Page 20 of The Last House in Lambton (Pride and Prejudice Variations #6)
CHAPTER NINETEEN
T here were innumerable advantages to being the master of Pemberley. There was also one distinct disadvantage. I had no privacy whatsoever.
I awoke with an extraordinary degree of anticipation.
My mood could not be contained, and by visceral means alone, the whole house, from the butler to the scullery maid, became aware of my excitement.
Unfortunately, this was interpreted as a moment for urgency.
My valet dressed me with meticulous alacrity, and my sister gulped down her breakfast and sat ready to leave nearly an hour early.
The stablemaster hitched my most powerful team, restive from the lazy days of winter, and we veritably dashed off to Lambton to visit Mrs Jennings.
A prompt, even a premature arrival, might be assumed as a lover-like attention by some, and in almost all cases, a lady expecting to receive a gentleman caller could be found sitting in an attitude of ready anticipation for at least three quarters of an hour before the usual time for morning visits.
Elizabeth Bennet was in no way ready to receive us.
She stood before me in a crumpled apron with her hair half undone, clutching a ladle, her eyes wide and well-lit, cheeks pinking, and a reflexive smile of surprise. I had never seen anyone, anywhere, more beautiful.
“Mr Darcy!” she cried.
I stammered from where I stood at the door to the kitchen and awkwardly set down an enormous hamper.
It had been assembled by Mrs Reynolds, who took my request for a modest offering to Mrs Jennings as a plea to feed the lady for two months together.
As I said, my rare mood had inspired my people to exhibit an inconvenient measure of zeal in their efforts to assist me.
Miss Bennet then met my sister in an attitude of pleasurable haste.
She spoke with charming enthusiasm, effortlessly brushed off the state of her appearance, explained her endeavours at the cookstove, welcomed us warmly, promised to produce Mrs Jennings, and excused herself in the space of twenty seconds.
Georgiana was understandably taken aback, yet she was not entirely put off. Who could be when beset by such ease of manner, such sparkling and self-amused dismay?
Newly composed and with her hair in good order, Miss Bennet reappeared with a diminutive white-haired lady who immediately mistook us for our parents.
I then perceived there was a great deal more to the circumstance of Miss Bennet’s arrival in Lambton than I had first thought.
Mrs Jennings had a diminishing faculty of mind and had no real understanding of reality.
Such was her vulnerability, her return to the innocence of a child, that I felt the stirrings of compassion.
I took the lady’s hand and gently enquired as to when she had met my father.
The warm look of approval this earned me from Miss Bennet was deeply pleasurable, but very quickly it became apparent that all was not well with the widow.
By her demeanour alone, I could see Miss Bennet struggle to bring the lady back from the brink of some grief, and I lent my aid by mentioning Mr Jennings.
This was a miscalculation on my part. Things could hardly have been made worse, in fact. Yet, just as Mrs Jennings looked to be undone by my clumsy reminder of her departed loved one, the knocker sounded. Georgiana jumped in her chair.
Miss Bennet sat momentarily frozen while my sister, Mrs Jennings, and I looked questioningly at her. She then gave herself a little shake of resolution, let out a small laugh, and said, “Miss Darcy, I am afraid you will be held captive in this room for at least half an hour.”
She stood, announced her intention to fetch the tea tray and looked directly at me. “On no account give way to the impulse to open that door, sir, lest you make the error of becoming acquainted with our neighbour.”
Our hostess reentered the room with the tea, which gave me a ready excuse to stand and relieve some, at least, of my anxiety.
I took the tray from her, and as she settled Mrs Jennings and served us, she prattled on in the gayest manner, explaining we should expect the continued knocking of Mrs Edmonton—who sounded like a pestilential nuisance to me—but she would go away in time.
True enough, the knocker sounded once again, this time with an angry determination that amused my sister.
The look of mischief exchanged between Miss Bennet and Georgiana portended some ground for friendship, and I focused on my tea rather than decide whether this constituted cause for joy or alarm.
By this time in the visit, my interest in the lady had cooled considerably.
Miss Bennet had a stranglehold on my masculine interests to be sure, but her situation was perennially complicated.
At home, she was surrounded by the unregulated sensibilities of her family.
When visiting friends and neighbours in Meryton, she was so often the centrepiece in a convoluted flow of stupid utterances, I could only surmise this was her principal sport.
In effect, she encouraged such inanity in order to practice replies that could be interpreted as either cutting or pleasant, depending upon the perceptive abilities of her audience.
Even when away visiting an elderly relation, her circumstances were fraught.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet was not a restful woman, and I had a constitutional aversion to being constantly disturbed.
Just as that realisation crossed my mind, this self-same unrestful lady launched a frontal attack upon me.
“What do you hear from Mr Bingley, sir?” she asked.
Bingley! I did not want to talk about Bingley.
I mumbled a vague reply that I had left him in London, to which she mused aloud that she had thought he might have since left town.
To my horror, she then related to me in the most knowing manner that her sister had been in London, had tried to reestablish a connexion with that family, and had been rebuffed.
I formulated a pathetic explanation that I thought he might indeed have left for Scarborough, only to be exposed by my artless sister, who blurted out unhelpfully, “But I saw Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst very lately, and they made no mention of leaving London.”
As my face flushed at having been caught out, I was then treated to a verbal mauling the likes of which took my breath away.
Turning to Georgiana, Miss Bennet spoke brightly about how Bingley’s sisters were so elegant they could be excused for slighting her sister, that they had pretended to like Miss Bennet but were delighted to be rid of her when she finally left Netherfield after having fallen ill, and that Bingley had paid such particular attention to her that he had set up expectations, not only in the neighbourhood, but within her family .
This lashing indictment was delivered with astounding ease.
She said nary a word against anyone, and her feelings were so skilfully implied they could only be interpreted correctly by someone familiar with the facts.
Georgiana, suffering no such understanding, smiled sweetly throughout this condemnatory speech, and had I not borne the brunt of it, it would have earned my amazed respect.
The final stroke, however, was to suggest—with her tongue firmly planted in her cheek—that Jane Bennet would pursue Bingley to the altar at Saint Bride’s.
This, more than anything, informed me that Miss Elizabeth meant to put me on notice.
Her sister was not the fortune-hunter I thought she was, and I had done a very poor job of disguising my impressions in that regard.
Moreover, I had deeply insulted everyone in the process of indulging my private opinion of the match.
Had I been a windowpane, the lady could not have more easily seen through me. Needless to say, Georgiana and I left in a haste fairly equal to that of our arrival.
I managed to pretend serenity on the carriage ride home.
I spoke lightly to my sister about her horses, and interrupted her with banalities such as, ‘Did I mention I had a letter from Richard?’ whenever she caught my eye and took a breath, as though she were on the verge of satisfying her curiosity about her new acquaintance.
All in all, I felt a wave of relief.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet was not my fate. She was not even a remote possibility for my future, and I had had a lucky escape.
Such was my gratitude to have had my eyes opened in time to be spared an ill-fated affair into which I had nearly tumbled backwards—in short, thinking to end the connexion on a charitable note of polite distance—I asked Mrs Reynolds to send the widow one of Pemberley’s famous Christmas puddings.