Chapter 6
Elizabeth retrieved her outerwear from Mrs. Phillip’s maid at the door and soon was breathing in the chill of the afternoon. The streets of Meryton remained quiet: a horse nearby stood in a fog of frozen breath as his owner filled the cart; the publican swept the steps of the inn; a cluster of redcoats congregated at the far corner of the street, too distant to determine their identities; a farmer clattered past in a haywagon, with a hog in the back, no doubt destined for the butcher.
Tightening her borrowed muffler, Elizabeth set off towards Longbourn. She hardly glanced in the shop windows as she passed, her steps hastening her onward. She regretted anew not bringing her fur-lined spencer when she had left the house, as Charlotte’s threadbare old cloak, the only one she had had that wouldn't have dragged on the ground, barely served its purpose. Hill had told her only last night that his knees ached -- as they always did when the weather was turning -- and so she should have known how cold it would grow.
Elizabeth once again cursed the ill luck of having caught the eye of a cousin as obtuse and pig-headed as Mr. Collins. And her mother for encouraging such a connection. And her father for being absent today, of all days. And Mr. Denny, for having gotten himself murdered. She couldn’t quite curse the good-natured Mr. Bingley for hosting a ball, but she was highly tempted, given her mood.
It was not quite the proper frame of mind to be passing another group of redcoats entering the village, and she barely managed a civil nod to them, especially after distinguishing Mr. Wickham as being one of the group. It was only fair, though: he refused to meet her eyes, as well, even as he touched his hat with the others. She mentally added him to her list of people to curse for a liar and a gambler.
Elizabeth had never been made for melancholy or ill temper, however, so it only took her a few hundred yards more for her to laugh at herself and reflect that it really was a beautiful, if frigid, day, and a walk now was likely the best she could hope for, with the coming of more inclement winter weather. Indeed, the nip of the wind on her cheeks and the briskness of the exercise was renewing her spirits admirably. She could forgive Mr. Collins for being a toad; she could forgive her mother for being nervous and irritable; she could forgive her father for going off to London and taking Jane with him; she could even forgive Mr. Denny for dying, something he probably couldn’t have helped.
Mr. Wickham, though, she thought frowningly, was another matter entirely. She hadn’t fully decided what she’d thought about the revelation of his character the previous day. To have blatantly and so smoothly lied, and been unrepentant, was the mark of a man who thought little of the sin. Add to that the suspicions of other character flaws, and it was damning.
But, as her father had said, knowing he lied indicated nothing of what he said was truth and what deceit. After all, she argued, even a liar told the truth sometimes.
He had told her many things over the course of their relationship: of his past, of the past life of another -- here she grimaced, as she considered that she might have to revise her opinions of another particular man -- and some very flattering things about herself. That last was perhaps the most distressing thought, that his compliments were simply another lie, and that she had been too blinded by vanity to discern the truth.
In some measure, she wanted him to have been genuine. His aspect was pleasing, his attentions to her gratifying. Though she treated the idea of giving her own love to him lightly, she couldn’t deny that her pride had thrilled at the idea that she had conquered his. The thought of owning that power over him was intoxicating. But the possibility that he had been insincere humbled her and made her reflect on her own behaviour. Had she been lying, as well, in her own reception of his attentions? She could not have truly considered him as a husband, for she knew very well he could not support a wife on his pay, and he had been clear in his lack of inheritance. He had gained entrance to the militia through his gentleman’s education, not through his purse.
So, then, what was her goal? To have him in love with her? For what purpose?
If his flirtations, then, were a lie, she thought unsteadily, she was no less complicit than he. She was, as she had often feared her youngest sisters to be, a flirt. The realization made her stop in her tracks, and she took in a deep breath of chill air.
But, no, she was being too severe on herself. She had never gone beyond the edge of propriety, never considered exposing herself to ridicule by stretching the bounds of what was right. She had favored his attentions, certainly, when they were at events together, but her accomplice was willing, and they neither of them conversed to the exclusion of others; they had simply shown a preference for the presence of the other.
She had been foolish, she could acknowledge, but not more than any young girl with a fancy for a man. She could now only be grateful for this disclosure of his character, that she was able to recognize her own behavior and vow to hereby regulate it better.
