Page 59 of Bitterness of Spirit & The Painting

“That is an excellent idea; we shall join you,” said Mr Wilson as he and Mr Gardiner followed him.

“Papa! Papa!” the girls continued to cry after their father.

Elizabeth attempted to calm them. “Lydia, Kitty, mind your manners. Papa is already displeased with your behaviour; let us not upset him further.”

“But, Lizzy, how can you accept this? Mr Wickham was so happy when he arrived, and he was so glad to see you! And now he has left—God knows for what reason! What shall we do? What if he never comes to call on us again?”

“My dear Lydia, we shall learn to survive without Mr Wickham, I promise you—quite comfortably and much more safely,” Elizabeth replied. “Is it not obvious that he left because he was confronted about the falsehoods he spread?”

“No, it is not! You are cruel and unfair to us and to him. I shall go to my room, and I shall not join you for dinner. I do not wish to see Mr Darcy. All this is his fault!”

“I won’t come down to dinner either!” Kitty cried.

“Very well, then,” Mrs Gardiner concluded with calm and kindness. “You still must be tired from the journey anyway, and the company might be too daunting for you. You had best stay in your chamber while I send you a fair share of the dinner courses. It is settled then.”

The girls watched their aunt, dumbfounded; they wished to express their disapproval for their father’s censure but never imagined they might be kept in their room, away from company, for an entire evening. It was too late for another argument though, so they could do nothing but find a way to amuse themselves and think of Mr Wickham—and his unfair fate.

Chapter 15

Elizabeth prepared herself for the evening with eagerness and joy, her heart light and spirited. She looked forward to it without daring to consider the reason for her excitement.

She and Jane arranged each other’s hair and checked their gowns to be perfectly fitted. For both, the evening had an importance they were not brave enough to admit, but it weighed on them heavily. They wished and hoped for everything to be perfect but counted the hours restlessly.

“Lizzy, I was wondering…please do not judge me or consider me ungrateful but…I feel Mr Wilson finds great pleasure in sometimes tormenting others with little concern for propriety or their feelings. Or perhaps he enjoys a little too much finding amusement at the expense of others. Am I wrong?”

“You are not wrong, dearest. He does, indeed. And once he seeks retribution, he cannot be stopped nor tempered.”

“Yes. I felt pity for Mr Wickham earlier today. To be so exposed in front of all our family was very harsh. Perhaps such a rebuke would have been better addressed privately.”

“Jane, it was Mr Wickham’s fault. He was impertinent, and Mr Wilson repaid it as the moment required.”

“Yes, but…”

“Come, my dear, let us finish dressing. We should be grateful that Mr Wilson is part of our family and seems quite fond of us. Fortunately, we are in no danger.” She laughed, though she was no less worried and distressed than her sister. She knew not what to expect from that evening. Her only reason for tranquillity was Mr Wilson’s apparent good opinion of Darcy and his obvious willingness to extend their acquaintance. Hopefully, their host would remain steady to that purpose and act accordingly.

“Lizzy, please do not jest about this. I am a trifle worried about tonight. I hope Mr Bingley enjoys his time with us. And Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, of course,” she added, flustered.

“Have no concern, dearest. Mr Wilson already addressed Mr Bingley with the most severe reproach, and he bore it reasonably well. It cannot be worse.”

“Lizzy, stop laughing at me,” Jane pleaded with a tearful smile.

Elizabeth placed a quick kiss on her sister’s cheek. “I am not laughing at you, dearest.”

I am laughing at myself, she silently added as she took Jane’s arm and bravely stepped towards the moment she would meet Darcy again.

∞∞∞

Darcy stared at his reflection in the mirror, suddenly wondering whether the dark green coat was the most flattering for him.

Such musings astonished him. He could not recollect ever showing such preoccupation with his attire. He was always careful with his appearance, of course, as a duty to his name and his position, but he never considered what flattered or suited him best.

Even in Hertfordshire and Kent, his apparel was not a consideration. He never attempted to look his best in front of Elizabeth in Hertfordshire because his main concern was to conceal his admiration for her—nor in Kent because he was certain she already recognized and returned his feelings.

The result had been disastrous in both cases, and he could not afford another failure. He was still not certain how much he dared to hope or desire from this dinner, but he would certainly do everything in his power to make the best of it, including his appearance.

“Sir, Mr Bingley is here,” a servant announced.

“I shall be downstairs in a moment.” He needed a little more time for himself. Elizabeth was not opposed to seeing him again—of that, he was certain. She must have read his letter and given it credit since her behaviour towards him had changed. She was more restrained and did not smile at him—nor did she tease him—and she mostly avoided his eyes. But her rare glances showed interest in him of a different sort. And she took his side when Wilson scolded Bingley and he tried to protect him.