Apparently, this anxiety and frustration were shared by Mr. Darcy, himself.
One morning, upon donning a dressing gown as he exited his bath, he drifted to a window and stared down at the unoccupied lawn moodily.
As though unaware of his valet’s presence, he began to speak in a voice filled with regret; “It is hopeless. Either we are surrounded by her family and friends and I cannot speak, or she ignores me, and I dare not. Am I allowing my own feelings to cloud my common sense? Does she care?...Can she? Is this entire exercise a waste of time, after all? My God, I would give all I have to know her thoughts, and yet, the idea absolutely terrifies me.” Abruptly he turned away from the autumnal beauty displayed beyond the window to reach for a towel to dry his still dripping hair. Tossing the sodden object onto a nearby table, he strode past Preston to where the mornings ensemble was already laid out neatly.
Hurrying to assist wherever needed, Preston said nothing, knowing that if Mr. Darcy desired his opinion, he would ask for it. After several moments, and surprising both of them in the process, he actually did.
As the sleeves of his coat were straightened to perfection, he met Preston’s eyes in the looking glass.
“So, Preston, how shall I overcome the obvious lack of privacy to speak as I would wish, while yet observing the necessary claims of propriety? I can be certain she would not welcome any attempt on my part to make her appear conspicuous...Nor would I, myself, as a matter of fact.”
“Of course not, sir.” Stepping away to fetch Mr. Darcy’s watch and fob, Preston hesitated before answering his master’s supplication. Then, carefully, so as not to overstep his bounds, he ventured, “Perhaps a walk. I have noticed the foliage hereabouts to be particularly brilliant this year. If Mr. Bingley, for instance, should suggest such an outing to include the entire party, I cannot imagine it to be considered inappropriate.”
Studying his reflection unseeingly, Mr. Darcy appeared to consider before replying; “Do you truly think...?” Suddenly recalling to whom he was speaking, he raised his eyebrows and smiled faintly. The barrier between master and servant was again set back into place, and as he moved to the door he said only and without much faith, “Well, we shall see...”
In spite of Preston’s suggestion, that evening saw no change in Mr. Darcy’s demeanour; nor the next, nor even the one following that. Still, the visits to Longbourne continued, the weather cooled as the season progressed, and Mr. Bingley’s staff became positively obsessed with long discussions of weddings they’d had the good fortune to attend.
Mrs. Maucker, the Netherfield cook and one of the few servants to have worked for the elder Mr. Bingley and his wife, spoke with an authority most of the others dared not question.
“No matter how grand the Bennets may be, I fear this wedding will be nothing compared to Mr. Bingley’s folk’s...Lord,” she sighed nostalgically; “How lovely my mistress was with her grandmother’s gown a-flowing behind her... and the feast afterwards! You never saw so much food! No one was to go hungry neither. Not even the lowest stableboy...They was the best people to serve.” Sighing again, she returned to her task of sorting recipes for the new Mrs. Bingley to peruse, her expression mulish.
“But Miss Bennet is quite pretty herself,” boldly protested the kitchen maid, Hetty; “Perhaps she will be a pleasant mistress, as well. I mean, Mr. Bingley is so easy. Surely he would not choose a disagreeable woman as his wife.”
“Who says so?” Mrs. Maucker countered; “Perhaps she’s taken advantage of his good nature. Have you thought of that?” Shaking her head hopelessly, she declared, “I confess I have no peaceful feelings towards this match, but then nobody asked me.”
“Now, Ruthie,” her husband, the eldest of twelve footmen on staff, admonished as he entered to pull a chair up to the well-scrubbed table; “You’ve no call condemning the poor girl before she even steps in the door. How about a cup a tea, then?”
Glancing at him with a frown, she moved to the tea kettle that simmered constantly at the back of the massive stove, and poured some of its contents into a pot. “I don’t wish her ill, you understand,” she went on; “I simply am preparing myself for all possibilities.”
“So long as they’re all bad,” laughed he with a wink at the others who were half-heartedly applying themselves to various, mundane chores; “No one takes such pleasure in discussing misery as my Ruthie.”
“Bruce,” she scolded, but already she was ready to move on to a new topic; “So, what of Mr. Darcy? Has anyone heard any news of his making an offer to our Miss Caroline yet?”
“We should be so lucky.” This came from Paulie Hodges, one of the younger undergardeners, who had somehow found time for a bit of gossip when he was supposed to be working on the north grounds. In an effort to explain his unexpected outburst, he continued unapologetically, “That woman will be the death of me! Do you know, she had me move an entire bed of Michealmas daisies three times before she decided where she finally wanted them? Probably killed the whole lot, but little does she care. Just wanted to see me labour all the more, I think.”
“A rare sight I’m sure,” answered Bruce after blowing the steam from his cup of tea.
