‘Ah.’
‘Lady Catherine is well?’ she said at last.
‘Yes, I thank you. She is.’
Silence fell.
‘And Miss de Bourgh? She, too, is well?’
‘Yes, I thank you. She is.’
‘And Colonel Fitzwilliam?’ she asked.
‘Yes, he too is well.’
Another silence fell.
‘How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr Darcy!’ she began at last. ‘It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr Bingley to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?’
‘Perfectly so, I thank you.’
‘I think I have understood that Mr Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?’
‘I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing.’
‘If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But perhaps Mr Bingley did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.’
I did not like the subject, but replied evenly enough.
‘I should not be surprised if he were to give it up, as soon as any eligible purchase offers.’
I should have left the parsonage then. I knew it. And yet I could not tear myself away. There was something about the shape of her face that invited my eye to follow it, and something about the way her hair fell that made me want to touch it.
She said nothing, and once more there was silence.
I could not say what was in my mind, and yet I found I could not leave.
‘This seems a very comfortable house,’ I said.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘It must be agreeable for Mrs Collins to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.’
‘An easy distance do you call it?’ she asked in surprise.
‘It is nearly fifty miles.’
‘And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day’s journey.’
‘I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the match,’ cried Elizabeth.
‘It is a proof of your own attachment for Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far,’ I said.
‘I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family.’
Ah. She knew the evils of her relations and would not be sorry to escape them. When she married, she would leave them behind.
‘But I am persuaded my friend would not call herself near her family under less than half the present distance,’ she continued.
‘You cannot have a right to such very strong local attachments,’ I said, pulling my chair forward a little as I spoke, for I felt an overwhelming urge to be near her.
‘You cannot have always been at Longbourn.’
She looked surprised, and I was halted. I had almost been carried away by admiration and tempted into saying that she could have no objection to living at Pemberley, but I had gone too quickly and I was thankful for it. Her look of surprise saved me from committing myself to a course of action I would surely regret. I drew my chair back, and picking up a newspaper, I glanced over it.
‘Are you pleased with Kent?’ I asked, with enough coolness to depress any hope she might have been entertaining from my ill-judged manner.
‘It is very pleasant,’ she said, looking at me in perplexity.
I embarked on a discussion of its attractions, until we were saved from the need of further conversation by the return of Mrs Collins and Maria. They were surprised to see me there, but explaining my mistake I stayed only a few minutes longer and then returned to Rosings.
Elizabeth has bewitched me. I am in far more danger here than I ever was in Hertfordshire. There, I had her family constantly before me, reminding me how impossible a match between us would be. Here, I have only her.
Her liveliness, her gaiety, her good humour, all tempt me to abandon self-restraint and declare myself; but I must not do it. I do not only have myself to consider. I have my sister.
To expose Georgiana to the vulgarity of Mrs Bennet would be an act of cruelty no brotherly devotion could allow. And to present to Georgiana, as sisters, Mary, Kitty and Lydia Bennet would be repulsive. To have her influenced by them, to force her into company with them – for it could not be otherwise if I were to make Elizabeth my wife – would be unforgivable. Worse still, she might be forced to hear of George Wickham, who is a favourite of the younger girls. No. I cannot do it. I will not do it.
I must beware, then, lest I let slip a word in Elizabeth’s company. I must not let her know how I feel. She suspects my partiality I am sure. Indeed, by her lively nature she has encouraged it, and no doubt she is waiting for me to speak. If she married me she would be lifted out of her sphere and elevated to mine. She would be joined in matrimony to a man of superior character and understanding, and she would be the mistress of Pemberley. A man of my character and reputation, wealth and position would tempt any woman. But it must never be.
I do not know what has come over me. I should be avoiding Elizabeth, but every day when Colonel Fitzwilliam goes to the parsonage, I go with him. I cannot deny myself the pleasure of looking at her. Her face is not beautiful but it haunts me.
I have had enough resolution to say nothing, for fear of saying too much, but my silence has begun to be noticed.
‘Why are you silent when we go to the parsonage?’ asked Colonel Fitzwilliam as we returned home today. ‘It is not like you, Darcy.’
‘I have nothing to say.’
‘Come now! I have seen you talk to bishops and ploughmen. You can always think of something to say to them, however much you protest you find it difficult to converse with strangers. And yet when you go to the parsonage, you do not open your mouth. It is most uncivil of you. The least you could do is ask after Mrs Collins’s chickens, and ask Mr Collins how his sermons are coming along, and if you cannot think of anything to say to the young ladies, you can always fall back on the weather.’
‘I will endeavour to do better next time.’
But as I said it, I realized I must not go to the parsonage again. If I talk to Elizabeth, there is no telling where it will lead. She looks at me archly sometimes, and I am sure she is expecting me to declare myself.
Would a marriage between us really be so impossible?
I ask myself, but even as I wonder, an image of her family rises up before me, and I know it would. And so I am determined to remain silent, for if I give in to a moment of weakness, I will regret it for the rest of my life.
I have remained true to my resolve not to visit the parsonage, but my good intentions have been thwarted by my tendency to walk in the park, and three times now I have come upon Elizabeth. The first time was by chance; the second and third times, I seemed to find myself there whether I would or not. From doing nothing more than doffing my hat and asking after her health on the first occasion, I have come to say more, and this morning I betrayed my thoughts to an alarming degree.
‘You are enjoying your stay at Hunsford, I hope?’ I asked her when I met her.
It was an innocent question.
‘Yes, I am, thank you.’
‘You find Mr and Mrs Collins in good health?’
‘I do.’