“Yet to all this, she must add something more substantial—the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.” Mr. Darcy now made a more pronounced tilt of his head and focused his gaze toward the vicinity of her left elbow.
Elizabeth followed his line of sight to the small table beside her. On it lay three books she had not noticed earlier –Rasselas by Samuel Johnson, Shakespeare’s As You Like It, and Blake’s Songs of Innocence. She took up the small volume of poetry and opened it gently to discover a bookplate inscribed “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy” in an elegant hand.
Elizabeth looked up sharply, but the gentleman had already returned his attention to cards and could not receive any silent expression of gratitude she might have managed.
The measure of time Elizabeth deemed sufficient to satisfy courtesy passed quickly now, as her mind was happily engaged by a book and the card-players likewise absorbed in their game. She took her leave to attend Jane, quitting the room in higher spirits than she had entered it. She congratulated herself on ending the evening without damaging Mr. Bingley’s opinion of Jane and having, however improbably, elevated herself in Mr. Darcy’s esteem.
Elizabeth was halfway up the staircase when a draft reminded her she had forgotten her shawl. She ventured back toward the drawing room to retrieve it, but stopped just short of the doorway when she heard her own name mentioned in conversation.
“Eliza Bennet is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own.” Miss Bingley’s unmistakable voice carried out into the hallway. “It is a very mean art, in my opinion.”
Elizabeth laughed against the back of her hand. The loss of Miss Bingley’s friendship caused her no pain. The same could not be said, however, for Mr. Darcy’s reply:
“Undoubtedly,” he declared. “There is meanness in all the arts young ladies employ for captivation. Whatever bears an affinity to cunning is despicable.”
Dispirited, Elizabeth braved the drafty staircase without the benefit of her shawl. She had hoped that Mr. Darcy’s generosity with his books implied a more generous opinion of her character. Perhaps he comprehended that her motives were not her mother’s and would not look upon her again with the same suspicion. Unhappily, his comments proved her hopes to be in vain.
In the drawing room, Darcy felt the irony of his remarks pricking his conscience. Had he not condescended to similar cunning this evening, on two occasions? First, in soliciting a private conversation with Miss Bennet, and second, in contriving to place his personal property in her possession. While he felt such measures beneath his dignity, he found he could not regret their success. Of the three books he had placed upon the side table, only two remained. He imagined Miss Bennet clutching his book in her hand, gathering it close to her body, and carrying it to her chambers. It was as if a small piece of him now traveled with her, and he felt a curious mix of pleasure and trepidation at its surrender.
Chapter Three
Netherfield Hall
“I suspected I might find you here.”
Once again, Mr. Darcy’s furtive entrance to Netherfield’s library took Elizabeth by surprise. Really, she thought, the gentleman ought to be made to wear a bell, so uncannily feline was his surefooted silence.
“Forgive me, Miss Bennet. I did not mean to startle you.”
A rather disingenuous statement, Elizabeth judged. Mr. Darcy gave every appearance of enjoying her distress as she awkwardly rose to her feet, nearly tripping over her skirts in a mangled imitation of a curtsy. The unruffled authority of his own posture in contrast argued against his having recently entered the room. What did he mean by coming in all this state to frighten her, for the second time in as many days? Elizabeth was not accustomed to feeling so off-balance, but she had been on shaky footing with Mr. Darcy since the beginning of their acquaintance.
“I came to inform you that your mother and sisters have arrived. They have been shown to Miss Bennet’s chambers already.”
“I see.”
An uncomfortable silence filled the space between them, and Elizabeth found herself studying the pattern of the carpet with undue concentration. She felt him waiting to see if she would further the conversation; no doubt some sort of test to provoke more evidence of her “artful cunning.” Though reluctant to satisfy his suspicions, Elizabeth could not ignore the small debt of gratitude she owed him. With any good fortune, she and Jane would quit this house today and leave behind any further opportunity to thank him properly.
She came to her decision just as he seemed to reach the limit of his patience, and her speech was therefore too rushed to admit any elegant affectation.
