First Impressions (8 + 9)
I've discovered that I don't hate religion, per se, just mine. Um, yay.
But seriously. A teacher explaining that there has only ever been one universally accepted model of marriage until now as the lesson to be learned from Abraham's family is so horrifically wrong that, in retrospect, it starts coming around the other side. That family tree is the simplified version I made to help me sort out the main characters. Now I wish I'd drawn it on the board.
---------------
Title: First Impressions (8/13, 9/13)
Fanverse: First Impressions
Blurb: Henry finishes his trip to Hunsford, discusses the fallout with Jane, then goes with the Gardiners to Pemberley and gets another harsh dose of reality.
---------------
Chapter Eight
One day, as he re-read one of Jane's dispirited letters, Henry was yet again interrupted by approaching footsteps. He smiled in some relief when he caught sight of Colonel Fitzwilliam, instead of Miss Darcy.
"I did not know before that you ever walked this way," he said, putting the letter away.
"Not usually," acknowledged Fitzwilliam, "but I have been making the tour of the park, as I generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the parsonage. Are you going much further?"
"No. I should have turned in a moment."
The two men walked back to the parsonage together, talking easily. After some time, Henry asked,
"Do you and Miss Darcy certainly leave Kent on Saturday?"
"Yes," said Fitzwilliam; then he laughed. "At least we shall, if Kate does not put it off again. I am at her disposal, now."
"Oh?"
"We travel in her equipage, with her horses," Fitzwilliam said. "It seems only fair to abide by her convenience. I confess it is a little strange, however; not so very long ago, I made all decisions of this kind."
Henry tried to look less incredulous than he felt. "You did? That is - very difficult to imagine."
"I am not surprised that you should think so, but when my uncle died, I was made guardian to both my cousins. Kate was very nearly grown, of course, but Georgiana remains under my care."
Henry imagined the carefree man before him struggling with a wilful adolescent girl, such as Wickham had described, and grinned. "Is she, indeed? And pray, what sort of guardian do you make? Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way."
Fitzwilliam looked sharply at him. "Why do you suppose she would give me any uneasiness?"
"You need not be frightened; I never heard any harm of her," Henry replied, only a little surprised. He felt reasonably certain that he had approached the truth too nearly for her guardian's comfort. "She is a great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them."
The colonel's mouth twitched. "I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant, gentlemanlike man - Kate's latest project, I expect."
Henry glanced up. "Her project?"
"Had you not noticed? She's an inveterate matchmaker - well, not quite that. She likes to help people, and she has a genius for persuasion."
"She must," said Henry. "I cannot imagine any other reason that people would tolerate a single young woman meddling in their lives."
Fitzwilliam laughed. "Meddling? I suppose it is, from a certain point of view - but I have never thought of it as such. After thirty years as Lady Catherine's nephew - well! Kate's little schemes seem nothing in comparison, and I suspect Bingley thinks himself born to be married. From something that she told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think him very much indebted to her. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant."
Jane. Henry felt his throat tightening, his nails digging into one arm. "What is it you mean?"
"Oh, she merely told me that she congratulated herself on having lately saved a friend's brother from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars. I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, but also one likely to attend to a lady's understanding of another lady."
"Does he not have sisters?" Henry asked, after a long pause. "I am sure Miss Bingley would have given him exactly the same advice as your cousin."
"Miss Bingley can be very agreeable, but - hers is not a towering intellect, and her brother knows it." Fitzwilliam shrugged.
"Did Miss Darcy give you her reasons for this kind interference?"
"I understand there were some very strong objections against the lady. Knowing Kate, she has other plans for him, as well."
Henry unclenched his jaw. "And what arts did she use to separate them? Even considering your cousin's singular . . . abilities, it must have taken some doing."
"Kate did not talk to me of her own arts," said Fitzwilliam, smiling affectionately. "She only told me what I have now told you. Perhaps Kate and Miss Bingley arranged the entire affair between themselves. I suspect, however, that Miss Bingley appealed to Kate's judgment when her own attempts failed. Kate assures me that Bingley thinks of her as an older sister, but even he might not have been willing to make enquiries of such a kind to a young lady so nearly unconnected with him."
"Undoubtedly," said Henry quietly.
Henry could not think of their upcoming engagement at Rosings without dread; however, when the day came, Fate finally decided to smile upon him - Mary fell ill. Mr Collins fluttered aimlessly about her, torn between the two objects of his devotion.
"You could not possibly disappoint Lady Catherine," said Henry hastily. "I will stay with my sister - pray make my excuses to her ladyship."
Blessing Mary's fever, he remained with her until midday, when she fell asleep. Then he slipped out of her room and went downstairs, stretching his cramped legs and looking forward to the prospect of a quiet, solitary day.
He had only just opened his book, however, when the door opened and a servant announced Miss Darcy.
Torn between surprise and annoyance, Henry rose. "Miss Darcy. What a very unexpected pleasure. Would you care to sit down?"
"I - yes, thank you," she said. His jaw twitched, and she added in a hurried voice, "I hope you will forgive the interruption; I came to enquire after Mrs Collins. Mr Collins told us she was taken ill? - I hope she is better."
"Yes, I believe so."
Yet again, she gazed at him expectantly; the expression had grown familiar after the last few weeks, but not any more comprehensible.
"I will tell Mary that you called," Henry said. "I am sure she will be flattered by your interest."
If Miss Darcy understood the hint, she ignored it; for instead of leaving, she seated herself by the fire and continued to look at him. Henry could not return her gaze without anger, and accordingly glanced away, trying to think of something civil to say.
He was immediately distracted, however, for she sprang up almost as soon as she had sat down, and walked before the mantelpiece, looking at once bewildered and ambivalent. Then she seemed to make up her mind, and turned to him in her usual decisive manner.
"You must change your name," she announced.
Henry stared at her. "I beg your pardon?"
"I am sorry - I should have mentioned it before. It is a silly thing; I cannot think why my father did it - well, I understand, of course, and it was quite sensible in a way - but it is terribly awkward to explain."
"I . . ." Even by the standards Henry usually applied to Miss Darcy's incoherent conversation, this was incomprehensible. "What?"
"When we are married," she explained patiently. Henry's jaw dropped. "It is the condition of my inheritance; I must marry by thirty, and my husband must take the Darcy name."
"Miss Darcy -"
"Indeed, I have often felt a certain apprehension that the sort of man I expected to marry might reasonably insist upon retaining his own name. You, however, can have no objections; yours is nothing compared to mine. Of course I would prefer a gentleman of family - or, at the very least, a well-connected one, but the inferiority of your circumstances does have its advantages."
"I think," said Henry, feeling obliged to sit down and rest his head against his palm, "I think I must be dreaming. This cannot actually be happening to me."
Miss Darcy favoured him with a brilliant smile. "I thought that might be what kept you from declaring yourself," she said. "It is true that you are considerably my inferior in consequence. Moreover, there are even greater family obstacles; your connections are not merely unremarkable, but low. My own relations, I know, will be disappointed and angry at such a degrading alliance. I have not forgotten any of this; my judgment has always opposed my inclination in this matter. My will, my reason, even my character are all set against this attachment; and yet I have found it impossible to conquer. Therefore, I am willing to bestow my hand upon you."
Henry, despite his deeply-rooted dislike, could not be insensible of the compliment of such a woman's affection; while he would never ask for her hand - heaven forbid! - he was, at first, sorry for the pain she must receive from his rejection. Compassion could hardly endure in the face of this speech, however, and by its end, he felt little more than exasperation.
"I suppose," said he, "that I ought to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed - however unequally they may be returned."
Miss Darcy turned white.
"It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot - I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any one. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation."
For one long, dreadful moment, she did not speak; surprise and resentment were writ large on her face, and she seemed determined to remain silent until she regained at least the appearance of her usual composure. Finally, however, she said in a tone of icy tranquillity,
"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."
