Sunday found Jane not entirely recovered, but well enough to attend church. She suspected most in the neighbourhood disregarded anything Mrs Bennet said, but she still wanted it known she was not dead or even particularly ill.
Jane, Elizabeth, and a still surprised Mary had discussed the likely effect of their defection from Netherfield on their reputations, and less importantly (far less), that of the Netherfield residents. Mary still struggled to escape from simply reflecting what the sermon writers said on the matter; but once that was out of the way, she appeared to have a better-than-average grip on the subject.
The sisters supposed their reputations were perfectly intact. The fact that Jane rode to and from Netherfield on horseback while Elizabeth walked would not be considered out of the ordinary for the Bennet sisters. It was not as if they invented horses or walking boots, and everybody knew the horses were frequently required on the home farm. Compared to the daily improprieties of the rest of the Bennet family, the sisters' exit from Netherfield was hardly noteworthy.
The servants would no doubt gossip amongst themselves. However, even in the consternation of leaving Netherfield, both sisters were meticulous to ensure none were within hearing for the debacle. Simon saw and heard part of it but would be silent as the grave, as would his sister, Jenny. Aside from the unusual timing of their departure, they judged most would assume Jane was not as sick as originally thought, or Mrs Bennet exaggerated her illness for her own reasons.
Since Jenny, the Bennet sisters, and Mrs Hill were the only ones who truly knew how ill Jane was; they judged their secret was safe enough. Staying overnight and returning after her sister came to escort her was a bit unusual but not outlandish.
As for the Netherfield party—had they made a better impression on the neighbourhood, the sisters suspected nobody would have given it a second thought. However, since nobody but Mr Bingley had made any real attempt to be agreeable, the neighbours might be inclined to read more than the ladies liked into their departure—or not. Either way, their departure was unlikely to fuel gossip for more than a few days if they could convince their mother to hold her tongue. Of course, therein lay a real difficulty.
Naturally, the Netherfield gentlemen were rich and single, so a certain amount of gossip was inevitable.
When Jane's rather pointed association with Mr Bingley went off, most would assume it was just one of those things. He would not be the first (or last) man to show interest in a Bennet sister but give up when faced with their vulgar mother, indolent father, and precarious financial situation. The neighbourhood would likely assume he was being practical, and while they might fault the gentleman, they would not especially punish him for it, nor would they think less of Jane. For that matter, it was not uncommon for any nascent couple to see a lot of each other for a few weeks, only to find they did not rub well together.
With those thoughts in their heads, the elder Bennet sisters prepared to join their family for the walk to church.
The Netherfield residents had attended their church two of the four Sundays they had been in the county, so the sisters did not know (or particularly care) if they would be present or not.
Jane and Elizabeth in particular just wanted to get through the morning without drama. With their family, it seemed unlikely, but one could always hope.
The three eldest sisters travelled in a clump, closer to their parents than was their usual custom, ready to defend each other against anything untoward that may or (more likely) may not happen. They were not hiding behind their parents per se, but they were in no mood for any chatter before services.
When they arrived, Mr Darcy was the only Netherfield resident in attendance. He seemed to be chatting cordially with Sir William. Since that mostly consisted of listening without looking excessively bored, he at least seemed able to manage it. The gentleman tipped his hat to the Bennets and bowed politely, but otherwise kept his attention on his companions. The three sisters who were watching him like a hawk feigned bored indifference, curtsied, and wandered over to speak with Charlotte Lucas for a few minutes before entering.
Elizabeth deeply pondered his response (again). To the best of her recollection, the gentleman had gone out of his way to be as polite as circumstances allowed since his setdown. Even watching Jane being ill from the back of her horse could be considered a kindness if viewed in a prudential light. Someone making the argument the men were at long last trying to achieve the minimum duties of a gentleman would at least have a point. Elizabeth kept the gentleman in view from the corner of her eye; but otherwise thought if she had spent so much time chastising the Netherfield party's manners, the least she could do is pay attention to her friend.
Charlotte asked curiously what happened to the rest of the missing party.
Jane did not appear inclined to speak, so Elizabeth simply observed they had only attended half of the services since their arrival, so their absence was not remarkable. They might be in Meryton or may even have gone to town since the sisters clearly favoured it. The latter was either pure speculation or optimism.
For her part, Jane was ever so happy that the Bingleys were absent since it gave her one less thing to worry about. She knew she would be required to meet the party, and Mr Bingley in particular, as indifferent acquaintances sooner or later—but she vastly preferred later. It was not quite as good as never, but much better than having to answer awkward questions so soon after their nascent friendship went off.
They spent the usual quarter hour trying to ignore Mrs Bennet's speculation on the location of the missing Bingleys, then finally shuffled into their pew in the usual way.
Reverend Turner, the Longbourn vicar, walked to the pulpit as usual. He was a middle-aged man with a son and daughter grown and married. He had been the vicar for some time, and his children grew up in the area. They were friendly with the Bennets but never particularly close.
To Elizabeth's potential chagrin, he dedicated a portion of his sermon to several lessons on forgiveness. Mary was following along raptly, while Jane was looking slightly uncomfortable, wondering what the good reverend knew, did not know, or suspected. She hoped the man knew nothing about their situation and the subject was happenstance—but it was still disconcerting.
One verse from Luke stuck in Elizabeth's mind particularly: 'Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven.'
She had no idea what to do with the thought. It was nothing she had not heard before, but still worthy of some reflection. She thought they forgave their mother and younger sisters for multiple offences nearly every day, but did the lesson apply to her situation? Did she owe forgiveness to the Netherfield party? Conversely, did they deserve forgiveness from her? Did hers and Jane's rudeness cancel out theirs? Did her desire to defend her sister outweigh the responsibility to act with decorum? She truly had no idea.
