by Jennifer Joy
Elizabeth did not know why she had been included. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had made their disapproval of her known at the assembly with their snide remarks and haughty airs. Mr. Hurst did not even merit consideration. There was Mr. Darcy, but the possibility of him wishing to include her at their dinner party was scanty. He had avoided her since their brief conversation at the assembly. That left only Mr. Bingley, and Elizabeth was pleased to credit him with her inclusion for all that it fortified her already favorable impression of the amiable gentleman.
Finally, the carriage came to a stop in front of Netherfield Park. A footman handed her and Jane out. The polished front steps gleamed in the descending light of the setting sun. The entrance hall was bright and spacious, a few tiny rainbows reflecting off the prisms of the chandelier onto the walls. It was a lovely setting.
She and Jane smoothed their gowns in the reflections of the large gilded mirrors on either side of the wide doors where the housekeeper took their bonnets and spencers. Then, the butler led them into a parlor where Mr. Bingley paced in front of the window, flanked by his two sisters.
“Miss Bennet! Miss Elizabeth! How delightful you could join us!” Mr. Bingley welcomed, springing forward and bowing with a great deal of enthusiasm.
Mr. Darcy bowed elegantly. Of course.
Elizabeth tried not to notice that the dark blue color of his waistcoat matched the ribbon Emily had woven through her hair and tied around her waist.
Mr. Hurst inclined his head after his wife woke him with a nudge on the shoulder.
Pleasantries were exchanged, and after an extensive and highly proper discussion about the thunderstorms of the week before and the much-improved weather of the present, dinner was announced.
To Elizabeth’s relief, she saw that while Jane was not seated next to Mr. Bingley, the occupants of the table were so few as to merit their placement insignificant. Situated as Elizabeth was between Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, she was grateful for the intimacy of the setting. She did not know what she could speak of with the Hursts. They had already exhausted talk of the weather.
After the first course was served, Elizabeth reflected that she need not have worried about conversation at all. Mr. Hurst attended to his soup with a vigor which excluded speech. Mrs. Hurst only spoke when she could express support for her sister, which was often enough.
Miss Bingley expressed her numerous views with great intent, accenting each opinion with a glance at Mr. Darcy.
To the gentleman’s credit, Miss Bingley’s chagrin — and, therefore, to Elizabeth’s gratification — Mr. Darcy did not flatter her empty expressions. To the contrary, he often asked for an explanation. Had her opinions been her own to defend, Miss Bingley’s replies would have led to a lively discussion. But they were not, and after several repetitions of “I am sure I cannot say,” Mr. Darcy stopped asking for explanations the lady was clearly unprepared to give, and Miss Bingley fell silent by the end of the third course.
Elizabeth suspected that Mr. Darcy had achieved precisely what he had set out to do, and she inwardly applauded his ability to silence pandering, gratuitous speech.
Mr. Bingley was not one to suffer silence. He took the lead at the head of the table, but unlike his sister, his views were his own and he discussed them openly, inviting discussion and even opposing views with good humor.
Jane hung on his every word, but spoke little, as was her custom when they were in company. Misunderstanding her timidity as disinterest in the topic, Mr. Bingley wove a varied tapestry of discussion, including everything from fashion to politics, house management to entertainments. He often dabbed his face with his napkin, so great was his exertion.
Elizabeth sought to give him a reprieve before he exhausted himself. “I understand Sir William helped you fill your stables, Mr. Bingley. Do you enjoy riding?”
It was a painful topic, but her desire to hear of Tempest was too great to ignore.
“Very much! In town, we are limited to Hyde Park, and it gets so crowded one must be careful. You cannot imagine how glorious it is to race over the hills,” he replied.
Elizabeth smiled. It was no trouble at all for her to imagine such a thing.
Mr. Darcy, who had been mostly an observer rather than an active participant in Mr. Bingley’s multifarious discussions, finally spoke. With one raised eyebrow, he remarked, “Miss Elizabeth is quite the horsewoman.”
