by Maria Grace
“I noticed. But there is little harm in the error. Few people appreciate being corrected over something so minor.”
Miss Darcy chewed her fingernail. “How do you always seem to know what to say and when to say it? I wish I had your confidence.”
Miss Garland approached them, a living marble statue in a gown of icy blue. “Pray do come in and join us. One might wonder if you were the hostess here at all.” She took Miss Darcy’s arm. “Pray come, none of us here are nearly so frightening as Miss Elizabeth must be making us out to be.” Her laugh held just the barest trace of vitriol, her pupils oddly narrow for a candlelit room.
“Mrs. Reynolds has provided us a lovely selection of coffee, tea, and biscuits.” Miss Darcy stammered as Miss Garland led her into the room.
“How lovely to have the drawing room to ourselves even for just a few moments.” Miss Garland arranged herself on the fainting couch and folded her arms over the side. She rested her chin on her hands and sighed. Had she learned that posture from a portrait? “They can be such taxing company.”
Miss Darcy pulled an armless gold-painted chair near the tea table, and the other ladies selected seats near her. Elizabeth sat beside Jane.
“I have no idea how you could call such a party of gentlemen trying.” Miss de Bourgh sniffed, primly folding her hands in her lap.
Sister to a baronet on one side, granddaughter of an earl, daughter of a knight on the other—so much grandeur, how might a common gentlewoman bear it? To be fair though, Miss Garland carried her greatness much more tolerably than Miss de Bourgh.
“They are very pleasing company.” Miss Bingley glanced from one grand lady to the other, ignoring the mere gentlewomen who sat between. Apparently, she had chosen sides in the war of the great ladies. Siding with the Pemberley bloodline was probably a good choice.
“All their attempts at genteel conversation when they want nothing more than to talk of the land, hunting, and racing? They could not find an interesting topic among them if it were to bite them on the nose, and they had a quizzing glass in hand.” Miss Garland flicked her hand toward the dining room.
“That is very harsh, I think.” Jane’s brows knit as they always did when fault-finding began.
“I grant you, Miss Bennet, your partner for dinner is far more amiable a conversationalist than any of the rest—no, no, I must stand corrected. Your dear father is quite capable of interesting conversation and has quite developed the skill of listening rather than merely waiting his turn to talk. I pronounce him very good company, indeed.” Thankfully Miss Garland’s eyes twinkled with sincerity.
“I am sure he will be grateful for your approbation,” Elizabeth said. How ironic as Papa rarely cared for such opinions one way or another. She pressed her hands on the seat of her chair and clutched the wine-colored floral upholstery. It helped to control one’s tongue.
“But the rest—oh! I am quite certain they are as relieved for some distance from us as we are from them.”
“I do not find the loss of their company desirable at all.” Miss Bingley nodded at Miss de Bourgh. It seemed she believed the enemy of her enemy was her friend. “I thought Sir Alexander’s comments on the last Season’s theater offerings to be uncommonly insightful.”
“Indeed,” Miss de Bourgh said, a bit too enthusiastically. “His opinions were quite well informed and very pleasing.”
Miss Garland snickered. “I am quite intrigued you would say so. Miss Bennet, what say you on the matter?”
Poor Jane colored. “I … I found him well-spoken.”
Elizabeth knew very well what her opinion must be, but those were not remarks Jane was likely to make in company, if at all.
Miss Garland’s lips twitched as though trying not to smile. “And you, Miss Elizabeth, surely you had an opinion of my brother.”
At least she was sparing Jane further questioning. That was some mercy. “He is a very clever man, I am sure—and well attuned to dramatic devices. No doubt he was quite intentional in his use of irony, stating the opinion of the theater critics from The Morning Herald and The British Press as his own when he is known for his rather colorful disagreement with both of them.”
The look of—what did one call it?—that crept across Miss Bingley’s face would have fueled a dozen of Sir Alexander’s characters. Miss de Bourgh veiled her contempt a little more effectively—only a little.
