Page 54 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived
T he moment the Bingley sisters left, Elizabeth heaved a sigh of relief. Thankfully, they had, for the most part, not considered her worth their attention at all. Miss Bingley had sent several little barbed comments her way, but that had been the extent of their interaction. It was no wonder Mr. Darcy did all he could to escape Netherfield. At least the Bingley sisters were kind to Jane. Hopefully that kindness would last even if Mr. Bingley proposed.
“Will you be attending the ball, Mr. Collins?” her mother asked after several minutes of enthusing over what a compliment the ball was to Jane.
Mr. Collins bowed. “Of course. I assure you that a ball of this kind, given by a young man of good character, to respectable people, cannot have any evil tendency, and―”
“Lady Catherine approves of dancing?” Elizabeth interrupted, a faint smile on her face. She could not wait to tell Mr. Darcy whatever ridiculous opinion Mr. Collins spouted.
He nodded pompously. “Lady Catherine recognises that socialising is an integral part of creating community and, in her day, she was an accomplished dancer. If her daughter was healthier, I am certain that Miss de Bourgh would have blessed us with dancing more fair than any in all of England. Unfortunately, her illness precludes her from partaking in any sort of strenuous activity. I am confident, however, that my fair cousins will shine nearly as brightly as Miss de Bourgh when on the dance floor. In fact, I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening.” He gave Elizabeth a significant look. “And I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially—a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her.”
Elizabeth cringed internally. “Yes,” she said weakly.
Jane cleared her throat delicately.
“I would be happy to dance the first set with you, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth said, trying to smile.
“I, too, believe dancing to be a healthful activity,” Mary put in. “After all, as Dr. Fordyce says, dancing is ‘adapted to promote health and good humour, a social spirit, and kind affections between the sexes.’”
Mr. Collins nodded, his eyes flickering to Mary for a brief acknowledgment before returning to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth suppressed a grimace. If the man stared at her constantly between now and the ball, she would go mad.
Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands together. “Well, such an excellent event as a ball given in dear Jane’s honour requires new gowns, as I am sure your father would agree.”
As Jane began to attempt to rein in her mother, Elizabeth excused herself, citing the need to examine her own wardrobe. Before Tuesday, she might have gone to her father about Mr. Collins as her mother certainly would not listen to her objections. Now, however, things had been awkward between them. More so because he did not even recognise the awkwardness. Of course, it had only been two days to him, so he might be forgiven for not noticing her distance. She could no longer look at him in the same way though—not after his refusal to take the threat of Mr. Wickham seriously and not when she had Mr. Darcy’s commitment to growing to compare to her father’s failings. Maybe it was just a part of growing up. Whatever it was, she could no longer view him with the same willingness to excuse his foibles. She would always love her father, but he was no longer her refuge.
With a heavy heart, Elizabeth locked herself in her room, determined to avoid Mr. Collins; the man was a fool, but even he should recognise such a pointed hint.
Saturday, November 23, 1811—4 Days after Tuesday
Darcy nearly cursed as he awoke to the gentle patter of steady rain yet again. Though he had seen Elizabeth on Thursday morning, yesterday’s rain had kept everyone cooped up indoors and, if the weather kept on, that state of affairs would continue today. Not only would he not see Elizabeth, but he would have to spend the day dodging Miss Bingley’s transparent attempts to snare him. At least the rain would preclude a tête-à-tête in the garden.
“Good morning, sir,” Hawkin greeted as he opened the bed-curtains. “It is Saturday, November 23, and the rain has continued.”
“Not so good a morning then,” Darcy replied, gesturing to the rain-streaked windows.
Hawkin nodded. “Your morning ride will have to wait again. I imagine Sisyphus is as happy about it as you are. Miss Bingley’s maid mentioned the possibility of cards in the drawing room this afternoon.”
Darcy took a deep breath, reminding himself that snapping at Hawkin would be not only unjustified and rude, but also he did not wish to be unkind even when harassed by circumstances. “I will keep that in mind. Would you please convey a message to Mr. Bingley’s valet that the rain provides us with the perfect opportunity to continue our work on the estate plan today?”
“Of course, sir,” Hawkin said, his eyes smiling.
Trapped indoors, there was little opportunity to escape Miss Bingley. Though she acquiesced (fretfully) to the men’s need to discuss estate business, she proclaimed that she would come and “rescue them from their dusty ledgers” if they were not out of the study by two o’clock.
“Bingley, you know I am not going to marry your sister, correct?” Darcy said the moment the study door clicked shut behind them.
Bingley looked at him as though he had proposed they spend the entire day dancing through Netherfield’s halls. “Yes?”
“You do or you do not?”
“I am aware that you have no desire to marry her,” Bingley said, his expression still puzzled as he settled at the ornate desk.
