As she hurried away, Mr. Collins beamed at Darcy. “Now I have the opportunity to tell you of my plans to purchase a new carriage for Longbourn…”
Darcy sighed. He had accomplished all he could for the evening, and now he resigned himself to the babble.
Chapter Five
Elizabeth was irritated with herself for caring. She had a clean dress—her best day dress, a sprigged muslin that was not quite as worn as the others—and her hair was tidy. But she could not help wondering if there were shadows beneath her eyes or if the color had drained from her cheeks. Ever since Jane’s breathless account of encountering Mr. Darcy the night before, he seemed to occupy all her thoughts at a time when she had far more important concerns. He had promised to call upon Longbourn today. At any moment they could hear his knock upon the door. Elizabeth wished it did not matter to her.
There was nothing for it. Imagining Mr. Darcy sitting in their drawing room reminded her forcefully that she was no longer Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn. She was simply Elizabeth Bennet, or perhaps Miss Bennet of Nowhere, a woman with a spotty education and little to recommend her save faded prettiness and a pert tongue. Elizabeth was all too aware that she was leaner, tanner, and more muscular than when he had last seen her. She consumed the same amount of food, but constant labor had worn away the slight curves her figure had once possessed. Her hands were not dainty, and her complexion was no longer creamy.
Mr. Darcy’s return recalled the last happy time in her life, when her greatest concerns were her sisters’ squabbles and whether she would have a partner for the ball. She had been completely ignorant of how fragile her peace was. It had shattered practically overnight—and through no fault of Elizabeth’s. All it took was a sister’s disgrace and a father’s death, and her whole world was turned on its end.
Nearly everyone in Meryton regarded the Bennet sisters with sneers or sympathy, but Elizabeth had accustomed herself to it. Could she bear either sneers or sympathy from Mr. Darcy?
She kneaded the dough on the kitchen table, sending flour drifting into the air. It would be sneers, of course. Mr. Darcy was not a very sympathetic man, although he had demonstrated unexpected compassion at Hunsford when she learned of her father’s first attack of apoplexy. He had been all that was kind and had even dispatched his coach to take her to Longbourn.
But she could not expect such civility again. Most people could display compassion under extreme circumstances; it was a different matter when faced with a disgraced family.
And why must he come at such an inconvenient time? He had not visited for two years; plainly he did not enjoy the company in this neighborhood. Why had he bothered to return at all? Even if he had some business in the area, it would be a simple matter to avoid the acquaintance. Surely it was beneath him to gloat at her diminished circumstances. Perhaps some misguided sense of obligation drove him.
She brushed hair from her face, no doubt getting flour on her forehead, and worried about flour on her gown despite the apron she wore over it. But there was nothing for it. Bread must be made; Hill could not do everything.
A knock sounded at Longbourn’s front entrance. Hill hurried up the stairs, her heels tapping a staccato rhythm on the wood.
Elizabeth hurried to pull the apron over her head and hang it on a peg. Jane rushed into the room. Without speaking a word, she tucked a wayward lock of hair behind Elizabeth’s ear and brushed flour from her cheek. Jane had been dusting, so Elizabeth performed the same office for her, removing dust from the shoulder of her gown. It was a routine they followed whenever somebody visited Longbourn, perpetuating the myth that they were gently bred women who never worked.
Hill’s voice echoed from the front hall. “Right this way, Mr. Darcy, if you please. The blue drawing room.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath, attempting to calm her nerves. I am being silly. He is merely a gentleman of my acquaintance. We will have a pleasant conversation, and then he will depart. There is nothing very remarkable about the visit.
They would exchange pleasantries. Mr. Darcy would speak to Collins about the latest bill in Parliament and comment on the weather to her mother. They would relate the latest happenings in the neighborhood. And that would be the end of it. She would never see him again or have reason to think of him.
Elizabeth and Jane slipped up the back stairs, which led to the breakfast room. From there, they hurried through the dining room to the yellow parlor, grabbing their embroidery so it would appear they had been idling the day away as young ladies should. Elizabeth had been working on the same piece for the better part of a year now.
