Six Inches Deep in Mud

Chapter 5

“M r Darcy!”

“Yes, Miss Bingley?” I reply, confused. Apparently, she has something more to say — what a surprise!

“I was asking Charles whether he is really serious about considering hosting a ball at Netherfield. And I advised him to consult the wishes of the present party. For some of us, a ball would be more a punishment than a pleasure.”

Yes, I see it; it is another attempt to please me. Another misguided one.

“Miss Bingley, while I am not particularly fond of balls, I believe the master of the house has the right to do as he wishes. Those of us who find no pleasure in it can simply go to bed.”

The woman is hit by my reply, and Elizabeth’s expression changes again. She seems surprised too; I wonder whether she is thinking about our discussion of dancing.

“Caroline, you used to enjoy balls,” Bingley says.

“I do not enjoy anything unless I am pleased with the company,” Miss Bingley replies petulantly. “There is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such parties, especially among strangers. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing was made the order of the day.”

At that, I cannot refrain from rolling my eyes. Who would not, when such stupidity is voiced? Fortunately, Bingley replies accordingly.

“Much more rational, Caroline, but it would not be near so much like a ball. You may go to bed, as Darcy suggested. Regardless, I am not considering the ball — the ball is a settled thing. And as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send round my cards.”

Bingley is quite amusing when he becomes passionate about something, especially if his sisters disapprove of it. I am well aware his enthusiasm is due to the prospect of him dancing with Miss Bennet. I cannot blame him, since my own thoughts are not that different.

Breakfast is now over, but we are all still at the table. I am about to either go to my room or to the library. I hope Bingley does not have some particular engagements for me, as I really need to sleep. I have drunk so much coffee that I can feel it in my veins, but it has not helped.

“Darcy, I am going to Meryton. Would you like to join me?” Bingley asks, standing and showing us to the morning parlour.

“If you do not have particular need of me, I would rather not. I slept very ill last night, and I would rather rest. And I need to write to my cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam today, as well as to my solicitor. After that, I shall take a book and read a little in my room, hoping I shall find some rest.”

It is true, though not completely. Both letters can wait for another day or two.

Miss Bingley once more has something to say. “I slept ill too. It must be the country air or the tedium of country life. Fortunately, we have a good library. I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading. How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book!”

I am rolling my eyes again. Except for Elizabeth — and Bingley when he was searching for me — nobody else in the house has ever entered the library.

“When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I do not have an excellent library,” the lady continues. I am watching Elizabeth; she still looks upset about my early indiscretion in regard to her relatives, but a slight smile is now twisting her lips.

“Darcy, would you like some more coffee?” Bingley asks after installing himself in a chair.

“We have had enough coffee. A real drink would be better,” Hurst says, sinking onto a sofa, and I tend to agree with him. Still, I decline both; I have already had too much coffee, and it is too early for brandy.

Now Miss Bingley is walking around the room, moving towards the window.

“Mr Darcy!” she calls to me, and I am forced to look at her.

“You have a splendid library at Pemberley.”

“I hope I have. It is the work of many generations.”

“It is exactly how I dream of my future library to be,” she says. I can see that Elizabeth’s smile has broadened.

“I hope Charles will have a similar library when he purchases his own estate.”

“Caroline, to have a similar library, I must have a house similar to Pemberley, and I should have had several generations before me with an interest in books. Neither of those conditions are met, so you will have to adjust your expectations.”

Bingley’s wit can be most entertaining at times; this is one of those times.

“Speaking of books, Mr Bingley, I hope you do not mind if I choose one to read while I sit with my sister today,” Elizabeth says.

“Of course not. Please take anything you wish from the library. In truth, I am not even certain what books are there. I believe the only one who knows is Darcy.”

I observe Elizabeth rise, readying herself to leave, and I struggle against the impulse to do the same and follow her.

“My dear Eliza, will you not stay with us a little longer? I am sure dear Jane is well, and there is a maid taking care of her, is there not?”