Henry coloured. "I might as well enquire why, with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?" he said. "Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have."
"Oh?" said Miss Darcy, even more coldly.
"Had not my own feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to offer for the woman who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?"
She listened to him without interruption, or even much interest.
"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you," he told her. "No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind."
Henry paused to glance at her, and saw that she was smiling. He sprang to his feet.
"Can you deny that you have done it?"
She shrugged. "I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power, such as it is, to separate Mr Bingley from your sister - or that I rejoice in my success." She lifted her chin and added, "Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself."
Henry refused to acknowledge this last insult, but his hands shook. "But it is not merely this affair on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of assistance can you here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon others?"
Catherine's eyes blazed. "You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said she, her voice unsteady and her cheeks flushing. The implication was clear: How is his business any concern of yours?
"I may not be on intimate terms of friendship with him," Henry replied, "but who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?"
"His misfortunes!" repeated Catherine contemptuously. Her lip curled. "Oh, yes! his misfortunes have been great indeed!"
Henry's voice rose. "And of your infliction! You have tormented his feelings and broken his heart. You have reduced him to his present state of poverty - comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages, which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life, of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and ridicule."
"And this is your opinion of me!" she cried, pacing about the room and pushing her hair away from her face. "This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed!"
She stopped, turning to look at him. "But perhaps these offences might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious intent of accepting you.
"These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my feeling an unqualified, unalloyed inclination - by reason, by reflection - if I had confessed myself willing to give up everything for you. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
"Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?"
Henry was almost blind with rage, but he replied in a clear, calm voice:
"You are mistaken, Miss Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected my in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in disappointing a lady, had you expressed yourself in a more well-bred manner."
She started.
"You could not have expressed your feelings in any way which would have tempted me to offer for you."
Her eyes widened with shock and embarrassment, but she said nothing.
"From the very beginning," he went on, "from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last woman in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."
The words fell into the silence; Henry, angrier than he had ever been in his life, met her eyes without regret; and finally, she replied,
"You have said quite enough, sir. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness."
Her voice dropped lower and lower as she spoke, and when she had done, she turned on her heel and left the room. After a moment, Henry heard her open the front door and leave the house
He dropped into his chair, exhausted and astonished - and, to his even greater astonishment, felt something hot pricking at his eyes.
Henry woke to all the confusion and dismay with which he had fallen asleep, and escaped immediately after breakfast. He was on the point of returning to his favourite walk in the park, when he remembered how often he had met Miss Darcy there, and the terror of doing so again sent him up the lane.
However, he was finally tempted to look in the park - caught sight of a tall lady in white - began to retreat; but it was too late.
"Mr Bennet!" called the lady.
The voice was unquestionably hers. Henry wanted nothing so much as to run away; instead, he walked toward the gate, unable to resist the demands of civility. She reached it at about the same time.
"I hope you will do me the honour of reading this letter," said Miss Darcy, meeting his eyes squarely. Hers looked tired and rather swollen - he tried not to think of what it might mean, and accepted the letter without knowing what he did.
She turned on her heel and left, shoulders straight and head tilted at an even higher angle than usual. As soon as she was out of sight, he broke the seal.
Four pages were written quite through, in a narrow, precise hand, and Henry, wildly curious despite a strong prejudice against anything she might say, rushed through the first half at such a pace that he scarcely comprehended it. She said something about the Bingleys appealing to her judgment, as Fitzwilliam had surmised, of Jane's supposed indifference - all the grossest falsehood, of course.
When he saw Wickham's name, however, he forced himself to read with greater care, and what he meant to be impartiality:
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. Mr Wickham and I are near in age, and were brought up together until we were sent to school - he to Eton, I to a London seminary. When I returned home, we had not seen one another for five years; - he was then nineteen years old, and I, sixteen.
I suppose that he must have discovered that, while my sister was to inherit the smaller estates and our mother's fortune, I was to be sole inheritrix of Pemberley. To this day, however, I cannot imagine how he persuaded himself that I would be receptive to his attentions. I was not. I disliked him a great deal by then, and even had I not, what then passed for courtship with him was not the sort to appeal to a girl with any sense of delicacy.
Needless to say, I rebuffed him as well as I knew how, but he remained convinced that I only wished to increase his love by suspense, and continued to make certain disagreeable advances. - My mother's nephews had recently arrived for their yearly visit, and I immediately told them everything. They made their sentiments on the matter known to him, and he never again importuned me in that manner. Nevertheless, I could not forget the vicious propensities - the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend.
Henry caught his breath. "This must be false," he whispered to himself. "This cannot be."
The letter continued, detailing a simple excuse, or justification, for her actions in regard to the living: at his request, she had already compensated him for it. If true, three thousand pounds was more than generous - but no. It could not be true, not any of it. He would not read another word.
Approximately thirty seconds later, he picked it up again.
My sister, who is almost ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement . . .
Henry walked back to Hunsford in a daze. He scarcely knew where he had been or what he had done; he could think of nothing but his letter.
He had been so certain - so certain in his own abilities, his own judgment. Yet, from the first time he saw her, had he once applied any real thought to either Miss Darcy or himself? Of course he had not. His injured vanity had done all the work his intellect ought to have.
Only now, as he cast a retrospective eye throughout their entire acquaintance, did he realise that he had never seen the slightest trace of anything unprincipled or unjust in her behaviour. Her manner was off-putting, to be certain, but he could accuse her of nothing worse. Those whose knowledge of her consisted of more than a few public encounters admired and loved her; even Wickham had been unable to deny her virtues as a patroness, a hostess, a sister.
And, although he had preferred to turn a blind eye to anything that did not betoken pride or malice, he had seen more in her despite himself - the quiet sincerity of her friendship with Charlotte Lucas, the devotion to her sister.
When he walked through the door, Henry found his own sister studying a book of Mr Collins' favourite sermons. She sprang up as soon as she saw him.
"Henry, why did not you tell me - are you unwell?"
"Quite well, thank you. Forgive me; there was some business I needed to reflect upon."
Mary's eyes darted from his white, strained face to the letter in his hand. "Is it bad news?"
He managed to smile. "Yes, but only for me; you need not concern yourself over it. Have - have you received any callers?"
"Oh! yes. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Darcy came to take their leave. Was that not prodigiously civil? She left immediately afterward, but he stayed almost an hour." Mary paused, considering. "Miss Darcy condescended to ask after my health, but Colonel Fitzwilliam, though of course quite pleasant to me, seemed rather irritable."
Henry flinched. - He had seen her affectionate camaraderie with her cousin, too. If she were to confide the disastrous events of yesterday in anyone, it would be Colonel Fitzwilliam. He remembered his accusations of the evening before, the vindictive pleasure he had felt in saying them, her composure shattering when he spoke of Wickham, and felt faintly ill.
"I am sorry I missed them," he lied, and fled upstairs.
In half a minute, the letter was unfolded again, and Henry poring over its lines.
Chapter Nine
The next fortnight was quite possibly the most miserable of Henry's life. He made a few feeble efforts to seem like himself, which succeeded with Mary and Collins, and Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh; but he felt certain they would not deceive Jane, and dreaded what he must tell her.
His sister and brother-in-law bade him an affectionate farewell.
"You may, in fact," said Collins, "carry a very favourable report of us to Hertfordshire, my dear brother. I flatter myself, at least, that you will be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs Collins you have been a daily witness of. Let me assure you, brother, that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Mary and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other."
"I can see that," Henry replied. "You are very fortunate; few can say so much."
He kissed Mary, shook Collins' hand, stepped into the chaise - and, a mere four hours later, reached Mr Gardiner's house. For the end of their stay, Mrs Gardiner had arranged a number of entertainments for them, so he had little opportunity of observing Jane's spirits, or of revealing the conversation - if such a paltry word could be used of it! - between himself and Miss Darcy.
