He had accepted it.
There had been no resentment, no instinctive retreat behind reserve. He had listened – and, more than that, he had reflected. The realisation troubled him, for he could not remember the last time he had permitted himself to be corrected so freely. Authority alone had never compelled him, nor had familiarity.
Why, then, had he allowed Mr. Bennet to do so?
The answer was not immediately comfortable. Mr. Bennet was, by every conventional measure, an eccentric man. Indolent in certain duties, inclined to irony, and far too willing to expose folly by amusement. And yet, beneath this disengagement, Darcy had discerned something he could not easily dismiss: a precise moral instinct, and a readiness to defend his daughter’s dignity without hesitation or display.
Darcy found that he respected him.
The respect was complicated by a question that would not be entirely suppressed. Mr. Bennet’s daughters were numerous, their fortunes slender, and the entail an undeniable hardship. Why nothing had been done – no gradual augmentation attempted, no economies enforced – remained a puzzle. Darcy did not resolve it that morning. He merely acknowledged that negligence and affection were not always so neatly opposed as he had once believed.
He looked out the window. The morning sun began to melt the frost. The frost, which had rendered the ground almost white at first glance, was already yielding to colour.
He had behaved in an ungentlemanly manner. Driven by impatience to be left alone, he had lashed out at a gentlewoman. At the time, he had not cared whether he offended. He must have spoken loud enough for her to hear it. For a young woman tohear his insult must have been a blow. That was beneath him. The recollection was mortifying. No wonder Miss Elizabeth did not like him.
Darcy took up a paper, some days old, and perused the titles; yet his mind refused to be confined. It turned next, and not unwillingly, to Mrs. Bennet.
After finding himself at the wrong end of the table, he resolved to endure Miss Elizabeth’s challenge. What he had not anticipated was to perceive the motive beneath a mother’s excess. Her talk of marriage and security, though incessant, had been animated by a genuine fear – not for herself, but for her daughters’ future. She had spoken as a woman perpetually conscious of time pressing and safeguards failing.
Darcy had listened.
The knowledge did not render her elegant, nor her manners very agreeable, but it did engage his sympathies.
Jane Bennet – her beauty was matched by her unassuming character. Her smiles concealed nothing; they merely reflected a gentle and sincere disposition.
Darcy’s attention turned instead upon his friend. Bingley was plainly attached; of that there could be little doubt. What had appeared, at first, the natural warmth of his disposition now bore a more particular direction, and one not likely to diminish. Darcy had seen enough to know that the attachment was returned – or, at the very least, encouraged with a sincerity that admitted no art.
Yet sincerity, however engaging, did not always imply strength; and he could not be certain whether Miss Bennet’s composure arose from steadiness of character or from a gentleness that might yield too easily to stronger influence.
The question also remained whether inclination alone ought to determine him. Bingley’s temper was open, his judgement less guarded; he was apt to be guided by feeling where others might pause. Such attentions, so publicly marked, could not pass without consequence, nor be lightly withdrawn once engaged.
Darcy found himself considering, not for the first time, whether he ought to interfere – and, for the first time, uncertain upon what grounds he might justify such interference.
***
The breakfast room at Netherfield was brighter than usual, the pale winter sun finding its way through the tall windows and striking the silver upon the sideboard.
Bingley was already seated when Darcy entered. That alone was unusual. He had unfolded the newspaper, though it lay unread before him. His coffee had gone untouched.
“You are early,” Darcy observed.
“Am I?” Bingley glanced at the clock as though surprised by it. “I thought we might… I mean – there is no advantage in being late.”
Darcy merely nodded, though he was not without suspicion as to the cause of his friend’s sudden readiness.
Caroline entered at that moment, fastening the clasp of a bracelet. “Late to what, my dear Charles? The church will not depart without us.” She laughed at her own joke.
Louisa followed more languidly. Mr. Hurst, last of all, with visible reluctance. He looked as though several more hours’ sleep would not have displeased him.
“The service is at eleven, I believe,” said Bingley.
“It rarely begins precisely then,” Caroline said, taking her seat. “In Hertfordshire, one must allow for conversation.”
“That is not peculiar to Hertfordshire.” Darcy pointed out.
Louisa smiled faintly. “Of course.” Then she changed the subject. “We had quite an evening last night.”
Bingley coloured very slightly. “It was a pleasant dinner.”