“Yes…” Elizabeth replies hesitantly. “Jane is feeling better, and she has the best care. I am thankful to you all for that. I hope we shall return home in the next few days.”

“Then do stay a little longer with us,” Miss Bingley pleads.

Elizabeth looks perplexed, and I know I am. Perplexed and curious about what might follow.

“I know how fond you are of exercise, and you must have missed it while you have been kept in the house.”

“That is true, but nothing is more important than Jane’s health,” Elizabeth replies.

“Let me persuade you to follow my example and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is most refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.”

Elizabeth’s frown matches the one I imagine is on my own face. What on earth is happening in Miss Bingley’s mind? Even Bingley and Hurst look at her suspiciously.

Clearly perplexed, Elizabeth finally agrees to it. I assume she does so out of gratitude for the care her sister is receiving while recovering, as I feel Elizabeth is still angry with both me and Miss Bingley.

The latter takes Elizabeth’s arm and directs her across the room, passing directly in front of me. Now, I have caught on to Miss Bingley’s scheme. She is trying to draw my attention, and she certainly succeeds, as I gaze at the strange pair.

Miss Bingley’s figure is elegant, and her gait is carefully studied to show her figure to best advantage. She must have had teachers for that. But I am watching Elizabeth, and my mind is returning to the moment I saw her climb the fence, her petticoat dirty and muddied, and to the brief encounter in the library last night, wearing her nightgown and slippers.

“Mr Darcy?”

“Miss Bingley?” She is talking to me again.

“Will you not join us?”

“I thank you, but no. I am in no disposition for exercise. Besides, I feel I would intrude and ruin your purpose, in any case.”

“I assure you it would not be an intrusion. And what purpose do you mean?” she asks coyly, while Elizabeth is only gazing at me with curiosity.

“What do you mean, sir?” Miss Bingley insists when I do not respond. “Miss Eliza, do you know his meaning?”

“Not at all,” Elizabeth answers with another glance at me. “I believe he wishes to find amusement at our expense, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.”

I smile at Elizabeth; if only she knew how tortured I am and how little amusement I find at her expense, she would be shocked.

“Oh, but I am dying to know!” Miss Bingley continues. “I insist on knowing!”

I am smiling again, and she assumes I am smiling at her. From the corner of my eye, I steal a glance at Elizabeth and see she is curious too. I adore the small expressions on her face that betray her thoughts. Now, I am truly amused.

“I have not the smallest objection to explaining my meaning. You either chose this method of passing the morning because you are in each other’s confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to best advantage when walking. If it is the first, I would be intruding, and if the second, I can admire you much better from here.”

I end up locking my eyes with Elizabeth’s, and she must be stunned.

“Oh! shocking!” Miss Bingley cries. “I never heard anything so abominable. Eliza, what do you think? How shall we punish him for such a speech?”

Miss Bingley’s response is as insincere as Elizabeth’s was genuine.

“Nothing so easy, Miss Bingley,” she replies. “Tease him. Laugh at him. Being such close friends as you are, you must know his weaknesses.”

“I assure you that our closeness has not yet taught me that. Mr Darcy is all calmness and presence of mind. There is nothing to reproach him for and nothing to laugh at.”

“Mr Darcy is not to be laughed at?” Elizabeth repeats, looking at me with her eyebrow arched. “That is quite uncommon, and unfortunate for me. It would be a great loss to me to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love to laugh.”

I can feel the sharpness behind her charming smile. I have seen many smiles trying to catch my attention but none like hers when she is silently mocking me.

“Miss Bingley has given me too much credit. The wisest and the best of men — nay, the wisest and best of men’s actions — may be rendered laughable by a person whose first object in life is a joke.”

I might have been too harsh, but she seems to enjoy the challenge as she utters, “Certainly there are such people, but I hope I am not one of them. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense do divert me. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”

“I cannot judge myself. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses that often expose a strong understanding to ridicule.”

“Such as vanity and pride?”

I pause, looking at her. I thought we had overcome our previous misunderstandings when my behaviour might have displayed vanity and pride. Were there more such instances? Or was it the consequence of her overhearing mention of her relatives?