Elizabeth smiled bitterly and gave a great sigh, and was about to begin walking again when she became aware of the sound of hoofbeats behind her -- at some distance yet, but growing closer. She turned, curious who might be on the road at this time of day, and was startled to see a lone rider on a dark horse round the corner. When he had cleared the trees and drew in sight of her, he stopped, as well, and she cursed fate as she recognized him.
“Miss Bennet!”
Even with so many lengths between them, she could hear the shock and anger in his voice. She girded herself as he urged his horse into motion and closed the space between them quickly. He dismounted and strode towards her, every step indicating his agitation. Despite herself, she was somewhat intrigued at the never-before-seen amount of emotion displayed on his face.
“What are you doing here?”
Her eyebrows rose at such a peremptory question, and she straightened her spine. “Walking, Mr. Darcy.”
His own brows drew together. “Alone? Are you out of your senses?”
“I
was alone,” she replied, tilting her head slightly. “But the defect can be remedied quite easily.”
He made as if to say something, but caught himself and looked skywards for a moment, then regarded her again. “I can only imagine it was because of your father’s absence that you were allowed to go abroad with no one beside you, but I had thought you more sensible than that, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth flushed at the rebuke and answered, more sharply than she had intended, “I am no more alone than you, Mr. Darcy, unless you consider your horse to be adequate chaperon.”
He pursed his lips in clear anger at her tone. “Not my horse, madam,” he said, striding over to unstrap the rifle from the back of his saddle and then turning to face her. “But I do consider this to be safeguard.”
At this rather stark reminder of the very present danger and violence of recent events and thus how foolish she had been to walk alone to the town and back without protection, Elizabeth could say nothing. Her wide eyes gazed with horror upon the weapon, then on Darcy’s furious expression.
“Did you forget so easily that a man was murdered not two days ago, and the perpetrator of the violence yet to be identified, much less taken into custody? Do you have so little care for your own safety or for the feelings of others who might be concerned for you? What was so very important that you need go abroad and risk death or worse?”
Abashed, she closed her eyes and looked away, her shoulders deflating. Mr. Darcy was right. Jane would certainly be horrified and, while he admired and encouraged her independence, even her father would look askance at her disregard for her welfare. Yes, he had asked her to speak with her aunt, but he could not have expected her to do so under such circumstances, and alone. “Nothing,” she said quietly. “Nothing important at all.”
She sensed Mr. Darcy move towards her slightly, and she looked up to see him step forward, a hand reached out to her. At her startled look, however, he seemed to think twice and instead let his hand fall to his side. “I know it is not my place to chastise you, Miss Elizabeth, but with your father away, I -- that is, you must have a greater care for yourself,” he said, his voice softer and somewhat apologetic. She had never heard his voice so warm as it was now -- except, she recalled, the time he had spoken at Netherfield of his sister. “The countryside is not a safe place at present, when there is quite probably someone in the area who has killed once -- and with such a disregard for life would hardly hesitate to do so again, were it to his advantage. We don’t know the motive for the attack on Mr. Denny, and we don’t know who it was committed such a violent act. He might not even be a stranger to you, but someone you know.”
Elizabeth felt a stirring of appreciation for Mr. Darcy’s concern for her and, after a few steadying breaths, such lightness of feeling allowed her more teasing nature to reassert itself. “Someone such as yourself, Mr. Darcy?” she asked with a flick of her eyebrow. “Am I in any danger from you?”
He was surprised, that was certain, but he recovered himself quickly and frowned. But then, nearly as rapidly as his countenance had cooled, it now changed into something she could not identify -- again, as when Mr. Denny had been discovered at the ball, a strange expression lit his eyes and he leaned towards her slightly, the corner of his mouth curling upwards. “Perhaps you are, Miss Elizabeth. Do you consider me dangerous?”
She laughed delightedly at such a metamorphosis. “I don’t quite rightly know
what you are, Mr. Darcy,” she replied, and gazed at him thoughtfully. “Each time I think I have sketched your character, you do something or say something that casts a new light and throws all of my work into relief. Add to that the many varying accounts I have heard of you, which puzzle me exceedingly, and I fear I shall never have a portrait of which I am satisfied.”
Her listener’s expression had tightened during her speech, and when she had finished, the haughtiness she had grown accustomed to had returned. “I can readily believe that report may vary greatly with respect to me; I would wish you not to give too much credit to some, and perhaps even less to others when illustrating my character."
