Fine Eyes and Pert Opinions

by Maria Grace

  Had he not told her to put it exactly there the second time she had redrawn this background? Was this his natural way of being, or was he doing it simply to make a show of vexing her? “I will work on it this afternoon.”

  “See that you do—we will need it for our rehearsals immediately.” He turned his back and stormed to the other side of the room.

  Miss Garland swept in on a breeze of rose and lilac. “Is he being a tyrant again?”

  Sir Alexander snorted. “What is tyrannical about wanting to see the play that you insisted we perform shown to its best?”

  “You must learn to ignore him dear, really. He is far too full of himself. It will do him good to have someone stand up to his demands.” Miss Garland stood between her and Sir Alexander.

  “As though you do not manage that enough on your own. Really, Blanche, one would think you do not want the performance to go on for all the support you have offered.”

  “Acting the part of your heroine’s companion in your theatrical is not sufficient support?”

  “No. Support would be convincing Darcy to permit the neighborhood to attend the presentation.”

  “It would not be fitting for Miss Darcy to perform if a large audience observes.” Elizabeth slipped out of Miss Garland’s shadow. “She is not out yet—”

  “Blast and botheration!” Sir Alexander growled.

  “Perhaps you should let me see to him. He can be such a beast when in a temper.” Miss Garland pointed to the door.

  Elizabeth hurried out and shut the door behind her.

  Miss Garland’s voice filtered through the door. “Calm yourself, Alexander, really. Can you not see she is in agreement with Mr. Darcy? You cannot expect her to change his mind. Trust me with the task. …”

  Deceitful, wretched woman!

  Quiet, she needed quiet lest the pounding in the back of her head blossom into a full-blown headache to rival any of Miss Garland’s. But where? Yes, the gallery, the most tranquil place in the manor. She rushed for that sanctuary.

  The long, dim room—the curtains were drawn to protect the art—felt cooler than the rest of the house. It was difficult to know if it was actually so or just seemed that way because of the coolness of her marble companions. Just enough light filtered around the drapes’ edges to allow her to move about. The room smelt of stone and the vague memory of linseed oil paint.

  The line of portrait faces staring down at her, from the deep red walls were familiar and some felt like very good friends. Years ago, Mrs. Darcy had toured the gallery with her, telling her about the portraits as if she had personally known every Darcy ancestor. That afternoon had changed Pemberley from a frighteningly huge and fancy house, to a comfortable abode with amusing, if obscure, denizens. She had once told the late Mr. Darcy of her observations while reading to him. He had laughed at the notion and encouraged her to help Mrs. Darcy pen a volume of genealogy, just for family consumption, of course—a project which they undertook with great relish. He had enjoyed it so when Elizabeth read it to him during the last weeks of his life.

  Was Mr. Darcy even aware of that venture and how it resided in the drawer of the large bombé

  chest beneath his mother’s portrait? Would he find it as amusing as his father had? His sense of humor was so difficult to predict.

  It might be years, even decades before anyone came across it.

  Elizabeth sank into a hall chair near the chest and rubbed her temples. Oh, for the company of the elder Darcys or their ancestors! The Garlands’ personalities overwhelmed nearly every interaction. Was she the only one who felt it?

  Quite possibly.

  Jane appeared too well-pleased with Mr. Bingley’s company, and he with hers, to take much notice of the Garlands. Though Miss Darcy had made efforts to push Mr. Bingley toward Elizabeth, his temper was much better suited to Jane.

  A marble bust stared blankly at her—a familiar enough expression. It was the same sort of look most people offered if she diverged from the typical insipid conversational topics to anything remotely interesting. The same expression Mr. Bingley had offered her last night in the drawing room just before Miss de Bourgh’s suggestion that Elizabeth’s decidedly “intelligent” conversation might be more fitting for a courtesan than a lady. Miss Bingley had tried to play it off as though it were only a tease, but the words struck their mark as surely as Elizabeth’s arrows had found theirs.

