Overhearings Less to the Purpose

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One day during the course of his annual attendance upon his verbose and unwaveringly confident aunt, the honorable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Fitzwilliam Darcy returned from a bracing morning ride.
Disappointment. The ride had been a deuced disappointment.
No Elizabeth Bennet. Hadn’t seen her fine, slender figure, not once, while riding round every pathway and byway that he’d seen her haunt before.
What a dislikeable disappointment! What was the point of a morning ride if he’d have no chance to tip his hat to Elizabeth? For exercise? Bah!
This wholly inappropriate infatuation had come to dominate every one of Darcy’s thoughts. And the dratted fact was, he wasn’t sure any longer that it was just an infatuation, or that it was wholly inappropriate. She made him laugh, and smile, and he would very much like to have her present in his bed. All rational considerations.
Darcy could not stop thinking, and thinking, and thinking even more about Miss Bennet. Every one of his damned thoughts was about her.
At least half of them.
She knew he often rode out in hopes of seeing her. Was she maybe in a feminine tiff about something he’d said to her, and this was how she chose to punish him? Except Darcy searched his mind, and as always, he could detect nothing he had said which departed from the utmost propriety and properness.
Another question arose: Was Elizabeth more like a cherub or a nymph?
Darcy’s mind dropped its pique to enter a full contemplation of that question of import, and alas, his concupiscent mind, against his more honorable intentions, flashed an image into Darcy’s head of a fine painting of a naked nymph that his Uncle, the Earl of Matlock, had painted on the interior of his study door.
Except this nymph in Darcy’s mind had Elizabeth’s face and hair, and what he imagined her naked body would look like.
The image in his mind smiled like Elizabeth too.
Elizabeth was definitely more nymph than cherub. And he definitely should not think of her in that manner.
Darcy flushed as he handed his riding crop and the reins of his fine noble black stallion named George, after the king, to the young groom who pulled his forelock humbly when he greeted Darcy. Lady Catherine insisted all her servants make some gesture of obeisance when in the presence of the better sort.
Such as Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Darcy strode proudly, chest up thrust and head high, towards the grand entrance to his aunt’s great estate. A fine façade, marble columns, fresh paint, a neatly cropped lawn, and grand rows of windows recently reglazed at a ridiculous expense.
A fine effect, the windows created a fine effect.
Whilst in matters of substance Lady Catherine lacked substance, in matters of pomp and ceremony, she knew how to make the grandest of appearances.
There was a statue of Venus in the entrance hall, and the molded white marble undressed woman flashed Elizabeth’s image vividly before Darcy again.
The nude nymph Elizabeth.
Was she more like a nude nymph or the naked goddess of beauty?
She was too light, too smiling, and too nice to be anything like Aphrodite, who was a quite immoral woman in the stories. Nymph… nude nymph.
A part of Darcy’s body rose, against his will, in the contemplation of Elizabeth. Down, down, deuced creature. Obey my orders.
It did not.
A gentleman should never imagine a gentlewoman, the daughter of a gentleman, in such a pointed manner. He owed every honor, and every bowing and consideration to Elizabeth. Even though she was possessed of unfortunately low, bothersome connections.
Mrs. Bennet particularly.
The thought of Mrs. Bennet at last banished the nude imagining of Elizabeth Bennet to the back of Darcy’s mind, where it would return, inevitably, as he lie in bed desperate for sweet sleep which would free him for a few hours from the unending thoughts of his unreasonable, uncontrollable and irrational attachment.
Rosings Park was a grand, great hall. One of the greatest grand houses of England. A noble and vast structure worthy of the widow of a baronet, the daughter of an earl, and dare Darcy think it — he dared: Such a place was worthy of the aunt of a Darcy of Pemberley.
Such a man as he, possessed of every right to walk through such apartments, such galleries, to call on such power and wealth — Such a man could not lower himself to sanctify through holy matrimony a connection with a woman whose mother was screechingly vulgar, whose youngest sister ran wild and drunk, whose middle sister could not tell that she was utterly unsuited to perform upon the piano, and whose eldest sister, Jane…
Here Darcy’s mind stuttered.
It was no simple matter for even a gentleman of such excellence in the arts of disparaging those below himself as Fitzwilliam Darcy to find that with which he could criticize Miss Jane Bennet.
She smiled too much.
Yes. Miss Jane Bennet smiled far too much.
Darcy paused in the corridor, next to the cleverly concealed door that led to the housekeeper’s rooms and office. A cracked open line allowed the faint sound of voices from within to be heard by the quality passing by.