A scoff escaped Elizabeth before she could check it. “Quite the horsewoman” could mean anything from greatly proficient to the worst rider in Christendom. Covering her impulsive reaction with a cough, Elizabeth reached for her wine glass, sipping and peeking at Mr. Darcy over the rim. Was he mocking her? Mr. Darcy could hardly think her a skilled horsewoman with the image of her muddy face and riding habit staining his memory.
The corner of his lip curled upward.
She looked down at her lap, her wine glass clinking against the silver as she set it down blindly. He was teasing her, and while his attention was flattering, it also reminded Elizabeth of the embarrassing history she would rather he forgot. It was a vain hope, and one she must handle with care. If she looked at Mr. Darcy, she would laugh, then she would be forced to explain why she and Mr. Darcy shared a joke to which nobody else at the table was privy.
Miss Bingley said, “Every lady who would call herself accomplished must be able to ride well.” She lifted her chin and smiled contentedly at Elizabeth. So self-satisfied was her expression, Elizabeth wondered what the lady knew to justify the airs she gave herself. Whatever it was, Miss Bingley seemed to think it significant.
Elizabeth could not think of anything the lady could use against her. She had not witnessed the accident, and though Elizabeth knew little about Mr. Darcy, she did not believe him to be the sort of man to revel in the misadventures of others.
Nor did she suspect Miss Bingley had overheard her father speak with Sir William at the assembly when the lady had done everything in her power to distance herself from the lowly locals.
Miss Bingley’s lips curled back from her teeth. “We shall have to arrange an outing. Do you have a favorite horse at Longbourn, Miss Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth’s stomach clenched.
Meeting the challenge in her hostess’ eyes with one of her own, Elizabeth managed her reply as favorably as she could. “We do not keep riding horses at Longbourn. However, the Lucases have been kind enough to allow us to ride theirs on occasion. Sir William has the finest stables in Hertfordshire.”
She felt Mr. Darcy’s eyes on her, but she refused to look away from Miss Bingley.
The lady feigned shock. Grasping the gaudy necklace at her throat, Miss Bingley exclaimed, “How is that possible? How does your father expect you to be an accomplished lady if he does not supply horses for you to ride? How do you exercise?”
If her family’s lack of horses shocked Miss Bingley, then what Elizabeth planned to say would certainly shock the lady further. With increased gaiety, Elizabeth said, “I assure you we do not suffer from want of exercise. My father makes up for our empty stables with a constant supply of books. Improving the mind through extensive reading is as important an exercise as that of a physical nature, although to allay your concern, please allow me to reassure you that I dearly love long walks and seek opportunities to indulge in them often.” Alone — she added rebelliously in her mind. She had done enough damage without adding that little detail.
Miss Bingley looked horrified. Exercise of the mind? Books? What were those good for but to scatter across tables to give the appearance of intelligence? And walks? What accomplished lady would ruin her satin slippers to experience the beauty of nature when one appeared to greater advantage atop a horse?
Elizabeth bit her lips and looked away from Miss Bingley.
“You can hardly learn anything from a book,” Miss Bingley opined.
Feeling impertinent and bold, Elizabeth said, “Then I must be very ignorant, indeed, for most of what I know has been learned from their pages.” She smiled
at Miss Bingley, who gasped between huffs.
“I applaud your father’s foresight.” Mr. Darcy’s clear tone silenced Miss Bingley. It silenced everyone.
His eyes held hers. “Of all the accomplishments society requires of a lady, extensive reading is the most substantial and, therefore, the most beneficial.”
His words warmed Elizabeth’s heart. Mr. Darcy did not consider her an ignorant hoyden after all.
Miss Bingley exclaimed, “Of course, we all agree that there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book. When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library. However, you must admit that some things simply cannot be taught as efficiently from books, such as a lady’s air or manner of walking.”
It had never occurred to Elizabeth to wish to learn those things.
Mr. Bingley and Jane looked about them in acute discomfort, no doubt equally distressed at the lack of absolute harmony in the dining room. Dear Jane never could endure a hint of disagreement, and apparently, she had met her equal in Mr. Bingley.
Snapping his fingers, he said, “I saw the most fascinating article about the traitor who was captured by the same British spy who took down a ring of smugglers only weeks before.”
