Authors: M. A. Sandiford
‘Then assuredly you must keep silence,’ Bridget said with mock gravity.
‘I suppose.’ Elizabeth met her eye. ‘But perhaps the general outline could be related to someone
exceptionally trustworthy
?’
‘Oh, I am discretion incarnate,’ Bridget assured her.
‘Prove it!’ Elizabeth teased.
‘I told no-one of your distress at Ambleside.’
‘Not even your sister?’
‘Frances? You must be joking.’
‘Nor your husband?’
‘No, as it happens,’ Bridget said, more seriously. ‘But Thomas is entirely trustworthy, Elizabeth. If you knew him better you would have no concerns.’
‘I’m sorry, I was impertinent.’
‘I like your impertinence. Have I passed the test yet?’
Elizabeth took a deep breath. ‘Very well. Last year, I met a certain gentleman. Call him Mr D.’
‘D for distinguished,’ Bridget suggested.
‘Perhaps, but also proud and, on occasion, extremely rude. His first utterance in my presence was to declare me unfit to dance with him.’
‘D for disdainful.’
Elizabeth put a finger to her lips. ‘Shush. There were further meetings, mostly unpleasant, until one day this man made me a proposal of marriage.’
Bridget’s eyes opened wide. ‘D for devoted!’
Elizabeth sighed. ‘I should have called him Mr X.’
‘X for exemplary.’
‘Exemplary begins with E. Do you want to hear more?’
‘D for decidedly.’
‘It was the strangest proposal, comprising mostly a list of my faults. In fact it made me so angry that I said he was the last man in the world that I could be persuaded to marry. I also accused him of sundry misdeeds towards others—quite unjustly, as it turned out.’
‘Denounced and disappointed …’
‘We parted acrimoniously, but next day he handed me a letter which kindly but firmly refuted all my allegations. I have never felt more ashamed in my life. Do you remember how easily distracted I was at Ambleside? That was the reason.’ She sighed. ‘And now my shame is redoubled, for despite the mistreatment received at my hands, Mr D has seen fit to rescue my foolish sister and restore the reputation of my family, at great cost to himself, and no benefit that I can fathom.’
Bridget regarded her affectionately, and with a tilt of the head said:
‘He loves you, Elizabeth. Is it not plain?’
‘His avowed motive is his failure to expose Wickham’s character to the neighbourhood, which in his estimation makes him responsible for the whole sorry affair.’ Suddenly tearful, she put her hands to her face. ‘But in his letter, Mr Darcy gave explicit warnings which I failed to pass on. The fault is really mine, not his!’
Bridget moved to her side and gave her a handkerchief. ‘Neither of you deserves such censure. The fault lies entirely with the principals: Wickham, primarily, and to a lesser extent your sister.’
‘Mr D is blameless at any rate.’ Elizabeth dabbed her eyes. ‘And now he has borne the whole expense, and I cannot even tell my family to whom we are indebted.’
‘He loves you. He has done this to show that your accusations are forgiven, and that he offers you a second chance.’
‘How can that be? I could not have rejected him more decisively than I did.’
‘Love is blind.’ Bridget returned to her chair with a teasing smile. ‘D for Darcy.’
Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Did I say?’
Bridget nodded. ‘But seriously, do not concern yourself. I will tell no-one.’
Elizabeth exhaled in frustration. ‘We had better rejoin the others, before I spill every confidence in my possession.’
Bridget raised a hand. ‘But first, I would like to give you something.’ She opened a drawer and took out a small package wrapped in plain brown paper. ‘It is a book. I would like you to read it, without revealing to anyone that it comes from me. Then, when we are alone, we might talk about it.’
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. ‘Ha, so you have secrets too, Bridget Beaumont!’
Bridget coloured, and Elizabeth, fearing she had gone too far, thanked her friend more soberly before asking for access to a washroom where she might restore her appearance.
Dinner was a light meal of soup followed by pitch-cocked eels. Accustomed on such occasions to fatty meat roasts, Elizabeth found this fare a welcome change; she also comprehended how the Beaumonts—in contrast to their Beauchamp in-laws—had preserved their slender figures.