Though it might not have been the pointed reference to Mr. Wickham that Elizabeth thought it was, she felt the reproach and her cheeks flushed. She suddenly felt it safer to speak on another topic. “Were you for Longbourn, then?” she asked, gesturing in the direction she, and he, had been traveling on the path.
He paused and stepped back, increasing the distance between them. “I was,” he responded, returning his rifle to his saddle. “I had an express from Bingley with a note from your father to deliver to Mrs. Bennet.”
“My father!” she cried. “Did something happen?”
At her alarm, Mr. Darcy turned back to her quickly, reaching out to take the hand she had extended towards him and covering it comfortingly with his own. “I apologize, Miss Elizabeth. I did not intend to concern you; I believe everyone to be well. It is simply that the business Bingley had in London could not be accomplished in one day, as I had warned him, and he had need to remain until the morrow.”
Elizabeth let out a breath, relieved, and then grimaced as she quickly realized that in vain was her unreasonable hope Mr. Bennet would return to quash the matrimonial ambitions of Mr. Collins before nightfall. “I suppose my father and sister are remaining the night at my aunt and uncle’s house in town, as he expected might happen. Papa had been sceptical of Mr. Bingley’s optimism, as well.”
His expression amused, Mr. Darcy shook his head. “I know nothing of the arrangements,” he replied.
As silence fell for a moment between them, Elizabeth suddenly became aware that her hand was yet encased in his. With a slight blush, she extracted it in order to gesture in the direction of Longbourn in silent invitation to walk. With a nod, Mr. Darcy retrieved his horse’s reins and they were soon on the way. He resumed their conversation: “Truly, the most I could decipher of Bingley’s message was what I told you. Had your father’s enclosed note not fallen out as I opened the missive, I am unsure I should have known to relay the information of their delay to your mother. I believe my friend was more interested in sending the letter than he was in ensuring its legibility.”
She laughed, remembering a conversation at Netherfield while her sister was there ill. “Yes, I suppose that where haste is paramount, it trumps such trivial things as grammar and spelling and keeping blots from obliterating all one’s words. I recall Mr. Bingley himself declaring that his letters of an occasion convey no ideas at all to his correspondents; surely, it must be a triumph that you were able to extract the one.”
“But you forget that I have a long familiarity with his writing,” he replied, smiling slightly. “And our friendship gives me the patience to decipher it. He would not be Bingley so much if he took more care in his correspondence.”
“And I daresay you would not be quite so forgiving of his lack of care in writing were you not so proud of being able to decipher it,” Elizabeth said, laughing when he acknowledged the accuracy of such an observation with a half-hearted wave.
From here Mr. Darcy steered the conversation to less personal matters, and for the rest of the journey they spoke of books and the disparate and sometimes similar opinions they had on them. Elizabeth found her perception of Mr. Darcy again changing to the better, the more they conversed and she explored to a greater depth the cleverness of his mind and opinions.
Upon stepping through the front doors of Longbourn, however, and leaving the comfort of their tete-a-tete, the haughtiness soon returned to Mr. Darcy’s expression. From an open door down the hall issued the sound of Mrs. Bennet’s conversation, and Elizabeth cringed as she realized the topic.
“...when I think of everything I have done for that girl! That she should have rejected him, without thought to her family, and our concerns. It isn’t as if she has any other offers, and I should think it highly unlikely she should ever have another, given the way she treats her suitors. You should think of that, too, Mary, if you should ever be so fortunate.”
Another voice, softer than her mother’s answered, and Elizabeth quickly turned to Mr. Hill, who was taking Mr. Darcy’ coat and hat, and requested he make her mother aware of her return.
“Precisely,” Mrs. Bennet continued, as loudly as before. “And then off she goes on some lark with no thought to her mother and abandons poor Mr. Collins here without so much as a by-your-leave, and now he is gone, as well. What could he possibly have been doing these past few hours?”
Again, Mary must have replied, but Elizabeth was more concerned in preventing any more conversation to continue in this vein than to discovering what her sister had to say on the matter. She turned to Mr. Darcy, who was gazing with rapt attention in that direction, and offered to take the gloves being turned over thoughtlessly in his hands. At her voice, he shook himself free of his thoughts and thanked her, but gave her such a speculative look as to make her blush. The color deepened as she then heard her mother cry out: “Mr. Darcy! Hateful man. Why should he have come here, of all places?”
