Fine Eyes and Pert Opinions

by Maria Grace

  Bingley clucked his tongue and nodded. “I suppose I have always been a bit obvious in my regard. Say, are you are displeased—”

  “That you and Georgiana have not—no, not at all. She is far too young and not even out. The whole point of this house party was to give her an opportunity to practice being in company before she comes out, not for matchmaking. She needs to meet more of society before she considers anyone.”

  “Garland seems to pay her a lot of attention.” Something about the way Bingley wrinkled his lips suggested he did not approve.

  “He enjoys flattering, I think, and she likes being flattered. Miss Garland says such harmless flirtations are a regular practice. Perhaps it is good for Georgiana to discern between polite and genuine attentions from a man.”

  Bingley shrugged.

  “You are much in Miss Bennet’s company.” The lovely, sweet, and rather insipid Miss Bennet.

  “She is a delight, is she not?”

  “What I think is of little consequence.”

  “Actually not. I had hoped to seek your opinion.” Bingley tugged at his collar. “Yes.”

  “In what capacity do you seek her company?”

  Bingley paced along the length of the room, raking his hair. The bright sun only highlighted the color that rose from his throat to his cheeks. “That is the problem, I suppose. Caroline thinks her a pleasant girl.”

  “And that is a bad thing?”

  “Not bad, but she—Miss Bennet, that is—has little in the way of a dowry, and her connections are in trade. Caroline does not think her a fitting wife. But she said she would … understand if I desired to set up an establishment for Miss Bennet.”

  “How generous of her.” Darcy dragged his fist across his mouth.

  “Indeed … indeed. I cannot believe the gall of her, attempting to direct me in such a way.”

  “I do not know why you allow her to discompose you so, or even live with you for that matter.” Darcy craned his neck—if only Bingley would stop his bloody pacing.

  “You do not know Caroline.”

  “Nor do I care to.”

  “Much to her disappointment.”

  Darcy shuddered. “Regarding Miss Bennet?”

  “Yes, yes—what do you think?”

  “About what? I do not expect her father would be pleased to see her under your protection.”

  “No, no! As a wife!” Bingley stopped directly in front of him, hands thrown in the air.

  “Your acquaintance has only been of a few weeks. You wish to marry her?”

  “Marry who?” Richard peeked in, then sauntered across the room to sit in the chair Bingley recently vacated. “Who wishes to marry whom?”

  “Bingley.” Darcy jerked his head toward him.

  “Who?” Richard rubbed his hands together briskly. “Miss Bennet? Can you afford her without a fortune?”

  “Yes, that is manageable.” Bingley bobbed his head.

  “Does she like you?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Do you like her?” Richard laced his fingers before him.

  “Very much.”

  “Then go to it man. Why do you stand about?” Richard gestured toward the door.

  “Oh, yes, very well then. Thank you, Darcy. I knew I could count on your advice.” Bingley straightened his coat and strolled out.

  “That was simple enough.” Richard leaned back, extended his legs and crossed his ankles.

  “You make it all sound very simple.” Darcy pinched his temples. Richard always magnified his headaches.

  “It is for him. He needs only a gentlewoman to increase his standing without the encumbrances you or I face. His choice may be an easy one. Frankly, I envy him for it. No need for you to go and muddy it up.” Richard leaned forward, his tone losing some of its light-hearted edge. “Speaking of women and marriage—you and Miss Garland seemed to enjoy each other’s company very greatly the night of your injury.”

  “She is witty and charming.”

  “And well-endowed in many ways. Do you not remember ….”

  Darcy winced and raised his hand. “I do not remember much of that evening.”

  “Well, I do. I have never seen you so unable to hold your liquor.”

  “I think she gave me some tonic with the last glass of wine.”

  “You ought to avoid any more of it lest you find yourself trapped.”

  “Trapped?” The word echoed in his skull.

