The Subject of Reverie
Part One
I watched Miss Elizabeth Bennet walk away. She had rejected my offer of a dance and yet it only elevated her in my eyes. Why? A short time ago, when I first made her acquaintance, I thought her barely tolerable. That evening was insufferable and, though it really is no excuse, my perceptions were dimmed by my ill humour. Bingley is the best of friends but at times his choice of entertainment leaves much to be desired. Not that Hertfordshire is the ends of the earth by any means, but I would have preferred a quiet game of billiards at his new home to consorting with all and sundry at a public assembly. I admit I barely looked at Elizabeth Bennet before I made my scathing judgement of her. I did not want to dance, it was that simple. Bingley ought not to have teased me so.
Later that evening, while Caroline Bingley and Mrs Hurst were enjoying a session of belittling their inferiors, I discovered that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was considered a local beauty. Caroline was very scornful of such public opinion and I could not hold back my own reaction. ‘She a beauty? I should as soon call her mother a wit.’ But in all honesty I still find it difficult to conceive how a woman of such weak intellect can have produced two such sensible daughters. The four evenings I have been in their company since has made me aware that both Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth are not lacking in intelligence. In fact the times I have overheard Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s conversations I have been impressed not only by her evident acumen but by her vivacity and wit. I have never been more intrigued by a woman. And it is not just her mind that attracts.
The next occasion that we met, I looked at her to confirm that she was only passable. She was in lively conversation with a friend and I was much struck by her dark eyes. Very much struck. They drew me back to glance at her again and again over that evening. They were beautifully expressive. I felt the fool for having so openly censured her appearance when now I was beginning to appreciate it. I didn’t mind all the social obligations quite so much knowing that I could look forward to a glimpse of those eyes. And her light pleasing figure. I’ve noticed that as well. When she walks it is not with studied grace, but with lithe energy. She has spontaneity about her which I find very attractive. And above all she is natural. There appears to be no artifice about her. A welcome attribute in a lady.
Her sister, too, is pretty, but she smiles too much and is placid. Bingley is very attracted, not surprisingly. He was always one for a pretty face and a tender smile. I have never been so easily beguiled. He is forever falling in love – I cannot say that I ever have been in love. I sometimes wonder if I ever will. A few ladies have attracted me, but something is always lacking, no matter how eligible they may be. I truly believe I am lucky that I don’t lose my heart as easily as my friend – I never have to suffer the consequent heartache. I am capable of admiring a woman, of appreciating her value and enjoying her company, without my emotions being stirred.
As for Elizabeth Bennet, I enjoy watching her eyes light up, watching her smile as it slowly spreads across her face, listening to her laugh as it bursts forth so unguardedly. I enjoy her archness, her quick repartee, and, surprisingly, her outspokenness. Right now I would have danced with her with pleasure, but strangely I am impressed that she declined. I am not entirely sure why. Possibly because she knew it was not really my intention to dance and she thought she was sparing me. Perhaps it was just her manner – delightful throughout the entire interchange. It might yet be because she does not throw herself at me as many have done before. Whatever it is, she is refreshing. I delight in hearing her voice. I like to look at her. But that is as far as it goes. To imagine anything else would be ridiculous, even if it were not for her family and connections or the differences in our fortunes. Admiration does not of necessity jump to love in one swift movement. Admiration is something quite separate. I can willingly acknowledge and appreciate her beauty without any danger at all. Only a woman would think otherwise.
Part two
Try as I might, I can’t read. Thankfully Jane is sleeping evenly now. I think the worst has passed - for her that is. I long to be home and away from Netherfield where I am unwanted by the majority of the inhabitants. The only person who has made me at all welcome is Mr Bingley. He is everything that is kind, amiable, and attentive, and his concern for Jane is unparalleled. I have never seen a man more devoted.
Of the others, Mr Hurst is probably the least resentful of my presence. In fact he pays me no mind at all. After he discovered that I prefer a plain dish to ragout he has barely acknowledged my existence. His interests are in food, drink, and cards, and when he has had his fill of the three he sleeps without a second thought for his companions.