Although Mr Beaumont limited his conversation to a few carefully chosen words, he soon impressed Elizabeth as a man of wide knowledge and precise understanding. Above all he was attentive, more inclined by nature to listen than lecture. She noted with satisfaction that he took genuine interest in Mr Gardiner’s business, posing concise but penetrating questions about the conditions required for the growing of cotton and other cash crops, and the steps by which these materials were transmuted to products such as the muslin from which most of her dresses were made.
While the conversation ebbed and flowed, Elizabeth’s eyes often wandered to the fine paintings that adorned the walls, and in particular two landscapes, one by William Hodges, and the other, more romantically idealised, by a French artist named Claude whom Bridget had mentioned as a particular favourite of Sir George Beaumont’s.
Perhaps noticing the wavering of her attention, Mr Beaumont asked her a question about her visit to the Wordsworths. Since no doubt he had already heard a full account from Bridget, Elizabeth kept her answer short, before prompting: ‘I believe you too have had the honour, sir.’
‘We met once at my cousin’s house. Sir George is a keen admirer.’
‘And do you share his admiration?’
‘I find the public response to the Lake poets significant.’
Amused as well as frustrated by his reticence, she flashed a smile at Bridget. ‘In what way?’
He answered as usual without delay, the unexpressed idea already perfectly formed. ‘As people are persuaded by economic necessity to live and work in towns, so they are moved by the nostalgic evocation of landscapes that previously they took for granted.’
He looked down for a moment while the other diners assimilated this thought, then turned once more to Elizabeth. ‘Talking of landscapes, I see you like the Hodges.’
While Elizabeth smiled at this change of topic, Bridget added: ‘Which reminds me, Thomas, that an exhibition of new landscape artists opens next week, which our guests should be no means miss.’ She tapped Elizabeth’s arm. ‘I’ve also taken the liberty of reserving a box for Hamlet on Thursday, with room for your party should you wish to join us.’
Elizabeth glanced at the Gardiners, who like her seemed bewildered by these attentions. ‘Thank you. For my part I should love to.’
Mr Beaumont dealt her one of his rare smiles, as if entertained by his wife’s enthusiasm. ‘Well Miss Bennet, it seems your entire week has been mapped out.’
During their return to Gracechurch Street, Mrs Gardiner satisfied Elizabeth’s curiosity by relating her impressions of the Beaumonts. It turned out that her aunt and uncle had been well entertained in her absence, the attractions including a tour of some fine art works. Mostly these were loans from the baronet Sir George Beaumont, and accordingly reflective of his tastes: French and English landscapes, excluding Turner. In contrast, Mr Thomas Beaumont’s interests—as revealed by his library—leaned to the scientific and practical; in conversation he also showed himself alert to opportunities for investing in the latest applications of engineering, so much so that Mr Gardiner was hopeful of possible business consultancies in the future. Elizabeth, always respectful of her aunt’s and uncle’s opinions, was gratified by their approval of the Beaumonts, especially after her revelations to Bridget, which had gone far beyond what she had planned.
In the privacy of her room, Elizabeth was finally able to unwrap Bridget’s package. It contained a book of some 300 pages, bound in thin boards protected by a wallpaper cover, and entitled
Vindication of the Rights of Woman
, published in 1792 by Mary Wollstonecraft. She had never seen a copy of the book before—it was not in Mr Bennet’s library—but had heard of it through her aunt, who had mentioned once that the author had been discredited, after her death, by a memoir published by her husband, and was no longer taken seriously. Unable to resist, Elizabeth flicked through the preface, where she alighted at random on the following paragraph:
My own sex, I hope, will excuse me, if I treat them like rational creatures, instead of flattering their
fascinating
graces, and viewing them as if they were in a state of perpetual childhood, unable to stand alone. I earnestly wish to point out in what true dignity and human happiness consists—I wish to persuade women to endeavour to acquire strength, both of mind and body, and to convince them, that the soft phrases, susceptibility of heart, delicacy of sentiment, and refinement of taste, are almost synonymous with epithets of weakness, and that those beings who are only the objects of pity and that kind of love, which has been termed its sister, will soon become objects of contempt.
Immediately gripped by these words, she read a few more pages, until tiredness persuaded her to desist, but already she had resolved on two points: first, that she would study this book from cover to cover; and secondly that she would mention it to no-one apart from Bridget.
