everybody was in the parlour having a good time. He spoke to his housekeeper and bade her allow me access whenever I should wish.”

This was indeed something new. Elizabeth looked at her sister with renewed attention, and suddenly she saw Mary in a different light.

Mary loved books, and the Netherfield collection must far exceed their own in both number and variety.

Yet Elizabeth, knowing the delicacy of the situation between Jane and Mr Bingley, would never have ventured there in his absence.

“Then, in time, I came to understand that Mr Bingley…”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “He never returned to Netherfield, and much was left unsettled.”

“Just so. I understood this only after several visits to the library, where I borrowed and returned books.”

“So you mean to say that you visited Netherfield after Mr Bingley’s departure.”

“I did. But Papa knew. I told him, and he smiled in that curious way of his, and said that so long as I kept the matter private, there was no harm in making use of the library.”

“I imagine,” Elizabeth said gently, “that this is not the principal matter of your confession.”

“No.” Mary gave a faint smile. “Miss Henry is Mrs Sophia’s daughter.”

Had the heavens opened and celestial beings descended, Elizabeth could scarcely have been more astonished.

If the skies had opened and angels had appeared in front of them, Elizabeth would have been less astonished. “What are you saying, Mary? Are you certain?”

“Certain? No. But there are too many signs for it to be a mere accident or coincidence.”

“Wait—begin at the start, and tell me every particular,” Elizabeth cried. She studied Mary carefully. She was sincere, intelligent, and entirely without guile. If she claimed to have found something, then it must be of consequence.

“Speak, dear one,” she said in a tender tone.

Mary nodded and paused briefly before beginning, as if she wanted to prepare for a difficult task.

“One day, I took some French books from the library. I wished to see if I could read a whole volume without needing Papa’s assistance.”

“And what did you take?” Elizabeth hoped her sister had not chosen one of the more indiscreet works she had once stumbled upon.

“I took the plays of Monsieur Beaumarchais and then those of Monsieur Marivaux.”

Elizabeth sighed in relief on hearing the names of those monsieurs.

“Good. And what did you find?”

“In one of the books, I discovered a letter. I know it is wrong to read a private letter, but I could not resist.”

Mary was so distressed by her own trespass that Elizabeth laughed, not in mockery, but with affection.

“My dear, some rules may be broken now and then, provided no harm is done. This, indeed, is one of life’s secret pleasures—to stray a little from propriety and feel oneself free.”

She thought fleetingly that, had Mr Darcy attempted to kiss her, she would not have turned away. “It is not a sin, my dear. I might have done the same. I suppose this letter lies at the heart of your tale.”

Mary at last smiled, a complete and unguarded smile that entirely softened her features.

“You ought to smile more often. You are beautiful when you smile.”

“No, I am not. Jane is beautiful. You are beautiful.”

“Nonsense, Mary Bennet! You are our sister, and you resemble us. The difference lies in care, not countenance. Jane spends an hour before the mirror each morning, while you give your reflection scarcely a glance. But today your hair is well arranged, and your gown suits you—you are lovely. Only attend a little more to your appearance, and you shall see others take notice. Now—this letter?”

Mary nodded, touched by her sister’s kindness. It was the first such praise she had ever received.

“I meant to return the letter to its place,” she continued, “but the opening lines caught me. The writer spoke of the Gardiner girls. At first, I believed she meant Aunt Gardiner, but as I read further, I understood she meant Mama and Aunt Phillips.”

“She?”

“Yes, it is from a mother to a daughter.”

“Do you know to whom the letter was sent?”

“No. But it is addressed Ma chère , and in French, that means the recipient is female.”

“Yes. Ma chère , for a lady. Who else could it be but Emmeline?”

Elizabeth recalled the ladies who had stayed at Netherfield. Only Emmeline could have received a letter in French. Mr Bingley’s sisters were out of the question.

“And do you know her mother’s name?”

“No. The letter is signed only Mama . But she plainly knew Mama and Aunt Phillips. I am convinced it is Sophia Barrington. There are too many coincidences. And both speak French.”

“What did she say about Mama?”

“The letter was difficult to read. The writer’s spelling was poor, and the hand untidy.”

“Have you the letter still?” Elizabeth asked quickly. The matter was becoming not only interesting but alarming.

“I do.” Mary, colouring again, drew the letter from her pocket.

Elizabeth examined it, hoping to find a signature. There was none.

Ma chère.

Just as Mary had said, it was difficult to decipher. She made out only a few words.

“Read it to me.”

“Shall I read it, or translate?”

“Did you understand it fully?”

“Almost.”

“Then translate, if you please.”

Mary furrowed her brow as she began to read, so earnest and intent was her manner.

“She scolds her daughter throughout. She says: ‘Such a good plan, now endangered by your folly. You care more for pleasure than for helping Papa. All ’”

“Good heavens. Who is ‘Papa’?”

“I imagine it means her father,” Mary answered rather naively.

“Yes, of course. I mean, who could he be? The father presumed dead…the Frenchman…the man who met our uncle in London. I am already dizzy and worried,” Elizabeth murmured. The matter no longer resembled idle parlour talk.

“Go on, please.”

She continues: ‘ In a town full of officers, you choose one who brings you to Meryton, the one place in England I begged you never to enter.’”

