by Jennifer Joy
“Darcy, you do not think me overdressed, do you?” Bingley asked with a pointed look at his eldest sister.
He wore a black coat with matching breeches, a cream shirt and cravat, and a striped blue and gold waistcoat.
“I have seen you wear this before to dinners in town. Why do you doubt yourself now?”
“Louisa thinks the stripes are too elegant for a country dinner party.”
Mrs. Hurst paused, stabbing her needle into the fabric. “You need not draw attention to yourself here. There cannot be anyone you seek to impress in this out-of-the-way place. You could take a lesson from Mr. Darcy and wear a solid-colored waistcoat.”
Bingley’s shoulders sagged under his sister’s criticism. There was no doubt she disapproved of Miss Bennet for her brother, although Miss Bennet’s manners were superior to her own.
At that, the music stopped. “Mr. Darcy will agree with us, Charles. The Bennets are not the sort of family with whom you should seek an alliance. They would only bring ostracism on you. How would you introduce them to our friends in town?” She giggled, covering her mouth with her gloved hand as if it made her comments any more appropriate.
Darcy bristled at being grouped with Bingley’s sisters. Not a week before, he would have agreed with them. That knowledge stung worse than a slap to the face.
Bingley looked at him. “What do you think Darcy?”
What did he think?
He admired Miss Bennet for her delicate politeness and kind disposition. She was every bit a gentlewoman as Georgiana was.
He admired Miss Elizabeth’s loyalty. When she had arrived in the soggy weather with a muddy hem to Netherfield Park to care for her sister, Darcy had thought it only a clever device to capture his attention. However, she had practically ignored him for the duration of her stay, only joining the rest of the household when propriety demanded it. When he had engaged her in conversation, she had not been afraid to express her opinions and challenge his in a manner worthy of a rebuttal. There were two occasions where he had to admit, after more careful consideration, that her assessment had been correct, but his pride would not have him admit so aloud at the time.
Purposely evading the question until he could sort through the deluge of thoughts flooding his mind, Darcy simply said, “I like that waistcoat and see no reason for you to change it.”
“And Miss Bennet?” Miss Bingley pressed, certain of his support.
Staring at Miss Bingley’s haughty face, Darcy’s temper pushed all his kind thoughts of the elder Bennet sisters aside, protecting them from any contact with the disgust overtaking him. “Am I your brother’s master so that he should bow to my opinion on whom to marry? I would not dare presume to influence a decision he will spend the rest of his life either regretting or delighting in. Should he choose a bride capable of rising above the circumstances in which she was born, I would applaud his choice based on the merits she has earned against the odds. To me, that is a greater recommendation to her character than acceptance from an often hypocritical society.”
The butler arrived to announce the arrival of the Bennets before Miss Bingley could raise her jaw from its unflattering position.
Darcy felt so light, only his Hessian boots kept him grounded. It pleased him to see that Miss Elizabeth wore the same green dress she had worn at the Meryton Assembly. Unlike Miss Bingley, her hair was unadorned. The candles in the room shone off her brown curls without the need for pearls or jeweled combs to lend luminescence.
Bingley inquired, “Is Miss Lydia well?”
Darcy had not noticed that the youngest Bennet had not joined them. No wonder it was relatively quiet.
Mrs. Bennet, her hand over her heart, explained, “Oh, my poor Lydia. She had to stay in this evening due to a slight fever. Her companion, Mrs. Yeats, offered to stay with her and call the apothecary should she worsen. She is a sensible woman, and Lydia is in good hands. No doubt, she will be much improved in the morning. All of my girls boast excellent health.”
Darcy caught a twinkle in Mr. Bennet’s eye as he patted his wife’s hand and added, “Yes, dear. Mr. Bingley may rest assured on that point after seeing for himself how soon Jane recovered from her recent illness in this very house.”
Mr. Collins gushed, “No doubt, the result of the superior care a household such as this can offer. Being a friend of Mr. Darcy, I feel confident in assuming that no small comfort was spared Miss Bennet.”
