Well, perhaps at the Lucas dinner, perhaps I might have said something loud enough then that might have been overheard? I remember chortling rather too loudly when Caroline said that if I married Elizabeth, I should havesucha mother-in-law.
At any rate, this must be why Elizabeth Bennet did not like me. It all made sense now. I had insulted her mother, and she was protective of her mother, as a person absolutely should be. Even if one’s mother is horrid, one always comes to one’s mother’s defense. That is simply the way of it.
Also, what Elizabeth must think of my character!
And she would be correct, in fact, that it was an appalling thing to do, to speak ill of people behind their backs. I would swear it was not something I had engaged in except with Caroline Bingley, and how I had allowed myself to be pulled into such a demeaning sort of practice, I could not say.
But it was all over now.
For one thing, I must never say anything to make Caroline think I was interested in her, so this would negate my agreeing with her about any of her little mean-spirited jokes. And for another, I would rise above that. It was truly beneath me.
By the time that the Bennets had left, I was resolved in it.
Caroline seemed to have hoped that the Bennets would have taken Elizabeth with them, but they had left her here, and I was not certain how it was that I felt about that.
Part of me wished to repair the bad opinion this woman had of me to some degree. But part of me knew there was little reason to expend the effort. I would likely never see her again, and if she hated me, it was really her own business. It wasn’t as if I didn’t actually deserve it, also, and I didn’t know how I would convince her otherwise without having to perhaps apologize to her mother.
I did not wish to engage in any sort of one-on-one conversation with Mrs. Bennet, I had to admit. The idea of it made my entire body cringe in such a fashion as to be entirely unbearable.
That evening, I determined that I should spend the evening catching up on writing letters, not interacting with anybody at all. It seemed the safest course of action at this point, considering that Miss Bennet hated me and Miss Bingley was trying to get me to pay her mind, and I thought I should take myself entirely out of the situation whilst still being in the room.
It seemed a brilliant idea.
Alas, Caroline was not the least bit pleased by it. When she saw that I was off to one side of the room, writing letters, she came over to inquire to whom I wrote, and when I told her it was a letter to my sister, she became even more interested.
When I did not engage with her, but adhered only to writing my letter, Caroline became more desperate. “You write uncommonly fast,” she said, in a voice of someone who was admiring such a thing.
I could not have that. “You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.” I didn’t think that I wrote fastorslow, truly, sort of medium speed, but the thing of it was that I must not agree with Caroline.
“Oh, how many letters you must write in the course of a year,” she said, leaving the statement dangling.
I said nothing, staring at the page in front of me.
“Not only to your family members and friends, but also letters of business as well!” she exclaimed.
This did not seem to need a response either. I did not give one.
“How odious I should think them,” she said.
I should have kept my mouth shut. Instead, I said, a bit sarcastically, “It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.”
She winced, stung.
Good, perhaps she’d leave and be done with me.
“Do tell your sister I cannot wait to see her again.”
“I have already done so once, at your desire.”
She looked me over. “I think your pen needs mending. Give it to me. I mend pens remarkably well.”
I looked at my pen. “Thank you. I mend my own.” There was nothing wrong with my pen.
She leaned in. “How can you write so evenly? I am all amazement.”
I must say, whatever I had done to encourage this woman, it was not to the degree that she should feel comfortable here, lavishing praise on the evenness of my handwriting. I did not know what to say. At this point, I felt the exchange had gone past anything rational and into a state of sheer discomfort and awkwardness. I should ignore her, I thought, and say positively nothing no matter what she said.
But she kept going. “Do you always write such charminglylongletters, Mr. Darcy?”
