A/N: We continue. The last chapter of the Bennet sisters' visit to Netherfield.
Darcy's Struggle
Chapter Four: Mummies and Choices
O wearisome condition of humanity!
Born under one law, to another bound;
Vainly begot and yet forbidden vanity;
Created sick, commanded to be sound.
What meaneth nature by these diverse laws?
Passion and reason, self-division cause.
— Fulke Greville
Darcy went riding alone that afternoon.
Bingley had hoped to accompany him but his sisters claimed him for a trip into Meryton. Miss Bingley had tried to press Darcy into the trip as well but he had managed to excuse himself.
Bingley clearly suspected that Darcy was still wrestling with Ramsgate, and so he had tempered his sister's insistence.
Ramsgate. Darcy knew that his recent self-dissatisfaction — the self-dissatisfaction that had welled up during and after his apology to Miss Elizabeth — had not originated in the Netherfield hallway. It originated in Ramsgate. In Georgiana's tears of shame and disappointment. Whatever blame if any could be meted out to a fifteen-year-old girl played upon by a grown man, practiced in seduction, Darcy knew that he was ultimately responsible. He had been supposed to protect her and he had failed. He had trusted himself and his judgments, his arrangements, overmuch, and it had almost cost his sister her future.
Failed.
That was the origin of his self-dissatisfaction. But he had increased it that afternoon by misbehavior that he could scarcely believe. Eavesdropping — and lying to disguise it. And of course, it did not help that he suffered the proverbial fate of eavesdroppers — he heard things he would rather not have heard, things that stung him.
Miss Elizabeth's words kept coming back to him as he rode. Blind to beauty…Refuses to dance…Makes himself agreeable nowhere. He recognized Miss Elizabeth's irony in the comment about beauty, but he could not help taking her comment seriously. Am I blind to beauty? Am I so closed-natured that I have cast myself out of the Garden of the world I live in? He reined in his horse, stopping on the top of a hill that allowed him a view of much of the countryside. He could not see Longbourne, Miss Elizabeth's home, but he could see much of the path she must have traveled in her walk to Netherfield. The prospect before him was beautiful and Darcy forced himself to sit still and simply look, not think. The tension that had been with him all day gently began to leave him and he took a deep, tremulous, emotional breath.
Am I disagreeable?
Maybe I need to allow myself simply to enjoy the beauties of God's creation, to accept and acknowledge small daily gifts like this prospect of Hertfordshire, and to stop carrying the weight of the world.
As he nudged his horse into motion and then back into a trot, he let himself linger on Miss Elizabeth's words about his disagreeableness. It was true, he grimly conceded. At least, he did not exert himself to be agreeable. Or, if he did, it was only around those with whom he was comfortable, around whom he could be relaxed, those who knew him as Darcy or as Fitzwilliam, not Mr. Darcy. And he was shy. Not as obviously and deeply as Georgiana, perhaps not as irremediably, but still — shy. And he compensated for it by clambering up into himself, by refining his shyness into frigid arrogance. It was easier to discourage interaction than to fail at it.
He wanted to show Miss Elizabeth that he could be agreeable, even among strangers. But how could he do that without also making her think he was singling her out for attention?
He pondered the question as he finished his ride.
Miss Elizabeth dined with everyone in the dining room that evening. Miss Bennet's fever had broken and she had eaten. Miss Elizabeth had left her sitting up and reading in her room.
Bingley did most of the talking, pleased by the good report on Miss Bennet and also eager to entertain her sister. Miss Bingley kept a watch on Darcy throughout the meal. Darcy was uncertain why until he realized that Miss Elizabeth had been glancing at him regularly as they ate, puzzled glances that echoed the look she had given him as he apologized to her.
He was careful to speak to her but not to speak too much, and to remain safely ensconced in polite topics. But when he mentioned the beauty of Hertfordshire and the view he had enjoyed from the hilltop while riding, Miss Elizabeth turned to him with a smile that dimmed the candlelight. For a moment he thought her smile was the only source of light in the room.
"It is lovely here, is it not? As we all know, I love to walk," she paused and her smile grew slightly more intimate, more for him, "to ramble, but it is not the movement that provides the most pleasure. It is the exquisite feeling of belonging to nature, a natural being who belongs there."