It was, he reflected, likely the only time he had looked forward to leaving town for Longbourn.
They returned in the middle of May, to a warm reception from their family.
"My dear Jane, you are as beautiful as ever," Mrs Bennet exulted.
Mr Bennet contented himself with smiling at his son, and frequently saying, "I am glad you are come back, Hal."
They were not home more than a few hours, however, when their mother's pleasure at their return devolved into repeated demands for a holiday at Brighton, where the militia was to be stationed. Much to Henry's relief, however, Mr Bennet plainly had no intention of yielding.
They retired for the evening, and the next morning, Henry could restrain his impatience no longer. He sprawled across one of Jane's chairs and told her all that had happened at Hunsford.
It was an awkward recital; he could not speak of Miss Darcy without flushing, and hardly lifted his eyes from the floor. Still, to have excited the affection of such a woman gratified him, a little; he managed to glance up at the end, and smile at Jane's wide-eyed astonishment.
"Of course, anybody admiring you is perfectly natural," she said loyally, clasping his hand, "but - but Miss Darcy? I never dreamt of such a thing. Oh, I am sorry. She was wrong to be so certain of you, but think how much it must increase her disappointment. How she must have suffered, must be suffering still. Poor, poor Miss Darcy!"
Henry, who had tried very hard not to think about this, bit his lip. After a moment, he managed to say in a tolerably light tone, "Oh, I am heartily sorry for her, but she has other feelings which will probably soon drive away her regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for not offering for her?"
"Blame you! Oh, no."
"But you blame for having spoken of Wickham."
"No," said Jane, her brow furrowing, "I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did."
Henry looked away. "But you will know it," he said, his voice sharpening, "when I have told you what happened the very next day. Miss Darcy handed me a letter before she left, and and it explained that Wickham had denied all claim to the living years earlier, and been compensated accordingly."
"Oh no!"
"Nor is that the worst part. She said that he attempted to - to seduce her when she was Lydia's age, to gain control of her fortune. Obviously he failed, but only last summer, he tried again, this time with her sister. Miss Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam intervened barely in time to save her."
Jane looked as ill as he felt. "Oh, but - but surely, nobody could be that unfeeling. Hal, there must have been some mistake somewhere. Perhaps he fell in love with both of them, and expressed himself poorly, or - or - "
"No, Jane," said Henry, trying not to laugh. "You will never be able to make both of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one."
After convincing her of Wickham's unspeakable depravity, Henry and his sister settled the matter of exposure. It did not seem quite fair that such a man could wander about the neighbourhood with impunity - but then, he would be gone soon, and then his true character would not signify anything to them.
Mrs Bennet's and Lydia's gloom over the militia's departure was soon dispelled. Mrs Forster, the colonel's very young wife and a particular friend of Lydia's, pronounced herself incapable of enduring the delights of Brighton without her friend's company. Kitty was mortified, and Mrs Bennet and Lydia delighted.
Henry, who considered the invitation little short of a death-warrant for what common sense Lydia still possessed, could not help but secretly advise their father against it.
Mr Bennet patted his shoulder. "We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her go then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance, even as a common flirt, than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest of her life."
With this answer, Henry was forced to be content; but his own opinion continued the same, and he left him disappointed and sorry.
Between Kitty's sulks and Mrs Bennet's raptures, there was little enjoyment to be found at Longbourn. Henry could not summon up any of his old amusement at their excesses, or share in his father's; not when he realised that his family's behaviour, above everything else, was responsible for Jane's misery. - Miserable she remained, though she did her best to hide it, and never spoke of Bingley.
More than ever, he anticipated his tour of the Lakes with Mr and Mrs Gardiner. Even this, however, brought its disappointments; not long before he was to depart, he received a letter from Mrs Gardiner.
My dear Hal,
I am afraid I must break to you some rather disheartening news. Your uncle's business will prevent us from beginning our journey for another fortnight, and he must return within the month. We cannot imagine that the original route could be properly enjoyed at such a pace as that period would require, so we have been obliged to give up the Lakes and substitute a more contracted tour; we shall be able to go no further than Derbyshire.
I hope you will not be too disappointed, my dear; that country, after all, contains more than enough to occupy us for three weeks - and, of course, to me it has a particularly strong attraction. - Mr Gardiner has promised me that we will stay some days in Lambton itself.
I do apologise for rearranging your plans at such a late date, but will consider ourselves assured of your forgiveness and anticipate seeing you again in July.
Yours, very affectionately,
Miranda Gardiner
He could not think of Derbyshire without also thinking of Miss Darcy - but surely the country was large enough for both of them? She would not miss a few petrified spars.
This first alarm settled, Henry comforted himself with the thought that, with his pleasure already marred, his expectations were no longer so high as to be inevitably dashed. July came quickly; the Gardiners brought their children to Longbourn; Henry, after bidding a cheerful farewell to his parents and remaining sisters, gratefully joined his uncle and aunt.
Their route took them by Oxford, Blenheim, and Kenilworth; altogether, it was pleasant and uneventful, very much like anybody else's tour. From there they travelled north into Derbyshire, and then to the small market-town where Mrs Gardiner had lived until her marriage.
Henry had never been a highly-strung man - just the opposite; but, as they drew near to Lambton, he felt a nearly palpable anxiety, which increased with every mile.
"Pemberley, you know, is within five miles of Lambton," said Mrs Gardiner. "It is not on the direct road, but it is only a mile or two off it. I should like to see the place again."
Henry's hand tightened on his arm. "Oh, you have been there before?" he said lightly. "What is it like?"
Mrs Gardiner laughed. "I was only a child at the time, but I remember it as very grand, very splendid. Even though it was almost Christmas, I thought the park was beautiful. I did not see Mr Darcy or Lady Anne, but his sister spoke to all of us in the friendliest way." She smiled at the memory. "It is a pity her niece does not take more after her."
"Yes," said Henry, "a very great pity."
"I would be quite willing to go," Mr Gardiner said.
"Hal, dear," said Mrs Gardiner, "should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much? A place, too, to which so many of your acquaintance are connected. Your friend Wickham passed all his youth there, you know."
Henry tried not to look as alarmed as he felt. "I must own, ma'am, that I do not feel any particular inclination for seeing it. I am tired of great houses; we have been over so many, I no longer have any pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains."
"Nonsense!" cried Mrs Gardiner, laughing heartily. "Really, Hal, stupidity ill becomes you. How can you say such ridiculous things? If it were merely a fine house richly furnished, I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have same of the finest woods in the country."
He could offer no more objections, but the horrifying prospect of meeting Miss Darcy, meeting Miss Darcy at her own house, instantly entered his mind and would not be dismissed. He flushed a vivid scarlet. Henry promised himself that he would privately enquire if the family were at home; if so, even telling Mrs Gardiner of the real reason for his reluctance would be preferable to an encounter with her.
As he retired for the evening, therefore, he turned to the servant and said, "Is Pemberley not a very fine place?"
"Oh! yes, sir - the finest in the neighbourhood."
"What is the name of its proprietor?"
"Darcy, sir -- but 'tis Miss Darcy -- the master's older daughter. He died a few years ago and she has not married yet."
"Ah, I see," said Henry. "And is the family down for the summer?"
"No, sir."
Thus reassured, he gave way to the curiosity he had always felt about the place - imagined all the splendour of Rosings coupled with even more grandeur.
The next morning, Mrs Gardiner brought up the subject again - her nephew said that he had no particular dislike of the idea - and Mr Gardiner gave his hearty assent. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
Henry retained the appearance of indifference until he caught sight of the woods, sprawling across the hills and beyond sight. As the carriage ascended up the sloping road, Henry stared all around, his eyes constantly caught by some beauty or other - the rich colours of the forest, the sunlight illuminating the leaves, the tall, upright oaks and maples, slim birches and rowans bending in the breeze. He could not even speak.
