At Mr Clinton’s astonishment upon encountering her walking at an hour of the morning which appeared to him unusually early, Mr Darcy replied on her behalf, smiling, “Miss Bennet is a great advocate for exercise in the open air.” His tone conveyed nothing but admiration, as though this very quality were one he had long esteemed in ladies.
Elizabeth regarded him attentively, endeavouring to discern at what point she had been mistaken—whether it had been when she believed him merely a proud and wealthy gentleman, or now, when he appeared more nearly an old friend. But she had little leisure to reach any conclusion, for Mr Clinton, having fixed his gaze upon her with marked interest, remarked, “And a student of Plato—Miss Bennet appears to possess every accomplishment.”
They continued their walk towards Rosings and the Parsonage, amidst the cheerful recollections of the two anglers about what they considered a perfect morning. Their lively stories were now and then interspersed with slight questionsthat Mr Clinton addressed to Elizabeth in a tone of easy civility, always in the course of their conversation.
∞∞∞
It was only upon reaching her chamber that Elizabeth became aware that what had seemed a mere half-hour’s walk had in truth been nearer an examination, in which Mr Clinton, without ever appearing condescending, arrogant, or intrusive, had subjected her to continual scrutiny.
“How old do you suppose Mr Clinton to be?” she asked Charlotte a little later.
Charlotte considered the question for some moments. To them, any gentleman more than ten years their senior appeared quite elderly.
“Fifty?” she ventured at length.
“He seems older than my father,” Elizabeth mused. “Well…yes… He may well be fifty.”
“And why does it interest you?” Charlotte’s curiosity was piqued; for although Mr Clinton was no kin of Lady Catherine, he was nevertheless part of her circle, and thus held in some degree of consequence.
Elizabeth hesitated before replying. Of late, she had grown more guarded in what she confided to Charlotte concerning any of the Rosings company. The thought that had arisen in her mind was so unexpected, so peculiar, that she hesitated even to speak it aloud.
“Why are you silent?” Charlotte asked, already somewhat alarmed.
“Only because Mr Clinton is markedly more civil than the rest of Lady Catherine’s household,” Elizabeth answered hastily, half speaking her mind. For indeed she had been struck by theelderly gentleman’s manner. Yet, within herself she could not but wonder whether his attentiveness bore not merely the marks of courtesy, but those of a gentleman’s admiration.
To her relief, Charlotte soon quitted the parlour again to attend to her affairs, followed by Maria. Thus left alone, Elizabeth was at last free to dwell upon that strange and wholly unexpected idea. Though she was accustomed to perceiving when a gentleman admired, or even paid court to her, she had seldom encouraged it. Like Jane, she awaited a love of consequence—a love unmistakable, certain, and complete. She had always believed she should know the man destined for her at once, from the very first look. And surely a gentleman of Mr Clinton’s years could never be the one whom she awaited. Yet, strangely, he seemed interested in her…and she began to wonder, with visible alarm, how she might respond to a proposal of marriage from a gentleman who appeared older than her own father.
With Mr Collins, the matter had been simple; for although civility had constrained her to veil her contempt, the refusal itself had come naturally, and in few but resolute words. Yet what might she do when faced with a man of Mr Clinton’s station and years—a man of evident respectability, refined manners, and considerable learning—who had awakened her admiration from the very first words he had spoken concerning the purpose of education, words so entirely akin to the convictions of her father, and thus to her own?
Unwillingly, her thoughts turned to Charlotte’s contentment. Although she had married without affection, she appeared satisfied with her lot; for, in the end, Mr Collins had furnished her with what she had long expected from life—to be a wife, and in all likelihood a mother, and to live as her parents had lived before her. Mr Collins possessed manifestfaults, which, it seemed, weighed little with Charlotte, whose contentment was plain and bore no trace of artifice or pretence.
Mr Clinton had but one failing—he was advanced in years. Had he been some twenty years younger, it was quite possible she might have fallen in love with him; for he possessed all the qualities she most esteemed in a gentleman.
But the question that troubled her throughout the day, and continued to press upon her as she made her way to dinner at Rosings, was whether she, like Charlotte, might bring herself to overlook Mr Clinton’s single imperfection, and marry him—not out of passion, but because he might bestow upon her something she held dear above all else: a life governed by the very principles her father had deeply instilled within her mind and soul. In the end, she wondered whether it were possible to love with the mind, and to offer the soul other nourishment than passion or sentiment.