With face fully aflame, Elizabeth turned and preceded Mr. Darcy to the parlor. There she introduced him to her perfectly unconscious mother and uninterested sister Mary, who sat with her, as having come with a message from Mr. Bingley and Mr. Bennet. The next few minutes followed as expected, with Mrs. Bennet making ungracious comments to both her guest and her daughter, Elizabeth attempting to deflect them, and Mr. Darcy delivering stiff replies to both. Elizabeth could hardly be surprised at the emergence of the gentleman’s more taciturn nature in the face of her mother’s stubborn antipathy, but did marvel a little at the rapidity of his transformation with respect to herself.
The visit was as brief as could be expected, though perhaps shorter than conventionally polite. Nearly at the moment Mr. Bennet’s note was delivered into its intended recipient’s hands, Mr. Darcy begged off remaining any longer due to the uncertain nature of the countryside and the coming darkness, as well as the need to return home to dine with the remaining guests at Netherfield. Mrs. Bennet did not proffer an invitation to stay.
No sooner had he gone than the lady turned her displeasure fully upon her wayward daughter. Elizabeth listened with the usual patience she had for her mother’s megrims, and then excused herself to wash the dust of the road from herself before dinner.
But the reprieve was brief, as her mother returned again to her topic
du jour throughout the dismal dinner that followed. Mr. Collins had not returned by then, nor had he sent a note, which fueled Mrs. Bennet’s ire at her second daughter. Elizabeth suffered the complaints of her mother stoically, with an occasional overture to her sisters Mary or Kitty to engage them in conversation. Neither were inclined to risk drawing their mother’s attention, and Elizabeth soon gave up the attempt and ate her meal silently.
Soon after removing from the dining room, Mrs. Bennet, overwrought by the events of the day, retired for the evening to the attentions of her maid; Kitty went upstairs to see how Lydia was faring, and Mary claimed the need to finish a letter in her room. Elizabeth, feeling like a pariah, sat for a moment in the drawing room with her embroidery laying idle in her lap. For perhaps the fiftieth time that evening, she mourned the absence of her father and Jane.
She would have appreciated having her sisterly confidante with her that night, for a good coze before sleep, to lay to rest all of the troubled thoughts she had from the day: of Mr. Collins’ proposal, of the strange behavior of the Lucases, of her failure to discover anything useful from her aunt, of her realization of Mr. Wickham’s perfidy and her own foolishness in abetting it, of Mr. Darcy’s mercurial temperament and of Elizabeth’s apprehension that she may have unjustly harbored accusations against him on the word of a suspected liar.
They might not have slept much for talking, had Jane been there, but it certainly would have been more sleep than Elizabeth got without her.
The following morning saw grey skies, a chill wind, and a faint mizzle, and Elizabeth, uninclined to brave the outdoors, spent the early hours in her father’s bookroom, with its angled view of the drive. She had been the only one to breakfast; her mother and sisters were still abed, Mrs. Hill informed her, and Mr. Collins’ room had not appeared slept in. Elizabeth supposed she would soon have to inform her father that their guest had taken French leave of them and explain exactly
why she suspected he had done so, as well.
As she paced once again around the room, counting the minutes until it were even possible Mr. Bingley’s carriage would return with the sojourners, she caught sight of a rider coming towards the house. His scarlet coat stood out brightly in the misty light, and she worried somewhat unreasonably that it was Mr. Wickham come to Longbourn, though she could not say exactly why she was worried. The rider advanced at a heightened pace, and a strange presentiment led her to quit the library and go to meet him at the door.
It was, indeed, Mr. Wickham, and Elizabeth frowned to see him. What could his purpose here be? He had just leapt from his horse and was approaching with hurried breath when he recognized her and stopped dead. He shifted uncomfortably for a moment as they eyed each other. “Is Mr. Bennet available?” he asked after a moment. “We have need of him.”
Elizabeth’s eyes grew wide at the serious statement but informed him of the delayed return from London.
The lieutenant seemed dismayed by the news, and shook his head slowly. “It is your cousin, Miss Elizabeth. We have found him.”
She wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or grieved when Mr. Wickham explained.
“I’m afraid Mr. Collins was too much like his father,” Mr. Bennet sighed after he returned in the early evening and had been told what happened, “inclined to disoblige me at every turn. I shall now, perforce, be required to make new search for an heir at some expense.
“But there is good news,” he said more brightly, turning to regard his daughter with a twinkle. “Even your mother must admit the impossibility of you marrying a dead man.”