Gay Pride and Prejudice (12 page)

“They have both,” said she, “been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side.”

“Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say on behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business? Do clear them too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody.”

“Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father’s favourite in such a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him?”

“I can much more easily believe his friends being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks.”

“It is difficult indeed—it is distressing. One does not know what to think.”

“I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think.”

But Jane could think with certainty on only one point—that Bingley and his sisters, if they had been imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public.

The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters had come to give their personal invitation for the long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see Jane, their dear friend, again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much even to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet’s civilities. Near the door, while Mrs. Hurst made their apologies, Miss Bingley caught Elizabeth’s eye.

“Will you come to Netherfield for the ball, then, Miss Eliza?”

After a moment’s surprise at being thus addressed, Elizabeth answered: “Of course. Unlike certain others, I enjoy dancing in equal proportion to rational conversation.” She had noted Caroline’s dismissive attitude during the visit, and had been in danger of deciding Bingley’s younger sister deserved Darcy, when this belated notice of herself was taken.

“I fear I may have misrepresented myself previously,” said Caroline; “for I, too, enjoy dancing, given the right partner. Unhappily, I do not often encounter the opportunity to dance with the person I might wish to.” Here she held Elizabeth’s gaze with seeming intent before adding: “Good day, Miss Eliza.” And then, with a slight bow that would have done many a gentleman proud, she preceded her brother and sister from the room.

Only Jane stood close enough to have overheard this exchange. “Are you become intimate friends with Caroline Bingley, then?” she asked as Elizabeth stared in not a little bemusement after the subject of their discussion.

“I would not have thought so.”

“She is certainly a handsome woman, and can be nearly as amiable as her brother.”

“Not even you, dear sister, could mistake the greater part of what has passed between Miss Bingley and myself for amiability.”

“I only mean to say that I find her agreeable, and I dare say she finds you much the same.”

“I am sure I would not know,” said Elizabeth; and she turned away from the question she pretended not to read in Jane’s countenance.

Many times had she wished she were brave enough to inquire after Jane’s opinion of her friendship with Charlotte Lucas; but each time she had come close, she had backed away again. Elizabeth could not bear to entertain the idea of losing her sister’s good opinion—Jane was all that one could hope for in filial loyalty and sisterly companionship. Indeed, other than Charlotte, Elizabeth had long considered her elder sister her dearest friend. Troubling enough that persons she had never met looked to despise her for whom she loved, or rather for whom she could not; far better to pretend to all the world that she had simply not yet met the right man, even as she acknowledged to herself that no man would ever likely prove right for her. One such as Wickham, with his long eyelashes and the feminine fullness of his lips, might be made to do. But he was still a man, there was no doubt about that; just as she was unarguably a woman who cared not for men in matters of love, despite her every effort to do so. Could Caroline Bingley possibly be, as her manners seemed to hint, a woman such as she?

As the sound of the retreating carriage penetrated the Longbourn drawing room, Elizabeth lifted the novel she had recently begun, but was unable to focus on the words arrayed in orderly lines across the page. Instead she found herself picturing the look in Caroline Bingley’s eye as she had bade Elizabeth adieu, her mannish bow at distinct odds with the fashionable cut of her walking dress. Not that the lady’s disposition mattered in the least; she was a haughty, conceited woman toward whom Elizabeth could not imagine ever feeling anything excepting a disinterested antipathy. Still, to meet a lady who, like her, preferred the company of their own sex, must elicit curiosity at the least. Elizabeth knew that she and Charlotte and the celebrated Ladies of Llangollen could not be the only specimens like themselves in existence, and yet she had not knowingly encountered another—until, it would seem, now.

She was soon distracted from this line of thought by the chatter that followed Bingley’s visit. The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of her friends, and the attentions of Bingley, while Elizabeth thought of spending time with Charlotte and dancing with Mr. Wickham. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they both meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was, at any rate, a ball. Even Mary could assure her family that she had no disinclination for it.

