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Chapter 17: The Immeasurable Burden of Anticipation
If a married woman was to one day be asked to explain, in precise terms, the reason that a dance universally inspires, in all young women, an unfailing and all-consuming excitement, she would certainly laugh; for the answer to her should seem wholly obvious – and, at the same time, wholly indescribable; and she should remember, very vividly, the same sense of excitement overtaking her in her youth at any mention of a ball. She might, on some reflection, say it is the promise of romance, and yet, even when there are no prospective gentlemen, the excitement remains; perhaps, then, it is the grandness of the affair – but then, some of the gayest dances were held in mere sitting rooms, with chairs and tables pushed haphazardly out of the way, with no preparation or forewarning.
If this lady was particularly clever, she might eventually come to the answer – and no one could deny that Mrs. Elizabeth Darcy was particularly clever. But she was at this moment far too busy to come to the answer, for the dance in question was being held at Pemberley, and while she might normally have observed all the ensuing fuss with great amusement, the fact of the matter was that the onerous contemplation and organization of the dance fell largely upon her shoulders, and it was now time at last for the final preparations to be begun in earnest.
The set attending would be comprised of much the same members as the dinner party, save for the Birminghams, who were at that time to be visiting Mrs. Birmingham's sister in Bath. However, there should be some notable additions – several university friends of Edmund Benson would be joining them from London, for example, which should balance well the number of unmarried ladies; and, most surprising of all, the honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, freshly reconciled with her nephew, should put in an appearance, with her first visit to Pemberley since his marriage, and in the company of her dour, yet-unwed daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh; as well as of the humbly patronized Mr. and Mrs. Collins.
Out of all her guests, Lizzy looked forward most to being reunited with her dear friend Charlotte, whom she had not had chance to see since her own marriage to Darcy. On being reunited with her cousin, Mr. Collins, the anticipation was certainly less favourable; and with Lady Catherine, least favourable of all. It was Lizzy's understanding that Darcy's harsh penned rebuttal and lack of subsequent communication had thawed Lady Catherine's reserve – to the point that a letter was at length elicited from her, which was as close to an act of contrition as a noble lady of her stature might ever be expected to stoop; therefore, for the sake of decorum, and of Darcy's well-being, Elizabeth was prepared to welcome her to her home; and perhaps, too, to derive some satisfaction, in that Pemberley was her home, and that Lady Catherine and her daughter should be guests there – and the stark contrast this arrangement provided, to the matrimonial future which Lady Catherine had so vehemently envisioned for Darcy and her own daughter.
Georgiana was quite aquiver at the dance's prospect; for it should be the very first she had had chance to attend; and, there was a necessary excitement which attended the ritual and pomp of any dance, due to the dress, the decorations, the unusual circumstance; and in the weeks preceding, she could hardly speak of anything else, so that Mary, being these days her most frequent walking companion, was not of need to search out topics for conversation, with a constant and unyielding stream being thus readily supplied.
"I do so envy you, Mary!" Georgiana declared unexpectedly one afternoon, as they were strolling through their avenue of lindens. "You are at a great advantage, in that you have already attended many dances, and are therefore well-versed in their customs and expectations, while all the knowledge I have thus far has been gleaned from novels and the reports of others."
Mary was as much surprised as amused, to at last find herself an object of envy for Georgiana, at this rare instance where she could be said to hold an advantage over her friend, and it being in an area, moreover, which was by its nature of little interest or personal satisfaction to herself.
"Indeed, Georgie, I should not say I have been to many dances; only several. And if you were to know the predominant occupation of my evenings at these dances, and the proportionate amount of pleasure I have derived in attending them, you should not think me to be at a very great advantage at all."
That little had been gained from attending these dances, Mary felt with all sincerity; for, to stand continually in the corner by her mother's side, accompanied only by her own dour thoughts, observing the young ladies about her as they were all one by one brought out to the floor – where was the great advantage in such recollections? And much as she was loath to admit she might fall prey to such low, vain emotions, the continual preference for her sisters over herself by the various gentlemen was certainly felt, and the injury to her self-regard suitably rendered.
But Georgiana was not to be dissuaded; she was aglow with the excitement of the upcoming ball, and could not accept such a dismal answer.
"Oh, but Lizzy has said that dances can be the gayest of times, so long as you are in pleasant and good-humored company. And Emma and Charlotte have said those held in the country are acceptable, but they are an altogether different calibre to the ones held in town, and that I should not gain a true esteem for the society dance until I have attended one in London."