Looking up to the ceiling to avoid rolling his eyes, Darcy controlled himself and forced his gaze down only to see that his gesture had been observed. A pair of fine eyes danced in amusement. He looked away, embarrassed he had allowed such a slip of decorum.
After a few minutes of meaningless conversation about the weather, dinner was announced. They rose, and Darcy made his way over to Miss Elizabeth to offer her his arm.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs. Hurst exchange a meaningful look with her husband who, with a rapidity with which Darcy had not believed him capable, crossed the room and extended his arm to Miss Elizabeth. The scene astonished Darcy so much, he stood frozen in place for a second too long, leaving him with the only three remaining females: Mrs. Hurst, Miss Bingley, and Miss Mary.
Without further hesitation, he offered his arm to Miss Mary. As Bingley’s invited guest, it would have been an affront not to do so (although from the huffing sounds emanating from Bingley’s sisters, they did not agree). The surprise on Miss Mary’s face appeased Darcy’s presentiment that dinner would be an agonizingly long event.
Chapter 13
Dinner was a drab affair, though Bingley enjoyed himself immensely with Miss Bennet nearby.
Mrs. Bennet’s mindless prattle had lulled Mr. Bennet into numb reticence between bouts of witty satire.
Miss Kitty, without her younger sister there to speak enough for the both of them, seemed to be intensely occupied in her own thoughts. She smiled often, and would then look around her self-consciously to see if anyone had noticed. Whatever pleasant musings she pondered, Darcy did not wish to interrupt them. She reminded him of Georgiana with her wistful sighs and gentle expression. How different she was without Miss Lydia’s influence.
Mr. Collins regaled Mrs. Hurst with descriptions of the grandeur of Rosings, Lady Catherine’s estate. Mrs. Hurst, fascinated with all things exorbitant, listened in fascination.
Miss Elizabeth suffered in silence next to Mr. Hurst, who was much more inclined to make approving remarks and satisfied grunts into his white soup and every course served thereafter than to make conversation with her. Several times, her eyes met Darcy’s. He could read her face like a book. He knew when she bit her bottom lip that she dearly wished to laugh. Her eyes would dance in glee. Though she never went so far as to roll her eyes, Darcy knew she wished to. He sensed when her thoughts took a more serious turn. Her brow would furl, and she worried her upper lip.
Miss Mary carried on a conversation without any help from him. He nodded at the appropriate times and encouraged her to continue sermonizing by asking the questions he discerned she would most like to discuss. Never had he met one more suited to the clergy than the young woman seated beside him. Unfortunately, as a woman, her talents could not be realized in a man’s profession. How unfair society was. It would be difficult for her to marry, and what else did the world offer a spinster? Nothing but derision. Pity for Miss Mary gave him the patience he needed as the evening wore on. His efforts were rewarded with a pleased smile from Miss Elizabeth, whose loyalty to her sisters never waned.
Finally, the meal concluded, and Miss Bingley led the ladies into the drawing room.
As the door closed behind them, Mr. Collins scooted his chair forward. “Now that the ladies have withdrawn, I feel it is now appropriate for me to tell you, Mr. Darcy, of what I have been able to learn from my meticulous investigation.”
Mr. Bennet lit his pipe and leaned back in his chair. “How delicate of you, Mr. Collins, to save the ladies from overhearing news which might taint their sensibi
lities.”
Mr. Collins nodded gravely. “Quite so. I pride myself in being sensitive to their limitations. It is a quality Lady Catherine approves, and one which I seek to cultivate.”
Limitations? How dare the clergyman speak of limitations when Miss Elizabeth was more intelligent than most, and Miss Mary had committed entire tomes of sermons to memory. Had he not spent the past few hours listening to them? “I would not have thought to place such limitations on your cousins, Mr. Collins. You might be depriving yourself of some powerful allies.”
Mr. Bennet’s eyebrows shot up, and he straightened his slumped posture.
Mr. Collins blustered so much, Darcy regretted his attempt to correct him.
“Please, Mr. Collins, tell us what you learned,” Darcy continued, before their time was wasted on Mr. Collins’ inability to comprehend how a woman could possibly assist him. It was not the clergyman’s fault. He only repeated what was commonly believed to be true— even if it was rubbish.
