Caroline’s anger gave way at once.
“How could he?” she demanded. “How could he marry her? How could his family permit such a travesty? She is nothing—a nobody—and scarcely even tolerable. She has no accomplishments worthy of the name, no proper education, and is of no consequence in society. She is ahoyden, and her youngest sisters are no better than confirmed flirts. Jane Bennet was a pretty, well-meaning sort of girl, but she was not—she is not—like us.”
“It is curious that you should mention Miss Bennet now,” Bingley said, interrupting her. “You have often said she never wrote to you after we left Hertfordshire. Did you ever write to her? Or enquire why she did not write to you?”
Caroline made an impatient sound. “Why must you speak of her at such a moment? Can you not see that your friend has been ensnared by a most unsuitable woman? Ought we not go at once to Hertfordshire, and see what may yet be done?”
“I shall go to Hertfordshire,” Bingley replied, his tone quiet but resolute, “but you will not accompany me. Indeed, I think it best that you remain here for the present and see about finding lodgings for yourself.”
She stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am entirely so. You will not approach Darcy, nor will you speak of his marriage—or of any member of the Bennet family—in a manner that might give offence. They are gentlewomen, Caroline, however you may choose to think otherwise.”
He paused only a moment before continuing, more deliberately still:
“You and I are the children of a tradesman. If I choose to marry Miss Bennet—or any lady like her—I do not marry beneath myself—but above it.”
Twenty-Seven
Friday, 14 August 1812
Richard had intended to depart for Pemberley with Georgiana, her companion, and Miss Mary the day after the wedding. Delays, however, had detained him at Longbourn long enough to confront Lady Catherine upon her arrival—a circumstance he could only regard, in retrospect, as most fortuitous.
Upon her departure—clearly bound north to seek out Darcy, having been deliberately led to believe that was the couple’s destination—Richard reconsidered his own plans. Rather than proceed directly to Pemberley, he resolved instead to go on to Matlock, intending to be present when she arrived in the neighbourhood after, as he had little doubt, being refused admittance at Pemberley.
“I think,” he had said with some satisfaction, “that I should very much like to be the first to receive her.”
She would be sufficiently displeased to find the wrong nephew awaiting her; more so still, should she discover how thoroughly she had been misled by that same nephew.
During his unexpected stay at Longbourn, Richard had also received a number of expresses, the contents of which he judged important enough to be conveyed to the newly married couple at Stoke, though he did not wait to deliver them himself. Instead, he left a summary with Crawford, Darcy’s valet, and spoke with him of the situation at Rosings, as well as Lady Catherine’s arrival and abrupt departure.
When Richard at last quitted Longbourn in a hired carriage early on Friday morning, he determined to press on as far as possible each day, even to travel on the Sabbath, so as to reach Matlock well in advance of his aunt.
He had explained his intentions to his companions, who readily encouraged him to take the most expedient route. They raised no objection to early departures and long days of travel, provided it secured their arrival at Matlock with all possible speed.
The dayafter her attempted escape, Lydia was sent away from Longbourn, travelling north in the same carriage in which she had once attempted to conceal herself. Now she went in earnest, accompanied by her father and the two large footmen Colonel Fitzwilliam had helped procure for the journey.
Lydia had been in tears the night before, at times pleading with both her parents, and at others reproaching them for refusing to yield to her wishes. More than once, Mrs Bennet had attempted to persuade her husband to allow her “dear girl” to remain at home and not be sent away to thatawful school; yet Mr Bennet had remained immovable, in a manner Jane had scarcely seen before.
It seemed to her that Lydia’s conduct on the day of Lady Catherine’s arrival had done more harm than good to her cause, for even her threats of running away from the school were treated lightly by her father.
“If you manage to get away from the school, you will find yourself in dire straits. Colonel Fitzwilliam could have dealt far worse with you when he discovered you in the carriage, and you may consider yourselffortunate that you have not already done yourself irreparable harm,” Mr Bennet said. Then, after a brief pause, he continued with a severity that made Jane start:
“But hear me clearly, Lydia: if you run away from that school, I shall not seek you. You may ruin yourself if you choose, but I will not permit your actions to injure your sisters. Should word reach me that you have fled, I shall inform your mother—and the neighbourhood—that you are dead. We shall mourn you as we ought, but you will not return here. The same will apply if you are dismissed for your behaviour. If you cannot conduct yourself properly, you must bear the consequences.”
Jane could hardly recall ever hearing her father speak so harshly. Lydia stood silent for once, and even her mother seemed struck beyond immediate reply. Whatever protests might yet remain, Jane did not hear them.
Still, on the morning of their departure, Jane had been obliged to remain with her mother in an effort to soothe her agitation. Yet her mother’s distress soon gave way to irritation, and Jane found herself wondering—although she could scarcely admit it even to herself—whether her mother truly understood why Lydia must be sent away. Could her mother not see how near they had already come to disgrace, and how narrowly it had been averted by circumstances so entirely beyond their control?
Jane had once believed it a virtue to think well of everyone—to excuse, to soften, to hope. She could not now reflect on Lydia’s conduct, nor on her own silence in the past, without a degree of unease. Had she spoken sooner—had she not been so determined to see only the best—might something of this have been prevented? The thought was not one she could dwell upon long, yet neither could she wholly dismiss it.
Mrs Bennet complained without ceasing: of Mr Bennet’s unexpected severity, of her brother and his wife for encouraging such a scheme, and of Mr Darcy, whom she held chiefly responsible for the whole affair—he, and Elizabeth, who had somehow persuaded him to such interference.
“Now that she is Mrs Darcy, she wants little to do with her family,” she complained, and for once, Jane was unwilling to hear it.
“Lizzy is on her wedding trip, Mama,” she said softly, with more steadiness than she might once have managed, interrupting the tirade. “She and her husband were very generous in allowing Papa the use of one of the Darcy carriages to transport Lydia to the school, allowing us to have the use of our carriage in case we needed it.”
“But she has made Lydia go to that terrible place in the north, so far away from home and her so young,” she wailed.