Darcy paused.
Should he enter within, and inform the housekeeper of the grave mistake she had made. Being audible was quite not the thing — servants should be neither seen nor heard, but provide a semblance of invisibility, as though elves or gremlins kept everything clean, tidy, and in order.
Darcy was no extreme stickler on such matters himself — mistakes would be made by even the best staff, and he rather preferred to remember that the comfort he lived in was provided by the effort of other humans to whom he owed a duty to be a beneficent and kindly master. However Lady Catherine would be quite put out if she noticed such a failure upon the part of her servants.
Yes. It was best to warn the housekeeper before she aroused the ire of her masterful mistress.
As Darcy’s hand went to further pry open the door, a lovely, sweet, elegant, and lively, light voice, a voice he was most familiar with came from that crack: “For heaven’s sake, Charlotte, why must we wait on Lady Catherine’s housekeeper? I have quite missed my usual walk by now.”
Mrs. Collins replied to Elizabeth with a long suffering sigh. “Her ladyship was most insistent that I consult with Mrs. Longwaite again upon the improvement that can be made through adding even more shelves to a closet.”
“But why am I here?”
“Did you not wish to practice upon the piano in the housekeeper’s room?” Mrs. Collins added, her voice teasing, “You shall certainly be in no one’s way there.”
Elizabeth laughed. “That woman is quite certain of herself — near as much as her nephew.”
Darcy’s attention was suddenly riveted. The woman he loved was talking about himself.
He could not move, though he knew he was bound by honor to break his silence, and inform them that he was present. It would be dishonorable indeed to wait until Elizabeth accidentally revealed her inner affection for him, and her hopeless longing for him to lower himself far enough to make that request of her. It would be wrong to learn of Elizabeth’s inner turmoil, which must match his own, through subterfuge.
“Eliza, you ought speak kinder of Mr. Darcy.”
Kinder? But she had merely complimented him, for his similarity to his confident aunt. Or more specifically, she had complimented Lady Catherine for her similarity to him, proving how he was longingly present in Elizabeth’s thoughts.
“Oh, must you insist upon that nonsense.” Elizabeth’s voice was laughing, and left Darcy rather confused.
“He does not treat you in the way of a neutral observer — he admires you, Lizzy, and he is likely to make you an offer.”
What? They dared to speak about him, to speculate upon his intentions? He had made no such determination.
Darcy’s pique about this presumptuousness was cut short by Elizabeth’s quick response. “He shall not, I am certain of it.”
Good. She should be.
Elizabeth was modest and sensible. His Elizabeth knew the difference in their places, and she knew that if he did lower himself to make an offer to her, it would be purely a condescension to her, and neither something she might expect, nor deserve.
“He looks at you a great deal, and he—”
“From absence of mind alone, I am sure. Or he hopes to find something further to criticize me upon. He does dislike me very much.”
What? Elizabeth surely did not think he disliked her. She must know his feelings, she must understand the deep struggle, full of pain, that he was burdened with. She spoke, Darcy was sure, merely to hide her true affection from Mrs. Collins.
“He does not dislike you, I am sure of that,” Mrs. Collins replied smilingly. “My dear Eliza — admit it: he is a handsome man — no Mr. Collins.”
“Worse, entirely worse in manners.”
That statement was so ridiculous that Darcy could not even begin to interpret it as anything but a joke.
“Do not joke, Lizzy, he is ten times Mr. Collins’s consequence, you cannot spurn him so easily as you refused my husband.”
“I assure you I can — whether he dislikes me or not, I dislike him very much. We have heard what Wickham has said upon his honor and behavior. Even were he to make me an offer, I would refuse it, and without any consideration upon the matter.”
Darcy went pale. His heart stuttered. He felt a pain, like tears at this firm rejection. But his sense of confidence clung to one thought: Surely Elizabeth merely engaged in dissimulation, to assure her friend that she had no expectations, and her true sentiments were very different from what she at this moment claimed them to be.
“I am sure you could not,” Charlotte said confidently, “spurn a man of a hundred times Wickham’s consequence merely for the sake of that young gentleman. You would not be such a fool — if he does ask you, the mere fact of his interest will make you see matters in different light.”
“I assure you, I would refuse him. Someone must finally give that overbearing gentleman the rebuke he has never received, for I am sure he was dreadfully spoiled by his parents—”
“Your parents spoiled you, Eliza.”