  Tension crept up the back of her neck, shooting pain up to her temples. It was time to share her concerns for Miss Darcy with her brother and take leave of the house party.

  ∞∞∞

  Darcy stopped in the doorway of the gallery. What was Miss Elizabeth doing here, silhouetted in the stray sunbeams that peeked around the curtains? So opposite to Miss Garland, dark and petite, her profile was quite striking, though.

  What a shame her future held such limited prospects, especially in the countryside. Perhaps, when they went to London for their next Season, Georgiana might wish for Miss Elizabeth’s company as she did with the house party.

  While certainly not suitable for their circles, there were always a few men, of Bingley’s sort in particular, who might find Miss Elizabeth very acceptable. Not to mention the vicars and barristers and a physician or two within his circle of acquaintance—some of them favored intelligent women.

  And Miss Elizabeth certainly was that. Though some did not appreciate it, what was there not to admire in a woman with a well-informed opinion, ready to debate it in an intellectual and civilized manner? That trait in particular made her a very good friend.

  Neither Bingley nor Garland admired it as much as he did, though. Then again, neither of them was Miss Elizabeth’s intellectual equal. It would be a shame to see her tied to a stupider man. Care would have to be taken in making introductions for her. Her fine eyes and pert opinions might draw the wrong sorts of men to her. And they would definitely not do—but he could, he would, protect her from that.

  Yes, if Georgiana wished for the company—and he might even go so far as to suggest to her that she did—they would bring Miss Elizabeth to London for the Season. She deserved a decent match.

  “There you are, Darcy!” Bingley clapped his shoulder.

  Darcy jumped. How had he sneaked up like that?

  “Your sister has been looking for you. She has declared it is time for us to play that game of pall-mall we skipped in favor of rehearsals a few days ago. She insists that you join us.”

  He groaned. Pall-mall was a frightfully silly, pointless game.

  “She insists, and I will not disappoint my hostess.” He shouldered past Darcy, into the gallery. “Miss Elizabeth …”

  Of course, the ladies would be included in the play. Lovely. He pinched the bridge of his nose. What an opportunity to make a spectacle of himself—and be the object of laughter for it. Exactly the way he most wished to spend an afternoon. Gah.

  “Come along, Darcy.” Bingley led the way out of the gallery, Miss Elizabeth on his arm.

  Darcy was the last one to join those gathered on the lawn around the immaculately groomed grassy mall. A gentle breeze blew, carrying a light perfume from the garden, as if to make him a peace offering. Hoops were already set in the ground, balls and mallets in a neat rack along with a few chairs in the shade of the nearby arbor. It might have been picturesque if he did not dislike the activity.

  Garland stood in the shadow of the manor between Georgiana and Miss Elizabeth, smiling and chatting away like a magpie. Did he ever stop talking? At least Georgiana did not seem to mind, but Miss Elizabeth’s expression seemed strained, though. Something definitely bothered her.

  Bingley fluttered around Miss Bennet, another one of his “angels,” no doubt. His trifling infatuations never lasted very long. In fact, this one had already lasted longer than most, perhaps all. Miss Bennet was difficult to make out—very prim and proper. But was she actually touched?

  He dare not judge that. In any case, if something were to come of it, they were not an unsuitabl
e match. Though Bingley would be better off with a woman worth more than just a thousand pounds, at least she was a gentleman’s daughter.

  “Mr. Darcy—” Miss Bingley and Anne approached from the mall, arm in arm, wearing walking dresses in similar shades of green.

  Oh, merciful heavens!

  “You must instruct me in how to play.” Anne simpered as she slipped her arm into his. “I have never done so.”

  “And I, too,” Miss Bingley echoed.

  “Really now,” Miss Garland appeared at his other side, a Valkyrie in a vivid blue muslin, the striking color its only decoration, charging to his rescue. “What you demand is too much for any man. Colonel, come now, do be a dear and take charge of Miss Bingley. Teach her the game, for she is entirely without understanding.”

  Richard sauntered up. “Did I hear my name called?”