Miss Garland, though, she smiled with the cold look of a satisfied predator. “Irony indeed. He will be gratified to know someone other than myself made the same observation. Do you often find yourself in agreement with those critics, or do you, like my brother, find them tiresome and dreary?”
“I … I do not know. We are rarely in Town. I have had little opportunity to have seen the works they critique.”
“But surely you visit the local theater company?”
“Once or twice a year, we are privileged to attend.” Elizabeth glanced at Jane who seemed relieved not to be part of the conversation.
“Then you can hardly consider yourself a patron of the theater arts.” Miss Bingley all but pounced with glee.
“I never called myself that.”
“Indeed? With all your knowledge of critics and their commentaries, I was certain you had.” Miss Bingley raised her brows over a little glare. “My brother and I regularly attend the theater when we are in Town. And you, Miss de Bourgh?”
“I think music would be in order now—what do you think, Miss Darcy?” Elizabeth stood.
Miss Darcy jumped up. “An excellent idea. Who would care to begin?”
“Miss Bingley is quite the proficient—please would you play for us?’ Miss Garland gestured toward her.
Miss Bingley fluffed her feathers and smiled sweetly. Surely, she did not believe in the flattery that had just been dealt her, did she? Her posture as she sauntered to the polished pianoforte suggested she just might.
The first notes of a complicated concerto resounded through the drawing room. Ah, she was that kind of player. Well, that was fortunate. Neither she nor Jane would be able to offer any real competition to her—the way Miss Bingley would prefer, no doubt.
Miss Garland extended her hand as she rose, graceful and poised. “Come, Miss Elizabeth, take a turn about the room with me. It is so refreshing!” She took Elizabeth’s arm and veritably dragged her to the far side of the room.
Near the bookcases on the wall farthest from the pianoforte, away from the fireplace and candlesticks, shadows enveloped them.
“Thank heavens she is so easily distracted and that her playing is not as dreadful to listen to as her opinions.” Miss Garland pressed a hand to her ample chest. “You hardly think differently, I am sure. You are just too well-mannered to give voice to what is going on in your quick mind.”
Somehow that did not quite sound like a compliment. Elizabeth avoided making eye contact. “I often find it the wisest course of action to refrain from saying what is uppermost in my thoughts.”
“And thus, the world is deprived of a truly sparkling wit and conversation.”
“I hardly think it fitting to declare brash and outspoken words clever conversation.”
“Perhaps, but you must agree with me as to how much more interesting a conversation would we have if you actually gave voice to everything you were thinking.” Miss Garland blinked a little faster, just short of batting her eyes.
“Pray do not put words in my mouth.”
“Only if you will agree to speak more freely in my company. I long for intelligent, well-informed conversation. Not the vapid dwelling upon fluff and trivialities that passes for acceptable in the drawing room.”
“Are you not being harsh upon our sex?”
“I think perhaps you enjoy a rarified environment here in countryside. No offense intended, but I believe I have kept company in far more drawing rooms than you and know of what I speak.”
“Still, I think it wise and proper to maintain conversation in such a way that all may be able to participate
and enjoy. It is the very height of rudeness to flaunt one’s information.”
“I suppose that is true, but quite dull indeed. What think you of Miss Bingley and Miss de Bourgh?” Miss Garland peeked over her shoulder at the ladies in question.
“I think you are trying to encourage me to say something unkind.”
“Nothing of the sort. If you are unable to find something kind to say of them, then that onus is entirely upon you.”
“True enough. I shall only say this: I find them very unlike their relations whose company we are enjoying.” Pray that would satisfy her.
“Indeed? The dissimilarity is clear enough with Mr. Bingley, who is quite the gentleman, despite his almost insipid mildness. But you think Miss de Bourgh that different from Mr. Darcy?”
“You think them the same?”
“Do you not see in them both a rather droll need for propriety in all things, little humor and no appreciation for the colorful or creative?”
