I once might have objected to her blanket assumption that I would like a tradesman from Cheapside, but such scruples had disappeared years earlier. It was not as if my conduct was beyond reproach, or my wealth and station prevented my own sister from abject stupidity. I wondered if I would have still been the overly proud man I had been when I first met her if we had not continued meeting. I shuddered to think how I might have reacted to Bingley scolding me to dance with her. It would not have been pretty.
She would be the making of me.
We spent the next hour discussing our story, including some contradictory events we might argue over good-naturedly. Nothing says attachment like a couple bickering over irrelevant details. I gave her a few names of other people she may have met who were so absentminded they would have no idea if it had happened or not, and she did similar for a few of her London friends. She had pencil and paper, so we jotted down notes and made a second copy so we could memorise our shared story.
We spent the next hour or two discussing the things a courting couple really should have discussed before the proposal. I described her new home in some detail, then spent considerable time smoothing her worries that she was not up to the job. I spent some time describing my connections in town. They were obviously more extensive than hers, but she told me all about her aunt and uncle, and a few of their friends she particularly liked. I was anxious to meet them. She even suggested the best cure for Georgiana might be to throw her in with her younger cousins, since nothing beat having a three-year-old demand the twentieth reading of a story to chase away the doldrums and give one perspective. If that were not extreme enough, we could always toss them in withhersisters.
We talked a bit about how we saw our family life, how many children we would like, how we expected to raise them, how much we wanted to be in the city versus the country, and the like. It was enlightening, and we found our goals to be remarkably similar.
Far too soon, it came time to return for breakfast. Elizabeth had to endure her family, and I had my own trials to deal with.
~~~
“Mr Darcy, where have you been keeping yourself,” Miss Bingley asked stridently the minute I stepped into the breakfast parlour. “We have been absolutelydesolatewithout your good company.”
I had been avoiding the woman for years and even asked Bingley on several occasions to tell her explicitly that I had no interest—but she was not one to be deterred by such minor obstacles. She somehow thought that a month of doing the same thing she had been doing for the last few seasons would succeed where they previously failed. The whole idea seemed ludicrous, unless of course you knew that it took me several years to fall in love with Elizabeth, at which point being slow-witted had something to recommend it.
“I had business to attend to, Miss Bingley,” I replied as I moved to the sideboard to load my plate. She had been encouraging me to use her Christian name for some time, but I wanted no part of it—then or ever.
She always ordered far too much food for the number of residents, even after accounting for the fact that Hurst ate enough for three men. I suspect she thought I would find it appealing that she took the trouble to have anything I might desire, but all I saw was waste and mismanagement. The servants would get the extras, but you could much moreefficiently just feed the servants better in the first place; not that such an idea would ever occur to her.
Bingley followed a minute later and started filling his plate, while his sister seemed torn over which target to choose. She finally tackled what she presumed was the weakest flank.
“Charles, where were you all day yesterday. I hope you were not visiting those dreadful Bennets.”
I watched Bingley curiously to see what he might say. I had been mentoring him ever since I helped with some bullies at Cambridge, but the man was five and twenty, and it was long past time for me to stop. He was a grown man with a worthy woman to woo and an ongoing problem in his home to fix. I resolved that if he could not get the nastiness of his sisters under control, or better yet get them out of his house, I would gently suggest that Jane find a better suitor.
Bingley drank a sip of coffee, then replied nonchalantly, “No, I did not.”
“Thank Heavens!”
Bingley continued blithely, “Come to think of it, I am not familiar with anydreadful Bennets. Ididspend the day with theperfectly ordinary Bennets, but I have no idea if they are related to the dreadful Bennets you mentioned. When exactly were you introduced to these dreadful Bennets? Are they relatives? Do they live in Meryton? How many Bennet families are there, exactly?”
I was happy I had nothing in my mouth at the time, because spitting it across the table would have been impolite (not to mention messy). I refrained from cackling like a madman, but just barely.
“You know what I mean!” Miss Bingley snapped in real agitation.
“I do not,” Bingley continued casually. “Pray, enlighten me.”
I could see a storm brewing, but Miss Bingley never saw anything she did not want to, and I was never convinced Mrs Hurst saw anything at all. I had my own bone to pick with the sisters, but it seemed reasonable to let one argument conclude before starting another.
Miss Bingley carried on relentlessly. “We all agree that Miss Jane Bennet is a sweet girl. Have I not said so from the beginning, Louisa?”
“Right from the start.”
“But sweet or not, she has no substance. She is pretty enough, I suppose, but her styles are at least a season out of date. She smiles at you just like she smiles at everybody. She is a lady on the prowl for a husband, and I dare say she thinks you would do well enough.”
Bingley looked very thoughtful, though I doubted his veracity.
“I see… I see… Let me understand then. Youobjectto the fact that Miss Bennet is polite and kind to all, and she is a marriage-aged single woman who might be interested in courtship. Is that it?”
Even I could hear the grinding anger in his voice, and I am about half as observant as Miss Smith on my best day.
“That is not what I mean, and you know it!” she snapped angrily. “You should have heard her mother going on and on about how she has practically captured you already, and she fully expects her daughter to be Mistress of Netherfield before the new year,” Miss Bingley spit with some real venom, apparently unaware of the irony involved in disparaging Mrs Bennet forambition.
I freely admit that, had I not met Elizabeth, I would probably have thought as poorly of Mrs Bennet as Miss Bingley did, but still—Mrs Bennetdidhave a problem to solve, and while I could not like her methods, there was nothing wrong with herambitions in essence. Trying to find five husbands in a small town was nigh on impossible, especially given the indolence of Mr Bennet, who by rights held the lion’s share of the blame for their predicament.
At that point, I began to wonder if I was starting to make excuses for Mrs Bennet because she was to be my mother-in-law or just becoming more Bingley-like in accepting people’s foibles. I hoped for the latter but would accept either for the moment. Given my own aunt’s contrariness, I thought keeping my hypocrisy in check might be wise.
