He was not unjust, but he desired to live among persons of refinement. He valued a certain standard of conduct, which he still believed essential. To marry Elizabeth might oblige him to relinquish some of those expectations. And he was forced to admit that, however much he desired her, the decision was far from simple.
Not even when Lady Catherine announced at breakfast that they were to have guests for dinner did he know what he ought to decide.
Chapter 5
He dressed with care—almost as though he were attempting to conceal his torment beneath elegant clothes. Weston, his valet, regarded Darcy’s reflection in the mirror with admiration.
“You look excellent, sir!” he said, with a paternal expression that made Darcy smile.
Servants such as Weston, or Miss Robertson, his London housekeeper, wished for a mistress. From time to time—more often at Pemberley—he would hear, “You are too lonely, sir!” And that had only one meaning: he required a wife and children, the natural life of a man approaching thirty.
This would be the first time he had seen Miss Elizabeth since the Netherfield ball. Yet to him, it seemed they had never been apart, for in the past months she had been constantly in his thoughts.
To see her again brought him considerable agitation. She was resplendent—the only word he could find—and so unlike any other woman he knew. She was truly modest, yet entirely confident in her opinions and ideas.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “what a surprise to find you in Hunsford.”
“Mr Darcy.” She curtseyed, and he could not determine whether she was pleased to see him or not.
He made every effort to be seated near her at dinner, but as the company was small and the conversation general, they found no opportunity to speak privately.
“How do you like the country?” he asked, looking at her, though once again he could not read her expression.
“I like to travel and see new places,” she replied, “and certainly Rosings is impressive.”
“Perhaps you will allow me to hope that you may visit Pemberley in the future.”
Only then did she look at him with interest. “Thank you. It may be possible, as my aunt and uncle intend to visit the Lake District this summer.”
Their brief exchange was interrupted by his aunt, who disliked being excluded from any conversation. Her dinners were intended chiefly to display her own opinions. She seldom asked questions and frequently answered them herself.
Darcy looked at Anne and could scarcely believe she was the same young woman he had seen at his uncle’s ball. She was once more entirely under her mother’s influence. Seated beside her companion, Mrs Jenkinson, she appeared almost as motionless as marble.
He felt a pang of pity for her. Turning again towards Elizabeth, he was obliged to acknowledge that the Bennets had done well in raising her to be the spirited young lady she was. Lady Catherine, by contrast, had reduced her own daughter to something lifeless.
“Do you play the pianoforte, Miss Bennet?” Lady Catherine asked.
“Yes, ma’am, I do.”
Elizabeth seemed inclined to add something, but she was prevented when Lady Catherine launched into a discourse on those who lacked proper technique and how disagreeable it was to listen to them. Her tone was so pointed that Elizabeth coloured slightly.
“Madam,” Darcy said, “I believe that listening to music is in itself a pleasure. We ought to be indulgent towards anyone who studies the instrument for her own enjoyment.”
Lady Catherine regarded him with displeasure. She did not like to be contradicted; but her nephews enjoyed a certain privilege, and she chose not to pursue the matter further.
She was, indeed, a difficult woman, expressing her thoughts with such directness that she seemed perpetually engaged in criticism.
“Our dear aunt has no need of gossip,” the colonel had once observed with amusement, “for she says the most disagreeable things directly to one’s face.”
No one liked her—not even her brother—yet she was family.
As Mrs Bennet is Elizabeth’s mother, Darcy thought, and that must be borne. One does not choose one’s relations.
“Her family is the only obstacle you find in your way to her?” the colonel had asked him only moments before dinner.
He had not known what to answer. And now, seated near her, he was tempted to say, “Yes—her family is the only obstacle.”
Observing his aunt’s disdain towards her guests—the Collinses, Sir William, Maria, and Elizabeth—he realised that any attachment on his part would meet with opposition within his own family. The colonel was singular and, in time, might be his only support against both his aunt and his uncle.