  “Indeed, you did. Miss Bingley is in need of instruction, and you are just the man to give her what she needs.” Miss Garland guided Miss Bingley away from Darcy.

  Did she just wink at Richard?

  “I would be pleased to assist you, Miss Bingley.” Richard bowed.

  Miss Bingley smiled, but it was thin—like a child taking second place in a contest. She took his arm and allowed him to lead her away.

  “Do you play, Miss Garland?” Anne asked through her teeth.

  “I do. My father found it a very acceptable pastime and had several malls maintained on his property. I am surprised you are not familiar with the game.”

  “My mother does not think highly of outdoor games for ladies. She believes they ruin the complexion and encourage unladylike behavior.”

  “Indeed? Then I am surprised you should wish to learn, given your mother’s objections.” Miss Garland cocked her head just so.

  Anne’s face turned red, and she stammered a bit. “I am willing to concede that my mother’s views might not always be correct.”

  Darcy’s jaw dropped. Perhaps Richard’s assessment of Anne had been correct.

  “How very independent of you. I dare say you shall find the pastime quite as diverting as I do. Might I offer you some instruction?” Miss Garland looped her arm in Anne’s.

  “My cousin—”

  Darcy stepped back half a step. “No, no, I insist. Accept Miss Garland’s generous offer. I am not the least bit put out.”

  Anne huffed just a little as Miss Garland directed her to the far end of the mall where she retrieved a mallet and ball and demonstrated for Anne.

  The view was inspiring. Despite her decidedly unfeminine height, Miss Garland was everything Anne was not: strong, graceful, assured in every movement. Miss Garland swung her mallet and the ball sailed across the lawn in a perfect ballet of strength and control. Her lovely bosom heaved just slightly, enough to heat his blood and direct his thoughts toward base pursuits.

  “Mr. Darcy, would you be so good as to return our ball so Miss de Bourgh may try?” How could something so mundane sound suggestive?

  “Of course.” He trotted down the mall.

  Thwack.

  Crunch.

  Pain—searing, blinding pain, felled him to the lawn with an undignified shout.

  “Mr. Darcy!” He opened his eyes to Miss Elizabeth’s face occupying all his vision, her dark eyes trained on him. “Are you hurt beyond your ankle? Did you strike your head?”

  He rolled to his side, propped on his elbow. “No, I do not think so.” He pulled his knees up and touched his foot to the lawn. Stomach-churning pain coursed in waves. Terrible, terrible idea. He groaned, fighting off rising nausea.

  “Colonel Fitzwilliam, Mr. Bingley, please, help him inside.” Miss Elizabeth waved them over. “He must not place any weight on his ankle.”

  Strong arms pulled him upright, supporting his arms over their shoulders. Miss Elizabeth ran ahead.

  When had the distance from the lawn to the house been so great?

  Miss Elizabeth met them at the door and directed them to the blue parlor where Mrs. Reynolds was waiting. They arranged him on the fainting couch.

  Darcy clutched at the upholstery, panting until he no longer saw stars.

  “We need to get your shoe off, Darce.” Richard crouched beside the fainting couch.

  “He is right.” Miss Elizabeth handed him a folded towel. “Bite down on this as they remove it.”

  He took the towel. How utterly humiliating. Where was his valet?

  Richard took hold of the shoe and slowly, steadily, agonizingly removed it.

  He groaned; his shoulders knotted as tightly as his fists. Shoe removed, he fell back into the fainting couch, sweating and stomach roiling. A gentle hand dabbed sweat from his brow. A whiff of lavender—Miss Elizabeth remained near. Why was she still here? Would she stay?

  His valet arrived and conferred with Mrs. Reynolds and Miss Elizabeth.

  “The surgeon should be called,” Miss Elizabeth said.

  “I will not be bled or purged for a bloody injured ankle.” He growled for good measure. People obeyed when he did that.

  “I doubt Mr. Langley would recommend either of those remedies as efficacious under these circumstances.” There was an irritatingly patient note in Miss Elizabeth’s voice.

  “Just as well since I will not accept them.”

