"Ouch." Caroline Bingley's delicate brow arched when I stepped on the train of her evening gown.
"Sorry." Though I held no amiable feelings towards her, my clumsiness was involuntary, prompting my immediate apologies.
For four virtual days, now, I had waited on my sick sister at Netherfield Park. Our mother's plan of sending Jane here on horseback in spite of the rainy forecast worked better than expected. Instead of forcing Miss Bingley to offer to stay the night due to the lack of carriage, Jane, soaked by the journey, caught a violent cold, and overstayed her visit.
Worry pushed me to walk three miles the next morning, and to soil the floor of the Netherfield breakfast parlour with my muddy petticoat. Though I knew that Jane would eventually heal, Amy's pale face and the dark circles under her eyes made a great impression on me. I accepted with relief Miss Bingley's half-hearted invitation to send for clothes, although I dreaded the following days and the mockery she would unleash every time I'd be upstairs, attending to my ill sister. I could have asked the Bridge to skip through that part, but a pang of guiltiness prevented me from abandoning my virtual sibling.
Charles Bingley's anxious questions when I reappeared for dinner warmed my heart. His sincere concern in her wellbeing, and his repeated attentions towards me, finished earning my affection. This virtual dude was worthy of my sister's alter ego.
As for Caroline, my opinion, tainted by Anna Chancellor's conceited portrayal, and by Kelly Reilly's sensual interpretation, was a mixture of exasperation and admiration.
She could be kind, agreeable, considerate even, when she wanted. In Jane's bedroom, Mrs. Hurst and she competed with repartee and solicitude. They entertained us with lively and buoyant anecdotes about their life in London, and I admitted the hours passed quicker when they deigned to visit us.
Downstairs was another story. Her cold politeness and subtle jabs at my family ruffled my feathers and undermined my morale. I always came back to take care of Jane with a tightened jaw. Fortunately, the latter was too feverish and drained to notice my irritation.
When the gentlemen were present, I considered myself lucky to be ignored. The Hursts were not intentionally mean. However, my interactions with them were limited to greetings, goodbyes, and weather forecasts in-between.
To be frank, the plot of the novel would have flown the same without their existence. She acted as Caroline's sounding board, the way Mrs. Philips and Kitty did for Mrs. Bennet and Lydia. As for him, his indolence and placidity put him at the same level as the furniture--present, but one would never envisage to engage in a conversation with him.
Anyhow, Miss Bingley became Darcy's personal motivation coach every time he entered a room, and marveled at each of his words and actions.
Idris enlightened me about her motivations to marry this insufferable dolt, when I mocked her despair, between two gaming sessions.
"She complimented his writing, for God's sake. Not the elegance of his calligraphy, no: she praised the speed in which he scribbled letters." I threw my hands up to emphasize my disbelief.
On the row behind me, Bahiriya, a member of our Creative Writing class, whined. "Leah. You almost poked me in the eye."
"I apologise if my gesture caused you discomfort."
She snorted at my atonement. "You're speaking weird."
"She has a Pride and Prejudice Bridge," Idris explained.
"Nice. Did you bang Darcy yet?"
"Did I what?" Warmth spread from my cheekbones to my forehead.
"Did. You. Bang. Darcy. Yet?" she repeated slower, her lips pursed in a fake kiss.
"No, and I don't intend to. Do people sleep with non-playable characters?"
She exchanged an incredulous glance with Idris. "Honey, I'm almost sure that's the main reason they buy this device."
"How does the artificial intelligence react?"
"Once the deed is done, you just tell the Bridge to rollback to whenever you want." She shrugged, as if this feature and its functioning were obvious.
You could come back in time without altering the plot. Interesting. Perhaps I would drench my offender with punch, should the occasion present itself.
"What are you doing with your character?" Her eyes widened in bewilderment.
"I follow the story. Right now, I'm waiting on my sick sister. One more evening, then we shall go back home. One more evening with Caroline Bingley, the queen of sneaky comments."
"That's the female antagonist, right? The Regency version of the hot blond cheerleader?"
"Yeah, that's her. I was telling Idris her latest attempt at seducing Darcy."
Idris got up and leaned on Bahiriya's desk as he listed. "Elizabeth Bennet is twenty. She's young, smart, and she is attractive."
"Why, thank you." I fluttered my lashes at him.
He rolled his eyes. "But she is not rich."
Bahiriya's mouth curled down in mocked compassion. "My baby ain't got no money."
"Remember what I've demonstrated about Charlotte Lucas' predicaments?"
I grunted in assent.
He resumed, "These two friends need to find a husband, otherwise they will depend upon their relatives' charity after their respective father's death. Miss Bingley, on the other hand, has received a sizeable inheritance. Yet, the three of them are all in the same boat: society requires that they find a husband."
"But you just said she doesn't even need to." I pinched the blade of my nose, trying to figure out the puzzle that was Caroline Bingley.
Idris pressed my shoulder. "This is not for material reasons. If she doesn't win a suitable match, society will consider her a failure. This will reflect on her brother and sister, and all their relatives. In some way, her situation is maybe worse than Lizzy's or Charlotte's. Caroline holds all the cards: she is wealthy, beautiful, well-educated, accomplished even. She can't not find a husband."
Ms. Favreau, our Creative Writing teacher, entered the classroom, ending Idris' explanation. He sat back at his desk, and I was about to turn to mine when Bahiriya tapped on my shoulder.
"If you want, I can lend you my Star Wars Bridge." She shrugged. "I thoroughly explored it anyway."
