by J. L. Ashton
“Oh yes, hurry up!”
Darcy watched the youngsters pull the woman quickly towards the dry goods shops and admired her clever maternal management. As they neared him, she glanced up and warned, “Mind the man’s horse, now.” He nodded and touched his hat. Her dark eyes sparkled with the exertion of holding onto the two boys, both redheads under the age of six. She was young herself, he realised, not much more than twenty years of age.
“Lizzy, my dear, I see you have wrangled some wild tigers!” cried a deep, jovial voice. Darcy turned his horse and saw a well-dressed man perhaps ten years his senior emerge from the shop.
“Papa, did you buy us sweets?” asked the younger of the boys.
The man laughed. “One for each of you boys and two, of course, for my dear Lizzy.”
He stooped to pick up his youngest son. The other boy accepted a package from his father and took the hand of “Lizzy.” As the group disappeared around the corner, Darcy heard the young lady say gaily, “Now, Thomas, you had best hide them unless your father has enough for a houseful of women.”
Darcy turned his horse back in the direction of Bingley’s estate. North to the trio of willows and then he would see the house—at least he believed that was what Bingley’s inkblots had detailed. Idly, as his horse trotted beneath him, he thought on the family he had just observed and wondered whether all the people of this town exhibited such warmth towards one another.
***
It took little time for him to forget this speculation. Two days into his stay at Netherfield, Darcy was reminded that good manners and kindly ways rarely extended upwards in the social sphere. His hosts did try to be considerate in their own peculiar manners of effort, but they were exhausting rather than enlightening. He tired quickly of Bingley’s concerned glances, Hurst’s offer to pour a glass to relieve his pain, and Mrs. Hurst’s reminders that many flowers grow in a field and not every rose will wilt to the air—or sun or shears or whatever it was she was striving to say metaphorically. Richard would laugh at the lady for confusing dying flowers with rotting fruit when it came to summing up the flaws of the Fitzwilliam family.
Why did they feel that they must patronise him? Was he quieter than he had been in the past? Softer from all the sad events of the past few months? Could he not just be? Apparently not.
In an effort to escape Miss Bingley’s suffocating expressions of sympathy that seemed to compel her into far more intimate contact than was proper, Darcy found himself enjoying his explorations of Netherfield’s sprawling, undisciplined lands. He took Charles in hand, and they scouted the estate on horseback, drawing a rough map of what they observed to match against the one shown to Charles by his lending agent. In the interest of learning the estate’s flora and fauna, they fished in the stream and fired guns in the air, securing—all by Darcy’s hand—three trout and two grouse. Hurst, a frustrated angler, said loftily that he would show them how to hunt wild boar, but he insisted a new stock of brandy and gunpowder should be laid in first.
It was a merry time, a respite from worry and guilt. Darcy realised rather smugly that, after three days without encountering any of the town’s denizens, he had been correct in assuming a visit to Bingley would bring no chance of meeting an eligible bride. Mayhap things would be different in a fortnight when he journeyed to Hadley’s estate. The man was beset by well over half a dozen female relations and their friends.
Still, the company at Netherfield had grown rather stifling.
“I believe we could garner a better sense of the wood here and the reason that certain buildings are so oddly situated,” Darcy said at breakfast, “if we were to speak to your neighbours. Whose estate lies closest to Netherfield’s eastern edge?”
Bingley looked up and beamed. “Well, that would be Longbourn. That is a fine idea, Darcy. I suggest we go right away.” He paused and looked significantly at his friend. “That is, if you are up to company.”
Darcy bit back the glower he felt slipping across his features. He felt…well…coddled by his younger friend whenever they were indoors. Did Charles actually think he was in such deep mourning for Anne? He was sad about her passing, grateful for her relief, and annoyed at and confused by her mother, but that was all. If he had learned anything from these years without his parents, it was how to mourn, when to mourn, and how not to let mourning rule one’s emotions.
He cleared his throat, which compelled Bingley to look even more concerned. “Charles, my mourning has passed. Let us go and meet your neighbours.”
