Page 16 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

The ball was declared a success, and we departed Netherfield with fond memories of a fine supper and the good wishes of the neighbourhood for Jane and Mr. Bingley’s coming nuptials. Later, I learnt that Miss Bingley’s party had left the next morning, though Miss Bingley herself remained at Netherfield. Bingley would have thrown them out that night but was prevailed upon by Jane and Mrs. Hurst to let them stay, on condition they remained upstairs. While they called for wine and trays to be delivered, Mrs. Nichols—the Netherfield housekeeper—supplied only a cold collation, coarse bread and tea. I suspect they were well pleased to be away to the delights of London and to escape the vulgarity of the Hertfordshire countryside.

Mr. Bennet wrote of the incident to Mr. Darcy, for they enjoyed each other’s on dits about society in Hertfordshire and in London. Mr. Darcy’s reply was quite illuminating.

Bennet, while I have great respect for Mr. Bingley, his sister, Miss Bingley, seems cut from a different cloth. When staying at Netherfield Park, during which time I had the pleasure of meeting you, your charming wife, and daughters, Miss Bingley’s behaviour was not unusual in her flirting and attempted enticements. Frequently, I am forced to endure such unwanted attention, my being a widower and therefore a target for marriage-minded young women—dare I say, women of all ages! I was not in the least concerned, for I have borne such since my Lady Anne departed this world.

Miss Bingley, as you are no doubt aware, returned to London without the protection of either of her brothers, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Hurst—a situation which, though she is of age and her own mistress, left her exposed. She has of late made herself most conspicuous by a series of indiscretions which, were they not so grievous, might be counted as mere follies of youth. Yet I cannot but think her actions deliberate, and of a nature to occasion real distress to all who wish her well, and to those families, such as your own, whose connection with the house of Bingley is soon to be more closely cemented.

Allow me to relate the particulars. Lady Matlock, my sister-by-marriage, gave a ball a fortnight ago, last Thursday, at her house in St. James’s Square. The invitations were by no means indiscriminate; indeed, Lady Matlock is renowned for the selectness of her company and takes particular pains that none but those of established rank and good character gain admittance to her entertainments. You may imagine my astonishment, therefore, when I discovered that Miss Bingley, though not on the list of guests, contrived to present herself at the door, accompanied by Mr. Hargrove (the only son of Sir Giles Hargrove, whose manners and friends have long made him a subject of censure), and Miss Grantley, a young woman of such notoriety in town for her forwardness and want of discretion that her presence is regarded as a blemish upon any assembly.

Miss Bingley declared at the entrance that she was a particular friend of my family and expected to join us in the ballroom. This was untrue; neither Lady Matlock nor I had been apprised of any such intention or desire on her part, and I must confess I felt a degree of mortification at being thus made the pretext for her impertinence.

Once inside, Miss Bingley’s conduct displayed a want of propriety too remarkable to pass without comment. She sought me out with a manner so particular and a tone so familiar that several of Lady Matlock’s guests took notice. Her attempts at flirtation were such as to provoke the tittering of those unfortunate enough to overhear. I make no boast, sir, in assuring you these efforts were entirely unwelcome. When she perceived her attentions to me were not returned, she shifted her designs to my son, Fitzwilliam. I own myself much aggrieved on his account, for while he is not unversed in the ways of the world, he is reserved and unused to such forwardness from a lady presumed to be of good breeding.

Miss Bingley attempted to draw Fitzwilliam into a private conversation in one of the antechambers. He, feeling the impropriety of such a circumstance, excused himself at the earliest opportunity. I cannot but suspect that, had he not done so, Miss Bingley would have attempted some stratagem to compromise either his reputation or her own in the eyes of others.

Finding herself rebuffed by both myself and my son, Miss Bingley returned to the company of Mr. Hargrove and Miss Grantley. This group, emboldened by their success in gaining entry, conducted themselves with such noise and vulgarity as to draw the censure of Lady Matlock herself, who was obliged to request, through her butler, that they depart before the evening was half done. It is a matter of some pain to me, Bennet, that my name should have been so misapplied as to secure admittance for persons so little deserving, and I trust you will pardon the frankness with which I write.

I fear the consequences of Miss Bingley’s behaviour may extend beyond mere embarrassment. The company she now keeps in town is not only beneath her in station but is also widely regarded as disreputable. That Miss Bingley should seek their society and employ such means to force herself into circles where she is not wanted must be alarming to any who care for her present happiness or future prospects.

You will, I hope, allow me to express my deep regret for any discomfort this knowledge may occasion to your family, particularly as it touches upon the forthcoming union between your eldest daughter and Mr. Bingley. I knew Mr. Bingley’s father; I believe his son is a man of the highest respectability, as was the father. It is precisely because of this, Bennet, that I feel compelled to assure you of the high esteem in which your daughter is held by all who know her. Her marriage will bring credit and happiness to both families.

“Oh, Papa, whatever is to be done? Miss Bingley’s conduct surely could damage Mr. Bingley’s and Jane’s reputation in the eyes of society.” I felt sick, for we had hoped that Mr. Hargrove’s behaviour at the ball was only a passing incident, soon forgotten. Certainly, Miss Bingley, having been humiliated both in London and now at the Netherfield Ball, might feel little remorse in spreading a falsehood that I had enticed Mr. Hargrove to accompany me to the balcony.