"When you say 'explored'," I stressed on the word by drawing air quotes, "which character did you--"
Ms. Favreau cleared her throat and threw us an icy glare. "Today marks the beginning of your Creative Writing project. By the end of autumn, you'll have mastered the practical aspects of playwrighting, such as the cost and ease of production."
Why was such an inventive course taught by a rigid and unyielding bore? I faced my notebook and fumbled in my pencil case.
Bahiriya's whisper tickled my neck as she answered my question. "Chewbacca."
Eww. That concluded the discussion.
So, here I was. Back home and playing instead of working on my Creative Writing assignment or helping Dad with Thanksgiving dinner. Walking around this weird octagonal drawing room, arm in arm with one of Austen's more complex characters. Eyeing her while she herself eyed Darcy.
Charles Bingley was adding yet another log into the fireplace, and Jane extended warm thanks to him, wrapped up in a cozy plaid. Mrs. Hurst fidgeted with her bracelets, sporadically participating in their conversation about the ball he had promised Lydia during my family's visit. Mr. Hurst snored on a sofa, oblivious to everything but the comfort of the cushions.
"Will you not join us, Mr. Darcy?"
Miss Bingley's invitation was declined in the following manner. "I can only imagine but two motives for your choosing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives my joining you would interfere."
Of course, Caroline took the bait. "What could he mean? Miss Eliza, could you at all understand him?"
"Not at all, but, depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it."
My advice was not heeded. "Mr. Darcy, I require an explanation of your two reasons."
Come on, Caroline, give the man some space.
Darcy put down the book he was reading. "I have not the smallest objection to explaining them. You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking--if the first, I would be completely in your way; and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire."
Wasn't the first motive a bit misogynistic? Two women couldn't stroll together without gossiping and giggling like teenagers?
Urgh. If you enjoyed my walking, dude, watch me sprint away from you.
"Oh! shocking! I never--" Miss Bingley's sentence was interrupted as I took a sharp turn and led us out of the drawing room. Picking up the pace, I sauntered through the hallway and into the empty breakfast parlour.
"Miss Eliza, what is the meaning of this?" Caroline put a hand on her chest as she caught her breath.
"We're playing hard to get."
"Playing what?" Consternation painted on her countenance, she took a few steps towards the door. "But, Mr. Darcy..."
"Forget about him. Let's have some girl talk." I let myself fall on one of the chairs surrounding the mahogany and brass inlaid table.
After a moment of hesitation, she joined me, though she kept her gaze trained towards the corridor.
"Do you have hobbies?"
Miss Bingley scoffed at my lame attempt at casual conversation. "If you must know, I am quite gifted at playing the pianoforte, watercolour painting, and my Italian is perfetto."
"Yeah, yeah, I remember it. You're an accomplished woman." I grimaced. "But is there anything you do for fun, and not because your education requires you to?"
My question put the Bridge in the hot seat. Caroline's brows knitted together, while my fingers tapped on the brass, tracing its palmette and foliate designs.
"I like calculus," she finally blurted out. "My brother's understanding of business is superficial. Consequently, I'm the one making decisions, as far as his fortune and investments are concerned." A genuine smile spread on her face, and she proudly raised her chin up.
The lady was dabbing in gentlemen's territory. How unforeseen. Idris was right: she had more layers that I suspected.
"Hey, what's so great about Mr. Darcy?" Except his plump pink lips. "He's so arrogant, and conceited."
She stared at me, startled by my openness. "He is a true gentleman. Mr. Darcy comes from an excellent family. Did you know he was the nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh?"
Oh, boy. I forgot Lady Catherine.
"He is well-educated, refined, thoughtful, and reliable," Caroline enumerated, unsuspecting the knot forming in my stomach. She paused, and side-glanced at me, a complicit grin flashing on her face. "And I quite like the way his breeches hug his upper thighs."
Before I could react, Darcy entered the breakfast parlour, interrupting her list of his many qualities. Relief flooded his features as he spotted us. Did he miss me that much?
"Mr. Darcy, we were discussing your noble person, and Miss Bingley found it perfect, down to your breeches."
At my greetings, Caroline turned away to hide a smile, but she was too slow to do so, and Darcy flinched at her gesture.
Running his hand through his hair, he countered, "Ahem, I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding--certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful."
His gaze searched mine, and an invisible hand constricted my chest as he concluded, "My good opinion once lost, is lost forever."
Why did the man have to possess such dreamy eyes? It would be much easier to hate him if they were dull, and lifeless.
I glanced at the subtitles blinking in front of me. "I am falling for you indeed."
"I beg your pardon?" Darcy choked on his words, while Caroline stifled an unladylike snort behind her hand.
"Bridge, rollback. Rollback!" I cried, mortified by my lapsus.
The breakfast parlour blurred as the last ten seconds were reverted, and while I attempted to regain my composure. Warmth had not yet left my ears when the room appeared again.
Incapable of facing them, I stared at the floor. "That is a failing indeed. Implacable resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me."
But was I safe from him?
"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil--a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome." His voice rumbled in the room, vibrating against the high ceiling and back to my heart.
Peering at him through my lashes, I grumbled, "And your defect is to hate everybody."
A kind and knowing smile lit his face up, that foolishly cute dimple peering at me. "And yours is willfully to misunderstand them."
Miss Bingley jerked up, dissipating the growing tension. "Do let us have a little music. I am sure Louisa will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst."
The pianoforte was opened; and, after a few moments' recollection, I was not sorry for it. I began to feel the danger of paying Darcy too much attention.