Darcy forgot about his earlier self-caution about singling her out for attention and responded, his response colored by his reflections during his ride. "As if one could return to Eden?"
She tilted her head and her smile slowly turned thoughtful. "I suppose, yes, but I intended nothing so deep. I was only hoping to capture that feeling, rare but possible, of at once belonging somewhere and of still being fully free."
Darcy smiled at her, appreciating her facility for expression. "That was nicely said."
Her thoughtful smile became a pleased grin. She ducked her head slightly. "Why, thank you, sir. I am happy to know that we can both speak nicely." Her eyes added meaning to her words.
He nodded in respectful acknowledgment of her.
Miss Bingley cleared her throat. "Would you please pass the bread, Miss Eliza?" she asked snappishly.
The challenge returned to Miss Elizabeth's eyes, but this time it was directed at Miss Bingley. "Yes, of course, Miss Caro."
Darcy nearly spat out his peas.
Friday, November 15, 1811
The next morning Darcy and Bingley ate some buttered toast quickly and drank coffee before riding out to take a more careful look at Netherfield's tenant farms, particularly the houses, barns, and other outbuildings. Darcy also wanted to inspect the fields, to obtain a better sense of the state of the soil, and whether there might be problems with irrigation or drainage.
Given the report the night before about Miss Bennet, Darcy thought it likely that the sisters would be moving back to Longbourne soon, and he wished he could stay to see Miss Elizabeth at breakfast — but he feared seeing her too. He had not achieved the careful balance between agreeableness and attentiveness that he had aimed at during dinner. He was not sure he had it in him to interact with her without paying her marked attention. The refrain of Ineligible in his head did nothing to keep him from being enchanted by her.
That afternoon, Miss Bennet came downstairs to sit with everyone in the library. Bingley beamed and Miss Bingley frowned, especially when Bingley busied himself offering Miss Bennet pillows and a footstool. After he and Miss Elizabeth had made the convalescent comfortable, they all sat down to an awkward silence.
Darcy had been reading Johnson before the sisters descended. Not the Rambler this time but rather Johnson's novel, Rasselas. He tipped the open book toward Miss Elizabeth. Be agreeable. "I have been reading Johnson again, Miss Elizabeth, but Rasselas this time. Do you know it?"
"Yes, sir, I do. My father read it aloud to me when I was a girl, and I have read it myself again since."
"Elizabeth is my father's favorite," Miss Bennet added softly, "she often was invited to spend time with him in his library."
Miss Elizabeth smiled at her sister. "But Jane is everyone's favorite." Miss Elizabeth turned to Darcy again. "Is this your first time reading it?"
Darcy shook his head. "No, I have read it before. Several times. It is a book I often carry with me when I travel. I use it to amuse the miles or the hours."
"What do you think of the ending?" Miss Elizabeth asked him.
Before Darcy could answer, Bingley interrupted. "What is the ending?"
Mrs. Hurst chimed in too, her attention diverted from her sewing. "Yes, I'd like to know." Her husband snored as if that were his contribution to the conversation.
Darcy turned to the last page of the book. He looked up and realized that he had an audience; everyone but Mr. Hurst was waiting, watching him. He cleared his throat.
"Rasselas, the prince, and his traveling companions are visiting the Egyptian catacombs, and they are standing, looking at mummified remains. As they stand, they begin to talk of mortality and immortality. They eventually fall silent, and after a long moment, Rasselas speaks." Darcy read from the page. "'Those that lie before us, the wise and powerful of ancient times, warn us to remember the shortness of our present state; they were, perhaps, snatched away, while they were busy, like us, in the choice of life.'"
Darcy looked up.
"And this amuses you?" asked Mrs. Hurst in disbelief.
Everyone laughed. "Yes, it does, although 'amuse' may not be quite the best word."
Miss Elizabeth came to Darcy's aid. "The book is a novel but it is a far cry from a novel of the sort of Mrs. Radcliffe. It is a philosophical novel. The point is that we can lose our lives while trying to choose a life. At the very end, just after the part that Mr. Darcy read us, we find that the philosopher who was traveling with Rasselas, one Imlac, ends up content to be driven along the stream of life without attempting to steer to any particular port."
Darcy struggled to hide the overwhelming admiration for her he felt. From Miss Caro to Imlac.
