Page 8 of Mr Darcy Gets Angry

The journey home was steeped in sadness. Mr Gardiner, having fallen into slumber for much of the way, left Elizabeth and her aunt to their conversation; yet even between them, there was little to say.

“I once believed Jane exaggerated her sorrow,” Elizabeth murmured at length, “that she adorned her suffering with too much feeling. But now I understand her entirely. I did not imagine that an emotion could bring forth real affliction—yet I feel as though I have been truly unwell.”

Mrs Gardiner’s heart was heavy for her niece.

To have stood so near to a life so extraordinary, and to have refused it, was cruel indeed.

She resolved to speak with her more fully, once the sharpness of her grief had begun to abate.

Elizabeth must learn to temper her reactions, to meet life’s vicissitudes with less candour and greater caution.

The truth—however unpalatable—remained: men seldom desired a wife who was both intelligent and independent of mind.

If Elizabeth wished to marry, she would have to accept certain realities and govern her nature accordingly.

“I believe Mr Bingley may soon come to Longbourn,” Elizabeth said, in an attempt to divert her thoughts.

“Yes,” replied Mrs Gardiner, “but remember he is even now subject to the influence of his sisters. He may again adopt their judgement. Do not encourage Jane in any vain expectation. Should he come to Netherfield, let her discern his feelings for herself.”

“And if she no longer loves him?”

Mrs Gardiner smiled gently. “My dear, I do not think that possible. If he comes with intent, she shall accept him.”

As I should have done. The thought passed through Elizabeth’s mind with bitter clarity. Shall I ever feel this love again for another man? She could not bear to pursue the answer.

Mrs Gardiner had never known distress in matters of the heart.

Her parents had encouraged her to marry, and little had been spoken in their home of passion or attachment.

She had never been taught to seek love, nor to fear its absence.

Her youth had been unsettled; although their principal residence was in London, they had passed nearly a year in Cardiff, another in Birmingham, and seldom had she enjoyed the society of girls of her own age.

Mr Gardiner had been amiable and comely, and she had liked him at once when they met in Meryton whilst visiting mutual acquaintances.

Their courtship had been brief, the sentiments moderate, and within a year of their marriage, her first child was born.

Only when her Bennet nieces approached womanhood did she begin to grasp the true nature of that strange affliction called love.

With Jane, she had wept. Her grief had been quiet, constant, and sincere.

Elizabeth, however, was of a different spirit.

She understood too well the interplay of manner and motive between a man and a woman.

Mrs Gardiner had no doubt that Mr Darcy harboured affection still.

And yet she could easily imagine him hesitating.

Once the vehemence of Kent had passed, he had likely considered their respective stations and the practical impediments.

Politeness abounded at Pemberley—friendship too—but their sojourn there had been touched with unreality.

It was a place apart from the world. In London, they would not meet the same reception.

Lady Matlock would not pay calls upon Gracechurch Street, nor would Mrs Gardiner impose herself upon the drawing-room of a countess.

Their acquaintance might extend to a bow at the opera or a nod in a theatre box—but it would go no further.

Elizabeth was remarkable, of that she was certain.

But she was still a Bennet, and a marriage to her would be regarded as a misalliance by Mr Darcy’s kindred.

Mrs Gardiner felt a growing anguish on her niece’s behalf. To be so near to such happiness—and then to refuse it—was a bitter trial. Had they once been wed, they might have secured their place in society by degrees. But now, with reflection, Mr Darcy might well determine the cost too great.

She could find no words that might ease Elizabeth’s mind. Even Mr Bingley had faltered in his attachment to Jane—and he was the son of a tradesman, as she was. And yet, wealth had raised his hopes and altered his aspirations.

“Do you think I ought to forget him?” Elizabeth asked, her voice low.

“I believe it wise not to nourish such hopes,” Mrs Gardiner answered, tears gathering in her eyes despite her effort to conceal them.

“I understand.” Elizabeth spoke with effort, her throat dry.

She had hoped, perhaps, to find a seed of hope in her aunt’s reply.

