Chapter 2
Of course she did not go to the funeral: it would be neither proper nor safe, as scarlet fever was still rife in the village. That had been a week ago; they were still confined to Netherfield and could be for weeks to come. Elizabeth did not know when she could visit her father's grave.
Jane had, of course, had made a complete recovery: it was only a trifling cold, after all. She had borne the news of their father's death with all the poise that Elizabeth had expected, though while they remained in the bubble of Netherfield neither could truly mourn. The other occupants of the house did not know how to treat Elizabeth, who was the only Bennett in company for the first two days. Perhaps, Jane had suggested charitably, the situation brought back painful memories of their own parents' deaths. Even Miss Bingley's attacks on her were no longer forthcoming, replaced by cloying smiles that did not reach her eyes. Only Bingley made any effort to cheer Elizabeth. He passed an entire evening reminiscing with her by the fire, encouraging her to tell stories of her father and supplementing her tales with observations of his own, as far as he could, based on his limited acquaintance with the gentleman. Mr. Darcy, who had been a font of consolation mere days before, was ominously silent. That font had clearly dried up.
Jane appeared at breakfast a few days later, her pallor more due to her distress and lack of sleep than her lingering illness. Mr. Bingley's sisters were far more civil to her than they had been to Elizabeth and the man himself was practically levitating with the desire to be of service. He even left his place at the head of the table to sit by her, scooting his chair close to hers in a manner that flirted with impropriety. Nor could he be prised from her side for the rest of the day, causing the shooting to be cancelled with more than one grumble of dissention from Mr. Hurst. As for the other disappointed hunter in the group, he kept his own counsel.
Elizabeth had spent as little time with her sister as she reasonably could, since The Incident in the Library, as she had titled it. She longed to lean on Jane, but every time they were alone feared exposing her secret. Even Jane, who had ever been her confidante, knew nothing about that event. Elizabeth had never before shied away from admitting her follies to her sister: they could often be heard late at night giggling under the covers over a foolish comment, or stumble in the quadrille, but this was a leap too far. Never before had Elizabeth done something so reckless, so wanton. She prided herself on being conversant with subjects not usually the domain of a gentleman's daughter and this had long made her her father's favourite, but she now had knowledge and experience that no respectable lady had any business with, and this intelligence had opened a rift between the sisters, from the moment that that dam had burst inside of her.
While her own behaviour mortified her, Darcy's vexed and puzzled her. She still could not understand his incentive to violate all of the social norms for which he seemed to stand. He certainly had not taken any pleasure in the situation, based on his demeanour. She was, after all, merely tolerable. He had prefaced his actions by telling her that he wanted to relieve her suffering, and for a time after the event, as she existed in a haze of agreeable recollection, she had been grateful and believed him implicitly. Doubt had seeped in, however, as shame had crawled up on her shoulder and whispered in her ear. If Mr. Darcy had done a good deed, why did she feel such shame? And how could something so shameful feel that good?
Whatever the impetus for his actions, his composure in the ensuing days made it plain that Mr. Darcy did not feel the guilt that she did and Elizabeth envied his easy mind. Even now, as they sat in the music room politely listening to Miss Bingley's third piece of the evening, his pose was relaxed- unperturbed, if not a little bored- while Elizabeth wanted to crawl out of her skin every time her mind wandered to that scene in the library, which it very often did. She wanted him to be disturbed, to be affected by what had happened- no, by what he had done- not sit there self-assuredly as if he had not lately had his hand up her skirt.
He had not spoken three words to her since walking out of the library door. He watched her, as he had always done: at times, furtively, when he believed no one saw and, on occasion, he did so openly- intensely- his lips pressed thin and his eyes dark. Had the lady recognised the torrent of passions raging inside Darcy, she need not have been troubled by his lack of dolour.
As had ever been her wont, she took his interest for distain. Did he think he was so much above her that he could molest her without consequence and then think less of her for it? Of course... he could. She would not even confide in her own sister and her father, as unlikely a protector as he had been, was now dead. She could not reveal what had happened without risking her reputation and, not for the first time, she wished she was a man. Then, she would have the satisfaction of ensuring that Mr. Darcy got his comeuppance and have no need to fear society's condemnation in doing so. But she was not a man. A man too, would have known what was coming when he had asked her to lie on the couch. Oh, she was so foolish! In truth, she had thought Mr. Darcy incapable of contemplating, never mind acting on, such an intention. In her naiveté, she still did not know what it was called, whether it was common practice for men to do this, or Darcy's own particular proclivity.