After about a half-mile, they finally emerged from the woods, at the top of the hill. Before them was a valley, into which the road sharply descended; and, nestled into its other side, atop a slight rise, was an elegant, stately mansion. More woods covered the hills behind it; in front, a bridge arched over a bright, curving river.
Henry had never seen anything less like Rosings in his life. It was lovely; it was certainly grand; and yet he could find no ostentation, no blatant displays of wealth.
"How beautiful!" exclaimed Mrs Gardiner, her eyes nearly as wide as his own. "It is not at all how I remember."
"A very handsome place," Mr Gardiner said approvingly. "It looks exactly what it is."
Henry, too, was warm in his admiration, but he could not escape the realisation that this, not the monstrosity he had amused himself with, was the product of Miss Darcy's mind and Miss Darcy's tastes.
To be master of Pemberley, he acknowledged, might be something!
They drove to the door, and as they admired the front of the house, a sudden dread of meeting its proprietress returned. Perhaps the servant had been wrong, or -
"Are you coming, Hal?" said Mrs Gardiner, and he tried to put the prospect out of his mind, looking around the hall in some bemusement.
The housekeeper, a Mrs Reynolds, was not at all the superior, haughty creature he expected, but rather a small, elderly woman, respectable in appearance, civil in address, with a marked resemblance to a bird.
She led them into the dining-parlour; Henry, always more interested in the beauties of nature than the beauties of furniture, took it all in with a glance and went to the window. Everything they had just wandered through could be seen, with the advantage of distance: the woody hill, the winding of the valley, the river and the trees scattered on its banks.
They went into other rooms, each as lofty and elegant as the ones before, but with nothing gaudy or uselessly fine about any of them. The view seemed to change with each room, but only as a matter of perspective. Each was beautiful.
And of this place, I might have been master. With these rooms, I might now have been familiarly acquainted. Henry looked around in a sort of daze. Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them my uncle and aunt. But no - he caught himself - I should have had to force her to invite them.
This was a lucky recollection - it saved him from something like regret.
He was just working up the courage to settle his apprehension of meeting Miss Darcy, when Mr Gardiner asked the question himself.
"And is your mistress absent, Mrs Reynolds?"
Henry turned sharply around, to all appearances absorbed in an examination of the wall.
"Yes, sir," said she - he gave a sigh of relief - "but we expect her tomorrow, with a large party of friends."
If they had been delayed a day - !
"Hal," Mrs Gardiner called, "come and look at this picture."
He obeyed, and found himself looking at a miniature of George Wickham, suspended among others.
"That," Mrs Reynolds said, "is a young gentleman, the son of my late master's steward, who was brought up by him at his own expence. He is now gone into the army, but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."
Mrs Gardiner smiled at Henry, but he could not return it; he could scarcely keep himself from grimacing at the sight of him.
Mrs Reynolds' wrinkled finger moved to another miniature, this one of a handsome girl with deep blue eyes and a cloud of fair hair.
"And that," said she proudly, "is my mistress - and very like her. It was drawn at the same time as the other, about eight years ago."
Henry, staring at the miniature, wondered if that was when Wickham had made his first attempt to seduce his way into her family. Mrs Gardiner followed his gaze.
"I have heard much of your mistress' fine person; it is a lovely face," she said; "but Hal, you can tell us whether it is like or not."
"Does that young man know Miss Darcy?" cried Mrs Reynolds, her respect for him visibly increasing.
Henry coloured, and said, "A little."
"And do you not think her a beautiful young lady, sir?"
"Yes," said Henry, "very beautiful."
This encouragement sent her into rhapsody of adoration - Miss Darcy was the handsomest woman in the world, and the most devoted sister; Miss Darcy was so clever; and both sisters so accomplished! Miss Georgiana practised all day long, and Miss Darcy sang like a bird.
Henry was almost reminded of Miss Bingley's panegyrics, but Mrs Reynolds' were far more convincing. Perhaps sincerity helped.
"If your mistress would marry," Mr Gardiner said, as they followed her upstairs, "you might see more of her."
She looked startled. "Yes, sir; she must marry someday, but I do not know when that will be. I do not know who is good enough for her."
Mr and Mrs Gardiner exchanged meaningful smiles, but Henry, astonished by this commendation from one who not only endured Miss Darcy's company for a few days, but lived at her whim for six months at a time, could not keep himself from saying, "It is very much to her credit, I am sure, that you should think so."
"I say no more than the truth," retorted Mrs Reynolds, "and what everybody will say who knows her. I have never had a cross word from her in my life, and I have been at Pemberley since she was born."
Henry's head snapped up. Even before Wickham, and even after her letter, his firmest opinion (in many respects his only opinion) had always been that she was an ill-tempered woman: a younger, cleverer edition of Lady Catherine.
"There are very few people of whom so much can be said," said Mr Gardiner. Henry silently blessed him. "You are lucky in having such a mistress."
"Yes, sir, I know I am," Mrs Reynolds said fervently. "If I was to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed that they who are good-natured when children are good-natured when they grow up; and she was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, little girl in the world."
Henry almost stared. Miss Darcy?
"Her father was an excellent man," Mrs Gardiner said.
"Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed, and his daughter will be just like him," Mrs Reynolds said. Henry, who had never thought of Catherine resembling any relation but her namesake, traded astonishment for fascinated impatience. The housekeeper could interest him on no other point; thankfully, it took very little encouragement to lead her back to her favourite subject.
"There is not one of her tenants or servants but will give her a good name," she declared. "Some people call her proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because she does not prattle away like other young ladies."
"This fine account of her," whispered Mrs Gardiner to Henry, "is not quite consistent with her behaviour to our poor friend."
Again, Henry's fingers left four sets of half-moons on his palm.
"Perhaps we might be deceived," said Henry.
"That is not very likely." Mrs Gardiner's brows knit together. "Our authority was too good."
Upon reaching the lobby, Mrs Reynolds showed them into a very pretty sitting-room, lighter and more elegant than similar apartments downstairs.
"Miss Darcy just had it done," she informed them, "to give pleasure to Miss Georgiana; she took a fancy to the room when last she was here."
Henry, true to form, glanced about the room, then gravitated to the window. "She is certainly a good sister," he said in a neutral voice.
Wickham had told him so, and he had already known it, or ought to have - but nevertheless, Henry felt as if his entire conception of the world had been turned on its head.
"Miss Georgiana will be utterly delighted when she enters this room," predicted Mrs Reynolds; "and this is always the way with Miss Darcy. Whatever can give her sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing she would not do for her."
Catherine's Jane, Henry thought, and felt dizzy.
Two or three of the main bedrooms, and the long gallery, were all that remained to be shown. The gallery contained a great many fine paintings. Mrs Gardiner seemed particularly arrested by one hanging near the late Mr Darcy ('tis Lady Auckland, madam, said Mrs Reynolds, Miss Philadelphia that was), but Henry had little interest in art, and the portraits of strangers could hold no allure for him.
He walked on, in quest of Miss Darcy's face - and at last he found her, looking very much as he remembered. She was perhaps smaller and slighter then, but the features, colouring, even the tranquil smile, were all as he remembered.
Never had he liked her so much as he did at that moment - standing in her hall and staring at her portrait, the painted eyes fixed on him, her housekeeper's praise ringing in his ears. How many people's lives depended upon her merest caprices!
No, not her caprices, he realised, her decisions. When had he ever seen her act on a whim? Even her attachment to him had been considered for months on end. No: with Catherine, every word she used to persuade, every particle of interest she employed, would be measured beforehand in her cool, careful brain. And all those under her influence, her sister, her servants, her tenants - everyone from her noble relations to the wretches receiving her charity - would feel it.
He had long regretted the hatred he had expended on her, the acrimony of his rejection, even the misunderstandings he had unwittingly contributed to. He had never wanted her to fall in love with him; but for the first time, he was grateful that she had.
