On initially hearing of my good and sound friend Bingley’s current infatuation, I paid little heed. His frequent pinings for some-or-other siren are all too well known; I have often feared for his reputation, needless mentioning his sanity. But this was altogether new. He praised her seemingly ceaseless virtues to the stars...she was “an angel”, “a goddess”, and “a cloudless creature of the very sky” (here I am quoting verbatim, mind you). Such nauseating glorification was enthusiastically reported to me nearly daily, and with alarming increase. I then made up my mind to see this radiant nymph myself, thereby to judge her doubtless grossly exaggerated value with an impartial eye.
My expectations were nearly nonexistant at the nascence of our journey. No doubt some low-class girl of doubtful breeding had bewitched him with a few smiles and lowered lashes, and I meant to cure him at once of such foolishness. I could coax little out of him as to her situation...he said no more than her father was a “gentleman”, and mentioned a few sisters in passing. He made little mention of the mother, and was not eager to dwell on her family in general. This was bad tidings indeed.
At last we reached the house. Lower-class, to be sure, but with fine gardens, and every evidence that some care was taken with the property. I grudgingly admitted it was acceptable land, and he looked the very soul of Christmas, such was his bliss.
We were let in by the housekeeper, and shown to various chairs. The house was sparsly, if tastefully furnished, and most of the furniture was at least a few years out of date. Again, poor omens of the family, to be sure, but I refrained from mentioning this to him...I would see his selection in a few minutes anyway, and I would certainly criticize the girl before the surroundings.
At last, the family came, with much excitement and noise about them, especially the mother. I at once understood his reluctance to dwell on such a personality...she was shrill, and nervous, and of little understanding or taste. Her manners were deplorable, and more than once in the conversation was I ignored. I remained still, and said little--it was not I making the visit, after all--and was promptly passed over in regard, in favor of Bingley.
The father was a quiet man, who seemed to regard his wife with a sort of amused condescension, and drolly remarked upon every word she said. No apparent affection existed between them, and he soon excused himself and quitted the room, eager in his escape.
The daughters were introduced, in turn, and I at last set eyes on the particular selection who had so charmed him. She was the eldest...handsome, with blonde hair and olive complexion, sporting a square jaw and classic features. She said little, but did not have her mother’s nervous air...rather, it was a quiet born of patience and a calm temperment. I evaluated her thoroughly, then turned to the other girls.
One was dull and seemed bookish, one giving the impression of being eager to please, one rather nervous and, I noted, all too willing to display her femininity. My curiousity satisfied, I turned my head to gaze out of doors.
But upon that gesture, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye--a dark shape. Turning my head a bit more, I noticed it to be the last of the daughters, approximately the age of the eldest. I noticed--and I did not know it then, but I was lost.
A pale, creamy complexion set off dark brown eyes to perfection, and a healthy flush stained her cheeks. Masses of delicately curled brown hair were wound about her head, with a few stray hairs framing a marvelously oval face, hairs that were highlighted by the warm glow of the setting sun. I blinked. Breathtaking. As I stared in discreet interest noticed by none (I hope), impossibly rosy lips pursed, and a dainty pink tongue appeared to sweep the bottom lip.
I am afraid at that point I commenced thinking thoughts that were a few marks shy of gentlemanly, but I hope I may be excused for such behaviour. I allowed myself to dwell on these thoughts for some time, until I detected my name mentioned. Answering questions in a perfunctory manner, due to my obvious distraction, evidently did not endear me to the lady of the house (if she may be called so), and her displeasure in me, although unspoken, was made quite clear. I cared not at the moment...I simply stood, drinking in the presence of the lovely little creature before me. She did not seem to have such a mild nature as the eldest...rather, she possessed a sharp wit, and natural animation. Most intriguing, to be sure. I immediately realized the absurdity of the situation. Here I have come fifty miles, for the purpose of faulting the woman who holds my friend’s heart, only to become entranced by her sister. I could not help but smile at such folly.
At this point, the girl (I knew not her name at the time) raised her head and gave such steady, yet impish eye contact, I actually quavered, physically tremored at this occurence. Quite distressing, as I have always considered myself a taciturn individual, unswayed by emotion or any sentiment. The very electricity of her gaze impacted me to the core, and I do believe I would have been at risk for...I know not what. I finally wrenched my gaze away from the disturbing depths of her eyes, and returned to my pretense of fascination for the great outdoors.
I detected snatches of conversation between Mrs. Bennet (as I soon discovered this worthy woman’s name to be) and Bingley, revolving on such amiable topics as the condition of the roads, and the weather, and our plans for the immediate future--namely, the acquisition of Netherfield, and how soon he intended to purchase that dwelling. Mrs. Bennet’s intentions were plainly written across her face--her frequent glances from the eldest Miss Bennet to Bingley, and back again. With sinking heart I realized she meant a match--a most inopportune and undesirable match all around. With such deadly ammunition from all sides, I had little hope of procuring Bingley’s rational sensibilities. And finally, with a glance to the dark-eyed goddess reclining in an armchair, I suddenly even feared for my own sensibilities as well.