Good God! Mr, Bingley is not doing this to Jane is he? He did say something about providing every possible assistance!
Elizabeth had been shielded from such information- at once protected from and made vulnerable to such treatment. She was a woman; a woman whom Mr. Darcy had decided to ruin with knowledge and experience that she could never erase. The weight of this awareness had detached her from polite society, she felt, as she viewed the world she had always known through a pane of cloudy glass.
She did succeed in keeping her composure- and held her peace. Nobody would learn what had happened from her; if any of this was found out, she would be shunned, positively unmarriageable, and ruin her sisters' chances to boot, while Darcy would gain rather than lose a reputation, and not an altogether negative one. This sobering idea brought her to contemplate her family's position, now that her father was dead. In truth, they had likely been unmarriageable in any case: Longbourn was entailed to some distant cousin; He was not known personally to the family and they could not rely on his charity. They would have to manage on the interest from their mother's five thousand pounds and that woman and any spinster daughters would be a weighty consideration for any prospective suitor. As for their dowries, they were so small as to be almost negligible to any acceptable gentleman. Were they to lower their sights, they would find themselves equally undesirable, for any man who would not baulk at their want of funds would live in a manner for which the Bennet sisters were unprepared and ill-equipped: they were imprisoned in a social order that left them at once too high and too low for any who might choose them.
These thoughts sometimes preyed on Elizabeth as she watched her sister and Mr. Bingley in quiet conversation. His continued attentions were comforting, nevertheless. Surely he was aware of their situation- as was the whole of Meryton, it seemed- and would not trifle with her so publically. His intentions must be honourable. She occasionally spotted Mr. Darcy in similar contemplation of the couple and knew that his thoughts would not be engaged in anticipation of their marital felicity. His commanding influence over Mr. Bingley concerned Elizabeth: she was certain that he would not be eager for Bingley to wed her sister.
Oddly, Mr. Darcy seemed to have softened towards Jane in the days since their father's death, all the while refusing to acknowledge Elizabeth. Though only a fraction as attentive as Mr. Bingley, Darcy exerted himself, in the first few days after her recovery, in particular, to engage Jane in conversation. More importantly, he also endeavoured to shield her from Miss Bingley's blunt pontifications on the horrors of mourning clothes and the fate of impoverished gentle women. This sensitivity on Mr. Darcy's part, far from placating Elizabeth, only served to enrage her further as she contrasted it with his treatment of herself. Even his stony glare, which she once had made a point of disregarding, now alternately intimidated or infuriated her, so that it was difficult to maintain a civilised manner. She began to feel that she resented him- hated him?- but she did not know what was more insufferable: that his already healthy contempt for her had increased; that he did not share her guilt over what they had done; or that she wanted him to do it again.
Elizabeth re-considered her own situation while ambling in the gardens the next day. She had always held a small hope that she would meet an amiable gentleman, who would persuade her into matrimony, but it was a very small hope and she would never be reconciled to a marriage of convenience. As such, her situation had not changed appreciably: she was still en route to spinsterhood, without the protection of a close male relative. She was hardly less likely to make a match than before, even after this.
It struck her as ironic that the only sexual experience she was ever likely to have had been at the hands (quite literally) of the austere and frigid Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth was contemplating this fact with some diligence when the gentleman himself turned a corner in the path and almost walked straight into her. Darcy halted abruptly within a few feet of her and both recoiled in surprise, he rearing back and peering stiffly down at her. He said not a word and seemed to be waiting for her to speak. Well he could forget about that. Her umbrage at Mr. Darcy's behaviour had only grown and she was not about to inconvenience herself for him. She did not fear being alone with him, she was surprised to find, despite previous events. They continued to stare at each other, both, she was sure, exhibiting their displeasure, until, eventually, he broke the silence.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Bennet. I was not aware that anyone was in this part of the gardens. I apologise for alarming you."