But seriously. A teacher explaining that there has only ever been one universally accepted model of marriage until now as the lesson to be learned from Abraham's family is so horrifically wrong that, in retrospect, it starts coming around the other side. That family tree is the simplified version I made to help me sort out the main characters. Now I wish I'd drawn it on the board.
---------------
Title: First Impressions (8/13, 9/13)
Fanverse: First Impressions
Blurb: Henry finishes his trip to Hunsford, discusses the fallout with Jane, then goes with the Gardiners to Pemberley and gets another harsh dose of reality.
---------------
Chapter Eight
One day, as he re-read one of Jane's dispirited letters, Henry was yet again interrupted by approaching footsteps. He smiled in some relief when he caught sight of Colonel Fitzwilliam, instead of Miss Darcy.
"I did not know before that you ever walked this way," he said, putting the letter away.
"Not usually," acknowledged Fitzwilliam, "but I have been making the tour of the park, as I generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the parsonage. Are you going much further?"
"No. I should have turned in a moment."
The two men walked back to the parsonage together, talking easily. After some time, Henry asked,
"Do you and Miss Darcy certainly leave Kent on Saturday?"
"Yes," said Fitzwilliam; then he laughed. "At least we shall, if Kate does not put it off again. I am at her disposal, now."
"Oh?"
"We travel in her equipage, with her horses," Fitzwilliam said. "It seems only fair to abide by her convenience. I confess it is a little strange, however; not so very long ago, I made all decisions of this kind."
Henry tried to look less incredulous than he felt. "You did? That is - very difficult to imagine."
"I am not surprised that you should think so, but when my uncle died, I was made guardian to both my cousins. Kate was very nearly grown, of course, but Georgiana remains under my care."
Henry imagined the carefree man before him struggling with a wilful adolescent girl, such as Wickham had described, and grinned. "Is she, indeed? And pray, what sort of guardian do you make? Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way."
Fitzwilliam looked sharply at him. "Why do you suppose she would give me any uneasiness?"
"You need not be frightened; I never heard any harm of her," Henry replied, only a little surprised. He felt reasonably certain that he had approached the truth too nearly for her guardian's comfort. "She is a great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them."
The colonel's mouth twitched. "I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant, gentlemanlike man - Kate's latest project, I expect."
Henry glanced up. "Her project?"
"Had you not noticed? She's an inveterate matchmaker - well, not quite that. She likes to help people, and she has a genius for persuasion."
"She must," said Henry. "I cannot imagine any other reason that people would tolerate a single young woman meddling in their lives."
Fitzwilliam laughed. "Meddling? I suppose it is, from a certain point of view - but I have never thought of it as such. After thirty years as Lady Catherine's nephew - well! Kate's little schemes seem nothing in comparison, and I suspect Bingley thinks himself born to be married. From something that she told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think him very much indebted to her. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant."
Jane. Henry felt his throat tightening, his nails digging into one arm. "What is it you mean?"
"Oh, she merely told me that she congratulated herself on having lately saved a friend's brother from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars. I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, but also one likely to attend to a lady's understanding of another lady."
"Does he not have sisters?" Henry asked, after a long pause. "I am sure Miss Bingley would have given him exactly the same advice as your cousin."
"Miss Bingley can be very agreeable, but - hers is not a towering intellect, and her brother knows it." Fitzwilliam shrugged.
"Did Miss Darcy give you her reasons for this kind interference?"
"I understand there were some very strong objections against the lady. Knowing Kate, she has other plans for him, as well."
Henry unclenched his jaw. "And what arts did she use to separate them? Even considering your cousin's singular . . . abilities, it must have taken some doing."
"Kate did not talk to me of her own arts," said Fitzwilliam, smiling affectionately. "She only told me what I have now told you. Perhaps Kate and Miss Bingley arranged the entire affair between themselves. I suspect, however, that Miss Bingley appealed to Kate's judgment when her own attempts failed. Kate assures me that Bingley thinks of her as an older sister, but even he might not have been willing to make enquiries of such a kind to a young lady so nearly unconnected with him."
"Undoubtedly," said Henry quietly.
Henry could not think of their upcoming engagement at Rosings without dread; however, when the day came, Fate finally decided to smile upon him - Mary fell ill. Mr Collins fluttered aimlessly about her, torn between the two objects of his devotion.
"You could not possibly disappoint Lady Catherine," said Henry hastily. "I will stay with my sister - pray make my excuses to her ladyship."
Blessing Mary's fever, he remained with her until midday, when she fell asleep. Then he slipped out of her room and went downstairs, stretching his cramped legs and looking forward to the prospect of a quiet, solitary day.
He had only just opened his book, however, when the door opened and a servant announced Miss Darcy.
Torn between surprise and annoyance, Henry rose. "Miss Darcy. What a very unexpected pleasure. Would you care to sit down?"
"I - yes, thank you," she said. His jaw twitched, and she added in a hurried voice, "I hope you will forgive the interruption; I came to enquire after Mrs Collins. Mr Collins told us she was taken ill? - I hope she is better."
"Yes, I believe so."
Yet again, she gazed at him expectantly; the expression had grown familiar after the last few weeks, but not any more comprehensible.
"I will tell Mary that you called," Henry said. "I am sure she will be flattered by your interest."
If Miss Darcy understood the hint, she ignored it; for instead of leaving, she seated herself by the fire and continued to look at him. Henry could not return her gaze without anger, and accordingly glanced away, trying to think of something civil to say.
He was immediately distracted, however, for she sprang up almost as soon as she had sat down, and walked before the mantelpiece, looking at once bewildered and ambivalent. Then she seemed to make up her mind, and turned to him in her usual decisive manner.
"You must change your name," she announced.
Henry stared at her. "I beg your pardon?"
"I am sorry - I should have mentioned it before. It is a silly thing; I cannot think why my father did it - well, I understand, of course, and it was quite sensible in a way - but it is terribly awkward to explain."
"I . . ." Even by the standards Henry usually applied to Miss Darcy's incoherent conversation, this was incomprehensible. "What?"
"When we are married," she explained patiently. Henry's jaw dropped. "It is the condition of my inheritance; I must marry by thirty, and my husband must take the Darcy name."
"Miss Darcy -"
"Indeed, I have often felt a certain apprehension that the sort of man I expected to marry might reasonably insist upon retaining his own name. You, however, can have no objections; yours is nothing compared to mine. Of course I would prefer a gentleman of family - or, at the very least, a well-connected one, but the inferiority of your circumstances does have its advantages."
"I think," said Henry, feeling obliged to sit down and rest his head against his palm, "I think I must be dreaming. This cannot actually be happening to me."
Miss Darcy favoured him with a brilliant smile. "I thought that might be what kept you from declaring yourself," she said. "It is true that you are considerably my inferior in consequence. Moreover, there are even greater family obstacles; your connections are not merely unremarkable, but low. My own relations, I know, will be disappointed and angry at such a degrading alliance. I have not forgotten any of this; my judgment has always opposed my inclination in this matter. My will, my reason, even my character are all set against this attachment; and yet I have found it impossible to conquer. Therefore, I am willing to bestow my hand upon you."
Henry, despite his deeply-rooted dislike, could not be insensible of the compliment of such a woman's affection; while he would never ask for her hand - heaven forbid! - he was, at first, sorry for the pain she must receive from his rejection. Compassion could hardly endure in the face of this speech, however, and by its end, he felt little more than exasperation.
"I suppose," said he, "that I ought to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed - however unequally they may be returned."
Miss Darcy turned white.
"It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot - I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any one. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation."
For one long, dreadful moment, she did not speak; surprise and resentment were writ large on her face, and she seemed determined to remain silent until she regained at least the appearance of her usual composure. Finally, however, she said in a tone of icy tranquillity,
"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."
Henry coloured. "I might as well enquire why, with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?" he said. "Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have."
