Page 8 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

Netherfield Park? I felt uncertain about Mr. Bingley’s sisters, Mrs. Louisa Hurst and Miss Caroline Bingley. Both had attended one of London’s elite private seminaries and made a point of mentioning their connections with people of high rank—Mr. Darcy among them. They seemed rather pleased with themselves, and I suspected they allowed themselves to think meanly of others. Their fortunes coming from trade, it was likely nothing more than the pecking order in a hen house, where chickens at the bottom of the group still peck at the weakest chicken to prove their place. Yet, I remembered how Miss Bingley had positioned herself closer to Mr. Darcy than was strictly proper. He was a handsome man, a widower in possession of a large estate. Did she hold some interest in him? Perchance. Was this the reason for his stopping over at Netherfield on his journey from Derbyshire to London? And his son, Fitzwilliam Darcy—likely a youth, with a sister of fifteen years? A second marriage for Mr. Darcy was not only expected, but he would certainly need a wife to run his household, and to introduce his daughter to society.

* * *

Chapter 4

Longbourn

I had expected Lady Lucas and her two eldest daughters, Charlotte and Maria, to visit the next day to talk over the ball, but I was to be disappointed, for a message came saying that Charlotte was suffering from a slight cold, and they thought it unwise to venture further than their own parlour. More likely, they knew Mrs. Bennet kept a close eye on the coal scuttle and the day had turned particularly cold. Of course, Mama thought that Lady Lucas kept her house overly warm. We would visit—perhaps on the morrow—but I was rather fatigued after the dancing, and was pleased to be able to curl up in my chair by Papa’s fire in the library.

Thus it was with some vexation that visitors were announced. I was presentable enough, I supposed, and made my way to the parlour where I found Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Bingley had come to visit. For though Mr. Darcy held a higher status than Mr. Bennet, Mr. Bingley, the tenant of Netherfield Park, was of lesser standing and permitted to call. I arrived just after the visitors had been shown into the parlour.

Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley were sitting primly on the settee; Mr. Bingley had taken a seat next to Jane.

“Mrs. Bennet, my apologies for calling so soon after the assembly,” said Mr. Darcy, “but I wished to meet your husband. I understand, from conversation with Miss Elizabeth, that he has a fine collection of first editions.” Mr. Darcy was standing, having declined to take tea with the Bingleys. “Would it be possible to join him?”

I glanced at Mama, who I knew would be anxious lest Papa be interrupted in one of his more irascible moods, for the pain of his arthritis often plagued him unreasonably. She nodded, pleased by the gentleman’s courtesy. “Yes, Lizzy—could you escort Mr. Darcy? I am sure your father will be delighted.”

The gentleman waited for me by the door. I offered him my most polite smile, and we walked together down the corridor, my slippers making scarcely a sound on the worn carpet. Reaching the library, I hesitated just outside the room, uncertain whether Papa would welcome the intrusion.

“I am a bibliophile, Miss Elizabeth. I suspect your father had already sensed the printer’s ink and leather bindings lurking outside his door.”

“Papa?” I called softly, peering into his sanctuary. He looked up from his book with a quizzical arch of his eyebrow, spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose.

“You have a visitor, sir,” I said, stepping aside so Mr. Darcy might enter. “Mr. Darcy wished to see your collection of first editions.”

Papa’s eyes twinkled with the prospect of discussing his beloved books, and he set his volume aside with more alacrity than I might have expected. “Mr. Darcy, welcome. Any gentleman with an interest in first editions is a friend of mine, at least for the next quarter hour.”

Mr. Darcy’s lips curved, not quite a smile. He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “You are most generous, sir.”

“Lizzy, could you pour a port for Mr. Darcy and myself? We cannot discuss Donne or Milton without refreshment.”

I lingered by the window, half-listening as the two gentlemen commenced a spirited conversation about rare volumes. Mr. Darcy’s knowledge impressed even Papa, who soon forgot to glare at his guest and instead grew animated, gesturing toward shelves and recounting the tales behind particular acquisitions. For a few moments I found myself observing Papa’s obvious pleasure in Mr. Darcy’s presence. A rare treat—his infirmities forgotten.

After half an hour, Mrs. Hill knocked to say that the Bingleys were leaving, and would Mr. Darcy join them?

Papa looked up, oblivious to the passage of time. “Must you leave already—surely, only some ten minutes has passed.”

“My thought entirely, Mr. Bennet. However, I must return to Netherfield, for I intend to resume my journey to London early tomorrow. Perhaps, sir, if we could correspond? I believe your library exceeds my own—particularly the 17th century poets and Greek histories.”

Mr. Darcy stood, and clasped Papa’s hand. “Mr. Bennet, it has been a pleasure. My physician recommends fish oil, as very efficacious for relieving arthritis—while many such men are quacks, I trust his judgement implicitly. Why, some five years ago I was close to death’s door, and his treatment pulled me through, whereas all others had declared me only fit for a grave. I shall have him write to you.”

He turned, bowed and briskly left the room.

“A true scholar, Lizzy,” said Papa. “Though his Greek leaves a little to be desired—a Cambridge man I believe, though I shan’t hold that against him. Now child, leave me. I have enjoyed myself, but my joints are protesting something terrible.”

As I left the library, I saw Papa reach for his book. How lonely his life had become. So few of his friends from Meryton came to visit. Of course, Sir William came at least once a week, but while he was a jovial man, he had very little interest in the histories, or poets whose works were considered old-fashioned long before Wordsworth or Lord Byron became society’s favourites.

I returned to the parlour, where Mama was talking softly with Jane. “My dearest Jane,” she said, reaching across to take Jane’s hand, “how well Mr. Bingley looked this afternoon! So attentive, so amiable—did you not notice how often he addressed himself to you?”

Jane’s cheeks flushed, as they had last night when Mr. Bingley’s name was uttered. “He is certainly very obliging, Mama. But he is so civil to everyone.”

“Nonsense, child! He hardly spared a word for me, and never spoke to his sisters. No, no, Jane. It is you he admires. I am certain of it.”

Jane smiled, though she bent her head to hide it. “You must not build hopes on so little, Mama. We scarcely know the Bingleys.”

Uncharacteristically Mama pressed on, undeterred by Jane’s caution. “We know quite enough, I think. He has four thousand a year and is quite handsome. And a friend of Mr. Darcy. Why, what could be a better reference? Mark my words, Jane, it will not be long before he comes again.”

Jane squeezed her mother’s hand gently, her voice warm and soothing. “Let us not anticipate, Mama. If Mr. Bingley is to return, I am sure it will be because he wishes to, not because we expect it.”