At my uncle’s home, he often seemed more at ease than at his own; I attributed that to Miss Bingley. Jane liked Miss Darcy as well as I did, and we called upon her together. Whither went Jane, there also went Mr Bingley, and when our destination was Darcy House, Miss Bingley followed her brother and made herself ridiculous in her constant attempts to draw her host’s attention. That he was made deeply uncomfortable by her efforts was plain to everyone but her.
One afternoon a fortnight before Christmas, Miss Bingley was particularly insistent upon his company, hardly allowing anyone else even to speak with him, drawing him aside and nattering away until the poor man looked entirely miserable.
“Charles,” I said in a low voice—it was strange to address a gentleman so informally, but it made him so happy to feel as if he were my brother already that I could not do otherwise—“I think Mr Darcy is in need of a respite.”
He glanced at his friend and grimaced. “I keep trying to slip out of the house without her, but she seems able to read my mind when it comes to him. Poor Darcy, he has had worse than Caroline scheming for his notice since we were at Cambridge, and likely before. I would not have his position for all the wealth in the world.”
Here was a thought: Mr Darcy must feel himself as much the prey of the more unscrupulous members of society as I had, and likely more so. It could not be a source of wonder if he had not wished to be introduced to yet another young lady who might be one of them. Though his insult of me had been most uncivil, it had not been personal, and the consequences had been far beyond the scope of his intent. All of this flashed through my mind in an instant, and though I would consider it in depth later, I set it aside for the moment.
“May I send her to you?” I asked my future brother, and he reluctantly nodded. I stood and approached the pair, and though Miss Bingley did her best to pretend that I was not there, she did eventually have to draw breath, and Mr Darcy was quick to ask if I required anything.
“I do not, I thank you, but Mr Bingley wishes a word with his sister,” I replied, smiling, and had to stifle a laugh when Mr Darcy’s shoulders slumped in relief as she ungraciously released his arm and moved away. “I am very glad,” I said to him in low tones, “that Jane is not the only one with ridiculous relations, else I should be afraid ours would frighten your friend away.”
He looked surprised. “I cannot imagine to whom you might refer.”
“Oh, I thought he might have related to you what my sister has told him of our family. Even Jane knew a word of warning would be necessary.” I smiled wryly. “You will meet them at the wedding, so you might as well know that my two youngest sisters are wild and undisciplined, the other prosy and severe, my mother loud and vulgar, and my father too amused by their antics to exert his authority. Several gentlemen have expressed an interest in Jane over the years, but they have all been quickly driven away by Mama’s encouragement.”
“I...I confess I cannot imagine you or Miss Bennet having such relations. You are both so perfectly genteel.” He fixed me with an earnest gaze, and I felt my pulse thrum in my breast—much as it had done that day when he had stepped towards me in my uncle’s vestibule and insisted that, if I were to marry him, he would work for my happiness. I had put it down to anger then, but I knew better now. Mr Darcy was a very handsome man, and a very good one, and I was not immune to his appeal.
I scrambled to marshal my scattered thoughts. “You may thank my aunt for that. When my youngest sister was born, my parents were told there would be no more children, and therefore no long-awaited heir. My mother’s nerves overcame her, and Jane and I, who were old enough to understand some of what was passing, were sent to live with the Gardiners, who had been married only a few months. We would spend much of the next several years with them, until Mama felt she could have us all at home once more. In that time we were greatly influenced and, as you have seen, we maintain a close relationship with them to this day.”
“You could have had no better example than Lady Gardiner,” he replied in his grave way. If I had not come to know him better these last weeks I might have thought it mere courtesy, but now I could recognise the sincerity underlying his solemn tone.
“No, we could not,” I agreed. “We have some slight hope that being among unfamiliar company will check my mother’s and sisters’ exuberance at the wedding, but you should probably expect to be horrified.” I covered my own unease by making the suggestion in an impudent manner. Though he smiled as I had intended, I suspected that he had seen through my pretence.
“I have an aunt,” he offered, “who is loud and domineering, and unwilling to hear any opinion other than her own. She has spoken for years of her wish that I marry her daughter as though it were a settled arrangement; with that and other questionable opinions, she contrives to mortify me whenever we are in company together. Every family, I think, must boast some ridiculousness, if only to guard against hubris.”
I laughed at that, he laughed with me, and even Miss Bingley’s poisonous glare could not check us.
CHAPTER20
FITZWILLIAM DARCY
I could only conclude that I was the most idiotic of fools. I had openly insulted a lady, destroyed her acceptance in and enjoyment of society, made her a clumsy and ill-advised proposal of marriage which she had rightly refused, and then I had gone and lost my heart to her.
The question was, what did I mean to do? I saw two choices before me. I could disengage from our acquaintance, as much as possible with my friend betrothed to her sister, and attempt to conquer my sentiments. This is what most of my family and friends would expect, if they knew of my struggle. Though she would not be a terrible match—daughter of a gentleman, niece of a baronet, modest but respectable dowry—neither was she, in those terms, at all what I was expected to secure. Yet Elizabeth was so much more than antecedents and fortune, and it was her other qualities, her courage and good humour and capacity for forgiveness, and yes, that beauty which I had early denied, which had turned my head, seized my heart, and led me to seriously consider the second option: attempting to win her hand.
Could I possibly succeed? It seemed unlikely. Though she had brought herself to accept my acquaintance and, I dared to believe, my friendship, could her pardon possibly extend to trusting me with her future? There was, of course, only one way to know for certain. One fraught and terrifying way.
I was wrong. I did not have two choices. I had only one. I could not give her up without making the attempt.
It was my aunt, Lady Matlock, who gave me the chance to begin, amusingly enough. She was a little too impressed with her own consequence, the daughter of a knight who had risen to the title of countess, and she disapproved of my uncle’s warm friendship with the Gardiners. She would be aghast to know that I had a personal interest in one of their nieces. But when she conceived of the idea of holding another ball, she again allowed her husband to persuade her to invite Sir Edward and his family, and I then suggested including the Bingleys for Miss Bennet’s sake. With Deane’s encouragement, she eventually agreed.
When I called at Gracechurch Street with my sister several days later, I had with me my aunt’s invitations, which I was pleased to deliver. “My aunt is having a ball on Twelfth Night—rather intimate, as much of her preferred acquaintance are too far from town to attend—and you are all invited,” I explained, handing the cards to Lady Gardiner and Bingley.
Later in the visit I seized the opportunity of a private conversation with Miss Elizabeth while my sister sat at the instrument with Miss Bennet turning the pages. “I wondered if you would be so kind as to dance the first with me at my aunt’s ball? If you do not wish to, we shall forget I asked, and you will not be obliged to sit out,” I hastened to add.
She regarded me for a moment before smiling and saying that she would be delighted. The relief I felt was indescribable, and spurred me to say, “And if I may be so bold, might I request the supper set also?”
Now she beheld me with unrestrained wonder. “The first and the supper set? People will think you wish to court me, sir.”
I could meet her bright eyes no longer, so I dropped my gaze to my hands, which were twisting together in a nervous and most inelegant manner, and said, “They would not be wrong.”
CHAPTER21
ELIZABETH BENNET
I did what I always do when I feel uncertain: I made a joke. “Am I now to believe that I am more than merely tolerable?”
