Page 19 of Such Low Connections

Mrs Annesley says that, as my guardian, he will most want to know about my progress in music and Italian, so I usually write about that, and then the weather. I hope this is right and that you and Cousin Ludlow are satisfied with me…

Darcy smiled and skimmed quickly through the rest of the letter, which was largely family news he had already heard from his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. So, Ludlow was proving more of a burden than jolly Richard, was he? Well, Georgiana must learn not to shirk the responsibilities of correspondence, especially with her elders. It was well that Ludlow was taking his role of guardianship seriously.

As he folded the letter into his pocket and prepared to join Bingley, Darcy frowned slightly. Belatedly, it occurred to him to wonder exactly what Ludlow had heard and judged unfit for Georgiana’s ears. If the rumours had already reached his relatives in Derbyshire, then they were presumably everywhere now. What would the formidable Lady Catherine have to say in her next letter?

∞∞∞

“Do you know, I can quite imagine myself settling here in Hertfordshire,” Bingley said cheerfully as they trotted together across the fields, on the home stretch of a long canter through the woodland. “It suits me here. The landscape, the house, the society…”

“Is there really much society here?” Darcy asked doubtfully, his only experiences having been the assembly rooms and other less than enjoyable outings in Meryton, along with slightly awkward formal calls on local grandees such as Sir William Lucas, Lord Moreton and a very elderly academic who had once taught Darcy’s father at Oxford.

“Why, yes, certainly,” Bingley answered stoutly. “If you had danced and made yourself agreeable at the assembly rooms when we arrived, your acquaintance would now be wider. As it is, I have already received four invitations to dine, with dates to be settled, and I cannot walk down Meryton high street without meeting several friendly faces. I believe I shall hold a ball of my own before long.”

While sceptical about almost every word Bingley had said, Darcy largely kept his thoughts to himself. He suspected his friend was heavily influenced in favour of Hertfordshire by a single member of its society, that person having long blonde hair, blue eyes and an undeniable sweetness of temperament.

Miss Jane Bennet was not the match that Darcy might have chosen for his friend, he reflected, thinking of the slightly vulgar Mrs Bennet and the two screeching younger daughters who had behaved with so little decorum at the assembly rooms. Still, Bingley’s fancy might pass, as others had done before. Meanwhile, Darcy had his own present problems and was disinclined to interfere in the lives of others.

“Are your sisters in favour of a ball at Netherfield?” Darcy asked. “I had the impression that they were not so well settled here as you, Bingley. As a single man, you can hardly host a ball without their support.”

“My sisters both love to dress up in their finery,” replied Bingley confidently. “Caroline especially. You are right that they have less enthusiasm for this neighbourhood than I do, but I am sure it will grow on them in time. They are both very fond of Jane Bennet, and naturally the Bennet family would be invited.”

“Naturally,” Darcy agreed, knowing that Bingley was impatient for his sisters to invite Miss Bennet back to Netherfield Park for tea now that her illness was entirely past. “It is a shame that Miss Bennet should have such a family, though, and such low connections.”

“You cannot side with my sisters on this subject,” Bingley protested. “The Bennets seem like a good sort of family to me, even if Mrs Bennet is a little garrulous and her younger daughters rather wild. I do not care what their connections are. Anyway, you cannot possibly claim that Miss Elizabeth Bennet is anything less than well-mannered and sensible.”

“I don’t believe I have claimed any such thing,” Darcy objected mildly.

“You implied it in your statement about Miss Bennet’s whole family. Yet when Miss Elizabeth was with us at Netherfield, it seemed to me that you even sought out her company and preferred her to the rest of us.”

Darcy looked at his friend in consternation, not liking the direction of this conversation, nor the meaning that might be implied by the word “preferred”. But he could not deny that Bingley was correct. Darcy had repeated chosen to talk with Elizabeth Bennet rather than with Miss Bingley or the Hursts. At times, he even preferred her conversation to that of Charles, who had read less widely and thought with slower wit.

Still, this did not imply any deeper personal partiality for the young lady, and Darcy was loath to leave his friend with any such impression.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet is indeed well-mannered and sensible,” Darcy agreed with his friend, “but please do not mistake my civility for anything more than an acknowledgement of these virtues. Such as they are, they could never compensate for the defects in the Bennets’ wider family circle.”

From the expression on Charles Bingley’s face, Darcy expected to hear himself called a “pompous ass” or similar, but then suddenly a smile bloomed across Bingley’s features like the sun coming out on a cloudy day.

“Look ahead, Darcy,” he urged, gesturing to a small group gathered near some trees by the path along the river. “It is Miss Bennet and her sisters, with some officers of the militia. Come, we shall go down and meet them!”

Before Darcy could advise him to caution, Bingley had turned his horse towards the group and was cantering across to them, raising his hat as he went. With a groan, Darcy followed, unenthusiastic at the prospect of dismounting and joining Bingley in making conversation. His mind was too full and too heavy for idle chatter.

“Mr Darcy is with me too,” he heard Bingley saying to the group, causing them all to turn in his direction.

Then, one of the laughing red-coated officers looked up at Darcy’s face and froze, at the very moment that Darcy too pulled in his horse’s reins and halted his approach. The man had brown hair, regular features, and an easy smile. The last time Darcy had seen this too-charming face, he had been castigating its owner and severing his family’s connection with him forever.

Unable to summon a smile, much less speak the man’s name, Darcy looked to the ladies and nodded in their direction.

“Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he acknowledged briefly and then turned his horse to canter away again, back towards Netherfield Park.

Charles Bingley could stay and enjoy the soft smiles of Jane Bennet as long as he wished, and Darcy would explain his own departure later. He could not have endured even the sight of the dastardly George Wickham any longer. The idea of making polite conversation with the man was unthinkable.

What was Wickham doing here? On one level, the answer to the question was obvious. He had somehow inveigled himself into the militia and would be enjoying all that life as a young officer could offer in terms of his favoured wastrel pastimes: drinking, gambling and dallying with women.

But why this regiment, and why now? Why should George Wickham be in Hertfordshire at the same time as Darcy?

Whatever the answer, no good could come of Wickham’s presence. It never did.

Chapter 7