Miss Bingley and her sister Mrs Hurst have mastered the fine art of insincerity. They affect an interest in Jane that does not go beyond their hollow words. When I arrived I did not miss their looks of disdain at my bedraggled appearance. Miss Bingley’s eyes dropped to my hem and then she cast her sister a glance that showed her disapproval. I heard them snicker as I left the room and know that my dishabille was the subject of their conversation, but I care naught for their opinion. Later, they invited me to stay only because they felt they had no alternative. Miss Bingley’s grudging words, uttered with barely the semblance of civility, were in great contrast to Mr Bingley’s effusive request. It was impossible to say no, especially when Mr Jones insisted that Jane ought not be moved.
The thing that is most difficult to bear is to constantly be in the company of Mr Darcy. My conception of him remains unchanged. He proved himself disagreeable at the assembly and he has done nothing since to alter my opinion. I have never encountered anyone quite so proud or so little interested in pleasing or taking pleasure in society, in short, so completely convinced of his own superiority. I cannot deny that he is handsome, but his countenance is utterly forbidding. He rarely smiles. His eyes have a way of boring directly into me, as if he can discern all my faults in his long piercing glances. And he has a habit of continually looking at me that is most disconcerting. But I will not let it sway me – my courage rises at his every attempt at intimidation.
I can hide away up here no longer. I must put my book aside and go downstairs - common courtesy demands it of me.
~
What an evening! As Mr Bingley and Mr Hurst were deep in a game of piquet with Mrs Hurst watching, and Mr Darcy writing a letter with Miss Bingley seated near him, I took up some needlework. I did not make much headway with my sewing – the interchange between Miss Bingley and Mr Darcy was far too amusing. She sat primping, attempting to catch his attention, throwing comments his way that he dealt with in short order. His annoyance was evident – he wanted to get on with his letter. She was intent upon drawing his interest to herself, and failing lamentably. I laughed inwardly – she may as well try and wring blood from a stone as ensnare his heart. Did she not know he has no heart? It also pleased me that she pestered the man so – he deserved to suffer the aggravation of an unwanted admirer.
Mr Bingley entered the conversation and I enjoyed sparring a little with Mr Darcy, my intent to show him how his friend, with his humility and amiable disposition, was by far his superior in character and temper. I must say that in such discussions Mr Darcy proved himself a worthy opponent, ever astute and quick to turn the tables. Mr Bingley ended by laughingly backing out of the argument and I quickly reminded Mr Darcy that he had a letter to finish. Once it was done, music was the order of the evening. Caroline Bingley made a great show of entreating me to play but I was adamant in my refusal, and she took her place at the instrument with alacrity. While she played and her sister sang I perused some of the music books that lay upon the pianoforte. I felt uncomfortable and looked up to see Mr Darcy’s eyes upon me again. His gaze was most intense. I have no idea what he found so reprehensible in my actions or my person, but I care not for his approbation.
After some Italian songs Miss Bingley struck up a Scottish air. I was about to retire to my room as I’d had quite enough of Mr Darcy’s scrutiny, when he approached and asked if I felt the inclination to dance a reel. Of course I knew he was not inviting me to dance. The very idea of dancing with him there in the drawing room with no other couples involved was quite ludicrous. I was tempted to pretend that I thought otherwise, and accept, just to spite him. Reasoning that his intent was for me to answer yes and thus show my total lack of taste, I said as much. I added that in order to cheat him of his contempt of me I would instead say that I had no desire to dance a reel, and he may despise me if he dared. Hateful man! Instead of being affronted he gallantly told me he would not dare. That is exactly the way he turns tables in an argument.
As soon as politeness afforded, I returned upstairs. Caroline Bingley was giving me the evil eye, no doubt thinking that I had monopolised her intended long enough, though why she should fear me, I have no idea. I cannot think of two people more opposed than Mr Darcy and myself.