  “You do not remember? My friend, in any other company, Miss Garland could call you out for compromising her and insist you marry her. I am surprised neither she nor Garland have spoken of it to you. Luckily Georgiana had retired—but Darce—”

  “I thought it a dream.” Darcy fell back against the fainting couch, squeezing his eyes shut. If only he could recall.

  “It was no dream. Anne was utterly scandalized. You could not keep your hands—”

  “Were we alone at any time?”

  “No, she was in her cups as well. We sent her upstairs as soon as we could separate you.”

  “Oh, bloody hell. What am I to do?” Darcy scrubbed his face with his hands.

  “There is one obvious option. You could marry her. She is rich, beautiful, intelligent, and connected. You could do far worse. And she seems to like Georgiana very well, too. If you are so upset, make her an offer of marriage, and the matter of honor will be settled. If it helps, you could remember that is why I invited them to join us.”

  “I will think on it.” Darcy groaned as he shifted his leg.

  “Shall I send Miss Elizabeth to see if she has any more tricks to alleviate your suffering?”

  “Yes, do that.”

  Richard left.

  Darcy clutched his head. He had always been so careful, so moderate, so temperate, never to permit improper behavior on his part to darken the family image. Now, in his own home, to be found so wanting—

  “Mr. Darcy?” Miss Elizabeth peeked in. She entered without any of her usual lightness of step.

  “Are you well?” Clearly, she was not. Her hem was dusty, muddy in places, with dry leaves and grass clinging to it. Her hair was something less than disheveled, but with the light sheen of perspiration on her face and throat, it seemed she had just been running. Twice he had encountered her in a similar state when her mother was very ill. She was apt to engage in very strenuous walks when distressed. “Is there anything I can—”

  “How are you feeling today? Are you in a great deal of pain? May I look?”

  He grunted, and she sat in the nearest chair. She had deflected his questions when he asked during her mother’s illness, too.

  Her cool gentle fingers soothed his bruised and swollen flesh. “I do believe we were correct, there is no break in the bone.”

  “I am relieved to hear that. But what of you, you seem—”

  “Do you wish for more willow bark tea, or perhaps something stronger?”

  “No, nothing stronger. I do not think stronger potions agree with me.”

  She nodded, but there was something odd in her countenance. Had she too—those other images of his dreams, of lying beside him! “Oh, bloody hell.” He clutched his temples and pitched forward.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Forgive me, please I forget myself.” He pressed his eyes and grimaced. “I am not a master at word craft, so I shall just come out with it. I fear I may have behaved quite improperly, ungentlemanly, the evening I was injured. Have I been offensive to you in any way?”

  Why would she not meet his gaze? “You were not yourself that night.”

  “So, I have heard. I am afraid I have very little clear recollection of anything that evening.”

  “Perhaps that is for the best.” She clasped her hands in her lap and stared at them.

  “How badly did I behave? Was I wretched to you?”

  “No, only most uncomfortable, and you did not wish to be alone.” She wandered to the window.

  “How long did you stay?”

  “If
you do not remember, then there is nothing to discuss.”

  So, she had spent the entire night. He dragged his hand down his face. “I do not know what to say.”

  “You need say nothing. You were addled by a tonic and by no means in a right state of mind.”

  “You forgive me?”

  She turned and looked directly into his eyes. “Nothing more need ever be said.”

  “Is there anything I may do for you to make up—”

  “Avoid such tonics in the future. I will ask no more from you.”

  She could ask far, far more and rightfully so. “I can see there is still something bothering you. Pray tell me; let me help.”

  “It is not a matter for your concern.”

  “I wish to know.”

  “Truly, you do not. I shall prepare your willow bark tea.” She rushed out before he could respond.

  ∞∞∞

  Elizabeth dashed into the corridor, nearly running over a young maid heading toward the parlor. This would not do. She had to gather her wits. She forced herself to perch on a hall chair. Slow, deep breaths, that is what Papa always recommended at such a time.

  Papa also said that it was a burden to know too much. As she did right now. What was she to do with those truths?