At last the meeting was concluded, and we made our leave of the Bennet’s, I more determined than ever to sever Bingley’s budding relationship with the eldest daughter. Though she seemed a pleasant enough girl, her connections were greatly inferior, and even had her breeding been acceptable, the condition of the family alone was enough to convince me of the imprudence of such a match. In short, I would not see my oldest and dearest acquaintence in such a situation as the couple we had just left. Such a concept was reprehensible, and I did my utmost to convince him so.
Unfortunately, he refused to pay heed to my warnings. Additionally, he even had the presumption to cast up my admiring glances to the second sister, as if a pretty pair of eyes and glossy curls was all it would take to break my resolve. I patiently explained that, while he was all too happy to forgoe all claims to respectibility and rank for a single female, I was made of sterner stuff, and there is a great deal of difference between impulsive admiration, and acting on such impulses.
Again, my lecture was freely ignored. I finally informed him that I would release all hold on the situation, and if he was willing to debase himself in such a fashion, then he would have to pay the consequences for it. I admit that my statement was a bit false...I certainly intended to have a hand in the matter, despite all claims to the contrary, and no one would say Fitzwilliam Darcy did not look after the best interests of his friends. However, Bingley was far from noticing my falsehood, or much of anything else, and was content with my response.
The next morning dawned bright and certain, with Bingley more than ever in a decided frame of mind, with the decision in question turned to only one idea: that of seeing the redoubtable Miss Bennet again. I of course was in an entirely different frame of mind, but he was in an unusually determined state, and when in such a mood, I can deny him little. At the very least, such an opportunity would give me the chance to avoid his sisters; while Bingley is the soul of manners and charm, I regret that the same comparison can hardly be applied to his relatives. Mrs. Hurst has been known to be rather snide and ill-mannered, having found a marriage to a suitable man, with no other ambition than to remain in her current state, and often chooses to see past her situation by commenting frequently on the faults and follies of others. Miss Bingley is, by her brother’s own admission (though he would scarce breathe word of it to anyone outside), a small, petty woman, given to jealousy and artifice. Her intentions are clearly spoken, and fortunately all in vain. I would sooner cut out my own tongue, than agree to such an engagement. I care for Bingley as a brother, but I do not intend to make such a relationship into actual fact.
Another trip to Longbourn was thus arranged, with the intent of invitations to a ball at some indeterminate future. Needless to say, such a happy prospect was fairly jumped upon, and received with a more than amiable response. The lady of the house (here I am being most generous in according such a title) was altogether enthusiastic at the idea, and the younger girls hardly any less, with many questions and shining eyes. A curious, albeit entirely impassive view to the eldest daughters revealed they were somewhat more reserved, but overall the invitation was much appreciated.
I had my second chance to observe the girl of the previous day, and was somewhat dismayed to discover that her charms had not lessened with time; if anything they had grown more vivid. A dusty rose gown highlighted the pink in her cheeks, and heightened to dizzying clarity the warmth in her eyes. I have unfortunately been blessed with a very attentive nature, and heed entirely too well to detail. No aspect of this Miss Bennet was immune to my eye, from her delicately arched neck to the fine curve of her lashes, the stain of her lips to the alluring curve of her, well...
“Darcy? Did you hear me?” I dragged my attention to Bingley’s voice, and blinked somewhat stupidly at him. He made no comment on my obviously distracted state, merely raised an eyebrow and repeated his question, which pertained to the date of the ball, and if it complied with my schedule. I hastily replied in the affirmative, and returned to my pretense of appearing involved in deep and inscrutable thoughts, while all the while concentrating on the little wrinkles that formed in the fabric of Miss Bennet’s gown as she breathed. Most becoming...
“...if you find that agreeable, Darcy.” Again my attendance was called into question, and I sharply turned my head in Bingley’s direction, receiving a small twinge of pain for my efforts.
“Pardon?” I inquired in what I hoped was a level voice.
Now Bingley looked at me in frank curiousity, much concerned. “I said, it should be nice to have some supper beforehand, in a more intimate setting, if you did not object to extra arrangements.”
I aimed a blank stare in his direction, in my valiant attempts to avoid wincing outright from the mild pain that continued to plague my neck. “If that is what you wish to do, I have no objections,” I replied, still concentrating on my stony countenance. Appearances are, after all, everything in my station.
Bingley cast me a final speculative glance, and returned to his conversation with the various Bennets. I knew I would be drilled later on, regarding my behaviour, but his lectures to me seem to have less effect than mine to him. I could handle anything he said.