"Lizzy is of a disposition to find good humour in most any situation," Mary replied, "and I am sure that a dance may be a gay evening, if you are so inclined to merriment and company, particularly if you are expectant of a particular gentleman's, or several gentlemen's, attention; and in fact, knowing your nature, I am quite certain you shall enjoy yourself at this dance, Georgiana; but I must confess, I have always felt I should have spent a much happier evening if I had been simply left at home with my studies."
"Oh, but surely you might enjoy yourself at this dance?"
Mary hesitated a moment; for at last, there might now be in her acquaintance but one gentleman who should prefer her company over the other young ladies in attendance; or who should at least be likely to request her for a set; by which the dance might be rendered enjoyable, or at least tolerable, to her – that is, if one was expecting that particular gentleman to be in attendance. But this was not the sort of reply she could give now to her friend, for admitting to this would be admitting at once a great deal more than she was prepared yet to confide.
But Georgiana mistook her hesitation for unhappy anticipation, and was quick to exclaim, "Oh, but I shall make certain you enjoy yourself, Mary, dear! You shall have me as your companion, even if there are no gentlemen with whom we might dance, and we shall make light of ourselves, and shall amuse each other with stories, and generally keep each other good company."
This proclamation, in the same tone of those earnest, sweet pronouncements of friendship which Georgiana was wont to make, did some good in raising Mary's spirits, which these days were in danger of succumbing to her natural propensity towards sullenness.
There, she told herself, I was in need only of a pleasant companion, who might converse with me, and save me from the usual drudgery of such affairs. That is all; I shall be perfectly content if we are to spend the evening in such a way.
In the span of the past week, Mary had fallen into the habit of such firm self-assurances. Through these, she endeavoured to buoy her spirits, and to keep her mind from straying upon any paths which were particularly tortuous.
"Oh!" Georgiana exclaimed suddenly. "I have been meaning today to walk to Manley, for I have lost one of my ribbons somewhere along the way yesterday coming to visit Emma and Charlotte, and wish to pick it up."
Mary had no desire to cross paths with the Miss Bensons today, but in all likelihood they should not need walk all the way to Manley, once the ribbon was found, so she assented, with the vague remark that they should not be too long about it, for it might be soon to get dark.
Up the way to Manley they began, a path which cut up the hill and through some thickets and clusters of foliage, where easily a lady's ribbon might become caught, and thus lost to her. It was in one of these thickets where Georgiana's ribbon was discovered by them, and she was only set to pulling it from the unwieldy branch, when the sound of voices reached them, though it was unclear at first from which direction they came.
Mary could recognize them easily as belonging to Emma and Charlotte Benson, so strident and haughty were the tones; and she feared Georgiana, upon recognizing them, should call out, and an objectionable afternoon in their company should have to be endured. However, her friend was stayed upon hearing within the speech a familiar name. As if by unspoken understanding, the both of them instead held perfectly still, and listened to the words which drifted down to them:
" – Lady Catherine as she has deigned to pardon her nephew at last. Is it not rather curious?" – this spoken by Charlotte.
"Indeed. I wonder how she takes to the offense, with her own daughter so slighted, and Pemberley under the hand of the current Mrs. Darcy" – this said with a thinly veiled contemptuousness.
"Oh, and to attend now the dance, as a mere guest!" Charlotte exclaimed. "I wonder that she has the patience to be treated thus. To imagine our Mama standing for such behaviour!"
A lull in the conversation, and when the voices restarted, they were now much closer; but yet out of sight to them, perhaps come round from the other side of the thicket.
"On reflection, perhaps Lady Catherine truly has come round to her nephew's way of thinking," Emma remarked, in a tone which bespoke a vitriolic pleasure.
"Indeed, how so?"
"Simply that Lady Catherine has always encouraged the bestowment of charity on those less fortunate; and indeed, the greatest act of charity Mr. Darcy could have bestowed is to propose marriage to that penniless chit from Hertfordshire!"
At this, Georgiana gasped inadvertently, and the immediate cessation of the Bensons' voices revealed that their presence had been made known.
"Georgiana, dear? Is that you?" Emma called out tentatively, and came upon them as she rounded the thicket, Charlotte following closely after. "Oh, Georgiana, it is you! You gave me such a fright! What on earth are the two of you doing, hiding there silently, like a pair of thieves?" Emma was slightly breathless and hurried as she spoke, and her face flushed a healthy red, in the first sign of embarrassment Mary had seen heretofore; however, there was no sympathy to be felt for her, and the both of them only stared at her coldly, and Mary responded, in a steady but demonstrably icy tone, "So charitable was Darcy, in fact, that he even deigned to propose to Lizzy twice."