Part Three
Would that she were gone, and I left in peace at last. This infatuation cannot possibly last while the object is not present. Here I sit in the library with no other companion but the very Miss Elizabeth Bennet who has begun haunting even my dreams. To know that she will be gone is a comfort, and yet, how am I to support myself in these last few hours of her tempting presence? Every moment that she sits across from me with her head deep inside that volume of Shakespeare I long to open my mouth and discuss the bard with her. I know her opinions will probably differ greatly from mine but I also sense that they will be well thought out and uttered with that charming confidence she has and that hint of challenge that always seems to accompany her outspokenness.
It is well that I have vowed to be silent, even though it is one of the most difficult tasks I have undertaken since I began to fall under the spell of her bright eyes. I fear I have shown too much attention to her these past few days and I have no wish to raise expectations in that quarter. Her mother is the type that would send out for wedding clothes with less encouragement than the notice I have already shown. What a blessing she is not here. What a blessing indeed! I still find the relationship most difficult to countenance. How such a lively, witty, intelligent creature could have been raised by such a bird-witted ninnyhammer. Thinking of the mother was a splendid idea. It helps me put any other foolish notions I may have been harbouring firmly in their place.
I cannot but admit that Miss Elizabeth is a rare specimen. Never have I come across a lady quite like her. See how she is so engrossed in her reading, barely even aware that she is not alone? How many others would have put their books up long ago and begun plaguing me with foolish questions? Disturbing my reading? Yet she does nothing but sit and breathe ever so lightly, occasionally brushing back a stray wisp of hair that continually falls forward to tickle her soft cheek. She is almost still, shifting only slightly in her chair, the drape of her gown changing minimally, the tips of her toes now visible, now hidden. Every few minutes her hand reaches to turn a page and then she stills again – enraptured, seemingly, in the words that race and dance upon the page. Her lips curl in the corners ever so slightly and sometimes stretch to a full smile. Once a chuckle broke forth. That was the only time her head raised towards me as she attempted to stifle her spontaneous response. Luckily I averted my eyes before her glance met mine. I longed to keep them there – to hold her sparkling brown eyes with my green ones and share her enjoyment of the play. But that would not have been wise at all. I glance at the cover of her book in an attempt to make out which of Shakespeare’s plays has caught her fancy so, but her slender fingers hold the book in such a way as to obscure the title. Her hands have a quiet grace that I had not expected. They are unadorned save for a thin circle of gold with a pale purple stone - amethyst. A mere piece of trumpery bought from a local goldsmith, I would guess, but understated and tasteful. Hands like those deserve something more – emeralds perhaps.
She does nothing but sit and read, and yet I have stared unseeing at the same page for the longest while. How is it that with nary a word she had still managed to distract me from my book? I must at least turn a page or she will think it most unnatural. Not only turn a page, I must peruse the words, absorb some of the content of this volume so that the author did not put pen to paper in vain. Bingley would not so far as open a book of this nature. There. I have done it. I am no longer preoccupied with thinking of Miss Bennet. Not that thoughts of Bingley are an improvement. I ought to be attending to this history of the Crusades, but somehow the prose is stilted, the ideas separate into single words and do not form sentences in my head. The search for the Holy Grail does not captivate my imagination. Instead I am drawn to following a silver strand of ribbon that plies its way through an abundance of rich chestnut curls. With my mind I trace the arch of delicate brows, the straight line of a well shaped nose, the petal pink of her lids fringed with eye-lashes long and fine. I know the brilliant flash of the almond eyes hidden beneath.
All of a sudden she closes her book and rises, replacing the volume in the gap on the shelf where it belongs. With a glance in my direction and a soft “Good day,” she turns towards the door. I barely have time to stand and execute a stiff bow. Not a word manages to escape my lips. I sit again and realise that finally I have my wish. She is gone and I will be able to find my peace again. A fierce feeling of emptiness wells up inside of me as I turn to my book and try to locate my place. I don’t recognise a single statement upon the page. With a sigh I turn back to the beginning of the chapter and start over. Between the words I see a single strand of ribbon loop back and forth, trying to rein in a profusion of curls that apparently have a mind of their own.