Elizabeth chewed her lower lip. “One might be persuaded to characterize Miss de Bourgh that way, but certainly not Mr. Darcy. And perhaps on further acquaintance, not even Miss de Bourgh.”
“I am all agog. You must tell me more. What is the nature of your further acquaintance with Mr. Darcy?”
A true lady would ignore the hint of suggestion in Miss Garland’s question. Tonight, she would be a true lady. “He has been my father’s patron for these ten years, and we have had many dealings with him. He is a fair and generous master to his servants, a kind landlord to his tenants, and most attentive to those in his care.”
“But he is always so stiff and proper.”
“Propriety for him does not appear to be so much a matter of pride as a way by which to order and understand the world. I have never seen him dismiss and despise those around him as Miss de Bourgh appears to do. He is the soul of consideration and generosity.”
“How interesting. I would not have guessed that on my own observations. I shall endeavor to revise my opinions of him. And look, there—he arrives. You will excuse me.” Miss Garland slipped away.
Mr. Darcy greeted Miss Garland with a rare soft smile and genuine warmth in his eyes.
Elizabeth swallowed back a sigh. She might have just conversed with Pemberley’s future mistress. With her quick wit and lively mind, they might even find genuine happiness together.
Her stomach churned as she swallowed back a vague bitterness. Perhaps the fish at dinner tonight disagreed with her.
Chapter 6
The first rays of sunrise teased Elizabeth awake. Why was the light coming from the wrong direction and why did sleep not easily slough away? She stretched and glanced about. Elegant oak furnishings not her own surrounded her. The bed linens—so fine—and the mattresses—so soft—Pemberley. She was in a guest room at Pemberley.
She pushed herself up to sit. How late had she come to bed last night? Certainly, far later than she was accustomed to. How odd yesterday had been. All things considered, though, all company considered, it was probably best that there was someone dedicated to look after Miss Darcy’s welfare.
She swung her feet out of bed and yawned—so many cobwebs in her head this morning. Fresh air—a walk, that was what she needed to clear her mind. Yes, mornings always agreed with her, beckoning her to come out and take part in the day before it became full of too many other people.
A simple morning gown would do—one that would likely earn Miss Bingley’s censure for its drab color and lack of ornamentation—but no one would see her, so it would suffice. She tied on her half boots and bonnet and slipped outside into the morning.
Was there any fragrance so pleasing as dew upon the grass? Any song so soothing as that of distant sheep bleating, making a counterpoint to the twittering songbirds? Why would anyone trade such pleasures for the dismal confines of London and its dreary, dirty demands?
It seemed most of Pemberley’s current occupants, save Mr. Darcy himself, found London the center of great delight. For Sir Alexander, it made sense. Where else might he find such attention for his works? But the balls and parties and society the rest found such a draw—
Her lip curled and she shuddered. No, that was no place for her. The wild countryside of Derbyshire was much more to her tastes. She paused to look up into the leafy canopy of old hardwoods that enveloped her along the footpath. The woods called her deeper into their shade, and she obeyed, old leaves and deadfall crunching underfoot.
Jane might be able to navigate that sphere of society. She fitted in so well with the Bingleys—Mr. Bingley had paid her many attentions last night. Perhaps that life might suit her well.
It would be lonely without Jane. But if it meant she were well-settled and Papa might stop worrying for all their futures, it would be worth it. If it all came to pass, how fitting that Mr. Darcy would be responsible for that benefit as well.
“My goodness, that is a most thoughtful look on your face, Miss Elizabeth. What heavy considerations might you be weighing at so early an hour?” Sir Alexander jumped down from a large branch of the tree directly beside her.
Elizabeth gasped and jumped back. “My goodness, sir! Do you make a habit of lying in wait in the tree tops for unsuspecting prey like some jungle cat?”