"Oh, Georgiana, darling!" Emma exclaimed, as if Mary had not spoken. "You must forgive me, my dear friend, for I spoke foolishly and unthinkingly– oh, I did not mean it, I swear!" This she said with great feeling, and with Charlotte echoing the sentiments faintly; but, upon seeing Georgiana's expression, which was as withdrawn and unfavorable as Mary had ever seen it, Emma paled, and when she spoke next, there was an anxious desperation to her words.
"Oh, you are right to look at me so, Georgiana, it was a hateful thing to say! It was a moment, but a fleeting moment which I had, of total unfeelingness. But of course, you cannot mean to think that I meant such words! Oh, but surely you must forgive me, do forgive me, my dear!" And she took Georgiana's hand in her own, and Mary was surprised to see Emma close to tears, which she was almost inclined to think were in earnest; and while Mary had no doubt the apologetic words themselves carried little weight or sincerity, she did wonder then, for the first time, if there might have in fact been some degree of genuine intimacy in their friendship, and if in some measure Emma was sorry to thus lose Georgiana's companionship.
If such thoughts crossed Georgiana's mind, she remained wholly unmoved by them; and gently but firmly removing her hand from Emma, she said, in an even, detached tone, "Lizzy is to me, if not by blood, then by spirits and sensibility, a truest and dearest sister; and I am afraid, Emma, that any person who speaks ill of her thus cannot be said to be a friend of mine."
Emma opened her mouth to protest this pronouncement; but Georgiana before her was the proverbial immovable rock – her face was that of a statue sculpted from marble, so still and stately and unbending was it, and all the more frightening in its stillness; and her gaze was pitiless and resolute – Justitia after she has ruled her judgment. Emma seemed to know then the cause to be lost, and closed her mouth soundly, her next pleas dying abruptly upon her lips.
Georgiana hooked her arm through Mary's, and then they were turning, and making their way back down to Pemberley, and Mary could already feel the slight tremble of Georgiana's frame, and could imagine the distress that at this moment clouded her friend's face; but when she turned to see her expression, she found, with some surprise, that it was not that of distress, but of sharp indignation.
"I thought them to be my friends!" Georgiana burst out at last. "I truly thought them to be my dear friends, but to speak of Lizzy in such a vulgar way, after all the kind welcome she has given them at Pemberley - Oh, Mary, what a fool I have been!"
"Georgiana, dear, do not rebuke yourself thus; it is a well-trodden path, I am afraid, to discover that in one's friendships there are sown the bitter seeds of envy and resentment; and it is no ill reflection on yourself if you did not unearth them directly."
"Oh, but you yourself had given me warning! You have before in our conversation passed discreet, sensitive remarks upon them which I have quite willfully ignored, thinking I was in better position than you to know their true characters!"
"Ah, but in truth, Georgiana, they were not all so cruel to you yourself; and I might even believe they thought themselves in some ways to be earnest friends to you. It is only that the greater one's proximity, as yours has been to them, the more arduous it becomes to see that which lies before you; whereas I, farther removed as I was, had chance to see a more complete tableau of their behaviour than you."
At this, Georgiana sighed heavily. "To think, you are the only dear friend I have ever had, Mary. But how grateful I am that you have come to Pemberley, and that I may have at least one true friend, and in so having, may all the better discern my false ones!"
And here, Georgiana came to an abrupt halt, and unexpectedly embraced her, stepping back with a sudden timidity at her gesture.
To this grand speech, and to such a show of affection, Mary was hardly equipped, by either experience or disposition, to respond; but after several moments of discomposure, she finally mustered: "I can only return the compliment, Georgiana, in saying that you, too, are the only dear friend I have ever had; and I hope that in friendship, just as in other things, it is infinitely better to have one true than a thousand which are fickle."
Georgiana beamed at her. "Oh, you do promise to write once you have returned to Longbourn, don't you, Mary?"
"I assure you, I shall have little else to do at Longbourn, other than pore over my books, and listen to the town gossip," Mary said, but she said it fondly. "But more importantly," she hooked her arm through Georgiana's, "do you promise to write, Georgie? For remember, quite soon you shall have been to your first dance, and the first one is always wont to gravely change people – you may well be an altogether different person when I depart Pemberley."
And as Georgiana, laughing, began to vehemently deny such a grievous accusation, Mary felt for a moment that she was sorrier than ever to be leaving Pemberley; but before the feeling could become too painful, or too palpable, she forced herself to overcome it, and said to herself, very firmly: It is all perfectly alright. I have a dear friend now, and we shall write letters to each other, from now until our old age; and I shall live a quiet life at Longbourn with my books; and my own company shall be entirely sufficient for me, for it is always much better to rely on oneself for satisfaction, than on the deceptive promises of illusory hopes, which may well never come to be. That is all; and I shall be perfectly content if I am to spend the rest of my life in such a way.