Miss Bingley, entering the dining room, drew in a breath. “Are you off to Meryton?” she asked in a falsely gay voice. “I should wonder whom you would meet there.”
The men, who had stood upon her entry, moved towards the doorway. “We are off to Longbourn, Caroline. Estate business.” Bingley’s chest puffed up ever so slightly.
“Charles, are you sure that is wise? Perhaps Mr. Darcy does not wish to mix with the people there.” She enunciated in a hushed voice, “It is a delicate time.”
Bingley cleared his throat. “Darcy will enjoy meeting the Bennets, Caroline. All of them.”
As they withdrew, Darcy noticed the vexed expression on Miss Bingley’s face. Rather perversely, it made him anticipate their visit to Longbourn all the more. Hic sunt dracones (Here are dragons). He stifled a chuckle.
As they mounted their horses, Bingley said, “My sisters are invited to Longbourn for tea tomorrow; otherwise, I am sure they would have joined us.”
“So they are friendly with the…Bennets, is it?”
Bingley sighed. “Caroline and Louisa lack patience for the slower rhythms of the country and seem to despise the genteel manner of the people here. The Bennets are a good family. Mr. Bennet is a gentleman.”
“Is it Mrs. Bennet who troubles them?”
“Um, yes. A bit,” Bingley admitted. “She is proud of the society here, and although a bit fulsome on the subject, she has a kind heart and sets a fine table.”
Darcy laughed. Some things never varied with Charles.
“And their daughters are fine girls, especially the two eldest.”
Ah, we get to the heart of the matter. “No sons?”
“No, but soon a son-in-law. Mrs. Bennet has mentioned an understanding with a gentleman. A cousin or some such relative.”
“I see. This understanding is not with the Bennet sister you fancy?”
“No, thank goodness,” Bingley replied dreamily before suddenly wheeling around to glare at his friend. “Ho there! I have said nothing of fancying a young lady.”
“But you do.”
“I do, I believe I do,” Bingley agreed. “But how did you know?”
“Charles, do you not recall your algebraic equations?” Darcy said wryly. “Caroline’s vexation multiplied by your eagerness to dispel her reasons for vexation, added to your lovesick expression, divided by the quantity of food you left on your breakfast plate in order to ride more quickly to Longbourn…it all adds up.”
Bingley’s horse slowed as his rider considered the steps in Darcy’s calculation. “Um…”
“Come on, man. Let us ride.” Darcy tapped his friend’s mount and both horses sped off at a canter. Neither noticed the slight figure looking down at them from atop Oakham Mount.
***
When Elizabeth walked into her home a few minutes later, she was discomposed to find two gentlemen standing in the doorway. Mr. Bingley stood near Jane, both of them blushing and averting their eyes. The other man was taller and darker and bore a look of studied indifference as he suffered one of her mother’s heartfelt monologues on loss and lace and the glories of Meryton society. Kitty and Lydia stood on the stairs, smirking. When he noticed Elizabeth’s entrance, the man appeared shocked and peered at her closely.
Am I such a fearsome creature? Do I have mud on my face and leaves i
n my hair?
“Lizzy! Off on a walk again? We have visitors.” Mrs. Bennet gave her daughter a peevish look.
“Yes, Mama. The clouds were especially glorious today.”
Her mother sighed. “But if you are always looking up, you cannot heed the mud!”
Elizabeth glanced down self-consciously at her feet. Oh, indeed. Mud on my nose, mud on my boots…banishment must be next.
Jane spoke up. “Lizzy, this is Mr. Bingley’s friend, Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy, this is my sister Elizabeth.”
The two strangers nodded to each other. The Grieving Groom. Noting his eyes still fixed on her, Elizabeth blushed and spoke first. “And how do you find Netherfield, sir? Does it measure up to the excellent reputation Mr. Bingley has proclaimed?” She cringed a bit at the brightness of her tone. He was grieving, after all.
“Of course it does,” Mr. Bingley protested.
“It does, indeed,” Mr. Darcy replied in a solemn voice.