Miss Elizabeth smiled at him. "What do you think of non-philosophical novels, Mr. Darcy? Are they beneath you?" She sparkled as she asked this.
He tried to re-establish some self-control. "Not as a rule, but I have no rule against them. I have read Mrs. Radcliffe, for instance. I believe the best of novels are among the best of books. They enlarge experience, and increase our views of life; they make us know our species better. Often they are the best teachers — for we are more likely to follow a role model than a precept."
Miss Elizabeth frowned slightly, and at first, Darcy thought the frown was for him, but then he realized it was for herself. He wondered if his comment had made her recollect her mother's visit to Netherfield.
"Mr. Darcy," Miss Bingley asked, her voice pinched, "do you expect us to believe you read books full of skeletons and haunted castles, full of kidnappings…and seductions?"
"Yes, sometimes."
Miss Bingley looked at Miss Elizabeth as if this could only be explained by her. Mr. Hurst snored again and Mrs. Hurst elbowed him in the side. "Speaking of mummified remains."
Everyone laughed as Mr. Hurst sputtered into wakefulness. "What?"
"So, Miss Elizabeth, your father managed your education?"
"He did. But to say he managed it may make it sound more deliberate or considered than it was. I have no formal education to rival yours, Mr. Darcy. My knowledge is neither systematic nor specialized. It is the result of whim and scattered occasions. My father opened his library to me, encouraged me to read whatever interested me, and shared things that interested him. And I did — but I do not claim to be truly educated, to be a scholar."
Bingley smiled. "I don't know, Miss Elizabeth, I was at Cambridge with Darcy, and I'm farther from truly educated than you are."
"That's very gallant, sir," Miss Elizabeth said, nodding her head to him. "But if you continue, I fear I will soon be judged a bluestocking."
"Too late," Miss Bingley offered in a carefully audible whisper, but no one responded to her. For a moment, she sulked, but then her eyes brightened and she said, more loudly, with sneering civility: "Miss Eliza, since you study character, perhaps you can sketch Mr. Darcy's for us, faults and all. That should be more amusing than catacombs."
Miss Bingley was counting on Miss Elizabeth's tendency to challenge and rise to challenges.
Miss Elizabeth smiled playfully. "Faults and all, you say?"
Darcy had heard her enumerate his faults the day before while eavesdropping, and he wondered for a moment if she would simply repeat that list.
"Yes, although I must tell you, I believe Mr. Darcy is a man without faults."
Darcy turned to face Miss Bingley. "Do not say so, Miss Bingley. All men are faulty. You heard me recently confess to my difficulty regulating resentment."
"You are too severe upon yourself," Miss Bingley responded, "You — "
Miss Elizabeth interrupted. "Faults and all," she repeated, "but not only faults. Mr. Darcy has told us of his resentment, but he is also a rational man, a man of information, clever and thoughtful, a reading man." She paused and her smile became even more playful. "And tall."
"Miss Eliza!" Miss Bingley hissed but Miss Elizabeth ignored her.
Darcy was so charmed he almost dropped Rasselas.
Securing the book, he smiled. "And I know Miss Elizabeth's fault. She cannot be serious for two sentences together."
"And Mr. Darcy," she said, with a rippling laugh, quizzing him in return, "rarely ever speaks two sentences together."
At that point, Miss Bennet's laughter turned into a soft cough, and Miss Elizabeth hurried to her. A few minutes later, led as far as the staircase by a concerned Bingley, the sisters went up to Miss Bennet's room.
Miss Bingley took an agitated turn around the library, and Darcy wondered if he needed to leave the country altogether — and soon.
Saturday, November 16, 1811
The next day brought a chill rain and a letter from Darcy's sister.
Dear Brother,
I hope that Netherfield and the Bingleys — and of course I have in mind especially Miss Bingley, whose efforts to become Mrs. Darcy are unceasing! — are proving pleasant company.
Are there any others you have met, Hertsfordshire folk, who have caught your interest? Your last letter mentioned no one new. You could do with a larger circle of friends. You had one once, at Cambridge. I can recall parties here at our house in town. But that was before your troubles with Wickham began. (See, I can write his name without tears. I am forgetting Ramsgate, and I wish you would too! I was to blame for what happened there, not you, my dearest brother!) I wish you could find someone capable of making you smile and laugh. You are too often dour.