"Oh?" said Miss Darcy, even more coldly.
"Had not my own feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to offer for the woman who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?"
She listened to him without interruption, or even much interest.
"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you," he told her. "No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind."
Henry paused to glance at her, and saw that she was smiling. He sprang to his feet.
"Can you deny that you have done it?"
She shrugged. "I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power, such as it is, to separate Mr Bingley from your sister - or that I rejoice in my success." She lifted her chin and added, "Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself."
Henry refused to acknowledge this last insult, but his hands shook. "But it is not merely this affair on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of assistance can you here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation, can you here impose upon others?"
Catherine's eyes blazed. "You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said she, her voice unsteady and her cheeks flushing. The implication was clear: How is his business any concern of yours?
"I may not be on intimate terms of friendship with him," Henry replied, "but who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?"
"His misfortunes!" repeated Catherine contemptuously. Her lip curled. "Oh, yes! his misfortunes have been great indeed!"
Henry's voice rose. "And of your infliction! You have tormented his feelings and broken his heart. You have reduced him to his present state of poverty - comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages, which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life, of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and ridicule."
"And this is your opinion of me!" she cried, pacing about the room and pushing her hair away from her face. "This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed!"
She stopped, turning to look at him. "But perhaps these offences might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious intent of accepting you.
"These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my feeling an unqualified, unalloyed inclination - by reason, by reflection - if I had confessed myself willing to give up everything for you. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence.
"Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?"
Henry was almost blind with rage, but he replied in a clear, calm voice:
"You are mistaken, Miss Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected my in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in disappointing a lady, had you expressed yourself in a more well-bred manner."
She started.
"You could not have expressed your feelings in any way which would have tempted me to offer for you."
Her eyes widened with shock and embarrassment, but she said nothing.
"From the very beginning," he went on, "from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last woman in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."
The words fell into the silence; Henry, angrier than he had ever been in his life, met her eyes without regret; and finally, she replied,
"You have said quite enough, sir. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness."
Her voice dropped lower and lower as she spoke, and when she had done, she turned on her heel and left the room. After a moment, Henry heard her open the front door and leave the house
He dropped into his chair, exhausted and astonished - and, to his even greater astonishment, felt something hot pricking at his eyes.
Henry woke to all the confusion and dismay with which he had fallen asleep, and escaped immediately after breakfast. He was on the point of returning to his favourite walk in the park, when he remembered how often he had met Miss Darcy there, and the terror of doing so again sent him up the lane.
However, he was finally tempted to look in the park - caught sight of a tall lady in white - began to retreat; but it was too late.
"Mr Bennet!" called the lady.
The voice was unquestionably hers. Henry wanted nothing so much as to run away; instead, he walked toward the gate, unable to resist the demands of civility. She reached it at about the same time.
"I hope you will do me the honour of reading this letter," said Miss Darcy, meeting his eyes squarely. Hers looked tired and rather swollen - he tried not to think of what it might mean, and accepted the letter without knowing what he did.
She turned on her heel and left, shoulders straight and head tilted at an even higher angle than usual. As soon as she was out of sight, he broke the seal.
Four pages were written quite through, in a narrow, precise hand, and Henry, wildly curious despite a strong prejudice against anything she might say, rushed through the first half at such a pace that he scarcely comprehended it. She said something about the Bingleys appealing to her judgment, as Fitzwilliam had surmised, of Jane's supposed indifference - all the grossest falsehood, of course.
When he saw Wickham's name, however, he forced himself to read with greater care, and what he meant to be impartiality:
As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. Mr Wickham and I are near in age, and were brought up together until we were sent to school - he to Eton, I to a London seminary. When I returned home, we had not seen one another for five years; - he was then nineteen years old, and I, sixteen.
I suppose that he must have discovered that, while my sister was to inherit the smaller estates and our mother's fortune, I was to be sole inheritrix of Pemberley. To this day, however, I cannot imagine how he persuaded himself that I would be receptive to his attentions. I was not. I disliked him a great deal by then, and even had I not, what then passed for courtship with him was not the sort to appeal to a girl with any sense of delicacy.
Needless to say, I rebuffed him as well as I knew how, but he remained convinced that I only wished to increase his love by suspense, and continued to make certain disagreeable advances. - My mother's nephews had recently arrived for their yearly visit, and I immediately told them everything. They made their sentiments on the matter known to him, and he never again importuned me in that manner. Nevertheless, I could not forget the vicious propensities - the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend.
Henry caught his breath. "This must be false," he whispered to himself. "This cannot be."
The letter continued, detailing a simple excuse, or justification, for her actions in regard to the living: at his request, she had already compensated him for it. If true, three thousand pounds was more than generous - but no. It could not be true, not any of it. He would not read another word.
Approximately thirty seconds later, he picked it up again.
My sister, who is almost ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement . . .
Henry walked back to Hunsford in a daze. He scarcely knew where he had been or what he had done; he could think of nothing but his letter.
He had been so certain - so certain in his own abilities, his own judgment. Yet, from the first time he saw her, had he once applied any real thought to either Miss Darcy or himself? Of course he had not. His injured vanity had done all the work his intellect ought to have.
Only now, as he cast a retrospective eye throughout their entire acquaintance, did he realise that he had never seen the slightest trace of anything unprincipled or unjust in her behaviour. Her manner was off-putting, to be certain, but he could accuse her of nothing worse. Those whose knowledge of her consisted of more than a few public encounters admired and loved her; even Wickham had been unable to deny her virtues as a patroness, a hostess, a sister.
And, although he had preferred to turn a blind eye to anything that did not betoken pride or malice, he had seen more in her despite himself - the quiet sincerity of her friendship with Charlotte Lucas, the devotion to her sister.
When he walked through the door, Henry found his own sister studying a book of Mr Collins' favourite sermons. She sprang up as soon as she saw him.
"Henry, why did not you tell me - are you unwell?"
"Quite well, thank you. Forgive me; there was some business I needed to reflect upon."
Mary's eyes darted from his white, strained face to the letter in his hand. "Is it bad news?"
He managed to smile. "Yes, but only for me; you need not concern yourself over it. Have - have you received any callers?"
"Oh! yes. Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Darcy came to take their leave. Was that not prodigiously civil? She left immediately afterward, but he stayed almost an hour." Mary paused, considering. "Miss Darcy condescended to ask after my health, but Colonel Fitzwilliam, though of course quite pleasant to me, seemed rather irritable."
Henry flinched. - He had seen her affectionate camaraderie with her cousin, too. If she were to confide the disastrous events of yesterday in anyone, it would be Colonel Fitzwilliam. He remembered his accusations of the evening before, the vindictive pleasure he had felt in saying them, her composure shattering when he spoke of Wickham, and felt faintly ill.
"I am sorry I missed them," he lied, and fled upstairs.
In half a minute, the letter was unfolded again, and Henry poring over its lines.
Chapter Nine
The next fortnight was quite possibly the most miserable of Henry's life. He made a few feeble efforts to seem like himself, which succeeded with Mary and Collins, and Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh; but he felt certain they would not deceive Jane, and dreaded what he must tell her.
His sister and brother-in-law bade him an affectionate farewell.
"You may, in fact," said Collins, "carry a very favourable report of us to Hertfordshire, my dear brother. I flatter myself, at least, that you will be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs Collins you have been a daily witness of. Let me assure you, brother, that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Mary and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other."
"I can see that," Henry replied. "You are very fortunate; few can say so much."
He kissed Mary, shook Collins' hand, stepped into the chaise - and, a mere four hours later, reached Mr Gardiner's house. For the end of their stay, Mrs Gardiner had arranged a number of entertainments for them, so he had little opportunity of observing Jane's spirits, or of revealing the conversation - if such a paltry word could be used of it! - between himself and Miss Darcy.
It was, he reflected, likely the only time he had looked forward to leaving town for Longbourn.
