As he seen her walking beside him, his heart was softened by the unstudied grace of her countenance; nevertheless, his judgement compelled him to go further than an admirative glance. Now that their acquaintance had been renewed on terms of goodwill, he would have ample leisure to consider his course. Longbourn lay but three days’ journey from Pemberley, and not half a day from London.
He determined, therefore, to act contrary to his present inclinations, to practise forbearance, and above all, not to raise in her any hope which he was not yet prepared to satisfy.
Chapter 3
Unlike her brother’s reserve, Georgiana earnestly wanted to befriend Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She had received the prospect of Mr Bingley’s sisters visiting Pemberley with little pleasure. They appeared greatly her seniors in age, yet it was not age alone that rendered their company disagreeable; Georgiana disliked the inevitable trifling conversation and incessant gossip to which such ladies were inclined. Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst seemed to take uncommon satisfaction in the exercise of detraction.
There was, too, the daughter of Sir Rupert, Miss Eliana, who was lately promised in marriage, and whose thoughts were wholly taken up with matrimonial arrangements. It had been diverting, for a time, to observe the preparations of a young lady for a union intended for life. But after five days of unvaried talk of gowns, invitations, and menus, the conversation had grown insufferably tedious. There were, to be sure, other young ladies in the neighbourhood, yet Georgiana had formed no particular intimacy with any since her earliest years.
Miss Elizabeth was what she had long wished to meet—a young woman of polished manners, already introduced into society, whose interests went beyond the common occupations with beaux, courtship, and idle tattle. She played the pianoforte with an evident relish, delighted in reading, and spoke of persons and affairs with a frankness Georgiana had seldom known.
But perhaps her most admirable quality, in Georgiana’s opinion, was that she enjoyed her brother’s high regard. Georgiana could remember few occasions on which Fitzwilliam had shown such attention to any lady. Though ever civil and obliging, he had rarely displayed the consideration, or indeed the solicitude, which he now so freely showed. Miss Elizabeth was lodged in an apartment seldom assigned to visitors, and her brother was frequently in her company, ready to forestall her wishes. Yet the lady, with perfect naturalness and sincerity, expressed neither particular desire nor fanciful whim.
“Let us hide,” Georgiana said with a smile, and taking Elizabeth by the hand, she led her to the library. In a house as distinguished as Pemberley, where each apartment was a work of art, the library was a concealed treasure. Its ceiling rose high, and three of the walls were wainscoted in reddish-brown wood shelves; the fourth consisted wholly of glass-panelled doors opening upon a garden.
It was the first time Elizabeth had seen such splendour, yet what gratified her almost as much as the room itself was the plain proof of its constant use: books lay scattered across tables and chairs, as if the last reader had only just stepped away.
“What do you read, Miss Elizabeth?” asked Georgiana, not in the stiff manner of idle civility, but with genuine curiosity.
Elizabeth paused a moment before answering. “Papa always encouraged us to read—a great deal, indeed. When we were children, he chose the volumes. But of late, I must own,only Mary, my middle sister, and I have continued the habit. Papa often urged us to read the works of female authors.”
“How interesting!” Georgiana exclaimed.
“Yes, he is often thoughtful about us and reflects on our destinies being different from those of men. With six daughters in the family, he is particularly inclined to the belief that our fortunes should not be confined to those of wife and housekeeper. He esteems any woman who finds the means to rise above such bounds.”
“And which authors have you discovered?” Georgiana asked, rising and taking up a large volume from the table near at hand.
“What book is that?”
“It is not properly a book, but rather a catalogue—a register of all the volumes in the library and their allotted places upon the shelves.”
It was only then that Elizabeth observed the small brass plates affixed to each shelf, each bearing an engraved letter. She took the catalogue from Georgiana’s hands. She examined it with eagerness, her eyes now and again glancing towards the shelves to confirm its contents.
“Charlotte Lennox,” she read aloud. “G-20.” At once, Georgiana turned to the appointed shelf and, one by one, drew out the titles: “Harriot Stuart, Henrietta, Euphemia, Poems on Several Occasions—”
“And?”
“And that is all,” said Georgiana, surveying the shelf attentively. “Are there more?”
“Oh yes! Her most celebrated work:The Female Quixote; or, The Adventures of Arabella.”
“Indeed, it is here,” Georgiana replied, “though no author is named.”
Elizabeth took up the volume with obvious delight. “It was published anonymously, as was often the case with novels written by women. But in London, it was well known who the authoress was.”
“Fascinating!” cried Georgiana, astonished that in so short a time, this lady had revealed a province of knowledge unknown to her. She had liked Miss Elizabeth from the moment of their acquaintance, but now her regard had deepened into admiration. “And sad.”
“Nay, it is not really sad. Charlotte Lennox enjoyed a great reputation in her day. She was esteemed in London circles, and her authorship ofThe Female Quixotewas no secret. She even appeared upon the stage at Drury Lane.”
“An actress?” Georgiana was visibly startled. In her circle, that profession bore no honourable character. She was doubtful whether her brother would allow her to read a novel produced by such a woman. Yet Elizabeth’s father had imposed no such scruple, and Georgiana resolved quietly to take the book to her own apartment and read it in private—this and whatever else Miss Elizabeth had perused.
“What an uncommon title! I am eager to know its subject,” Georgiana continued, clasping the book with gentle eagerness.
“Indeed uncommon,” returned Elizabeth. “And a bold choice to refer to so well-known a work. She reversesDon Quixote: whereas Don Quixote mistakes himself for a knight and goes forth in quest of adventures which exist only in his fancy, Arabella believes herself the heroine of a romance. She imagines the world of novels to be the real one, and she behaves accordingly.”
“How very diverting!”
“Charlotte Lennox was a remarkable woman: writer, poetess, actress. She even translated into English theMemoirsof Maximilian de Béthune, Duke of Sully, from the French. She spoke Italian likewise. She left this life some ten years past, but I dare say she is not forgotten in London.”