But the truth lay silent between them. She might continue to dream of Mr Darcy and grieve—or she might turn her thoughts elsewhere, and consider the prospect of a different future.

For the rest of the journey, she permitted herself to dwell a little longer on the last image she had of him, standing beside his horse at Pemberley’s gate.

But she resolved that, once returned to Longbourn, she would direct her attention to her younger sisters and occupy her mind with less perilous concerns.

She was not Jane. She would not pine for months over a lost love. Yet Jane, perhaps, had not suffered in vain.

“Let us wait and see if he comes,” Mrs Gardiner said softly, as they approached Longbourn. “We must not fill Jane with false hopes, only to deepen her distress.”

They resolved to speak freely of their visit to Pemberley and its guests, but not to mention Elizabeth’s private conversation with Mr Bingley.

∞∞∞

Their reception at Longbourn was so warm that Elizabeth forgot, for a little while, the weight she bore. It was a comfort to be once more among those who loved her.

I care not for Mr Darcy’s judgement of my family, she thought. They are kind, they are dear to me, and I shall always love them.

Even Mary was happy to see them.

A day before their departure, Georgiana had given Elizabeth a package of books.

“Only novels written by ladies,” she said and smiled.

In the face of Mary’s smile, Elizabeth offered her the volumes.

If the sky had opened and angels from Heaven appeared, Mary would have been less surprised.

For once, the taciturn girl was all smiles, and at dinner, she sat beside Elizabeth.

Though the hour was early, the meal extended well into the evening, such was the interest in the tales their guests had brought.

Elizabeth was asked more than once to describe Pemberley, and the Gardiners, pleased by the family’s curiosity, frequently added their own observations.

“You should have seen, brother,” said Mr Gardiner, “the size of the fish in Mr Darcy’s pond. We cast our lines for scarcely an hour, and I daresay we could have fed the entire household from our catch.”

When Elizabeth recounted the matter of the gowns, her younger sisters—Mary excepted—were insatiable in their questions. Bonnet by bonnet, pelisse by pelisse, they required every detail. Mary’s interest was finally won when Elizabeth described the library.

“And imagine,” said Elizabeth, “that Colonel Fitzwilliam is nearly betrothed. We heard the news from his mother, Lady Matlock.”

As ever, Mrs Gardiner marvelled at how even the faintest hint of a wedding, however distant, might excite conversation. It seemed not the persons, but the prospect of marriage itself, that stirred such attention.

“And who is the fortunate lady?” asked Mrs Bennet, already imagining the whole story.

“Do you remember a lady with red hair whom we encountered at Netherfield last November?”

Elizabeth glanced briefly at Jane, for the name ‘Netherfield’ had long been avoided in her presence.

Nor had the name ‘Charles’ been spoken with freedom, though there were many in the neighbourhood who bore it.

But Elizabeth, hoping that Mr Bingley might soon return, decided the time had come to acknowledge Netherfield Park once more.

“Yes!” cried Lydia. “Her name was Miss Emmeline Henry. She was among the most elegant ladies I have ever seen.” She turned to Kitty, who nodded in agreement.

“Red hair?” asked Mrs Bennet. “Are you quite certain it was not altered, as some ladies do now?”

“No, Mama,” Jane replied. All eyes turned to her. To speak of a guest from that house marked progress. “I observed her hair closely. It was her own. Not the auburn of our countrywomen, nor the fiery red of Scotland, but a lighter, golden hue—quite rare.”

Both Kitty and Lydia concurred, while Mrs Bennet became thoughtful.

“I know that colour. It is rare indeed. Do you remember, brother,” she said, “the Barrington family who once lived nearby? They had a daughter named Sophia, of an age with me.”

Mr Gardiner, being younger, could not recall.

“Mrs Phillips remembers her well,” Mrs Bennet continued, as the gentlemen began to retire, leaving the ladies to pursue a conversation that held little interest for them.

“But how is it we saw nothing of the lady at the Netherfield ball?” asked Mrs Bennet.

“She had some family matter to attend,” Jane replied once more. “She departed before the event. Her stay was brief.”

“Something peculiar occurred…” Mrs Bennet paused, caught in thought.