They returned in the middle of May, to a warm reception from their family.
"My dear Jane, you are as beautiful as ever," Mrs Bennet exulted.
Mr Bennet contented himself with smiling at his son, and frequently saying, "I am glad you are come back, Hal."
They were not home more than a few hours, however, when their mother's pleasure at their return devolved into repeated demands for a holiday at Brighton, where the militia was to be stationed. Much to Henry's relief, however, Mr Bennet plainly had no intention of yielding.
They retired for the evening, and the next morning, Henry could restrain his impatience no longer. He sprawled across one of Jane's chairs and told her all that had happened at Hunsford.
It was an awkward recital; he could not speak of Miss Darcy without flushing, and hardly lifted his eyes from the floor. Still, to have excited the affection of such a woman gratified him, a little; he managed to glance up at the end, and smile at Jane's wide-eyed astonishment.
"Of course, anybody admiring you is perfectly natural," she said loyally, clasping his hand, "but - but Miss Darcy? I never dreamt of such a thing. Oh, I am sorry. She was wrong to be so certain of you, but think how much it must increase her disappointment. How she must have suffered, must be suffering still. Poor, poor Miss Darcy!"
Henry, who had tried very hard not to think about this, bit his lip. After a moment, he managed to say in a tolerably light tone, "Oh, I am heartily sorry for her, but she has other feelings which will probably soon drive away her regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for not offering for her?"
"Blame you! Oh, no."
"But you blame for having spoken of Wickham."
"No," said Jane, her brow furrowing, "I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did."
Henry looked away. "But you will know it," he said, his voice sharpening, "when I have told you what happened the very next day. Miss Darcy handed me a letter before she left, and and it explained that Wickham had denied all claim to the living years earlier, and been compensated accordingly."
"Oh no!"
"Nor is that the worst part. She said that he attempted to - to seduce her when she was Lydia's age, to gain control of her fortune. Obviously he failed, but only last summer, he tried again, this time with her sister. Miss Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam intervened barely in time to save her."
Jane looked as ill as he felt. "Oh, but - but surely, nobody could be that unfeeling. Hal, there must have been some mistake somewhere. Perhaps he fell in love with both of them, and expressed himself poorly, or - or - "
"No, Jane," said Henry, trying not to laugh. "You will never be able to make both of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one."
After convincing her of Wickham's unspeakable depravity, Henry and his sister settled the matter of exposure. It did not seem quite fair that such a man could wander about the neighbourhood with impunity - but then, he would be gone soon, and then his true character would not signify anything to them.
Mrs Bennet's and Lydia's gloom over the militia's departure was soon dispelled. Mrs Forster, the colonel's very young wife and a particular friend of Lydia's, pronounced herself incapable of enduring the delights of Brighton without her friend's company. Kitty was mortified, and Mrs Bennet and Lydia delighted.
Henry, who considered the invitation little short of a death-warrant for what common sense Lydia still possessed, could not help but secretly advise their father against it.
Mr Bennet patted his shoulder. "We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her go then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance, even as a common flirt, than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse without authorizing us to lock her up for the rest of her life."
With this answer, Henry was forced to be content; but his own opinion continued the same, and he left him disappointed and sorry.
Between Kitty's sulks and Mrs Bennet's raptures, there was little enjoyment to be found at Longbourn. Henry could not summon up any of his old amusement at their excesses, or share in his father's; not when he realised that his family's behaviour, above everything else, was responsible for Jane's misery. - Miserable she remained, though she did her best to hide it, and never spoke of Bingley.
More than ever, he anticipated his tour of the Lakes with Mr and Mrs Gardiner. Even this, however, brought its disappointments; not long before he was to depart, he received a letter from Mrs Gardiner.
My dear Hal,
I am afraid I must break to you some rather disheartening news. Your uncle's business will prevent us from beginning our journey for another fortnight, and he must return within the month. We cannot imagine that the original route could be properly enjoyed at such a pace as that period would require, so we have been obliged to give up the Lakes and substitute a more contracted tour; we shall be able to go no further than Derbyshire.
I hope you will not be too disappointed, my dear; that country, after all, contains more than enough to occupy us for three weeks - and, of course, to me it has a particularly strong attraction. - Mr Gardiner has promised me that we will stay some days in Lambton itself.
I do apologise for rearranging your plans at such a late date, but will consider ourselves assured of your forgiveness and anticipate seeing you again in July.
Yours, very affectionately,
Miranda Gardiner
He could not think of Derbyshire without also thinking of Miss Darcy - but surely the country was large enough for both of them? She would not miss a few petrified spars.
This first alarm settled, Henry comforted himself with the thought that, with his pleasure already marred, his expectations were no longer so high as to be inevitably dashed. July came quickly; the Gardiners brought their children to Longbourn; Henry, after bidding a cheerful farewell to his parents and remaining sisters, gratefully joined his uncle and aunt.
Their route took them by Oxford, Blenheim, and Kenilworth; altogether, it was pleasant and uneventful, very much like anybody else's tour. From there they travelled north into Derbyshire, and then to the small market-town where Mrs Gardiner had lived until her marriage.
Henry had never been a highly-strung man - just the opposite; but, as they drew near to Lambton, he felt a nearly palpable anxiety, which increased with every mile.
"Pemberley, you know, is within five miles of Lambton," said Mrs Gardiner. "It is not on the direct road, but it is only a mile or two off it. I should like to see the place again."
Henry's hand tightened on his arm. "Oh, you have been there before?" he said lightly. "What is it like?"
Mrs Gardiner laughed. "I was only a child at the time, but I remember it as very grand, very splendid. Even though it was almost Christmas, I thought the park was beautiful. I did not see Mr Darcy or Lady Anne, but his sister spoke to all of us in the friendliest way." She smiled at the memory. "It is a pity her niece does not take more after her."
"Yes," said Henry, "a very great pity."
"I would be quite willing to go," Mr Gardiner said.
"Hal, dear," said Mrs Gardiner, "should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much? A place, too, to which so many of your acquaintance are connected. Your friend Wickham passed all his youth there, you know."
Henry tried not to look as alarmed as he felt. "I must own, ma'am, that I do not feel any particular inclination for seeing it. I am tired of great houses; we have been over so many, I no longer have any pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains."
"Nonsense!" cried Mrs Gardiner, laughing heartily. "Really, Hal, stupidity ill becomes you. How can you say such ridiculous things? If it were merely a fine house richly furnished, I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have same of the finest woods in the country."
He could offer no more objections, but the horrifying prospect of meeting Miss Darcy, meeting Miss Darcy at her own house, instantly entered his mind and would not be dismissed. He flushed a vivid scarlet. Henry promised himself that he would privately enquire if the family were at home; if so, even telling Mrs Gardiner of the real reason for his reluctance would be preferable to an encounter with her.
As he retired for the evening, therefore, he turned to the servant and said, "Is Pemberley not a very fine place?"
"Oh! yes, sir - the finest in the neighbourhood."
"What is the name of its proprietor?"
"Darcy, sir -- but 'tis Miss Darcy -- the master's older daughter. He died a few years ago and she has not married yet."
"Ah, I see," said Henry. "And is the family down for the summer?"
"No, sir."
Thus reassured, he gave way to the curiosity he had always felt about the place - imagined all the splendour of Rosings coupled with even more grandeur.
The next morning, Mrs Gardiner brought up the subject again - her nephew said that he had no particular dislike of the idea - and Mr Gardiner gave his hearty assent. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
Henry retained the appearance of indifference until he caught sight of the woods, sprawling across the hills and beyond sight. As the carriage ascended up the sloping road, Henry stared all around, his eyes constantly caught by some beauty or other - the rich colours of the forest, the sunlight illuminating the leaves, the tall, upright oaks and maples, slim birches and rowans bending in the breeze. He could not even speak.