Part Four
I know it is too soon for me to see Miss Elizabeth Bennet – her lamentable visit at Netherfield has had lasting effects that I have as yet been unable to eradicate – but civility dictates that I accompany Bingley and he will not be dissuaded from visiting Longbourn to discover how the angelic Miss Bennet is faring. There is a group of young ladies beside the shop window ahead - the Bennet sisters, so at least I am saved from the inane conversation of the mother. We can visit with them now and be done with it. Bingley does not need me to indicate their presence. His heart is a compass and Miss Bennet true north. I will let him enjoy his angel’s smiles but I will not allow myself the same pleasure with her sister. A quick bow in greeting to the group will suffice; my eyes will not stray to her sparkling eyes and blooming cheeks, or even rest upon her delightful form. There must be something in the shop window to hold my attention. Gloves perhaps? Wait - who is that standing next to her? I would know that cocksure stance anywhere. Wickham. And the man has the audacity to look me in the eye and touch his hat. It pains me even to see him but for propriety’s sake I return his salute, though I can barely bring myself to do it. For all that has passed between us I refuse to lay my private dealings open to the public. But what wicked turn of providence has brought him here to torment me with his presence? Miss Elizabeth appears pleased with his attention, but a lady of her discernment will soon see through his shallow arts. Unlike Georgiana, she has an understanding of human nature that she exercises well. Poor Georgiana, always so protected – so sweet and innocent – cannot be faulted for falling victim to his wiles. I failed her miserably. Thank goodness Bingley is done and we can be off, away from that foul miscreant.
~
Denny did not steer me wrong when he said I would find the ladies in Hertfordshire appealing. These Bennet girls are luscious. The eldest is an eyeful, but too insipid and proper for my tastes. The youngest is quite a temptation – buxom and forward, though silly and giggling. Miss Elizabeth would do for me nicely, if her portion is as ample as her other endowments. And she has conversation too, which adds to the charm of the most mundane social events. In the bedroom it is quite unnecessary, but I fear the only way to bed her would be through marriage. That little russet-haired barmaid at the inn is another matter. She made plain this morning what she is offering. I’ll not be alone tonight, or for many a night to come. I think fortune is smiling upon me at last . . . but what’s he doing here? Darcy is the last man I’d hoped to see. He tries to keep his face from showing any emotion; however I long ago learned to read his moods. He is livid! He cannot make me turn tail and run. I know his stupid pride will keep him from informing on me. I will be safe as long as I play my cards right and stay out of his way – best that I discover quickly the extent of his influence in this town. And possibly, just possibly, I’ll find some way to strike back at him where it really hurts. I will never forgive him for ruining my best prospects ever. His tongue-tied sister would have made me my fortune, and I would have enjoyed taking my pleasure of her, knowing all the time how much he would hate the very thought of it.
~
What was the meaning of that look? I am completely intrigued. Mr Wickham is a welcome addition to our society – handsome and charming, and so very entertaining, unlike that man. What do they know of each other? That they are acquainted is obvious. And that something lies between them is equally obvious. For one to turn red and the other white, and barely acknowledge each other, bears witness to prior dealings. How pleased I am that Mr Wickham chanced to be with us when Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy rode by. Not only did it prevent his conversing with me, which would have been disagreeable for the both of us, but it has given me this little mystery which I am determined to solve. In what way has Mr Darcy imposed himself upon Mr Wickham in the past? I recall him boasting of harbouring resentment – that his temper would not yield for the convenience of the world. I mean to find out and it shall be no hardship to converse with Mr Wickham. Perhaps he will let some small piece of information slip that will shed light upon their former relationship. In any event, his presence today has worked wonders. I am not even being subjected to Mr Darcy’s penetrating scrutiny. Instead he has taken an interest in that shop window, though I rather doubt he is shopping for a new bonnet for his sister. He is ignoring us with the utmost incivility and I am tempted to believe that our new acquaintance is the cause. What complete opposites the two men are! One seems to have got all the goodness and the other not even the appearance of it.