Appeased, Mr. Collins began. “As I told you before, Mr. Wickham’s pistol is missing from his quarters. What I was unable to tell you was that I spoke with Colonel Forster himself. I suggested to him that a search be done of all of his soldiers’ possessions, a suggestion which he was grateful to receive and fortuitously had already put into practice with Mr. Stallard presiding over the search. He assured me that had he not thought of it, he would soon have been persuaded to do so upon listening to my arguments in favor of the action.”
Darcy’s mind wandered to the drawing room while Mr. Collins tormented his forbearance with his superfluous wordage. Miss Elizabeth could relate twice the information in the same time.
Struggling to focus on the garrulous clergyman, Darcy sipped his port, and sifted through the abundance of words to find anything pertinent.
Mr. Bennet interrupted, “Mr. Collins, while we appreciate your opinion on Colonel Forster’s approval of your advice, we would like to know the answer to the question you raised. Was the weapon found?”
Wiping his brow, Mr. Collins said, “No. It was not.”
All that exposition for nothing. Bingley had done well to occupy himself with his own thoughts. He wore a silly grin on his face. Darcy did not need more than one guess to know who he was thinking about.
“Is there any sort of marking on the pistol to identify it as Mr. Wickham’s?” Mr. Bennet pressed.
Mr. Collins clearly did not want to own to not knowing the answer, so Darcy interjected, “Yes. His initials are engraved on the barrel.”
Rubbing his hands together, Mr. Collins continued, “I did, however, find out that Mr. Wickham had been seen calling on a young lady.”
So pleased was Mr. Collins at now having the attention of every gentleman sitting around the table, he sat in silence for some time until Darcy asked, “What can you tell us about the young lady and Mr. Wickham?”
“Ah, I had hoped you would ask. It is none other than Miss Honoria Stallard.”
Mr. Bennet removed his pipe. “He set his sights high.”
Bingley looked confused. “Why do you say that?”
If Bingley had cared to notice anyone outside of Miss Bennet, he would have remembered two important details about Miss Stallard. Darcy said, “Miss Stallard has ten thousand pounds and is the only daughter of the local magistrate.”
Mr. Bennet added, “She stands to inherit her father’s estate. Whoever she marries will be considered a fortunate man, though I cannot imagine Mr. Stallard would allow her to attach herself to someone of whom he does not approve.”
“Did you confirm the veracity of this information with Miss Stallard?” Darcy asked Mr. Collins. He would have liked to have been present at that conversation.
Mr. Collins flushed cheeks glistened in a smile. “I took the liberty of calling at the Stallards’ estate, having established an acquaintance at the ball. I ascertained that Mr. Wickham had called at their household once and had left a favorable impression. He had requested the first dance with Miss Stallard, and so it had been a shock to them when he did not arrive.”
“I imagine so,” commented Mr. Hurst loudly between sips of port, and startling everyone with his contribution to the conversation.
Mr. Collins recovered and continued, “What surprised me was the lack of feeling Miss Stallard expressed.” He looked about them and, thus reassured, said in a low tone, “I know I may trust you with my suspicions, as you are all gentlemen with discretion. At the time, I did not think much of it, but as the day has progressed, it cannot help but strike me as odd that she was able to smile and converse lightly with me when the subject under consideration should have been distressing to her. I do not know if it will amount to much, but I am tempted to ask one of the servants— you know how they talk— if perhaps they had not had a disagreement before the ball.”
“You do not mean to imply that Miss Stallard might have killed Mr. Wickham, do you? Pardon my ignorance, please, but would she know how to shoot a pistol?” asked Bingley.
Mr. Bennet chewed on his pipe, then slowly withdrew it from his mouth. “It is possible. She does not strike me as the vengeful sort, but young ladies crossed in love have done worse things.” He paused— the sort of pensive pause one makes before pronouncing something of profound importance.
The room fell silent while the gentlemen waited.
