Page 4 of Mr Darcy Gets Angry
Unlike her brother’s reserve, Georgiana earnestly wanted to befriend Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
She had received the prospect of Mr Bingley’s sisters visiting Pemberley with little pleasure.
They appeared greatly her seniors in age, yet it was not age alone that rendered their company disagreeable; Georgiana disliked the inevitable trifling conversation and incessant gossip to which such ladies were inclined.
Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst seemed to take uncommon satisfaction in the exercise of detraction.
There was, too, the daughter of Sir Rupert, Miss Eliana, who was lately promised in marriage, and whose thoughts were wholly taken up with matrimonial arrangements.
It had been diverting, for a time, to observe the preparations of a young lady for a union intended for life.
But after five days of unvaried talk of gowns, invitations, and menus, the conversation had grown insufferably tedious.
There were, to be sure, other young ladies in the neighbourhood, yet Georgiana had formed no particular intimacy with any since her earliest years.
Miss Elizabeth was what she had long wished to meet—a young woman of polished manners, already introduced into society, whose interests went beyond the common occupations with beaux, courtship, and idle tattle.
She played the pianoforte with an evident relish, delighted in reading, and spoke of persons and affairs with a frankness Georgiana had seldom known.
But perhaps her most admirable quality, in Georgiana’s opinion, was that she enjoyed her brother’s high regard.
Georgiana could remember few occasions on which Fitzwilliam had shown such attention to any lady.
Though ever civil and obliging, he had rarely displayed the consideration, or indeed the solicitude, which he now so freely showed.
Miss Elizabeth was lodged in an apartment seldom assigned to visitors, and her brother was frequently in her company, ready to forestall her wishes.
Yet the lady, with perfect naturalness and sincerity, expressed neither particular desire nor fanciful whim.
“Let us hide,” Georgiana said with a smile, and taking Elizabeth by the hand, she led her to the library.
In a house as distinguished as Pemberley, where each apartment was a work of art, the library was a concealed treasure.
Its ceiling rose high, and three of the walls were wainscoted in reddish-brown wood shelves; the fourth consisted wholly of glass-panelled doors opening upon a garden.
It was the first time Elizabeth had seen such splendour, yet what gratified her almost as much as the room itself was the plain proof of its constant use: books lay scattered across tables and chairs, as if the last reader had only just stepped away.
“What do you read, Miss Elizabeth?” asked Georgiana, not in the stiff manner of idle civility, but with genuine curiosity.
Elizabeth paused a moment before answering. “Papa always encouraged us to read—a great deal, indeed. When we were children, he chose the volumes. But of late, I must own, only Mary, my middle sister, and I have continued the habit. Papa often urged us to read the works of female authors.”
“How interesting!” Georgiana exclaimed.
“Yes, he is often thoughtful about us and reflects on our destinies being different from those of men. With six daughters in the family, he is particularly inclined to the belief that our fortunes should not be confined to those of wife and housekeeper. He esteems any woman who finds the means to rise above such bounds.”
“And which authors have you discovered?” Georgiana asked, rising and taking up a large volume from the table near at hand.
“What book is that?”
“It is not properly a book, but rather a catalogue—a register of all the volumes in the library and their allotted places upon the shelves.”
It was only then that Elizabeth observed the small brass plates affixed to each shelf, each bearing an engraved letter. She took the catalogue from Georgiana’s hands. She examined it with eagerness, her eyes now and again glancing towards the shelves to confirm its contents.
“Charlotte Lennox,” she read aloud. “G-20.” At once, Georgiana turned to the appointed shelf and, one by one, drew out the titles: “ Harriot Stuart, Henrietta, Euphemia, Poems on Several Occasions —”
“And?”
“And that is all,” said Georgiana, surveying the shelf attentively. “Are there more?”
“Oh yes! Her most celebrated work: The Female Quixote; or, The Adventures of Arabella .”
“Indeed, it is here,” Georgiana replied, “though no author is named.”
Elizabeth took up the volume with obvious delight. “It was published anonymously, as was often the case with novels written by women. But in London, it was well known who the authoress was.”
“Fascinating!” cried Georgiana, astonished that in so short a time, this lady had revealed a province of knowledge unknown to her. She had liked Miss Elizabeth from the moment of their acquaintance, but now her regard had deepened into admiration. “And sad.”
