‘I suppose you are above a simple gravy,’ she said. ‘You will be used to a variety of sauces in London.’
‘I am,’ I replied.
‘You have dined with the Prince of Wales, I suppose?’
‘I have had that honour.’
‘Some people think that sort of gluttony genteel, but I confess I have always thought it vulgar. We do not have twenty sauces with every dish. We are not so wasteful in the country.’
She turned her attention back to Bingley, and I endeavoured to eat my meal. I watched Elizabeth, hungry for a glance in a way that I was not hungry for the food, but she did not look at me.
The ladies withdrew. The gentlemen sat over the port.
I took no interest in the conversation. The iniquities of the French did not interest me. The Prince of Wales’s follies could not hold my attention. I glanced at the clock, and then at the other gentlemen. Would they never stop talking?
We rejoined the ladies and I went towards Elizabeth, but there was no space near her. The dinner party was a large one, and as she poured out the coffee I could not get close. I tried nonetheless, but a young lady who will be for ever blighted in my eyes moved close to her and engaged her in conversation.
Did Elizabeth look vexed? I thought she did, and the thought gave me hope. I walked away, but as soon as I had finished my coffee, which burned my mouth, so quickly did I drink it, I took the cup over to her for refilling.
‘Is your sister still at Pemberley?’ she asked.
She seemed cool, aloof.
‘Yes, she will remain there till Christmas,’ I said.
She asked after Georgiana’s friends, but said no more.
I did not know whether to speak or whether to be silent.
I wanted to speak, but I had so much to say I scarcely knew where to begin, and on reflection I realized that none of it could be said in a crowded drawing-room.
My silence drew notice from one of the ladies and I was obliged to walk away, cursing myself for not having made more of my opportunity.
The tea-things were removed and the card-tables placed. This was my opportunity! But Mrs Bennet demanded my presence at the whist-table and I could not refuse without giving offence. I nearly gave it. I nearly said: ‘I would much rather talk to your daughter.’
What would she have said? Would she have told me that she had no intention of inflicting such a disagreeable man on Elizabeth, or would she have been stunned, and fallen blissfully silent? I was tempted to try, but I could not embarrass Elizabeth.
I could not keep my mind on the game. I lost repeatedly. I looked for an opportunity to speak to Elizabeth before I left, but I could not find one, and I returned to Netherfield in sombre mood.
Bingley, by contrast, was brimming with happiness. I have decided that, tomorrow, I must tell him that Miss Bennet was in town, and that I kept it from him. He will not be pleased, but the deception has gone on for long enough.
‘Is Miss Bennet not the most beautiful girl you have ever seen?’ Bingley asked me this evening as we played billiards.
‘She is.’
‘I think there might be hope,’ he said.
‘I am sure there is. ’ I hesitated, but I had to speak. ‘Bingley, there is something I have to tell you.’
‘Oh?’
He looked at me in all innocence, and I felt guilty for the part I had played in deceiving him.
‘I have done you a great disservice. Last spring, Miss Bennet was in town.’
‘But I did not see her!’ he said in surprise.
‘No. I know. I should have told you, but I thought you had forgotten her. No, let me be honest, I hoped you had forgotten her, or would forget her, if you did not see her again.’
‘Darcy!’ He was hurt.
‘I am sorry. I had no right to meddle in your affairs. It was impertinent of me.’
‘So she followed me to London?’ he said, forgetting my deceit in the happiness of thinking that she had followed him.
‘She went to stay with her aunt and uncle, but she tried to see you. That is, she wrote to Caroline.’
‘Caroline! She knew of it, too?’
‘Yes. I am ashamed to say that Caroline cut Miss Bennet, and that I encouraged her.’
‘Darcy!’
He was vexed.
‘I behaved very badly, and I beg your pardon.’
‘If she agrees to be my wife, you will have it. But perhaps in the future you will consider that I can manage my own affairs.’
‘I will, and better than I manage mine.’
He looked at me enquiringly.
I said no more. I cannot speak of my love for Elizabeth until I know it is returned. Unless I know it is returned.
I have been obliged to return to town. How long I stay for will depend on circumstances.
I had a letter from Bingley this morning, evidently written in haste. It was blotted and so badly written as to be almost illegible. But at last I made it out.