“What?” asked Lydia, ever impatient.

“Let me recollect myself, child!” her mother answered sharply.

“It was the end of November. We had some days of unseasonable warmth. While seated with your Aunt Phillips, we observed, from the parlour window, a lady in a barouche who bore such a resemblance to Sophia Barrington that we were quite struck. It lasted but a moment, yet both of us exclaimed at once. Of course, it could not have been—but the likeness reminded us of former days.”

Elizabeth, who would usually dismiss such meandering recollections, found herself listening with interest. Miss Emmeline Henry had left a strong impression upon her. She had seldom admired a young woman more.

“Sophia was not…entirely like us,” Mrs Bennet said slowly. “We were timid creatures, raised to obey and marry without question. But Sophia’s parents travelled often to London, and she was much altered by what she saw there. Her manner with gentlemen was—how shall I say?—too forward.”

Mrs Bennet looked towards her sister to gauge her reaction, but found Mrs Gardiner as attentive as her daughters.

“It may sound quaint now, but that was how it was in my youth. And not long after, our mother forbade us from seeing Sophia at all. Sister Phillips and I discussed it much at the time. We were seldom entertained with such occurrences. I recall overhearing Mama say that Sophia had grown stout—and later, as a married woman, I came to understand what that truly meant. It was said that she had fallen into trouble—that she was with child.”

The company was astonished, but as always with Mrs Bennet’s stories, they had some reservations. Even in the present, many details she remembered from an account were not always entirely accurate. It was the way of gossip—every person adding a little detail to look better informed.

“Perhaps that was not my mother’s true intent,” she said hastily. “Yet the lady in the barouche, whom we later discovered to be Miss Henry, a guest at Netherfield, recalled to us Sophia with startling vividness. Though we caught but the briefest glimpse, we both exclaimed, ‘Sophia!’”

“And?” said Lydia with impatience, for she knew her mother’s habits well. There was a particular turn in her voice which betrayed the presence of more, though she would not yield it without some prompting.

“It struck us as a singular coincidence to see such a lady so like Sophia, in our town. We supposed it might be her daughter, come to visit the place of her mother’s birth.”

“Oh,” Lydia breathed, desirous of further revelation.

“Yes—but such impressions are like shadows; they vanish before one may seize them.”

“Tell us then, what became of Miss Barrington?” asked Mary, to general surprise. Her interest in such matters was rare indeed. She flushed as all eyes turned to her. Mrs Bennet brightened. Might Mary, at last, begin to take an interest in society and marriage?

“We know little,” she admitted. “The Barringtons left in haste and never returned. That abruptness gave credence to our suspicions. If true, the child must be a little older than Jane. I married soon after their departure, and I remember being sad for not having her at my wedding.”

“And who was the father—if the tale is true?” asked Lydia, colouring.

“That is enough!” Mrs Bennet said, though her tone lacked conviction. They all knew how dearly she loved a mystery.

“Come, sister,” Mrs Gardiner said. “These are young ladies who must learn more of life. And after all, it is a tale long past.”

“You may be right. But let them understand this—one misstep may ruin a lady forever. A child born out of wedlock is no light matter. If my friend had this misfortune, her family had little choice but to quit the neighbourhood.”

She looked at her daughters, wondering whether any of them truly comprehended what such a situation entailed. Strangely enough, it might be the youngest who knew most.

“Please, Mama, tell us all,” Elizabeth pleaded.

Her tone was earnest. She desired not gossip but truth—she wished to know whether the elegant Emmeline, whom she had so admired, might be the daughter of one who had once defied convention.

If the beautiful Emmeline, who had stolen the colonel’s heart, was a child conceived out of wedlock.

It was not a petty interest or a mean one.

On the contrary, seldom had she admired a young lady of her age more than Emmeline.

Elizabeth was not interested in fashion or jewels; still, if she had the opportunity, she would have dressed like Emmeline, a combination of elegance and a winning personality.

Yet her mother relented. “If you are so interested, we shall call upon your Aunt Phillips in the morning. She may recall far more than I.”