Page 1 of The Gossip War (Pride and Prejudice Shorts #1)
In the end, it was Mr Hurst who made the difference between doing nothing, and doing something absolutely barking mad.
Yes, it was irrefutably Mr Hurst to blame! There cannot be two opinions on that point.
It all started at one in the morning on the last night of our sojourn to Netherfield.
Jane followed my mother’s foolish matchmaking scheme by riding a horse in the rain to attend tea with the Netherfield ‘ladies’.
She naturally caught a terrible cold, which made me walk three miles with blowsy hair, dirty stockings, and a petticoat six inches deep in mud to care for her.
To my way of thinking, my parents should have sent a coach for her the next day, because nothing short of a bullet or missing limb should prevent a healthy young lady from a three-mile coach trip.
It was not as if I wanted her to walk home.
If she cast up her accounts in the coach, it would not be the first or last time.
Alas, between Mama’s matchmaking, Papa’s indolence, Mr Bingley’s insistence she stay over, and Jane’s insistence I nurse her—I ended up spending four rather uncomfortable days with the denizens of Netherfield.
I considered Mr Bingley the only truly amiable resident. Mr Darcy was mostly inscrutable (though he refrained from insulting me further), Mr Hurst was mostly a nonentity, and the Superior Sisters were entirely false.
Fortunately, Jane was on the mend by Saturday.
She slept for several hours in the afternoon, and we talked late into the night.
Jane entertained modestly optimistic hope for Mr Bingley, and I was convinced they were at least half in love.
We eventually needed at least some sleep so we could leave in the morning after church, a task for which Mr Bingley committed his carriage.
Jane needed something from my room before bed, so when we heard a clock chime one, we stepped out together, right into the strangest tableau imaginable.
The first thing I noticed was Mr Darcy walking around a corner down the hall from my room, looking angry and fierce.
I should point out looking angry or fierce is a natural state for Mr Darcy.
His drawing-room expression matches most men in a duel or a knife fight, so a scowl was nothing unusual.
That night though, he looked as if he were hunting some large animal to kill it with his bare hands and eat its liver raw.
As for his attire, he was usually well turned out (I admitted sheepishly).
I confess meeting him at one in the morning was well outside my experience; but that morning, his appearance was a sloppy and half-hearted effort, as if done in a great hurry upon being dragged from his bed.
He showed a day’s stubble on his chin, his cravat was sloppily tied, and the rest of his clothes seemed to be thrown on garments from the day before.
Of course, since I was in a dressing gown with my hair braided for sleep, I was in no position to criticise his ensemble, but it seemed alarming. My first thought was that he must have received an express and needed to leave for London, Derbyshire, or Timbuktu in the middle of the night.
As I made those observations, I espied Mr Bingley coming around the corner several yards behind Mr Darcy.
I was further shocked to see Mr Bingley was also completely dressed, but with an enormous difference.
That man looked ready to go out searching for the non-existent Meryton nightlife.
He was fully and impeccably attired, looking much as I would expect him to look in the morning.
There was no stubble on his chin, but since I mostly considered him closer to boyhood than manhood (sorry Jane), I imagined he could go days without a shave, so I read little into that.
What I found most alarming was the expression on Mr Bingley’s face.
Seen in isolation, I would mark him as determined and fierce, but nobody could achieve either with much credibility standing close to Mr Darcy.
I was curious to find him fully dressed and better turned out than the Derbyshire gentleman.
My feverish imagination had him up all night worrying about Jane when he received some shocking news necessitating dragging Mr Darcy from his bed, but I could not take such a scenario seriously.
I was just puzzling the expression on Mr Bingley’s face, which I could not make out, when another part of the mystery resolved itself.
A few yards behind Mr Bingley, I saw Miss Caroline Bingley dressed as a…
a… well… let us just say… while I know the terms ladies are not supposed to know before marriage, I am less inclined to write them.
I can only assert that she had the appearance of an…
ah… professional… and leave it at that. She had a dressing gown that did not close properly, nor did it reach within a foot of the floor.
The nightgown behind it was so thin you could read a newspaper by candlelight through it.