Though Elizabeth spent considerable time and attention on that portion, it was only a small bit of a much longer sermon. It seemed possible, she was simply preoccupied with it because of its applicability to her situation.
Of course, applying the sermon to her daily life was the whole point of attending services in the first place, was it not?
By the time the closing hymn was sung, Elizabeth had put all thoughts aside for later reflection when she was in a place where she could not hear Mr Darcy's (admittedly fine) singing voice. She sheepishly admitted that having his voice joined with hers in song was more disconcerting than it should have been. Looking at Jane and Mary, she saw they both looked calm and collected—but then again, Jane looked calm and collected in the Netherfield parlour as well, so she could not read too much into it.
As the closing hymn finished, Elizabeth waited for her turn to exit. As one of the leading families, they would be leave quickly then endure a half-hour of gossip in the churchyard, and probably less. The weather was warm for that time of year, but it was the middle of November.
Reverend Turner paused before signalling the pew openers to begin, which meant he had something to say. Announcements at the end of service were not unheard of. The parish elders occasionally had something to say, the vicar might mention other church activities planned for the week, or ordinary folks would occasionally say a few words. While the assembly was slightly restive, they gave him their full attention since whatever he had to say was unlikely to take long.
Reverend Turner spoke in his ordinary preaching voice. "A gentleman has asked to address the congregation, so I request your brief attention."
He stared down a couple of young boys who were slightly restless, then gestured to the Netherfield pew. "Mr Darcy."
A murmur went up, but Reverend Turner quieted them with a long-suffering look. This was far from his first sermon and the reaction was as expected.
The elder Bennet sisters gasped slightly but then turned their rapt attention forward to see what the man had to say. None of the sisters could think of a single propitious thing a man might say in such a situation, but they could easily come up with a dozen possibilities they would not care for. Like it or not, even though they had lived there and attended that church all their lives; he was a very rich man, and his words would command far more respect than his relative time in the county or his behaviour warranted.
Elizabeth found her foot nervously sitting on its toe and tapping its heel until Mary helpfully kicked her shin and Jane took her hand.
The elder sisters both had garnered improved feelings for Reverend Fordyce with their rapprochement with Mary earlier—but he also had much to say that Elizabeth was considerably less enamoured with.
For example, among other ridiculous things, the good reverend suggested: "… A modest and unassuming deportment; a gentle and obliging temper; a discreet and prudent conduct; a scrupulous regard to truth and sincerity; and a circumspect behaviour in all your deportment."
As the reverend's words suddenly appeared in Elizabeth's head, she had to think bearding the lions in their den at Netherfield, followed by riding a tired old nag home, would probably not be considered the least bit circumspect or modest. That little gem had come at the end of one of many of Fordyce's diatribes on female virtue, probity, and modesty. It pointed out one awful fact of English society: In a contest between Mr Darcy and the Bennet sisters, even in their home county, there was no guarantee they would be the victors. Mr Darcy had not especially hurt their reputations yet, but if he suffered from implacable resentment, he certainly could.
All of those thoughts flew by in a flash leaving Elizabeth nervously anticipating whatever foulness the gentleman might spew, but she managed to keep her foot planted on the floor.
Mr Darcy addressed the congregation. "Thank you, Reverend Turner. I will be brief."
The reverend sat as Mr Darcy looked towards the crowd and continued with only a brief pause. He surveyed the entire room, not singling anyone out (much to the Bennet sisters' relief). He then spoke in a tone that was deep and carrying like a preacher's while surprisingly soft, to a rapt audience.
"I have belatedly discovered that I have behaved exceedingly poorly since my introduction, and I offer my sincerest apologies to everyone in this society. From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my attendance, I believe my manners should have impressed anyone of sense with the fullest belief of my arrogance, my conceit, and my selfish disdain of the feelings of others. I have said disparaging or unkind things, to or about people who have done me no wrong; or allowed them to be said in my presence without challenge. I have declined introductions and failed to acknowledge people who have shown our party nothing but the greatest kindness. I have left ladies stranded on the edges of a dance floor due to lack of partners, neglecting a very fundamental duty of any gentleman."
He continued looking over the hall, while the congregation was quiet enough to hear a pin drop and most of the congregants were either staring with their mouths open or doing the same thing but more decorously.
The elder Bennet sisters were the most shocked of everyone, but Elizabeth could hardly think, let alone say anything.
Mr Darcy, having only paused for a breath, continued humbly.
"In short, I have not behaved in a gentlemanlike manner. I offer no excuses, but simply say that I am truly sorry. It is my fondest hope that you have sufficient kindness in your hearts to allow me to make amends and begin anew."
Dead silence reigned. It was easy to see the congregation was shocked. Elizabeth would have bet a year's allowance the man was not capable of such an exhibit, and yet he had done something nobody could assert was anything short of admirable—and extraordinarily brave.
"Thank you," he said, awkwardly returned alone to the Netherfield pew, and stared forward.
"Hear! Hear!" Sir William boomed in his usual jovial manner.
This touched off a general murmur of nervous, surprised, appreciation that filled the room; gradually increasing to a low roar as others joined in agreement.
Nobody, including the Bennet sisters, had ever seen such a spectacle and it was impressive, to say the very least.
Reverend Turner resumed the pulpit. "Well said, sir. Very well said, indeed."
He looked around like the excellent showman he was and continued loud enough to silence the murmurs and command everyone's attention.
"I promise all of you …" he said with a grand gesture to include everyone, then with a laugh and a smile, he continued, "I did not pick the sermon topic as an opening act for the Derbyshire gentleman."
Everyone burst into laughter as intended, including the Bennet sisters.
None of the elder sisters had the slightest idea what to think of the performance, but think on it long and hard, they would most certainly do at their earliest convenience.