Mr. Bingley smiled and nodded vigorously. “Perfect in every way.”
Mr. Darcy eyed his enthusiastic friend. “It is quite a suitable house albeit the library is in great need of refurbishing. The shelves groan for want of books.”
Elizabeth nodded knowingly. “Oh, that phenomenon may be blamed on the previous owner. Mr. Eggleston was known for his parsimony, and when the winter of aught-seven blew fiercely for so long, it is said he burned his books for warmth.”
“Surely, you jest, Miss Elizabeth!” Mr. Bingley glanced uneasily at his friend.
She frowned at Mr. Darcy’s look of mortification. “I am sorry to bear such news, sir, but the words of Milton and Cowper, Homer and Shakespeare are said to be in the ashes that fertilised the fields that spring.”
Mr. Darcy’s eyes moved away from hers and settled on some point behind her shoulder. He nodded slowly. “A fine yield come harvest time, was it?”
Mr. Bingley stared at his friend, aghast at his response.
“Indeed it was, Mr. Darcy. The turnips and potatoes became vegetables of legend. Some were said to be as large as a man’s head.” She gazed at Mr. Darcy’s amused expression and tried not to show her own mirth. She could hear Lydia behind her, whispering to Kitty. “Lizzy has made a joke about a man’s head!”
“Lizzy!” Mrs. Bennet cried. “Mr. Darcy did not come to Longbourn to be teased. Go change your boots.”
“Yes, Mama.” Elizabeth nodded to the two men. “Are you waiting for my father? I had best knock to gain his attention.” She walked a few steps to the library and rapped thrice quickly on the oak door, followed by two slower knocks. They could hear a voice behind the door offering them entry and then the door swung open.
“Mr. Bingley,” drawled Mr. Bennet. “And who is this tall, sombre fellow?” He adjusted his glasses and looked up at the man in black.
“My friend Darcy has accompanied me to enquire of some estate issues. Have you a few minutes to indulge our questions?”
As the two men turned to follow Mr. Bennet into his library, Mr. Collins emerged from the kitchen, a dusting of sugar on his collar. “Cousin Jane, did I hear visitors?”
Jane blushed. “Yes, Mr. Collins. Mr. Bingley and his friend Mr. Darcy are here to see my father.”
The cleric’s eyes widened, and he took a hurried step towards the retreating backs of the two men. Elizabeth grimaced and bent to remove her boots.
“Mr. Darcy?” he cried. “I do most humbly say I am sorry for your great loss and wish to aid you in your bereavement.”
Mr. Darcy stared at the man, a rare combination of height and girth that nearly outstripped his own impressive physique. Nearly.
“Have we been introduced?” he asked coldly.
“My good sir, may I introduce myself—”
Jane interrupted. “Mr. Darcy, this is our cousin Mr. Collins, lately from Hunsford in Kent. Mr. Collins, I believe you have met Mr. Bingley of Netherfield Hall. This is his guest, Mr. Darcy.”
Mr. Collins leaned closer and looked expressively at the master of Pemberley. “I saw your aunt, my benefactress, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, but a fortnight ago and shared my distress over her loss of the most estimable Miss de Bourgh. A more exceptional and accomplished young maiden has rarely been found on England’s shores.”
An ominous silence hung over the room as Mr. Darcy stared at the man before him. Mr. Collins placed his hand on his chest. “Mr. Darcy, I share your remorse and your grief for your cousin and be—”
“I thank you,” Mr. Darcy replied, turning away.
“If you would care to unburden yourself of your sorrow and require a companion in prayer and solace, I would be happy to—”
Mr. Darcy’s attempt to hide his practised glower was less successful this time. “I thank you, no.”
Elizabeth wondered at the quicksilver artist who went by the name Mr. Darcy. From sly humour to cold dismissal. Had she provided the man with some diversion from his sorrow only to have him reminded quickly of his loss by her clumsy cousin? This, she determined, required deeper contemplation, as did the reason for his startled look at her entrance and at the mention of the exceptional and estimable Miss de Bourgh. Her father was right: a mystery had not only arrived on their doorstep, he had crossed the threshold and walked into their home.