She heard Charlotte’s light step as she entered the drawing room; it was only proper that the lady of the house be the first person to greet Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth exchanged a nervous glance with Jane before they traversed the hallway and opened the drawing room door.
Their mother had preceded them and was loudly exclaiming how nice it was to see Mr. Darcy and how long it had been since last they met. Charlotte was quietly pouring tea. She never seemed to mind Mrs. Bennet demanding the greater part of every conversation—even when Charlotte’s own parents visited. They were fortunate indeed that Collins had married a woman with such a placid temperament; few others would have tolerated Longbourn’s previous mistress living under the same roof.
At one time Elizabeth might have asked her friend if she found Mrs. Bennet’s presence irksome, but a gulf had necessarily grown between them when Charlotte had become mistress of Longbourn. They were still on friendly terms, and Charlotte often took Elizabeth’s part if she had a difference of opinion with Collins. But they were not as intimate as they had once been. Yet another thing that had been altered forever.
Mr. Darcy’s reaction when Jane and Elizabeth entered was quite pronounced. He stood immediately, regarding Elizabeth in particular with unnerving intensity. “Miss Bennet. Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured, bowing slightly. He eagerly drank in every detail of her appearance, causing her to flush. She must appear very altered to his eyes.
The sisters curtsied, and then Jane quietly maneuvered their mother from the middle of the room to a chair at a distance from Mr. Darcy. As Elizabeth sat on the settee beside Jane, Mr. Darcy’s gaze followed her every movement with a slight frown. Was he judging her and finding her wanting? The thought was nearly intolerable; she had to suppress an urge to make an excuse and leave the room.
Fortunately, her mother was pleased to draw their guest’s attention to her. “It is very good of you to visit us! There have been a vast many happenings in the neighborhood since you departed!”
“Indeed?” Mr. Darcy’s voice was polite and cool.
“Yes, well, Mrs. Long’s oldest daughter is married and left for Yorkshire. And the Bramptons’ son has gone into the regulars. Purvis Lodge has been let to a fine gentleman from the navy, Mr. Shaw, who has a great many children.”
Mr. Darcy accepted a cup of tea from Charlotte.
“Of course,” her mother continued, “the biggest changes have been here at Longbourn. My dear husband perished so suddenly, and now we have the Collinses to take possession.” At least her mother did not burst into tears, as she was wont to do when guests visited. Perhaps she had guessed Mr. Darcy would not appreciate theatrics. She did allow a few tears to trickle delicately down her cheeks so she might dab her eyes daintily with a handkerchief. “We all miss him terribly.”
Mr. Darcy held his teacup awkwardly. “I am sorry for your loss.”
“I thank you!” Mrs. Bennet waved her handkerchief dramatically. “You are the soul of generosity.”
Mr. Darcy regarded her with alarm, unsure how to address such effusiveness. Elizabeth marveled at her mother’s ability to make any guest feel ill at ease.
Hoping to steer the conversation in a more salubrious direction, Elizabeth asked, “How have you been faring these past years, Mr. Darcy?” she asked. “Are you well? And your sister?”
His eyes locked with hers. She had forgotten how blue they were, a deep cobalt intensified by t
he darkness of his hair. It was unfair that one man should be granted such handsomeness in addition to great wealth. “We are both quite well, thank you. We have just returned from a tour of Upper Canada.”
“Canada? In North America?”
“Indeed. We were gone for a year and a half—and only recently returned.”
Oh. I had assumed he was one of the many who had abandoned our family following Lydia’s scandal. But he had not even been in England. But why had he visited Meryton so soon? He must have some pressing matter of business.
“That is a long voyage,” Jane murmured.
Mr. Darcy seemed puzzled. “I thought—I would think—I assumed you knew of my travels.”
“No,” Elizabeth said faintly.
“I believed my aunt had related all of our family news to Mr. Collins, but apparently not.”
Collins’s silence on the matter was a rather glaring omission. He often read long passages from Lady Catherine’s letters at the dinner table. In this way, Elizabeth had learned details about all Lady Catherine’s neighbors, garden, and staff. Yet he had never mentioned something that touched on a mutual acquaintance. How odd.