He threw back his head and laughed, a full-bodied sound that must have started somewhere near his toes and worked its way up to his throat. His hazel eyes twinkled like the sun through the trees, matched by his ready smile. For all her prejudices, he really was as well-looking a man as everyone said. “I have at times been thought a predator, but never a jungle cat. Should I consider that a compliment or censure?”
“Neither, I think.”
“You are not accustomed to men falling at your feet?”
“Hardly.” She folded her arms across her waist.
“Well, that is a pity. You should be accustomed to it.” He gestured toward the path ahead with a grand flourish. “Do not beautiful women desire to be fought for, fought over, by gallant men who would throw themselves at their feet?”
“I would not know.” He already knew that.
“Do not tell me you do not have scores of gentlemen suitors crowding your father’s door for merely a glimpse of you?” He stepped very close, too close.
She edged back to a more comfortable distance. “You confuse me with my sister, Jane.”
“Modest, beautiful, and my sister tells me, far more informed and intelligent than most men.” He stared intently into her eyes. Caroline Bingley would probably be happy to receive such a look from him.
“Pray do not flatter me.”
“Then what am I to do with you, Miss Elizabeth?” Could he make her name sound any more indecent? “Tell me what am I to do with you if I am not to compliment or flatter. It seems you neither desire my falling at your feet nor even asking you questions. What does that leave me to do?” His eyes—no one, no man, had ever looked at her that way: the way men looked at Jane or Miss Garland. He closed the distance between them again. “You seem so startled. Have you never been appreciated by a man before?”
“You well know the answer.”
“Such pert opinions! Now that is a charm. It is quite endearing.” His cheeks dimpled as he smiled. “Especially with such beauty to appreciate.”
“Are these words your own, or are you trying on a speech for one of your stage rogues who will shock and delight your audience?”
Again, that whole-body laugh that tried to reach in and coax her soul to join. “You are preternaturally perceptive. For I am in all my characters, and they are all in me. But truly, I am a harmless fellow. You have nothing to fear from me.”
“I do not fear you.” She lifted her chin and met his gaze.
“But you are discomposed by me.”
“You have been difficult to understand.”
“And what you do not understand, you do not trust.” He circled her, lazily, predatorily. “I think there is little you do not understand. The sensation must be very unusual for you.”
> Why did words fail her now?
“And perhaps invigorating?” There he was again too near—so near the heat of his breath played on her skin.
Every nerve awakened, standing at the ready to catch and act upon whatever might next stimulate it. Her breath came more rapidly, and her chest ached.
“I think I will—” he whispered, “—kiss you…”
“No.” She jumped back into a long shadow. “Mr. Darcy!”
Two long steps brought him to stand between her and Sir Alexander. “Good morning, Garland. I did not know you to be fond of an early walk.”
Sir Alexander smiled oddly and tipped his hat. “I keep rather unusual hours—I sleep very little, you see. Blanche will vouch for me—she finds me pacing the halls and grounds at all hours—tormented by my muse who calls and demands obedience. If you will excuse me.” He bowed and sauntered into the trees.
Mr. Darcy watched until he disappeared, eyes narrow, lips drawn tight. “Are you well? You seem distressed.”
“I … I hardly know what to say. I came upon him so unexpectedly; he jumped out of a tree at my feet. It was rather—disquieting.”
His eyebrows flashed up, then knotted into something that might have been fearsome had she not seen it accompany deep thought before. “What is your opinion of him?”
“I find him difficult to make out.” That was the kindest thing she could say.
Mr. Darcy offered his arm. Was it silly to feel safe and protected with him? Probably, but it did not change the fact that she did. They walked in the opposite direction to Sir Alexander’s retreat.
“You know that I find your insight quite keen. May I ask you a rather difficult question?” How vulnerable he sounded. “Few are honest with me, especially to the degree which I can count on you to be.”
“I am not sure if that is a commendation or a condemnation.”
“Truly, you do not know?” He paused and searched her face. “I mean it as a compliment.”