***
On the ride back to Netherfield, the two men reviewed their conversation with Mr. Bennet. By mutual agreement, they parted ways when they entered the house through the servants’ entrance. Bingley hoped to elude Caroline and pay a quiet visit to the kitchen for a biscuit or a scrap of bacon. Darcy had other considerations and strode towards the library. He needed to look again at those empty shelves, ransacked for warmth by a desperate…nay, stupid…man. What a tale recounted by Miss Elizabeth Bennet! It was tragic and unfortunate, but he was happy to know the story, especially in the dryly humorous manner in which she told it.
The Bennet family should not have taken up a second thought, not with that jabbering mother and those spoony younger sisters, yet he could not stop thinking on his brief interaction with Miss Elizabeth. Perhaps he had been trapped, suffocating, for far too long in the conversational quagmires of Miss Bingley and her ilk, where faded tapestries, family portraits, and feathered bonnets formed the background for meeting social obligations and solving the world’s great evils.
This was different. It had proved a brief but refreshing change from Netherfield and its practised conversations, social scheming, and gratuitous character disparagement. Longbourn was in need of attention, its grounds neglected, its rugs a bit faded. But he had been impressed by the book titles lining the walls and stacked on the floor in Mr. Bennet’s library. And he had not missed the sight of the ivory chessboard on the table by the window.
The man was a little too droll about his neighbours and dispassionate about his estate, but he had a mind for the elegantly written word. Although without a son, he had said that he often shared his library with his daughter, the same one who would likely beat him in chess that very afternoon. The same one, Darcy suspected, whom he had seen playing with those boys in the town square and who missed the family breakfast in order to walk out when the dew was fresh.
The cost of returning home in muddy boots was minor indeed when a walk brought such a blush to her cheeks and a lilt to her laugh. Her actions did not merit censure from her mother. She was intelligent, interesting, and clever. It was little wonder that she was the soon-to-be-betrothed Bennet sister. The giggly ones were too young to be out, and obviously, the eldest Miss Bennet had captivated Bingley. Miss Elizabeth must indeed be the sister who had an understanding with a gentleman. That gentleman, a man nearly twice her age.
Her liveliness was a rare thing. Those young boys to whom she would be mother would enjoy her spirit. Darcy pondered whether their father believed in a well-stocked library. Then he recalled himself and wonder
ed why, in his busy life with so many demands on his time, he was standing in the middle of Bingley’s woebegone library and thinking on a near stranger’s understanding with a gentleman of no acquaintance. He turned around and walked to his bedroom in search of his boxes of books.
Chapter Four
The sisters worked quietly in the still room, sorting flowers, separating the blooms from their stems, and crushing their petals. Elizabeth stole glances at Jane, who appeared to be glowing with happiness.
Elizabeth was perplexed by Mr. Darcy’s unexpected good humour. It was quite odd. While he carried an air of melancholy, she had seen no signs of grief, no dark smudges of sleeplessness under his eyes. He was quite handsome, she acknowledged, his appearance solemn but not ravaged by pain. Although his betrothed had been sickly—according to their perhaps not wholly accurate source, Mr. Collins—she also was accomplished, remarkable, estimable, and beautiful. Perchance it had been an engagement of true love, but it was more likely one of family obligation, convenience, or tied to some entail or pecuniary agreement. Yet, judging from his manner, it seemed there had been no abiding love and he was free and happy. It was a puzzle.
“Lizzy? Did you hear me?”
Elizabeth looked up from her pile of crushed rose petals.
“Lizzy, those petals are near powder. I believe our work is finished.”
Elizabeth gathered the pulverised blooms and poured them into a jar as Jane watched quietly. “I do not think I am the only sister busy wool-gathering. Is your mind still in the clouds you enjoyed this morning?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Nearly so. I was thinking on our visitors. Your Mr. Bingley was reluctant to leave. Longbourn has some allurements that Netherfield does not?”
“You mean books, Lizzy?” Jane said, blushing. “He is not my Mr. Bingley…”