  “Miss Elizabeth.” Miss Garland strode toward her.

  What beastly luck.

  Elizabeth stood and dipped a shallow curtsey. “Pray excuse me. I am on my way to prepare some willow bark tea.”

  “For Mr. Darcy? Oh, do show me how. It seems to be such a useful little brew. It quite eased the headache I had yesterday when my maid brought it to me.”

  “It is quite simple. I showed your maid—”

  “No, no. Better you show me as well.” She looped her arm in Elizabeth’s and pulled her to the kitchen.

  The warm room, centered around a large stone fireplace, hummed with activity, echoing with the noises of cooking and cleaning. The fragrance of baking tarts and stewing puddings filled the air with comfort. Was it odd that the kitchen had always been one of her favorite places? The cook nodded at Elizabeth but raised her brow in a dark scowl to Miss Garland.

  “How charming that the staff here seems so comfortable with you.” Miss Garland’s smile was as thin as her voice. “You are quite a fixture here, I suppose.”

  Actually, she had a very good idea of what was meant, but pursuing that was even more distasteful than the current conversation. “I have spent a great deal of time here.”

  “You must know Mr. Darcy well.” Her voice dropped to just above a whisper. “You see, I have a bit of a difficult situation, and I am in quite the quandary.”

  “I do not know why you would ask my advice. Would not Miss Bingley or Miss de Bourgh be in much better positions to offer you direction?”

  “I hardly think so. More likely they would begin a chain of very ugly gossip. Your discretion I can rely upon.”

  “I am not fond of secrets.” Swallowing did not relieve the bitterness in the back of her throat.

  “That is the problem. None of this is a secret, and I do not know what to do. If, let us suppose, a gentleman of a good name and good fortune behaves improperly toward a lady whilst drunk … that is to say, he does not recall matters—” Miss Garland pressed a hand to her heart. She was not attractive when she pretended innocence. “But her sensibilities are nonetheless offended, what should be done?”

  Offended? Opportunistic was much more likely. Horrid creature! “Then if she is a true lady, she should forgive the matter entirely and never give mention to it again. The finest sensibilities must acknowledge charity as the highest motivation.”

  Elizabeth took a boiling kettle off the hob and led the way to a work table near the window.

  “Would that it were that simple.” Miss Garland sighed as Elizabeth poured boiling water into a bowl of willow bark. “If only the woman were able to make a room of witnesses forget.”

  “That does make a difference.” Elizabeth’s hands shook.

  “I thought you might see it that way. So, what then?”

  “Then it behooves the gentleman to protect the reputation of the woman he has compromised.”

  “And she is not out of place to request such protection?”

  “All this talk of his comportment does make one wonder. What was the nature of her behavior? Was she entirely proper herself? Or perhaps might she have been similarly influenced by wine or perhaps something even more soothing, that might have caused her behavior to be regrettable as well?”

  “What are you suggesting?” Miss Garland gasped, ice coating her voice.

  “Only that it is wise for one to treat another in the fashion that they would most wish to be treated—especially when one is most vulnerable.”

  “You imply I … a woman might be taking advantage of such a situation? What is impure about the desire of a lady to protect herself and her reputation?”

  “Nothing at all. I would just wonder whether it is best to do that before or after soothing oneself.” Elizabeth poured off the willow bark tea into a large cup and added ginger and sugar.

  “You judge me because my nerves are of a delicate constitution?”

  “I do not imagine you to be very delicate.” Perhaps that was not the wisest thing to say, but what sensible person could possibly resist?

  “You question my character? Do not judge me. You are but a vicar’s daughter. Despite your fine eyes and ready opinions, you know very little of the world.”

  “I do not claim to know of the world or much of anything beyond the simple virtues taught by my parents.” Elizabeth stirred the ruddy tea as whiffs of steam rose from the brew.

  “Simple and quaint, but of little use to those of us with more sophisticated concerns.”