“And more than that, Lizzy,” said Papa, “I suspect that the incident may also reflect on your reputation. When Mr. Bingley calls, can you please have him come to the library? I wish to show him Mr. Darcy’s letter. Perhaps he can control his sister.”

That seemed to be the end of the matter. Miss Bingley was to remain at Netherfield until the wedding. Jane confided to me that Mr. Bingley had threatened to withhold her allowance if she did not mend her ways. In most respects, though, she was unchanged. Whenever Mr. Darcy’s name came up in conversation, it was clear that she believed she would be the perfect mistress of Pemberley. In an unguarded moment, she had spoken of her first season in Town when Mr. George Darcy had shown her uncommon interest, and she determined that she was destined to have him. I suspected she mistook Mr. Darcy’s civility for interest, and his easy manners for something deeper than mere politeness.

As to the son, Fitzwilliam, I could only feel some compassion. It must have shown some strength of character to resist the arts and allurements of an attractive, older woman such as Miss Bingley. I could easily believe that a reserved young man might be socially immature, and that he had allowed Miss Bingley to draw him in and lead him to a place of potential compromise. Had she decided that if she could not get the father, then she would take the son?

Mama and I spoke of the connection, but concluded that there was little to be done. Perhaps Miss Bingley had fallen, inadvertently, into bad company. After the wedding, she was to accompany Mr. and Mrs. Hurst to Scarborough, where they were to stay with relatives. It was no longer our concern.

I contrived to think only of Jane’s future happiness and allowed myself to forget Mr. Hargrove, Miss Grantley, and even Mr. Collins. That gentleman, I hoped, would find a wife from among his parishioners in Hunsford, and save me—and him—the discomfort of a refusal should he renew his attentions.

Kitty and Lydia giggled. Looking to the window seat, I saw Jane and Mr. Bingley were sitting altogether far too close; Jane was blushing and Mr. Bingley was slightly flushed. Clearly, I was doing poorly as their chaperone; Mama was reading to Mr. Bennet in the library. Yet, I returned directly to my meditations, safe in the knowledge that their affection was genuine—that theirs would be a match of the heart.

* * *

Chapter 8

Longbourn

Uncle Edward, Mama’s brother, and his wife, Aunt Madelaine, came from London with their four children two days before the wedding. The children—two girls of six and eight years, and two younger boys—were placed under my care. In the past, when the Gardiners had come to stay, it was Jane who attended to them, whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly suited her caring for them in every way. But now, it was up to me to play with them and, of course, to love them.

It would be a simple country wedding, with just family—the Bennets, the Gardiners, the Hursts, and Caroline Bingley. Uncle Edward walked Jane down the aisle. Papa’s arthritis had grown worse, and he could not make the journey from the church door unaided, even leaning on Jane’s arm. But he was determined to stand for the giving away. Jane kissed his cheek as he stood beside her; Mama and I both had tears in our eyes, seeing how much his presence meant to her. Mr. Hurst stood up with Bingley, and after their vows, he and I signed the register as witnesses to the marriage. Bingley took Jane’s hand, kissed her gently on the cheek, and Jane was, by civil and church law, Mrs. Bingley.

We filed out into the lane, where the morning mist had finally lifted after lingering for most of the morning. There, waiting for us, were the villagers, the tenants, and the families from the neighbouring farms. They had lined the way back to Longbourn, each with a posy of spring flowers, ready to throw petals over the newlyweds. A cheer went up as Jane and Bingley emerged; joining the throng, I could hear Kitty and Lydia’s laughter; even Mary was smiling, having abandoned Fordyce for Wordsworth, at least for the day.

The procession formed around us, following us down the lane. Some of the children scattered petals before the newlyweds, and I saw Mrs. Hill, our housekeeper, wipe her eyes with the corner of her apron. Lydia waved to everyone she knew—meaning everyone—and Kitty clung to my arm, half-laughing, half-crying. Mr. Bennet followed in his bath chair, his face turned toward the beaming couple, and for a moment, he looked the young, handsome man that Mrs. Bennet had stood with at the very same altar.

The walk back to Longbourn was festive, the air ringing with shouts of “God bless!” and “A fruitful vine!” Jane and Bingley, walking ahead, blushed and waved at the children. I trailed after. Momentarily, I felt a twinge of envy. Of course, only one man had ever paid me attention—but Mr. Collins was certainly no Bingley! I could not repine.

Mama came and grasped my hand. “Oh, Lizzy. They make such a lovely couple. We could not have parted with Jane to anyone less worthy.”

“Indeed, Mama. Mr. Bingley is the best of men.”

At Longbourn, the wedding breakfast was laid out in the dining room. It was a modest affair—cold meats, bread, cheeses, Mrs. Hill’s famous sweet honey cakes. Mama presided, beaming through her tears, and even Caroline Bingley managed a smile, but made exceedingly difficult through pursed lips. Mr. Bingley gave a short, heartfelt speech, and Jane’s eyes never left his face.

After breakfast, there was a flurry of activity as Jane and Bingley prepared to depart. Mama fussed over Jane’s bonnet, pressing a last kiss to her cheek. Papa raised his hand in blessing. “Be happy, Jane,” he said, his voice unsteady. “You have always deserved it.”