Lying awake in the early hours, Elizabeth wondered why it was taking her so long to repose full trust in her new friend, and concluded that her usual outspokenness had been shaken by her misjudgement of Wickham. Hard experience had now taught her that an open, friendly demeanour was no guarantee of honesty: a bad person could appear good, and she, Elizabeth Bennet, was no more able than anyone else to see through a skilled deception. However, an opposite error had to be avoided too—that of failing to trust an honest person—and she was in danger of trying Bridget’s patience too long. In retrospect, therefore, she was not sorry to have let slip the identity of Mr D.
Next morning, following her usual walk in the park, Elizabeth took out her now dog-eared copy of
Lyrical Ballads
, to select some poems suitable for raising Darcy’s morale. For the afternoon visit she had set two aims: first, she would confine her conversation with Darcy to the safety of routine enquiries about his health, in addition to the promised poetry readings, while carefully avoiding emotive topics such as duelling and marriage; secondly, in this way she would further reassure Georgiana that her visits were innocuous, and perhaps take a step towards establishing better relations. These plans were however rendered void after lunch by a new message from the Darcys, delivered this time without any request for a reply:
Dear Miss Bennet
I regret there has been a new development, with the result that my brother cannot accept any visits today, or indeed for the foreseeable future.
I would prefer not to mention particulars, which will become public knowledge soon enough. But I can assure you that the reasons are not personal, nor do they concern my brother’s health, which is if anything improved.
Sincerely, Georgiana Darcy.
Shocked and upset by this news—and especially by the lack of any explanation—Elizabeth immediately sought her aunt, whose good sense as usual helped calm her down. After discussion, they agreed that any direct approach to the Darcys was pointless: their desire for privacy was evident. The best avenue for further enquiries therefore lay through Bingley, and since it was late for an unannounced call, Mrs Gardener suggested sending a note. However, the prospect of waiting for Caroline to favour her with an answer was so unbearable that Elizabeth decided to risk an immediate visit: after all, the Bingley sisters would never approve of anything she did, so this addition to the list of her defects hardly registered.
Arriving mid-afternoon at Bingley’s town house, Elizabeth asked the hackney driver to wait while she rang. The footman recognised her straight away and admitted her to the hall, but only to inform her that Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst were at the modiste, with no hour set for their return. Mr Bingley, instead, had left town that very morning, as usual very suddenly, with only the vaguest indications of his itinerary. Since it was Bingley that she wished to consult, there seemed no point in waiting, so Elizabeth left her card along with a note for Caroline before retreating in disappointment to Gracechurch Street.
Over breakfast on the following morning, Mr Gardiner suddenly looked up from his paper, almost spilling his tea. ‘Good heavens!’
‘Is something the matter, dear?’ Mrs Gardiner asked.
Mr Gardiner glanced at Elizabeth, then back to his wife. ‘Some rather shocking news, I’m afraid.’ He sighed and passed the newspaper to Elizabeth. ‘You had better see for yourself.’
He indicated a short piece on an inside page of the
Times
, which ran as follows.
Killed in duel
It has been announced that Sir Osborne Kaye, baronet of Wistham in the county of Leicestershire, has died from injuries received in a duel with Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, Derbyshire. Contrary to earlier reports of a riding accident, Sir Osborne was wounded through a pistol shot to the gut, in a duel fought on Putney Heath over an undisclosed insult for which Mr Darcy refused to apologise.
In a statement issued yesterday, Sir Arthur Kaye, who inherits the baronetcy from his father, declared his intention to bring a prosecution against Mr Darcy for murder. A date for the trial has not yet been set. It is understood that following payment of bail, Mr Darcy will remain at his London residence, where he is recovering from a pistol wound to his right arm.
Feeling as if a claw had struck to her heart, Elizabeth handed the newspaper to her aunt and fled to the stairs. Once locked in her room, she kneeled against the bed, crying desperately and beating her fists on the mattress.
Stupid, stupid man
! Her feelings were partly of compassion for Mr Darcy’s predicament, but mostly of fury that through his all too familiar pride, and exaggerated sense of honour, he had allowed himself to be drawn into some idiotic quarrel that now put his very life in peril, as well as devastating his family, and in particular Georgiana.