Did Mr. Darcy roll his eyes? Elizabeth would swear he had done it. However, the gesture was so unexpected from him, she doubted.
Miss Bingley snapped, “Ladies do not read the newspaper, Charles. It is too shocking for our delicacies.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and bit her tongue (her lips were getting sore.)
When Mr. Darcy cleared his throat, she held her breath, eager to hear what he would say.
“It is important for every citizen — ladies and gentlemen alike — to be informed of current affairs. Should the women be caught defenseless in ignorance and fully trusting the men in their families, who have been spoon-fed the rubbish in the papers, to make the best decisions for their wellbeing?”
A favorable view with which Elizabeth found no fault, but as was often the case with Mr. Darcy, his reply provoked more questions than he answered.
“You do not trust the accounts in the papers, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth inquired, wondering what information he might have which caused him to distrust the papers. Insider information, perhaps? While it was ridiculous to continue to think of Mr. Darcy as a spy, he might be acquainted with one.
Confidently, daringly, Mr. Darcy’s gaze fixed on her. “The newspapers are more interested in increasing their circulation than they are in telling the truth. I suspect the British spy they like to write about is a fictional character, a trick to sell more papers. Nothing more.”
He would deny the spy’s existence altogether? If the newspapers sought to make money from spectacular spy stories, at least their ulterior motives were relatively transparent. What was Mr. Darcy’s motive? What did he stand to gain by denying their veracity? Was he protecting someone?
Elizabeth shook her head. If she was not careful, she would fall victim to her imagination again.
“Be what they may, they make for entertaining reading,” Mr. Bingley commented.
Jane said softly, “Our father likes to read them aloud to us when we are gathered around the table. It is so quiet in Hertfordshire, it seems strange that there are those who risk life and limb, facing danger every day.”
Elizabeth’s heart cheered at Jane’s boldness.
Mr. Bingley brightened. “I am pleased you see the seriousness of the matter. We must not forget the sacrifice involved by this man … if he exists,” he added with a glance at Mr. Darcy.
“Well said, Bingley,” Mr. Darcy acknowledged, raising his glass.
Miss Bingley raised her fingers and nodded at a servant nearest the door. Without a word, the servant slipped out of the room, and Miss Bingley smiled as warmly as her pinched face granted. “Just because we are denied the entertainments of town does not mean we must deny ourselves of all of its delights. I sent for some sweetmeats, the likes of which I am certain you have never tasted, along with a jar of preserves from Barton’s.”
Elizabeth did not know who or what “Barton’s” was, but given the reverence with which Miss Bingley uttered the name, they must be something of consequence.
Mr. Hurst apparently knew Barton’s, and the prospect of their preserves had him sitting up in his chair, provoking a belch which his wife ignored.
Mr. Bingley looked mortified.
For his sake, Elizabeth overlooked the voluminous exhale. It had not been aimed in her direction. Mrs. Hurst, on the other hand, raised her napkin to her nose.
Not knowing to expect more food after their meal, Elizabeth was disinclined to consume a bite more. Jane, too, must have eaten her fill. She did not reach eagerly for the pastries or preserves as their hosts did.
“Will you not have one, Mr. Darcy? Georgiana told me these are your particular favorites,” Miss Bingley said smoothly, batting her eyelashes and leaning forward against the table to display her … ahem, figure … to greater advantage.
Mr. Darcy’s eyes did not drift downward. Elizabeth thought more highly of him for it.
“I have eaten my fill,” he said.
Miss Bingley pouted, but Mr. Darcy would not be swayed.
With one more sweetmeat on the platter, Miss Bingley addressed Jane. “As our guest, I insist you try one, Dear Jane. You will thank me, I am sure.” She slipped the pastry onto a plate, drowning the sweetmeat with several spoonfuls of apple preserves.
Too acquiescent to refuse as Mr. Darcy had, Jane accepted the plate. And, because it was expected and would please her hostess, once Jane swallowed her last bite, she professed the sweetmeat and preserves to be every bit as delicious as Miss Bingley had claimed them to be.
“My favorite is the strawberry jam, but this apple is superb,” professed Mr. Bingley.