That aside, her expression was not difficult to fathom. She was trying to appear demure, but since she was behind Mr Darcy, and thus out of his sight where she did not need to hide her expression, she was gloating. At least she was until she saw Jane and I, at which point she tried to look injured.
One would have to be a simpleton to not recognize a compromise in the making. At least, it had all the appearance of one. I was mostly, but not entirely convinced, until I saw the next pair come around the corner.
Mr and Mrs Hurst were also fully and correctly dressed.
That alone would seem suspicious at that time of night, but the last nail in the coffin of any doubts were set by Mr Hurst’s appearance.
At one in the morning, Mr Hurst was awake and sober.
I had never seen even an approximation of sobriety after dinner in my entire experience.
Coupled with a look of absolute seriousness on both Hursts’ faces, and I strongly suspected we were intruding on a family enterprise.
It was fortunate Jane was standing close behind me when the tableau unfolded. Jane was the sweetest woman in the world—temperamentally incapable of thinking the worst of anybody if there were any alternative.
She shocked me by whispering, “This is not right, Lizzy. Something is very much amiss. Poor Mr Darcy!”
I nodded but could add nothing because the (admittedly still handsome) gentleman was upon us.
Mr Darcy looked shocked to see us but gave a bow and slight smile. “Miss Bennet… Miss Elizabeth… I hope you are well.”
His voice cracked on the last word, while he ground his teeth and balled his fists.
As it turns out, I had never seen Mr Darcy truly discomposed before that moment, and it seemed to violate a fundamental law of nature.
I thought him grim and taciturn, but implacable.
I must admit, having him show he was as human as the rest of us gave me quite a shock, and even the rudiments of sympathy.
Jane and I curtsied, more out of habit than any concession to propriety. I did not want to work out how you should answer such a group, so I just replied, “Mr Darcy,” since he was the one who greeted us.
I was finding a study of Mr Darcy fascinating, but not as riveting as watching Mr Bingley when he spotted Jane.
He shocked me to death by instantly adopting his amiable half-smile, just like someone putting on a mask.
One minute he looked nearly as fierce as Mr Darcy, and the next he looked the same as when he had walked into the Meryton Assembly. It was uncanny and unnerving.
I glanced over at Jane and saw her slight frown, which in the world of Jane Bennet was akin to cursing like a sailor for five minutes. She saw the mask appear and obviously did not like what she saw beneath it.
I enjoy teasing Jane that she cannot see the worst in people, but the truth is more subtle—she can, and she does.
She is fierce when she thinks she is right.
However, after many years of exposure to our mother and younger sisters, who flit from one emotion to another like a bee finding a new flower; Jane learned to see the worst of people as the last probable explanation, instead of the first (an unfortunate habit I share with my father).
Mr Bingley tried to look innocent. “Miss Bennet… Miss Elizabeth… I apologise for disturbing you. I hope you are well. You may return to your rest. We have business to discuss downstairs.”
The business sounded like exactly that, though you must equate crime with business for it to make sense.
This seemed like a well planned and executed compromise attempt; but I could not for the life of me work out why Mr Darcy would go along.
His standing in society was sufficient to ignore the Bingleys or squash them like bugs.
He could run them out of London without leaving his club.
Jane surprised everybody. “If I may be so bold as to ask, what business could possibly be conducted at this time of night?”
Miss Bingley was temperamentally incapable of keeping her fool mouth shut. “The business of my engagement. Mr Darcy compromised me.”
Mr Darcy snapped, “Quite the contrary, Miss Bingley—”
Mr Bingley apparently thought Mr Darcy might give the game away, so he did his best to slow things down and move towards his original goal. “Darcy… Darcy… there is no point spreading rumours now. Remember, she will be your wife.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Mr Hurst, bless his little heart, said, “Come, come, Darcy. You enjoyed the milk… time to buy the cow.”
Everyone turned and glared at him, and I thought my prior estimate of his sobriety was wildly optimistic.
Miss Bingley made what I thought was the operative point. “Come now… we would not want to spread rumours which might affect Miss Darcy’s reputation or entry into society, would we?”