“And more scolding,” Mary said, looking at Elizabeth, only to find her interested and even worried.

“‘You write to me of friends and a respectable officer from a prestigious family, of a ball at Netherfield, and your plans to go to Meryton. I beg you, do not go. I am sending this letter through John, and I have instructed him to follow you to Netherfield if you are already there. The moment you receive this, you must depart for London. You will see your officer there in due course.’”

“It is her,” Elizabeth said. “Miss Henry is the daughter of Sophia Barrington. She talks about Meryton as a town never to be visited.”

“Yes, it is her. At first, when I first read it, I knew nothing of Colonel Fitzwilliam, but now all is plain. The officer she met in Brighton was him, and the father must be the Frenchman Aunt Phillips recalled—the one who stayed a fortnight in Meryton and the same man who sold the Barrington house.”

“Yes… But what was Sophia’s plan ?”

“She wished Emmeline to find an English officer and...” Mary flushed, for the implications were clear even for her. It was not difficult to imagine what a woman could want from a man and how that could be attained.

Elizabeth laughed, despite the weight of what she now suspected. “Indeed—what misfortune! She meets the one officer with ties to Bingley and to Meryton. How could she have known that her visit to a great estate would lead her here?

“I truly hoped she loved him and it was a passionate marriage; yet, when her mother speaks about a plan—I do not know, but it is not what you think. She did not want just a husband…no.” Elizabeth continued.

“The colonel is not rich, and what woman would search especially for an officer of modest means when she wants a husband?”

“You said yesterday that Lady Matlock was pleased her son had taken a position in the War Office. Is that not tied to the war?”

“Yes—certainly.”

“And which war touches us most nearly?”

“Mary—how clever you are! Monsieur Henry, the Frenchman, declared dead, yet possibly living…a plan to entrap a man in the War Office. They mean to extract something through the colonel’s position…

Imagine the shame—worse still, imprisonment—or death, if it be treason,” Elizabeth whispered. “And the victim…the colonel.”

“I was first offended by what she wrote of Mama and Aunt Phillips…”

“What did she write?”

“It was unkind. I swear I am not indiscreet, though I kept the letter. I did not understand it at first, but I saw clearly that she called Mama and Aunt Phillips les filles Gardiner—les potins .”

“ Potin ? That is gossip?”

“Yes. She calls them the gossips of Meryton. She urges her daughter to leave Netherfield at once, lest she be recognised by one of them.”

“Which is precisely what happened.”

“I meant to destroy the letter for that reason, but then I set it aside to make a decision later. I am happy I did not, for now it is proof.”

“It is a trap,” Elizabeth said gravely. “A trap laid for Colonel Fitzwilliam—and no harmless one.”

“Yes. And with what we now know, it may be that Mr and Mrs Henry seek to obtain something through him, using their daughter.”

Elizabeth breathed heavily as if she wanted to dissipate the cloud that engulfed her spirit.

The colonel had been a true friend, perhaps the only male friend she had in her life.

Horrible thoughts were passing through her mind rapidly.

Suppose the colonel was involved in the plot.

But then, why make a plan to entrap him if he would do the deed willingly?

No, they—the Fitzwilliams—might be proud, haughty, or conceited, and they might have other flaws, but they loved their country; they were patriotic and honest. But then, she thought, can you really know a person after a few strolls and dinner parties?

“I choose to believe Colonel Fitzwilliam is innocent,” Elizabeth said at last.

“I understand—but if he is not, uncovering the truth may be dangerous,” Mary said quietly, glancing about.

“We cannot manage this alone. And we cannot speak of what was said of Mama and Aunt Phillips.”

Elizabeth smiled, despite everything. “My dear, the whole county knows Mama is a gossip. As for Aunt Phillips, it is less just—but still, who is not a gossip, in some manner? It is hardly a crime. But treason is.”

“You truly believe it could be treason?”

Elizabeth looked at her and smiled again. “It was your idea, your conclusion.”

“Yes, I know. But since last night, my thoughts have been so many, I scarcely remember all of them.”

“This is your best. And for me, the best end would be the colonel’s innocence.”

“He is innocent,” Mary said firmly. “But what can we do to help him?”

A good question. They were two young women, and it was doubtful anyone would credit their tale.

“We have the letter,” said Mary.

“Yes, but it could be seen as a simple plan to catch a husband. The colonel, even if he is not wealthy, is from nobility, well-connected, and received at the best homes in London. A woman with a good income who comes from a lower-ranked family might think that he could give her a place in society in exchange for the fortune she brings. It may not seem nice, but it is a common story and not a vicious plot.”

“Then we say nothing?”

Elizabeth considered, as they resumed their walk. The family carriage had passed them not long ago; only then did they realise how long they had sat talking.

“I think we must consult someone less involved. Papa and Uncle Gardiner would be of use, but perhaps Uncle Phillips is best. He knew Mr Henry personally.”

“ Anri ,” Mary said with a small smile. It had been good to speak so long and so openly with the sister she most admired.

“But we say nothing to Mama or our sisters—not even Aunt Gardiner. This secret is not ours to share. Tomorrow, after breakfast, we shall tell Papa and Uncle Gardiner everything.”