Finally, Mr. Bennet’s eyes focused, and he looked intensely at Darcy. “Mr. Stallard is our magistrate. If his daughter is involved in this mess, it does not bode well for you, Mr. Darcy.”
A numbness overtook Darcy, leaving his fingers as cold as ice. This was the worst news.
“Where was Miss Stallard at midnight?” he whispered.
Mr. Collins winced and pulled his handkerchief out to mop his face. He squirmed like a worm caught between a boy’s fingers, waiting for the fishhook to pierce him. It was agonizing to watch, but it was nothing compared to the torment Darcy experienced.
Mr. Bennet said, “Speak up, Mr. Collins.”
“I am grateful they received me after the unfortunate accident. As you can imagine, I apologized profusely for my role in Miss Stallard’s misfortune. I— You see, it so happened— Well, I—,” he began, his complexion deepening in color with each attempt. With a large huff of breath, he closed his eyes and said, “It is with great shame that I must admit my error. It was I who bumped into Miss Stallard, causing her to spill her drink down the front of her gown. It was ruined, and she refused my attempts to help her.”
“At what time?” Darcy asked, though he feared the answer.
“About eleven o’clock. It was a pity she never returned. I would have apologized much sooner.”
After some minutes spent in awkward silence in the drawing room, Mrs. Hurst settled in between Mary and Jane, clearly only enduring Mary’s company for the sake of avoiding the other Bennet females in the room.
Mother and Kitty were content to talk amongst themselves. It would have been overly rude— even for them— to complain once again for the lack of officers present at the table that evening.
Miss Bingley eased into the chair next to Elizabeth, leaning forward. “Where were you at midnight, Miss Eliza?” she asked plainly, her face pinched.
“I was in the library.” Elizabeth offered no extra details. If Miss Bingley wanted them, she could ask.
“I thought you enjoyed dancing. What were you doing in the library during a ball?”
“I had a headache and needed a moment of quiet. It was too cold to venture outside, and so I chose the library.” Narrowing her eyes, she continued, “It was the oddest thing, but I had not been in the room long when I found myself locked inside.”
The muscles at Miss Bingley’s temples twitched in spasms. “Yes, that was unfortunate. My housekeeper took it upon herself to lock the rooms not in use.” She looked off into a corner as she spoke, avoiding eye contact.
“Why would she do such a thing?” Elizabeth asked, unwilling to drop the subject too easily.
Feigning disinteres
t, Miss Bingley shrugged her shoulders. “She considered that some of the guests took advantage of our generosity when a gentleman attempted to ensconce one of the Wedgwood urns from the fireplace mantel in his pocket.” She stifled a yawn, further showing how boring she found the subject.
Elizabeth laughed. “I would have liked to have seen that. No pocket is big enough to hide an urn. Surely he was merely admiring it, though I will admit it was badly done for a gentleman to give such an impression.”
Picking at her skirts, Miss Bingley sighed. Elizabeth could not help but notice how the red flush of embarrassment crawled up her neck. She could have needled Miss Bingley more, but decided against it in favor of kindness.
“First impressions, I find, are usually accurate, do you not agree?” Miss Bingley asked, looking at Elizabeth from the corner of her eyes.
“No, I cannot say I do,” she answered, instantly regretting her quick response. Had she been asked the same question only two days before, she would have readily agreed.
Elizabeth had always believed herself to be an outstanding judge of character, but she had to admit that her attitude toward Mr. Darcy was not what it was at their first meeting. She found herself wanting to like him, but could not give herself over to the idea knowing the abuse Mr. Wickham had suffered at his hand. And yet, she could no longer despise him as she had before.
“Perhaps you lack experience, the society here being limited at best, to correctly judge character.” Miss Bingley’s sharp voice did not cut Elizabeth too deeply, tottering as she was between two opinions and preferring not to explain from whence her reasoning came.
“How fortunate, then, that you have come to Netherfield so that I might gain the experience to which you refer.” Really, kindness only went so far.
“Were you alone in the library?” Miss Bingley hissed, her sharp gaze fierce and desperate.
She knew. And now she sought to find out if Elizabeth would take advantage of it as she undoubtedly would herself.