He spoke civilly, but his aloof manner was abrasive. What gall that man had, to stand there and speak so calmly after what he had done. He stopped there and she saw that he would say no more. Neither would he leave, until he had had the satisfaction of an answer. She would meet his effrontery with her own brand of insolence.
"Do not trouble yourself, sir. With these high borders and narrow paths it is easily done… if your mind is on other matters."
He seemed to flinch at this, before controlling his features once more. She had not scared him away, however, and gesturing with his hand, he signalled peremptorily that they take a path further into the garden. They stepped under a trained arch into the next section and continued side by side.
His voice, when he spoke, was nonchalant, but he had paused too long before responding to suggest indifference. "I suppose your mind is much preoccupied with your loss at present. However, I imagine time in such a tranquil setting as this," he gestured around them, "would do much to ease your mind." After a moment he slowed to a stop and turned to face her before continuing in a manner that, try as he might to restrain himself, betrayed some of his eagerness. "I trust you have found some relief from your tensions… while you have been here." He observed her closely to decipher the effect of his words.
Elizabeth was aware of his insinuation and keen gaze, and she felt that he was trying to rattle her. Incensed that he could make such an enquiry, she gave no answer, but looked away. She had no wish to continue their exchange, yet could not let him see that he had gotten the better of her. She resumed the path toward the next arch and ignored his query completely.
"And what brings you walking in the gardens, sir? I am used to think of you as a rider rather than a walker."
His confusion at her change of subject was fleeting. He caught up with her on the track and resolved to follow her lead and drop the topic.
"Yes, I suppose you are right. I do prefer to ride, but my horse is lame this morning and I must have some employment to take me out of doors."
To take you out of Miss Bingley's reach, you mean. Elizabeth had a mind to tell her where he was; she would have him trapped out here, holding her flower basket, until luncheon.
They had come to the end of the arched path and now moved into an open area, sloping down to a charming pond that drew both their eyes and their feet. On reaching the edge, they wordlessly stopped and watched the dimples of insects skimming the water, though neither paid true attention: she was endeavouring to conceal and suppress her mortification; he, to covertly study her face increasingly wounded by her lack of attention to his well-meant enquiry. Elizabeth was about to excuse herself, still feeling the brunt of her disgruntlement towards him, when a stray glance at him surprised her. His earnest expression caught her attention and she was struck by how vulnerable he looked. Had he treated her better in the past, she may have been touched, but his confusing and disdainful conduct in general, and his gross violation in particular, had her too vexed to be compassionate. She was pitiless in her desire for revenge and wanted to discomfort him as he had her for the past week. Unsure as to how to proceed, she tried to draw him out in conversation.
"I suppose Pemberley is a paradise for such a pursuit. And your sister, does she often join you on these carefree mornings, galloping through your estate?"
"She comes to Pemberley but rarely, I am sorry to say. And I would hardly describe life as the master of an estate as carefree." To expose his pompous indignation was satisfying. Elizabeth would not satisfy it by responding.
"I suppose such interests are more properly the province of men, in any case. Does Miss Darcy play the pianoforte, or pursue any other, suitable, accomplishments?"
"Yes, she is very accomplished, if I do say so. She sings quite satisfactorily, she draws, and paints with a light, subtle style, her embroidery is exquisite and she speaks both Italian and French fluently. But music is her true passion. Playing the pianoforte is her release, I believe" His ears coloured at his gaffe in alluding to the release which he had been so instrumental in giving to another young lady, and especially in comparing her to his sister. He could not meet her eye in his embarrassment. Elizabeth took a grim satisfaction in seeing him disturbed at his own words, hoist by his own petard! She even thought a little better of him for his unease- a very little.
So you are not as cold as you would have had me believe this last week. Let me get a little further under your skin.
"I suppose your mother was a very accomplished woman."
"I believe so. At least that is what I have heard. As I have previously said, I was very young when my mother passed away, not yet at an age to appreciate such accomplishments."
Both were silent for a moment. She did not quite know why, but Elizabeth wanted to push him further down that track, and could not let the matter rest. She took one glimpse at his face, lost in thought, before, turning back to look at the pond as he did, she remarked with meaning, "And your father passed away while your sister was still a child. It is terribly sad... for her to lose both parents so young, but then you are such a comfort to her."