The Hursts’ mouths were too full to offer their opinions, which was compliment enough for Miss Bingley.
The jar of preserves, which would have lasted a week at Longbourn (if kept away from Lydia), was empty.
Miss Bingley rose, signaling that it was time for the ladies to join her in the drawing room.
She and Mrs. Hurst doted on Jane, leaving Elizabeth to observe the room at her leisure. There was a card table set up on one end of the room, and a pianoforte occupied a prominent position in the center. There were no books to speak of, so Elizabeth inspected the landscapes on the walls and imagined herself wandering over the painted fields, picking wildflowers and dipping her toes into one of the ponds.
The men were not long in joining them, and it pleased Elizabeth to notice that neither Mr. Darcy nor Mr. Bingley reeked of cigars. Her father only smoked a pipe, and she had never grown accustomed to the pungent cigar smell as Charlotte had. Perhaps if her brother had lived….
Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut, ridding herself of unpleasant thoughts. What place did cigar smoke and deceased heirs have in the charming room?
Miss Bingley played and sang while Mrs. Hurst turned the pages and watched for signs of Mr. Darcy’s pleasure.
Said gentleman receiving so much attention, Elizabeth determined not to look at him at all. Instead, she pondered his character, frustrated she still did not know what to make of him despite hours of observation and more conversation.
As captivated as she was on puzzling Mr. Darcy’s complexities, one look at Jane chased all thought of him from Elizabeth’s mind.
An extreme change had come over her sister. Her cheeks were so pale, they looked green in the candlelight. A slick sheen of sweat glistened over her skin.
Elizabeth moved closer to the settee, her focus riveted on her sister. Clasping her hand, Elizabeth’s concern grew. Jane’s touch was cold and moist. Lifting her hand to her sister’s forehead, she asked, “Jane, are you well? Shall we depart for Longbourn?”
The sheer misery reflected in Jane’s face soon caught Mr. Bingley’s full attention. “Miss Bennet, are you in need of rest? I daresay
dinner was a touch too rich. I, too, am feeling its effects. Do you wish for a cup of tea?” he asked, already ringing for a maid.
Jane groaned in reply and leaned against Elizabeth.
“Jane!” Elizabeth wrapped her arm around her sister, holding her up before she collapsed completely.
Turning to Mr. Bingley, Elizabeth said, “Is there a room where she might lie down? Hopefully, her malaise will pass shortly.” As quickly as Jane had taken ill, Elizabeth feared she was being overly optimistic about her recovery.
Immediately, he asked the maid to take them to the guest bedchambers. Following them out to the hall, Mr. Bingley said, “You must both stay the night. I will send a messenger to Longbourn so they know not to expect you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bingley,” Elizabeth said over her shoulder, tightening her grip around Jane’s arms as they navigated the stairs.
“Let me help you, Miss,” the maid said, grabbing Jane’s other side. Elizabeth was grateful. Her sister’s weight grew heavier with each step toward the top of the landing, and her breathing became more labored.
Jane tripped over her feet as they dragged her over the threshold into the bedchamber. Her eyes glistening, she covered her mouth and heaved.
Elizabeth dived for the wash basin at the same time the maid lifted the water pitcher out of it.
Poor Jane crumpled to the floor, but they reached her just in time.
Never before had Elizabeth seen anyone so violently ill.
Chapter 10
Which was worse — chill or fever? Elizabeth pushed Jane’s hair away from her damp forehead and pressed her hands against Jane’s cheeks to warm them, praying she was not doing anything to worsen her sister’s condition. Oh, if only she had not been distracted by Homer and Shakespeare, then she might have dedicated more attention to the texts on medicinal herbs gracing Papa’s bookshelves!
This incessant purging of bile was unlike anything Elizabeth had experienced or seen. If she did not know better, she would have thought Miss Bingley had poisoned Jane … but why would she do that? If anyone, the lofty lady would have directed her venom at Elizabeth. She might have won a defender in Mr. Darcy at dinner, but she had also won an enemy in Miss Bingley. It could not be helped, and Elizabeth did not have the energy to concern herself with Miss Bingley when her own sister was so ill.