Chapter 5
The answer to her question came to her unbidden the moment she entered the drawing-room at Rosings and found herself confronted by Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, who alone received the guests with cheerful ease, both abounding in that singular quality which Elizabeth had imagined herself able to disregard: youth.
Genuinely glad to be at Rosings, Elizabeth exchanged cordial greetings with the two gentlemen and then with Lord and Lady Ashcombe, who were that evening accompanied by their two daughters, Lady Elizabeth and Lady Elinor, newly returned from London. And if Elizabeth had imagined that Lady Ashcombe had exaggerated in describing them as timid, she soon discovered that it was precisely so. They were two amiable young ladies, nearly of her own age, who reminded her rather of Mary, somewhat awkward in company, than of Lydia, who had never known restraint. Not even Elizabeth’s friendly smile, nor her pleasant jest upon their shared name, could wholly put the two young ladies at ease; yet when Maria Lucas was introduced,they seemed a little relieved, and the three soon withdrew together towards the dining-room, pleased to have found one another.
Only after this did Elizabeth become aware of Miss de Bourgh, who had risen from an armchair placed at some distance, almost concealed from view by one of the four grey marble columns dividing the drawing-room into two elegantly distinct parts. And if, in Elizabeth’s fancy, such a division might serve the purpose of a library within Lady Catherine’s household, the portion nearest the fireplace was clearly devoted to recreation. Several tables stood ready—indeed, perhaps not solely in the evenings—awaiting players, with cards already disposed for every amusement then in fashion.
Elizabeth curtseyed to Miss de Bourgh, who returned the civility with a smile so faint it seemed no warmer than a winter sun. The marble column beside her increased the pallor of her complexion, giving her the air of one but newly recovered from a long and wasting sickness.
On more than one occasion Elizabeth had endeavoured to draw nearer to Miss de Bourgh—not from curiosity, but from compassion; for alongside the affliction of some obscure malady which seemed to consume her, one might suspect a more profound melancholy, born of the discomfort she suffered in the presence of those who surrounded her mother.
With some hesitation, Elizabeth attempted once more to approach her, harbouring the hope that they might proceed together to dinner and perhaps even be seated side by side. Yet the effort came to nought, for at that moment Lady Catherine entered the room, accompanied by Mr Clinton, wholly absorbed in a loud and animated discourse which continued without pause, heedless of all others. Then Mr Darcy appeared at Elizabeth’s side and offered his arm, whilst Colonel Fitzwilliam,crossing the room with uncommon haste, extended his to his cousin.
Elizabeth’s smile contained a spark of irony, though it was in its whole benevolence. She made no effort to disguise it from Mr Darcy, who responded with a shrug that bordered upon the roguish; for neither he nor his cousin seemed any longer inclined to conceal from her the minor contrivances which, to her growing astonishment, appeared designed for but one purpose—to bring the two of them together, and alone. That first morning, when Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned in great haste for his gloves—secreted, childishly, in his coat pocket—she had merely been amused, suspecting nothing more than a jest between the two gentlemen. But after several encounters over the ensuing days, and a series of strange behaviours on Mr Darcy’s part, she began to suspect an intriguing truth. Could it indeed be possible that Mr Darcy searched for her company and preferred them to be alone?
He conducted himself as a gentleman might who harboured some interest. Yet she could not trust her own perception, for she had once before been deceived similarly. That November, she had believed herself the object of Mr Darcy’s regard, only for him to depart the morning after the ball without a word. At the time, Jane’s sorrow had eclipsed all other impressions. Yet, in retrospect, Elizabeth perceived that she too had been misled by his gaze, by the occasional kindness of his manner, which had at moments appeared almost marked. Then he disappeared as inconspicuously as Mr Bingley himself.
“You seem very thoughtful. I should be pleased to know what occupies your mind.”
Elizabeth hoped the light from the hall was not so intense as to betray the faint blush that rose to her cheek, for her thoughts had been of him. Nonetheless, she quickly regained her composure.
“I must confess I was curious as to the subject of that most spirited exchange between Lady Catherine and Mr Clinton.”