  “That has little to do with your need to consult a surgeon.” Miss Elizabeth skirted around the fainting couch to look him in the eye.

  “What will he do that my valet cannot?”

  “He will be able to assess the severity of your injuries.”

  “I do not wish to see him.”

  “And you would endanger yourself and by extension your sister because of your stubbornness.” She folded her arms over her chest.

  “I am bruised and nothing more.”

  “How do you know that? Or does the master of Pemberley lay claim to that area of expertise as well?” Why did her expression remind him of his mother when she scolded?

  “What leads you to think it is more serious?”

  “In the absence of a mistress at Pemberley, your people often sought out my mother for assistance in such matters. Now they come to Jane and me. I have tended broken bones, often in the company of Mr. Langley, and as a result, I am concerned for the extent of your injury.”

  Damn it all. Why could she not have a reason he could argue with? “Then you tend me.”

  Her eyes went wide, and she edged back, losing a little color in her face. “I am no medical man.”

  “Precisely, that is what makes you acceptable.”

  “You are being utterly ridiculous.” Richard rose and stood beside her, trying to summon up the look of a commanding officer. “Let us call for the surgeon.”

  “I will not see that saw-loving purveyor of tonic and potions.” He slapped the seat cushion.

  Richard snorted while trying to look serious.

  “Colonel, would you fetch Mr. Darcy some brandy?” Miss Elizabeth pointed to the door with her chin.

  Richard stared at her.

  “Go man! That is the first sensible thing I have heard said.” Darcy waved him off.

  Richard dodged around Mrs. Reynolds and his valet who stood at the door.

  “Fetch your master his banyan and some trousers. These breeches will not be comfortable—and some slippers, soft ones.” She pointed at his valet.

  “Yes, Miss.” He scurried out.

  Miss Elizabeth knelt beside the fainting couch, hand barely touching—or was it not touching—his shoulder. “I know Mr. Langley is quick to amputate in cases like this.”

  Darcy closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He would not die like his father had.

  “That is certainly a drastic measure, but if necessary, to save your life, it should be done.”

  “It is not.”

  “I will look at your injury on two conditions.” She looked directly into his eyes. Few ever did. “First, you and Colonel Fitzwilliam keep it in your confidence that I have done so, and second, you must trust my assessment. There is no point
in putting myself out if you will not listen. I do not wish you to suffer any unnecessary procedure, but neither do I wish you to suffer for the lack of what may be necessary.”

  Her eyes were very fine indeed, filled with warmth and concern.

  “Very well,” he muttered.

  The valet returned, required items in hand.

  “Please remove Mr. Darcy’s stocking so I might examine his injury. Mrs. Reynolds—”

  “Do not worry, Miss. You care for the master, and I will see you are cared for.”

  She sat on a stool near his feet. “With your permission, I must touch your ankle to ascertain the degree of the injury.”

  He gritted his teeth and nodded, steeling himself for anther searing wave. But her cool fingers were gentle, soothing across the swelling, purple blotch.

  “This will hurt.” She pressed firmly along his ankle bone.

  She was right, but the assault was short-lived.

  Richard arrived, decanter, and glasses in hand.

  “Your pronouncement, Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy whispered, dry-mouthed and hoarse.

  “If Colonel Fitzwilliam agrees, I believe you may safely defer a call to Mr. Langley. In so far as I can tell, it is severely bruised, but not broken.”

  “What makes you certain?” Richard stood very close and peered over her shoulder.

  “Let me show you.”

  He set the brandy aside and joined Miss Elizabeth in further poking and prodding of his colorful limb. Richard’s touch was not nearly as gentle as hers.

  “I am willing to accept her pronouncement, Darce. You are bloody lucky, you know.”

  Miss Elizabeth sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Forgive me, madam. I usually remember myself in polite company.” Richard lowered his face, chastened.

  “But this is far from polite.” She smiled her forgiveness. “With your permission, I shall brew some willow bark tea for your discomfort.”

  “You will check on the patient later?” Richard headed toward the brandy.