Mr. Darcy continued. “I have business interests there, and we took some time to tour the country. It was quite lovely. Mr. Bingley accompanied us. You remember Mr. Bingley?”
Jane could not quite conceal a start of surprise. “Yes, of course,” she responded automatically.
Mr. Bingley traveled with Mr. Darcy’s sister? Was there an understanding? An engagement? Mr. Darcy must have guessed the tendency of her thoughts. “Bingley never had many opportunities to travel, and I was grateful for someone else to watch over Georgiana. By the end of the first month, I believe he quite regarded her as the little sister he never had.”
He would hardly describe their relationship thus if they were engaged. Beside her on the settee, Jane relaxed fractionally. “It was a shame he was unable to accompany you here,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes. But Mr. Bingley still holds the lease to Netherfield, so he may yet visit.” Mr. Darcy was studiously avoiding any glances in Jane’s direction. Was Mr. Bingley engaged or married? Just because he did not love Miss Darcy, it did not necessarily follow that he was unattached. “My visit to Meryton was a hasty affair to manage some business.”
“I pray you”—Jane cleared her throat—“I pray you, give him our regards.”
“He will be pleased to hear about your family.”
Jane did not smile, but her countenance did brighten a bit.
Their mother had managed to hold her tongue for longer than Elizabeth would have believed possible, but her restraint did not last. “Indeed, yes! Tell Mr. Bingley we long to see him! He is welcome to dinner any time. Er—” Mrs. Bennet cast a glance at Charlotte, recalling that she was no longer mistress there.
“We would be happy to have Mr. Bingley as a guest,” Charlotte said serenely.
“I will convey your invitation,” Mr. Darcy said to Charlotte. “I understand you have had a recent addition to your family.”
“Oh yes!” Charlotte’s expression softened as it always did when she discussed her son. “His name is Robert, and he…” Mr. Darcy had unwittingly hit on the only subject that would make Charlotte Collins garrulous, but he seemed quite content to listen to her enumerate her son’s amazing achievements, among them: holding up his head, rolling over, smiling, and growing two teeth.
As Charlotte spoke, Elizabeth suddenly realized Mr. Darcy was staring at her hands. As the weather grew warmer, she had not troubled herself to don gloves after working in the kitchen. But her bare hands were red and chafed, bearing callouses and blisters—the unmistakable signs of labor. They were not the hands of a young lady. Elizabeth flushed and fought the urge to hide her hands under the folds of her gown.
There is nothing I might do now, she consoled herself. He has noticed and is unlikely to forget. The damage is done.
Why should I care what he thinks of me anyway? He is wholly unconnected to me and my life. She did not understand why he had troubled himself to visit since he did not appear particularly interested in any of the conversation. Let him think what he likes. My hands are calloused because I am caring for my family. Elizabeth raised her chin and stared at Mr. Darcy, daring him to criticize her callouses. After a moment he reddened and averted his gaze.
Now her mother was recalling the halcyon days when Mr. Bingley had thrown a ball at Netherfield. Elizabeth supposed the reminiscences did no harm, although she could still recall how embarrassed she had been by her mother’s indiscretions and Mr. Collins’s want of delicacy at that event. It was also the only time she had danced with Mr. Darcy. Did he now regret it?
Mr. Darcy had never been an intimate friend of the Bennets, and surely he knew how Lydia had damaged the family’s reputation. But he had never liked Mr. Wickham; perhaps he was more willing than others to blame the officer rather than their sister.
Perhaps Mr. Darcy deserved her approbation rather than her scorn. She gave him a small smile, and he returned a bemused expression.
Her mother chattered with great animation, most likely still nurturing some hope that Mr. Darcy might convince Mr. Bingley to resume courting Jane. Nothing would make Elizabeth happier. If even one of the Bennet sisters could escape their slow descent into poverty, Elizabeth would be quite relieved.
But it was a vain hope. Jane was an even less acceptable match for Mr. Bingley than she had been before. Elizabeth wondered if Mr. Darcy was regretting his decision to visit Longbourn. Those regrets must have surely intensified when the door opened to admit Collins. The man was breathless, having doubtless rushed to the drawing room when he learned of Mr. Darcy’s visit.