She was skirting dangerously close to mentioning the matter around which all of this conversation had been revolving. He did not respond for a few moments and her heart pounded in anticipation of his response. She briefly thought that he would directly address their previous discussion on grief and its surprising conclusion.
"Yes, you have mentioned that once before, Miss Bennet." His enunciation of her name was so sharp that she could not be ignorant of his irritation. "I, for one, do not believe it is desirable to re-tread old ground when no good can come of any discourse on the subject!"
A lesser woman would have quailed at his tone, but Elizabeth Bennet was beginning to feel like her old self. She looked up at him, aware of his towering height very close to her, as she strained her neck to view his face. His lips were pursed and his eyes narrowed as he stared resolutely ahead. For the merest moment, she felt ashamed of her needling him, but then checked herself: while she was taken aback at his anger, she would not be cowed. After what he had put her through, why should she not have a little amusement at his expense. Her alluding to what had happened was no different than what he had done moments before and he had no right to be indignant over that. She dared not hope that he had finally grown a conscience and that this fit of pique was directed at himself. Could he be angry at her for what had happened in the library? She was indignant to consider the possibility. He had done wrong that day, much more so than her. She had already accepted that she was also culpable, but, if she had done wrong, it was to herself. He had no right to claim personal offense and, if she was to be judged, it was certainly not by him. Elizabeth wanted to throw him into the pond, but forced herself to continue the conversation, knowing that this would be more of a punishment to him than to herself.
"And so your sister is your only remaining family?" she brusquely continued. "She must be a great comfort to you, though you were very young when you became her guardian." There was no warmth in the enquiry, yet he could not but respond in the positive. He was loathe to continue the discussion at all, yet the topic of his sister was one of the few on which he generally said more than he intended to.
"Yes, she is a delightful and graceful young woman, if I say so myself. Incidentally, I share her guardianship, but I am happy to do it. She is the most obliging girl and I could not ask for a better sister."
"And, pray tell, how old is your sister, Sir?"
"She is but sixteen."
Elizabeth's natural merriment and sense of the ridiculous could not be repressed.
"Well then, you are exceedingly luckily! As a woman with three younger sisters, I think I can speak with authority when I say that that can be a very trying age; young ladies at her age are often a little difficult to manage. I could never have recognised this delightful, accomplished creature you describe, who has never given you a moment's uneasiness, as a sixteen year old girl! And, of course she is lucky, also, to have you to protect her from the iniquities of the world."
Darcy's equanimity crumbled and, as he turned fully facing her, Elizabeth could not overlook his distress any more than she could explain it. Was she finally seeing a the effects of a conscience in his man- who had introduced her to one of the iniquities from which he no doubt would wish to protect his own sister- or was it Miss Darcy? So Miss Darcy is more flawed, perhaps, than you would have us believe. Not quite the paragon of feminine virtue after all.
This thought was, of course, not spoken aloud, yet the satisfaction that Elizabeth felt could not remain inside and presented itself in a sneer on her plump lips. Darcy caught her gratification at his distress, nearly gasping at her schadenfreude, and physically staggered back from her.
She had been fully expecting to revel in her triumph, but, his acute reaction to her unkind smile led Elizabeth to scrutinise her actions towards him this morning. She was not happy with what she found. What was she doing? She had justifiable cause for complaint against Mr. Darcy, but when had she become so callous to the feelings of another? Was that not the exact offense she had long held against him and one of those for which she was now punishing him? By committing the very same transgression!. Not to mention her thinking meanly of Miss Darcy, a young lady of whom she knew no ill and had no right to disparage- even if only in her mind. She had proved to be no better than Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth was thoroughly disgusted with herself and shocked that she had allowed her bitterness to fester to such a degree as to sour her ordinarily good-natured temperament. Jane would be ashamed of her; her father, who was not himself opposed to a joke at others' absurdity, would be revolted at the cruel intentions behind her mirth. Elizabeth immediately wanted to retract her remarks about Miss Darcy, and opened her mouth to say… she knew not what.
She did not have a chance to find out, however, as Mr. Darcy was clearly not willing to continue the exchange. He departed with a curt excuse about correspondence and Elizabeth had to suffer the final indignity of being dismissed from the conversation, while Mr. Darcy- the man who had interfered with her and insulted her- had seized the moral high ground.