After about a half-mile, they finally emerged from the woods, at the top of the hill. Before them was a valley, into which the road sharply descended; and, nestled into its other side, atop a slight rise, was an elegant, stately mansion. More woods covered the hills behind it; in front, a bridge arched over a bright, curving river.
Henry had never seen anything less like Rosings in his life. It was lovely; it was certainly grand; and yet he could find no ostentation, no blatant displays of wealth.
"How beautiful!" exclaimed Mrs Gardiner, her eyes nearly as wide as his own. "It is not at all how I remember."
"A very handsome place," Mr Gardiner said approvingly. "It looks exactly what it is."
Henry, too, was warm in his admiration, but he could not escape the realisation that this, not the monstrosity he had amused himself with, was the product of Miss Darcy's mind and Miss Darcy's tastes.
To be master of Pemberley, he acknowledged, might be something!
They drove to the door, and as they admired the front of the house, a sudden dread of meeting its proprietress returned. Perhaps the servant had been wrong, or -
"Are you coming, Hal?" said Mrs Gardiner, and he tried to put the prospect out of his mind, looking around the hall in some bemusement.
The housekeeper, a Mrs Reynolds, was not at all the superior, haughty creature he expected, but rather a small, elderly woman, respectable in appearance, civil in address, with a marked resemblance to a bird.
She led them into the dining-parlour; Henry, always more interested in the beauties of nature than the beauties of furniture, took it all in with a glance and went to the window. Everything they had just wandered through could be seen, with the advantage of distance: the woody hill, the winding of the valley, the river and the trees scattered on its banks.
They went into other rooms, each as lofty and elegant as the ones before, but with nothing gaudy or uselessly fine about any of them. The view seemed to change with each room, but only as a matter of perspective. Each was beautiful.
And of this place, I might have been master. With these rooms, I might now have been familiarly acquainted. Henry looked around in a sort of daze. Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them my uncle and aunt. But no - he caught himself - I should have had to force her to invite them.
This was a lucky recollection - it saved him from something like regret.
He was just working up the courage to settle his apprehension of meeting Miss Darcy, when Mr Gardiner asked the question himself.
"And is your mistress absent, Mrs Reynolds?"
Henry turned sharply around, to all appearances absorbed in an examination of the wall.
"Yes, sir," said she - he gave a sigh of relief - "but we expect her tomorrow, with a large party of friends."
If they had been delayed a day - !
"Hal," Mrs Gardiner called, "come and look at this picture."
He obeyed, and found himself looking at a miniature of George Wickham, suspended among others.
"That," Mrs Reynolds said, "is a young gentleman, the son of my late master's steward, who was brought up by him at his own expence. He is now gone into the army, but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."
Mrs Gardiner smiled at Henry, but he could not return it; he could scarcely keep himself from grimacing at the sight of him.
Mrs Reynolds' wrinkled finger moved to another miniature, this one of a handsome girl with deep blue eyes and a cloud of fair hair.
"And that," said she proudly, "is my mistress - and very like her. It was drawn at the same time as the other, about eight years ago."
Henry, staring at the miniature, wondered if that was when Wickham had made his first attempt to seduce his way into her family. Mrs Gardiner followed his gaze.
"I have heard much of your mistress' fine person; it is a lovely face," she said; "but Hal, you can tell us whether it is like or not."
"Does that young man know Miss Darcy?" cried Mrs Reynolds, her respect for him visibly increasing.
Henry coloured, and said, "A little."
"And do you not think her a beautiful young lady, sir?"
"Yes," said Henry, "very beautiful."
This encouragement sent her into rhapsody of adoration - Miss Darcy was the handsomest woman in the world, and the most devoted sister; Miss Darcy was so clever; and both sisters so accomplished! Miss Georgiana practised all day long, and Miss Darcy sang like a bird.
Henry was almost reminded of Miss Bingley's panegyrics, but Mrs Reynolds' were far more convincing. Perhaps sincerity helped.
"If your mistress would marry," Mr Gardiner said, as they followed her upstairs, "you might see more of her."
She looked startled. "Yes, sir; she must marry someday, but I do not know when that will be. I do not know who is good enough for her."
Mr and Mrs Gardiner exchanged meaningful smiles, but Henry, astonished by this commendation from one who not only endured Miss Darcy's company for a few days, but lived at her whim for six months at a time, could not keep himself from saying, "It is very much to her credit, I am sure, that you should think so."
"I say no more than the truth," retorted Mrs Reynolds, "and what everybody will say who knows her. I have never had a cross word from her in my life, and I have been at Pemberley since she was born."
Henry's head snapped up. Even before Wickham, and even after her letter, his firmest opinion (in many respects his only opinion) had always been that she was an ill-tempered woman: a younger, cleverer edition of Lady Catherine.
"There are very few people of whom so much can be said," said Mr Gardiner. Henry silently blessed him. "You are lucky in having such a mistress."
"Yes, sir, I know I am," Mrs Reynolds said fervently. "If I was to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed that they who are good-natured when children are good-natured when they grow up; and she was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, little girl in the world."
Henry almost stared. Miss Darcy?
"Her father was an excellent man," Mrs Gardiner said.
"Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed, and his daughter will be just like him," Mrs Reynolds said. Henry, who had never thought of Catherine resembling any relation but her namesake, traded astonishment for fascinated impatience. The housekeeper could interest him on no other point; thankfully, it took very little encouragement to lead her back to her favourite subject.
"There is not one of her tenants or servants but will give her a good name," she declared. "Some people call her proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because she does not prattle away like other young ladies."
"This fine account of her," whispered Mrs Gardiner to Henry, "is not quite consistent with her behaviour to our poor friend."
Again, Henry's fingers left four sets of half-moons on his palm.
"Perhaps we might be deceived," said Henry.
"That is not very likely." Mrs Gardiner's brows knit together. "Our authority was too good."
Upon reaching the lobby, Mrs Reynolds showed them into a very pretty sitting-room, lighter and more elegant than similar apartments downstairs.
"Miss Darcy just had it done," she informed them, "to give pleasure to Miss Georgiana; she took a fancy to the room when last she was here."
Henry, true to form, glanced about the room, then gravitated to the window. "She is certainly a good sister," he said in a neutral voice.
Wickham had told him so, and he had already known it, or ought to have - but nevertheless, Henry felt as if his entire conception of the world had been turned on its head.
"Miss Georgiana will be utterly delighted when she enters this room," predicted Mrs Reynolds; "and this is always the way with Miss Darcy. Whatever can give her sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing she would not do for her."
Catherine's Jane, Henry thought, and felt dizzy.
Two or three of the main bedrooms, and the long gallery, were all that remained to be shown. The gallery contained a great many fine paintings. Mrs Gardiner seemed particularly arrested by one hanging near the late Mr Darcy ('tis Lady Auckland, madam, said Mrs Reynolds, Miss Philadelphia that was), but Henry had little interest in art, and the portraits of strangers could hold no allure for him.
He walked on, in quest of Miss Darcy's face - and at last he found her, looking very much as he remembered. She was perhaps smaller and slighter then, but the features, colouring, even the tranquil smile, were all as he remembered.
Never had he liked her so much as he did at that moment - standing in her hall and staring at her portrait, the painted eyes fixed on him, her housekeeper's praise ringing in his ears. How many people's lives depended upon her merest caprices!
No, not her caprices, he realised, her decisions. When had he ever seen her act on a whim? Even her attachment to him had been considered for months on end. No: with Catherine, every word she used to persuade, every particle of interest she employed, would be measured beforehand in her cool, careful brain. And all those under her influence, her sister, her servants, her tenants - everyone from her noble relations to the wretches receiving her charity - would feel it.
He had long regretted the hatred he had expended on her, the acrimony of his rejection, even the misunderstandings he had unwittingly contributed to. He had never wanted her to fall in love with him; but for the first time, he was grateful that she had.