“Nay, it is not really sad. Charlotte Lennox enjoyed a great reputation in her day. She was esteemed in London circles, and her authorship of The Female Quixote was no secret. She even appeared upon the stage at Drury Lane.”
“An actress?” Georgiana was visibly startled.
In her circle, that profession bore no honourable character.
She was doubtful whether her brother would allow her to read a novel produced by such a woman.
Yet Elizabeth’s father had imposed no such scruple, and Georgiana resolved quietly to take the book to her own apartment and read it in private—this and whatever else Miss Elizabeth had perused.
“What an uncommon title! I am eager to know its subject,” Georgiana continued, clasping the book with gentle eagerness.
“Indeed uncommon,” returned Elizabeth. “And a bold choice to refer to so well-known a work. She reverses Don Quixote : whereas Don Quixote mistakes himself for a knight and goes forth in quest of adventures which exist only in his fancy, Arabella believes herself the heroine of a romance. She imagines the world of novels to be the real one, and she behaves accordingly.”
“How very diverting!”
“Charlotte Lennox was a remarkable woman: writer, poetess, actress. She even translated into English the Memoirs of Maximilian de Béthune, Duke of Sully, from the French. She spoke Italian likewise. She left this life some ten years past, but I dare say she is not forgotten in London.”
“Do you speak French, Miss Elizabeth?”
“A little,” Elizabeth replied, her cheeks colouring faintly as she recollected a particular volume discovered in her father’s library.
It had been written in French, and her father had remarked that it was not fit for young ladies.
That alone had kindled in her a strong desire to read it.
Her French had improved with uncommon speed, and when her father travelled to London the following year, she had ventured to remove Les Liaisons Dangereuses by Pierre de Laclos from his shelves.
It had been the boldest act of her life.
Everything about it exhilarated her—the interdiction attached to the novel, as well as the unveiling of a world she had never conceived.
She had not understood every subtlety, but in following the wicked designs of the Vicomte de Valmont, she met with matters of such intimacy and secrecy that she knew she should only fully comprehend them through the experience of marriage.
Though she had striven to forget the book, it was difficult to erase from her memory the strange sensations its pages had awakened, as though her body responded to the force of its scenes in a delicious, unknown way.
At her late encounter with Mr Darcy in the parlour at Pemberley, those memories had returned unbidden, and with them, that same unaccountable flutter that troubled her frame when reading that novel.
“So, you are hiding here,” a voice said, bringing them both abruptly back to the present.
They turned to behold Mr Darcy, who had evidently entered unnoticed and now surveyed the scene before him.
Under his gaze, Elizabeth felt again that inexplicable tremor.
In that moment, she perceived with painful clearness that love was not merely an affection of the heart; it was a longing—deep and ungovernable—to yield oneself entirely.
She regretted her past curiosity. Perhaps, had she never read that book, she might have remained ignorant of what now disturbed her so much.
“Miss Elizabeth has favoured me with so many interesting observations about our library,” Georgiana said.
Darcy glanced at the books lying on the desk.
He had, at first, determined that Georgiana should not be introduced to such literature.
Yet, in the space of a few minutes, his resolve had altered.
His sister had been almost secluded since the unhappy affair with Wickham the previous summer.
She lacked the counsel of a mother or elder sister to instruct her in the art of discretion and self-protection.
And Miss Elizabeth was unlike any other lady in their circle.
Once, he had longed to make her his wife exactly for her independence, her liveliness, and her refusal to be subdued.
But though he admired these qualities in Elizabeth, he still wished Georgiana to know a quieter happiness, free from disturbance.
“Come now, ladies, set aside your philosophical conversations and return to earth, the company awaits you in the drawing-room,” he said pleasantly, holding the door for them.
He wished to appear easy and good-humoured, yet as Elizabeth passed, all composure forsook him.
He was seized with the impulse to detain her by some tender gesture, and to remain alone with her.
But he commanded himself and followed them, admiring Elizabeth’s graceful carriage and smiling at the enquiring glance she cast back at him.
The time for discourse between them had not yet come.
Nevertheless, deep within his soul, he reflected that he ought to learn from Elizabeth to live less constrained, to forget, at times, the weight of duty and station; to meet life as it came; to yield, on occasion, to unrestrained sentiments, rather than ever disguising the way he felt beneath the polished manners of a gentleman.
But the hour for such a change had not come either.