  Elizabeth strode to a nearby shelf and retrieved a small tray. “Perhaps that is true, but remember, it was you who came to me seeking my opinion. I did not seek you out to offer it.”

  “Too true. I thank you for pointing out my error. I shall refrain from making it again.” Miss Garland flounced from the kitchen, little puddles of bitterness left in her wake.

  Elizabeth pulled a stool close and sat upon it. If only she could warn Mr. Darcy—poor, poor man. Had he any idea of her true nature?

  Chapter 11

  Darcy resettled on the fainting couch yet again. He would definitely burn the foul piece of furniture when he recovered. Moreover, he was beginning to hate the upholstery’s particular shade of blue.

  To be able to pace around the room, or better still, to move freely about his own home. Never again would he take for granted the simple ability to walk. Yes, he should be grateful that he would walk again and that the surgeon was not on his way with his saw. It hardly mattered when every fiber of his being ached to pursue Miss Elizabeth and discover—no, more like demand to know—why she sent the willow bark tea, carefully seasoned with sugar and ginger, with Mrs. Reynolds. Why did she not bring it herself?

  Had he been so offensive that evening that she could not bear to see him? In spite of her pretty words about forgiveness, she seemed so troubled. Why would she not simply tell him? She had never before hesitated in telling him when he had stepped on her finer sensibilities. Why should she avoid him over it now?

  She said it was not him, but something else. But what else could it be? What other reason? Had Anne and Miss Bingley finally nettled her too much? Surely neither Richard nor Bingley would have been anything but charming. And Garland paid her little notice—he did treat her rather officiously in all matters concerning that damned theatrical. But that hardly seemed the thing to discompose her so.

  He grumbled under his breath and flexed his hands. Why had she not come?

  “You are appearing most animated this morning, Mr. Darcy.” Miss Garland whisked into the parlor and stopped in a sunbeam, the door closing softly behind her.

  The sun sparkled off her golden hair and caressed her creamy skin, glowing along her cheek and neck, down to her generous bosom. Concern l
ined her lovely face, so lovely. What kind of boor had he been?

  “Are you in pain?” She pulled a chair very close and sat, peering deep into his eyes. “May I procure something for your comfort? I see you have already had some willow bark tea. Brandy, perhaps?”

  “No, no, I am well.”

  “Your expression says otherwise.”

  “Do not trifle with me, Miss Garland.” He propped himself up into something resembling a proper posture.

  “Excuse me?”

  “My cousin has addressed my behavior of the other night with me and informed me of how wanting it was.”

  She turned aside, cheeks coloring, hands clasped in her lap. “That is a rather a delicate issue.”

  “Pray, do not play games with me. I have neither skill nor patience for them.” Darcy clutched his forehead.

  “You were influenced by too much wine, I am sure.”

  “And perhaps the tonic you gave me.”

  Her eyes flashed, wide with a hint of something—anger perhaps? “Forgive me, but you did not receive it by subterfuge. You took it from my hand, knowing exactly what it was. Do not blame me for your behavior.”

  “I did not mean to suggest you were to blame, only to offer a more complete explanation for my untoward conduct—an assurance, if you will, that it was entirely out of character and unlikely to occur again. I accept full responsibility for my actions.”

  “The question, though, is: what does that mean, to take responsibility?”

  “It is to admit my failings, seek forgiveness, and make reparations where I can.”

  “Reparations? You are a man of integrity. I am impressed.”

  Was that a compliment or insult? “You have not answered the question at hand. Was my behavior toward you that night unacceptable?”

  She rose and moved to the same window where Miss Elizabeth had stood not long before. Stunning, simply stunning. “Yes, your behavior was unacceptable and uncouth. I have never been subjected to such ill-mannered, boorish treatment in a private home. Any lady of quality would have been offended.”

  The hair on the back of Darcy’s neck prickled.

  Miss Elizabeth had not been. But she and her family were longtime friends and not movers in society. Perhaps that made the degree of offense less.