But I did not write to find fault. I wanted only to find out how you are faring and what you think of your new neighborhood and new neighbors.
How long do you plan to stay? I miss you and hope to see you soon, but take your time, especially if you have made new friends.
Mrs. Annesley sends you her best, that good woman.
I have been practicing Bach on the pianoforte. I know how much you love counterpoint!
Write to me soon!
Love,
Your Sister
The letter warmed the rainy day. Darcy sat down at the desk in his room and wrote in response.
Dear Sister,
I am very glad to have your letter. The weather here is damp and cold but your letter has provided a remedy.
Miss Bingley is as she has ever been, incapable of taking a hint, even one that has been given over and over. I sometimes wish manners would allow direct conversation on such topics so that I could say to her that I know what she wishes and that she will never have it and should look elsewhere. But I cannot. She cannot directly express her wish and I cannot directly refuse it. And so we circle awkwardly around each other, in a dance we cannot acknowledge, harming each other's happiness.
He paused for a moment, thinking about Miss Elizabeth's description of him as close-natured. He decided he would be more open than usual with his sister, even if he found the topic painful. She had, after all, been daring and insightful enough to name his problem.
You ask if I have made new friends. Like you, I find making new friends difficult. Although you are right, there was a time when I was better at it than I am now. Since you mentioned Wickham, yes, he had much to do with the change in me. At Cambridge, I began to believe that I had outgrown my shyness. But then my troubles with Wickham began in earnest. I found that I cherished a viper in my breast — do you recall Aesop's Fables, our reading them together? — and that it was happy to bite me. Since then, I have found it hard to trust people enough to become comfortable with them.
I did meet some of the Hertfordshire folk at an assembly soon after arriving. I should have met more but my shyness interfered. I have come to know a family, the Bennets, a little. Mr. Bennet is a gentleman. His wife is an industrious, voluble woman, much devoted to her daughters' well-being.
Darcy smiled at his description.
She has five daughters, probably between the ages of 22 or 23 and 15 or 16, and they are all out. They are all pretty girls but in different ways.
The oldest, Miss Jane, dined here a few nights ago and took sick, so she has been recuperating at Netherfield. The sister next to her in age, Miss Elizabeth, came the next day to help her sister — walking three miles in muddy fields! — and she has been staying here as well. She is a lady who knows how to laugh.
He recalled her twinkling laugh, then shut his eyes, hoping to make her laugh stop sounding in his mind. He could not do it.
Mr. Bingley has promised the neighborhood a ball, but the date for it has not yet been set. As you might imagine, I dread it. But I will try to meet more of the Hertfordshire folks.
I cannot say yet when I will return.
Please give my best to Mrs. Annesley. I look forward to Bach and the counterpoint.
Love,
Your Brother
Darcy exerted himself throughout the rest of that rainy day to avoid Miss Elizabeth.
He knew that she and her sister would be gone soon, perhaps as soon as the next day, or so Miss Bingley had happily informed him, along with offering an unsolicited critique of Miss Elizabeth's many faults of person and character.
He needed separation from Miss Elizabeth.
His attraction to her was stronger than any attraction he had ever felt for a woman; he had to admit that to himself. But although his attraction — and perhaps his affection — was rapidly growing stronger, rapidly changing, her lack of fortune and her situation were unchanging.
Mrs. Bennet is Mrs. Bennet. Miss Lydia is Miss Lydia. And so on.
He knew that forsaking Miss Elizabeth's company for the day might undo whatever progress he had made in showing her that he could be agreeable, but he had no choice.
His feelings had almost reached a tipping point.
Much farther and there could be no return.
And, to further complicate matters, it was clear that Bingley was growing attached to Miss Bennet. It would be difficult for Darcy to keep his distance from Miss Elizabeth if Bingley were always near Miss Bennet.
Darcy tried to prepare himself for Miss Elizabeth's departure. Netherfield without her would seem like the catacombs, and he could feel himself being embalmed.
A/N: Newcomers to Meryton next time, as we add to our players.
Spring Break is about to end for me so I will likely not keep up this pace. Look for a couple of chapters a week until we finish.
Darcy's going to drive us all a little crazy for a while. Don't expect his continued reflections to be any less inconsistent than they have already been. He is a man torn between love (although he hasn't recognized that yet) and duty — and, as he understands it, not just duty to others, but duty to himself.