“While I can have my mornings to myself,” said she, “it is enough—I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for everybody.”

Elizabeth, though she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, asked him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley’s invitation, and if he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening’s amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance.

“I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you,” said he, “that a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her.”

Elizabeth felt herself taken in. She had fully proposed being engaged by someone far more personable—Mr. Wickham, perhaps, or almost anyone else, really—for those very dances. There was no help for it, however; Mr. Collins’s proposal was accepted with as good a grace as she could manage. She was not the better pleased with his gallantry from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first struck her, that she was perhaps selected from among her sisters as worthy of being mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors. The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage was extremely agreeable to her. Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.

If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable state at this time, for from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after—the very shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth found some trial of her patience in weather which confined her to Longbourn where she had not a chance of seeing anyone outside of family; and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.

Chapter Eighteen

T
HE EVENING OF THE BALL,
Elizabeth dressed with care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the night ahead. When she entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, she looked for Charlotte among the brood of well-dressed women there assembled, but in vain. Next she looked for Mr. Wickham, only to discover that he was not to be found, either, among the cluster of red coats gathered at the opposite end of the room. A doubt of his being present had never occurred to her, but in an instant arose the suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy’s pleasure in the Bingleys’ invitation to the officers; and though this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile, “I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here.”

This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for Wickham’s absence than if her first surmise had been just, her feelings of displeasure against the former were so sharpened that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make. She was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away with a degree of ill-humour which she only partially surmounted in ascertaining the proximity of Caroline Bingley. As she watched, Caroline paused to talk to a group of fashionable ladies whom Elizabeth did not recognise, likely visitors in from town for the occasion. One of the ladies, a small, fair woman whose neckline seemed a bit more generous than was really necessary, placed her hand on Caroline’s arm and leaned in to speak privately to her. At that moment, Caroline looked up, her gaze finding Elizabeth’s among those of the gaily decorated guests.

Elizabeth looked away, but not before she had seen what she needed. The woman with the bountiful bust was an intimate of Caroline’s of a nature that Elizabeth was certain she recognised from her own limited experience, which meant that Caroline Bingley was indeed a woman such as she; and, like her, also settled already in an attachment.

Soon after this realization, Elizabeth observed Caroline detach herself from her companions and approach the spot where she stood with Jane.

“Good evening,” said Caroline, inclining her head to Jane. “I am so happy to see you both.”

“Good evening, Caroline,” said Jane. “What a lovely ball! Thank you again for inviting us.”

“Of course. Without the two of you, there would not be nearly so much beauty in the room.” Her gaze rested with the weight of a touch on Elizabeth before returning to Jane. “You are looking well, my dear friend! Are all your disagreements well and truly behind you?”

“I believe they are. How kind of you to inquire.” She glanced over Caroline’s shoulder and waved vaguely. “Why, look, there is my mother’s sister! I believe I will say hello, if you both will excuse me?” And she moved away, casting back a smile that seemed to Elizabeth to suggest that her elder sister comprehended her disposition, and loved her not any the least for it.

She swallowed against a sudden, uncharacteristic shyness threatening to overtake her upon being left alone with Caroline Bingley. They stood silently for a moment, both surveying the crowd. Finally Elizabeth spoke: “I have never seen Netherfield looking quite so lively, Miss Bingley.”

Caroline smiled. “Please, you must call me Caroline. And there is nothing like a ball to raise the spirits.”

“Do call me Eliza. But is that not a far cry from what you said when your brother proposed the event?”

“Unfortunately, I am not always at liberty to say what is truly in my heart.”

Elizabeth could not help asking, “Why ever not?”

“Having done so in the past with the wrong party has landed me in a world of difficulty, more than once. Have you never found the same?”

“While I am not one to hold back my opinion, in most situations,” said Elizabeth, choosing her words carefully, “it is true that I have on occasion found that I could not vent my true feelings upon the world. It is most vexing, to be unable to allow one’s cherished sentiments to be found out.”