“Mr. Darcy, sir!” Her cousin bowed, shook the other man’s hand, and then bowed again. “You are very welcome. Most welcome indeed to our humble abode.” Standing beside Charlotte, he took her hand and gave her a simpering smile that would have made Elizabeth laugh had she not seen it so frequently as to become immune. “Mrs. Collins and I are quite delighted to have you grace our home. You honor us with your presence.”
Mr. Darcy clearly believed the effusiveness of the welcome was unnecessary. “It is my pleasure,” he said shortly, eyeing the door as if considering an escape, but instead he took a sip of his tea.
“I must say—and forgive me that I did not say this yesterday, but I was quite amazed to see you at the assembly; indeed I was nearly overcome with shock—but I must say welcome home from your travels. I hope you did not find the Colonies too excessively savage.” Collins did not wait for a response. “Lady Catherine always said she would take great pleasure in visiting the Colonies, but unfortunately her stomach rebels at the slightest boat trip. I cannot count the number of times she has said to me, ‘I would show those ignorant colonists how a truly great nation functions.’ And I replied that indeed those people had been deprived of true greatness.”
“They seem to be struggling on despite that deprivation,” Darcy said dryly. Elizabeth had to cover her mouth to stifle a laugh.
Collins nodded earnestly as he settled himself beside his wife and accepted a cup of tea from her. He often poured a little brandy into his tea, but fortunately he did not do so in front of their guest. “Have you visited Rosings Park since your return?” he asked.
“I have not had that pleasure,” Mr. Darcy said. “I arrived home only a few days ago.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose. His business in Meryton must be very urgent indeed. She wondered what it could be since she was unaware that he possessed any connections to the neighborhood.
Collins’s gaze flicked quickly to Elizabeth; she wanted to roll her eyes. Charlotte had suspected Mr. Darcy had formed an attachment to her, but really it was nonsense. “You should visit Kent at once,” her cousin admonished him. “Your aunt has felt your absence most keenly and is naturally most eager to celebrate a certain long-awaited event.” No doubt her cousin was hinting about Mr. Darcy’s engagement to Anne de Bourgh. Elizabeth had
never heard the man himself refer to such an engagement, but he did not now deny it.
“I will visit Rosings in due course,” he said impassively.
Collins bounced with energy, obviously unsatisfied with this vague promise. “Lady Catherine is most eager to see you.”
Mr. Darcy regarded the man coolly. “I have pressing business elsewhere.”
Collins glanced around the room, perhaps seeking a change of subject. “Where are Kitty and Mary? They should be here with our guest.”
“I sent them to the market for tonight’s dinner,” Charlotte said hastily.
“Hmph.” Collins settled into his chair, dissatisfied. He must believe they should wait at home all day in anticipation of a visit.
Elizabeth reached out to take a lemon biscuit, a rare treat. Her cousin frowned on such indulgences unless guests were present. As she nibbled on the sweet, she was aware of Mr. Darcy’s eyes upon her. No doubt he was chronicling every worn seam and loose thread in Elizabeth’s gown. Knowing she was flushing, she was not equal to meeting his eyes.
At least she need not be ashamed of Longbourn itself. Collins was dedicated to keeping up appearances, and Charlotte made sure the rooms never veered toward shabbiness. Attempting to direct his attention to more neutral subjects, she inquired about his family and Mr. Bingley’s sisters. But they had soon exhausted their mutual acquaintances.
Eventually the conversation devolved—as it so often did these days—into Collins’s rhapsodies about Lady Catherine and her inestimable advice on managing an estate.
Occasionally, Elizabeth permitted herself to examine Mr. Darcy. Somehow she had forgotten how handsome he was, with his dark wavy hair and fine patrician features. His clothes were very fine as well, possessing the air of elegance and refinement that Collins aspired to but would never achieve. She even admired the arc of his eyebrows and the straight line of his nose.
What is wrong with me? Ogling a man in such a fashion! Elizabeth immediately dropped her gaze, grateful that he had not noticed. Elizabeth saw so few men; perhaps she could be forgiven for a trifle too much admiration.
Rebellion at Longbourn Page 8