“Yes,” I reply, “vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride — where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will always be under good regulation.”

Elizabeth throws me another look, then turns away to hide a smile.

“Have you completed your examination of Mr Darcy, Eliza?”

“I have. I am perfectly convinced that you were right, Miss Bingley, and that Mr Darcy has no defect. He is one of the very few men without fault.”

For some reason, her tone and her smile are now hurtful to me.

“I have made no such pretension, Miss Bennet. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper could perhaps be called resentful. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offences against me. My good opinion once lost is lost forever.”

I might have been too serious in my response; after all, it is just a silly conversation begun by Miss Bingley in a morning parlour. I really feel that I should have made light of it. Elizabeth seems to have taken my response in earnest too.

“That is a failing indeed!” she says. “Implacable resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me.”

I should stop, I really should. But I continue. I might not be much better than Miss Bingley in this regard.

“I believe in every disposition there is a tendency to some particular evil, Miss Bennet. A natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”

“Is your defect the propensity to hate everybody, Mr Darcy?”

“I am not sure, Miss Bennet. But I dare guess that your defect would be to wilfully misunderstand people.”

She stares at me for another moment, apparently trying to reply, then suddenly says, “I thank you for the stroll about the room, Miss Bingley. It was most refreshing. Now, if you do not mind, I shall wish you all a pleasant morning and go to my sister.”

A moment later, she is gone, leaving me with regret for failing to conduct the discussion better and with Miss Bingley continuing with her annoying chatter, which brings back my headache.

What happened? Earlier this morning, Elizabeth shared her coffee with me. Then, I allowed myself to engage in a stupid conversation about my marital felicity with none other than Miss Bingley, and Elizabeth heard some part of it that might have sounded offensive.

Unlike the situation from the assembly, this time I cannot explain the circumstances to her, and I am sure a mere apology will not convince her. What else can I tell her? That I shared my admiration for her fine eyes with Caroline Bingley? That will surely prove to her that I do have plenty of faults, and stupidity is one of them.

I stand up abruptly, interrupting something that Miss Bingley was saying.

“Excuse me, I must attend to my letters. Bingley, I hope you will be successful with your plans in Meryton. I shall be in the library if any urgent business requires my presence.”

I allow no time for replies, and a minute later I am alone in the library. My first impulse is to shiver. There is a fire, but it has not been tended because almost nobody spends time in here. I add two more logs, then move to the desk.

I should write, but my temples are burning, and I can hardly keep my eyes open. I keep thinking of my conversation with Elizabeth, recollecting what was said and wondering about her meaning.

Time passes, and through the window, I observe Bingley departing. Perhaps I should have gone with him, after all. My nervousness increases, as well as my tiredness. I must agree with Hurst — since the coffee did not help, maybe a strong drink will, so I pour myself one. I pace the library for a while, and then slowly, the room becomes warmer, and I become calmer.

If I desire Elizabeth’s good opinion, I simply must talk to her. I must find a way for another brief meeting, perhaps before dinner. After all, I am not doing anything wrong — I may even ask her directly to allow me a few moments for a discussion. That would be perfectly proper. Yes, that is the simple solution.

Now that I have clarified that with myself, I need to clear my head completely, then write those letters. I shall only lie down here, on the sofa, for a short while, until my headache passes. Only for a few minutes. I have no pillow, but this blanket over me will be enough.

I know I shall not sleep for long, or peacefully. I am sure I shall dream of Elizabeth again. Yes, I am already doing it. The dream is so lifelike that I can feel her hand touching me, pulling the blanket from me. A sweet dream in which I am glad to rejoice, so I grab her hand and bring it to my mouth, allowing my lips to taste the skin of her palm.

“Mr Darcy! What are you doing?” I hear her voice, still clear. I turn and remember that I fell asleep on a narrow sofa only when I feel the hardness of the floor as I hit it, and I open my eyes to see Elizabeth standing over me, stunned and flushed.