“Your sister appears to be under the mistaken impression that it is a possibility,” Darcy said, his hands clasped behind his back as he strode over to the window, studying the heavy gloom for the hundredth time, trying to gauge how much longer this infernal rain would last.
Bingley shrugged. “I doubt anyone can change her mind. If you bring up the subject too directly, she will just see it as leave to discuss it with you whenever she desires.”
Darcy blanched and faced his friend. “Well, perhaps you might drop a hint?”
“I can try,” Bingley said. He studied Darcy anxiously. “I hope her behaviour has not caused you discomfort.”
“No,” Darcy said politely. “Normally, we are not always in the house, and I am used to being pursued. It is just―” Just that he chafed at anyone but Elizabeth trying to create an atmosphere of intimacy. Just that he wanted nothing to do with the familiarities Miss Bingley claimed, like drawing his arm close when he escorted her to dinner or the sly smiles that invited him to share her amusement. Just that he was out of practice at enduring such behaviour. Just that he was out of sorts from the days of separation between him and Elizabeth—particularly since the time until his departure was slipping away like rays of sunshine in a storm’s advent. He clenched one hand at his side, then forced it to relax.
“—just that I am out of sorts,” he finished, sitting down in the chair opposite Bingley. “I have never been one to be cooped up indoors and I am poor company.”
“You are not cross with me, are you?” Bingley asked hesitantly.
Darcy considered for a moment, gently tapping the wooden arms of his chair. He was a bit cross, but not for any reasons that Bingley could understand. It was frustrating to lose the changes that had happened in their friendship. In addition, he was annoyed that Bingley was unwilling to check his sisters. Bingley, however, knew of no reason for Darcy’s irritation. “Why do you ask?”
“You have been a bit, a bit off the past few days, and I was not sure if being cooped up was the sum of it. I thought maybe—maybe you are frustrated about the ball?”
“Why would I be upset that you are holding a ball in your own home?” Darcy asked with a frown.
“You were not keen on the idea and you dislike balls in general.” Bingley straightened. “I believe holding this ball is an important part of being neighbourly, though.”
“And you wish to dance with Miss Bennet,” Darcy put in. Had he really been such a bear before Tuesday that Bingley would have reconsidered his plans on Darcy’s word alone? He was not thrilled with the idea of a ball, but it was not as though it would be full of strangers; he knew a great many of these people already and was looking forward to renewing some acquaintances now that Tuesday was over. Mr. Clarke, in particular, had proven a pleasant conversationalist.
“Yes,” Bingley said, a mulish tilt to his chin. “I know that you and Caroline disapprove of the Bennets, but I have already asked Miss Bennet for the first set.”
“Bingley, it is your house and your life. Whether I or anyone else disagree with those decisions, they are yours to make. I believe you are correct though: holding a ball is very neighbourly. To whom else did Miss Bingley issue an invitation?” Darcy asked.
Bingley stared at him for a moment and then began ticking off the various people who had received an invitation. “The Bennets, the Lucases, the militia officers―”
Darcy tensed. The officers. He had forgotten about them. “Was it a general invitation to the officers?” he asked. Wickham would not dare to show his face, would he?
Bingley leaned forward. “Is that a problem?”
Darcy thought back to how they had spent their last Tuesday. “Do you recall meeting Mr. Wickham on Tuesday?”
“He was the chap with Mr. Denny in Meryton?”
Darcy nodded. “He is not to be trusted, with women or with money.”
Bingley frowned. “How do you know?”
“His father was my father’s steward. Wickham and I have known each other for many years. Unfortunately, Wickham has ever been prone to deception and preying on the innocent. His father was a worthy gentleman.” Or at least he had seemed so, but if he was so worthy, how had he not noticed his son’s behaviour? “My father took pains to further Wickham’s career, sponsoring his schooling and such. But Wickham squandered all the benefits my father provided for him. I have several of his natural born children and their mothers in my household. I am afraid he is not to be trusted.”
“Do you believe he is a danger to the community?” Bingley asked, his frown deepening.
Darcy stood and poured them both a glass of port, trying to decide precisely how much of his plans to disclose to his friend. If Miss Bingley caught wind of his plans and gossiped, inadvertently warning Wickham, it could be disastrous. “I do not know. To my knowledge, he has not changed. I intend to speak to Colonel Forster before I leave for London to suggest he keep an eye on Wickham.”
“He seems like an excellent fellow. I cannot imagine that he does not already keep a close watch on his officers,” Bingley said.
“You are probably correct. A bit of extra incentive will not go amiss, however,” Darcy said, swirling the red liquid in his glass meditatively.
“Are you certain you wish to work on the estate today? We can do something else if you would prefer,” Bingley said.
“We ought to make good use of this time,” Darcy said firmly. “Who knows when we will have another such opportunity?”
Bingley studied him for a moment and then nodded. “Very well.”