In the meantime, I resumed my furtive glimpses to the delightfully dark-complected Miss Bennet, and paid little attention to the remainder of the discourse. Lost conversation matters little, you know, when other benefits are to be had. This particular benefit was vivacious and most agreeably sculpted. I whole-heartedly felt I was receiving the better end of the deal. What were supper plans to Miss Bennet’s form? All manner of disturbing snatches of poetry leapt into my weakened brain, and I chided myself for my reprehensible behaviour. This was pure folly, and ludicrous at best. I had just managed to retrain my mind into a more sensible state when an event occured to debilitate my increasingly unreliable sanity into near chaos.
She yawned.
Now, this may sound completely absurd--and as I look back (ah, I shan’t spoil the tale), it does--but I had never seen such an enchanting, ladylike yawn on a female. I had never known yawning to be an art form before then. I had never taken complete leave of my senses before then...and I had never been so willing to do so.
It wasn’t a mere yawn, you see. That itself was nothing. Had she sneezed or coughed or done anything more base, I doubt I would have permitted any further affection on my part. It was the manner in which she performed the yawn. A slight widening of the eyes, a lowering of the jaw, with her mouth closed all the while, and she displayed a small crease in her forehead, and exhaled a barely audible chirp as her only vocalization. Completely charming. The moment passed all too quickly, and she soon regained her composure, leaving me to retrieve my own.
I discovered my gaze unconciously softening and intensifying, all at once. I abandoned my previous pretense of disinterest, and studied her at will...for all of four seconds, until chance eye contact injected a particular, random painting with a fascination it had never possessed. I then focused elsewhere on less dangerous objects--a lamp, a chair, a table--anywhere but the lady in question.
Pausing, I evaluated my behaviour, and scowled. How absurd. I was acting like an immature schoolboy, not a grown man of consequence. I had a right to settle both my gaze and my thoughts wherever I liked. The former could be mistaken as coincidence, and the latter was privy to no one but myself. I was perfectly insured against accusation of interest or preference. And the chance of mere speculation was hardly something to be concerned about...I cared little for the opinions of others, so why restrain myself? For security, however, I did focus my gaze elsewhere, leaving myself free to aim a somewhat glazed expression at a convenient wall.
I imagine my rather dazed appearance was the reason Bingley reluctantly ended our visit with the Bennets. Mrs. Bennet especially looked grieved at his departure--although again said nothing to me--and assured him of a hearty welcoming when he would next be in the neighborhood, and made every promise of every imaginable hospitability, with a mere glance in my direction, as if my presence were a painful duty to be borne with barely veiled good graces. I sighed inwardly, nodded lightly in acknowledgement, and we departed as we had arrived, on horseback.
Along the way Bingley had plenty of time to upbraid me--or rather, the closest he could come to such a reaction, for he was very hesitant in his critcism, and apologized twice for every negative thought expressed. The crux of it was, however, that he was rather “surprised” at my behaviour and “piqued” at the “irony” of the situation. When I calmly asked him what situation he was referring to, he timidly offered my silence and distracted behaviour as evidence that I had been somewhat amiss that afternoon.
I retorted that since he had known me for such a good number of years, he would surely know my unease around guests, and gave that as a reason for my silence.
“But,” he replied, “that would not account for the sporatic attention, or lack of such, you gave to the conversation. Your reticent nature I am long familiar with, and have borne well, but I have never seen you in such a distracted state; your very character forbids it. You usually pay unstinting attention to your environment. Begging your pardon, Darcy--” I waved off further apologies. “--but it’s quite out of character for you.”
I gave a wry smile, and allowed him that. “My dear Bingley,” I replied, throwing in the endearance to assure him I was not upset or offended in any way, “I should like to think that I have a sound mind, and that all of my faculties are still intact. And if the ‘situation’ you have been referring to involves a certain female, I can assure you that I do not plan on giving myself the embarrassment of hypocrisy or the endangerment of a poorly situated affair. Any tendencies you may be perceiving are merely the result of wishful thinking on your behalf, and exhaustion on mine.” True, a white lie, but the truth would be far more damaging.
This little speech made him appear somewhat morose. No doubt he had imagined that any attachment on my behalf to any member of her family would increase his odds with his particular selection. Life is full of disappointments, however, and he had faced many of them. I was confident he would recover from this one with equal ease.
He then frowned. “Are you feeling quite well?” Ah, one theory out of the way, and moving onto others. Good old Bingley...such implicit trust is rarely to be found. At least he did believe that my affections were not in jeopardy. One of us ought to, I suppose.
I smiled. “I am not ill, Bingley, if that is what you are concerned about.”
He persisted in his concern for my state of well-being. “You are certain of that? Perhaps the strain of travel is a bit much for you.”
Now this was patently absurd; of the two of us, I had the far stronger constitution, and if anything should befall me, it was more likely to happen to him first. I reassured him of my health, and to demonstrate my fitness, lapsed into my usual silence. Ten minutes of this seemed to secure his opinion, and no other mention of my behaviour was made.