“Dreadfully spoiled, never given a word contrariwise from anyone, man, woman or dog. Oh, it would give me great pleasure to refuse the offer of his hand. His character does not appeal to me — so arrogant. So silent. So generally unpleasant to all. He’d not said one word to me before I’d seen how highly he thought of himself, walking round and round the ballroom with his nose turned up as if God himself knew him by his Christian name.”
“As the wife of a member of a clergy, I can tell you it is sound theology to believe that God knows the Christian name of each and every one of us.”
Elizabeth laughed, and then she said in a faux deep voice that Darcy knew, to his flushed embarrassment, was supposed to be a horrifying mimicry of his own voice, “She may be tolerable, but she is not nearly handsome enough to tempt me, I do not give credit to girls spurned by other men. Ho, ho, ho.”
“He does not sound like that — his second impression of you, I assure you, was of greater kindness than his first.”
“Not at all.”
“Why then did he dance with you? Why does he so persistently look at you? Why does he seek to engage you in conversation every time we dine here at the great house?”
“Perversity? Self-hatred — I can quite believe that of him.”
“You are determined to be dense.”
Self-hatred? So that was what she truly thought of him. That was no joking dismissal of her own feelings. That was Elizabeth Bennet’s honest view of him. And to think, he had nearly inclined himself so low as to come down to her level, so he might raise her up to his own lofty station.
There was a sound of standing and a chair being pushed back in the other room. “Ships passing in the wind — where is Mrs. Longwaite? She makes us wait too long. You may be obliged to consult upon yet more shelves in the closet, but I shall not practice the piano. I can only have the distinction of being able to claim I would have talent if only I made an effort so long as I do not make that effort — the spring day awaits me.”
And then, before Darcy could do more than stiffen in horrified surprise, the sliding door to the housekeeper’s room was pushed open, and Darcy found himself standing eye to eye with the smiling, rosy-cheeked and suddenly hateful visage of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
He coldly bowed his head to her.
“Good day, Miss Bennet. Good day.”
And with another bow, and one last look at her lovely, lively, icy visage, Fitzwilliam Darcy stalked sulkily, though he’d never admit such to himself, from the hallway and back out of the house.

*****

“Good heavens!” Charlotte said to Elizabeth as Mr. Darcy heaved off in high dudgeon. “I do fear Mr. Darcy may have heard us.”
Elizabeth giggled. “I do believe he did — poor man, to learn not all the world thinks high of him.”
“Eliza! You will have substantially damaged your credit with him. Now he may so chuse not to offer to you.”
“It would be terrible if you never have the option to say, ‘I predicted so’ to me.”
“I only worry for you. A great opportunity indeed.”
Elizabeth laughed again. “I will have no guilt at what I said, though it did injure his feelings. He has spoken so mortifyingly of me. And that is what is deserved when one listens unasked to a conversation.”
“No, no, you were crueler by far to him than he had been to you. You could not possibly care for the opinion of a man who had never spoken a word to you, and who was disliked by the room in general. But you savaged him with the knowledge of at least an acquaintance, and I believe as the woman whom he admired.”
Elizabeth frowned. Perhaps Charlotte was right — she imagined hearing someone who she thought had a high view of herself speaking in such a way. And perhaps she hadn’t really been fair to Darcy. He was bad, but she would not swear upon a Bible if dragged before a tribunal that he was so very bad as she had made him out to be.
Charlotte sighed touching her hand to her breast, “Poor Mr. Darcy. Poor, poor Mr. Darcy. I feel exceedingly for him. You saw how devastated he looked as he went off.”
“He looked as stiff and sour as usual.”
“No, no — there would often be a glint in his eye as he looked at you, you must remember that. Missing now.” Charlotte sighed, and shook her head softly. “Poor, poor Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth did remember that glint in Darcy’s eye, but she did not want, especially not now, to begin to believe Darcy had fond feelings towards herself.
“Poor Darcy,” Charlotte repeated sadly. “Such a handsome man. To have his feelings trampled upon in such a way. I feel for him greatly.”
Elizabeth had to struggle not to feel for him herself.
He had in fact looked very sad as he walked away. And then, before Elizabeth could make her escape to the outdoors, and embark upon a long walk amongst the blooming flowers, Mrs. Longwaite at last ceased to make them wait long, and Elizabeth found herself out of politeness obliged to practice for twenty minutes on the piano in the housekeeper’s room, where she really was in nobody’s way.
Charlotte for her part gained excellent advice, much worth hearing, upon the best arrangement of shelves in a closet.