“I do thank you, Mr. Darcy—for telling me of my mother’s arrival, of course, but also for your generosity in lending me your books. I hope you will not mind that I still have one in my chamber upstairs. I will be certain to return it to the drawing room before my sister and I leave Netherfield.”
“Please, do not trouble yourself. It is yours for as long as you wish. Do you enjoy Blake’s poetry?”
“Very much, sir.” Once more, Mr. Darcy seemed perfectly content to let silence continue a conversation in his stead. Elizabeth felt certain he awaited her misstep, so searching was his gaze, but impertinence seemed the only alternative to withering under his scrutiny. “It seems, however,” she continued, “that the volume you lent me is missing its mate.”
She was rewarded with an expression that seemed part smirk and part smile, but by this point any rearrangement of his stern countenance was a welcome reprieve. Elizabeth released her breath in a rather indecorous sigh of relief.
“Yes, I do have the companion in my possession. You speak of Songs of Experience, of course. Forgive me for not including it, but I did not think it an appropriate selection for well-bred young ladies.”
“Then I may shock you, Mr. Darcy, when I own that I have already read it.”
“Not at all.”
Elizabeth bit her lip and felt her cheeks flush with color. Of course, no example of her ill breeding could possibly shock the immutable Mr. Darcy. Certainly he could not mistake an impertinent country gentleman’s daughter for one of the half-dozen ladies truly worthy of his acquaintance. She was sure she could not open her mouth without emitting a highly uncharitable reply, so she forced her lips into a tight smile and took her leave as silently as he had entered. If he was offended by her ill-mannered exit, at least he could not be shocked.
Nothing could give her more happiness than to leave Netherfield that very morning! She mounted the stairs at a fast clip, willing Jane to miraculous recovery with every resounding footfall. Once removed from this house—and from Mr. Darcy’s presence—she would assign the whole experience to the confines of malleable memory and devise an assault of witty rejoinders to shrink him, in all his imposing height and pride, to the size of a bothersome flea.
It was with great consternation, then, that Elizabeth found herself seated across from a very life-sized Mr. Darcy at dinner that evening. Despite her reasoned arguments and desperate pleading, Mama would not hear of Jane being moved from Netherfield. For though she was improved, she was not yet truly recovered, and Mama expressed doubt that a week would be sufficient to restore her to full health. A full week at Netherfield! The very thought cooled Elizabeth’s soup.
She would have gladly suffered a month’s tenure in that house, however, if her mother had only held her tongue. Mrs. Bennet’s ridiculous declarations still clattered in Elizabeth’s ears like cheap cutlery. Not to mention the incessant whispering and plotting of her two youngest sisters; Lydia wheedling Mr. Bingley on his promise to host a ball while Kitty collapsed in girlish giggles. Yet they at least had the good fortune to return to Longbourn, while Jane remained oblivious to all upstairs. Only Elizabeth was forced to view the amused glances that passed between Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley and endure the disapproving glare of Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bingley, to his credit, concerned himself only with Jane and seemed unwilling to brook the slightest assault u
pon her character or family. Elizabeth hurried through her meal as quickly as possible and excused herself to attend Jane.
She rejoined the party in the drawing room some time later, fully intending to spend a perfunctory hour of quiet reading before retiring for the evening. Elizabeth was therefore dismayed to learn that music was to be the entertainment, at Mr. Darcy’s particular request. Miss Bingley enjoined her to lead the way and paused all of two seconds for Elizabeth’s demure deferral before sweeping past her to the pianoforte.
Elizabeth busied herself studying the sheet music atop the instrument while Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst forged their way through an impressive repertoire of Italian and German art songs. She could not help but notice how often Mr. Darcy’s eyes were fixed on her; the strength of his gaze unsettled her more than she cared to admit. Elizabeth was at a loss to comprehend why she should be the object of such intent examination. Had Mr. Darcy not had ample opportunity to satisfy his suspicions of her character? She supposed him to be fascinated by the juxtaposition of Miss Bingley and herself. They must present to him a tableau of feminine extremes—the accomplished and the artful.
Miss Bingley now launched into a pleasant Scottish air, and Mr. Darcy rose from his seat to approach the pianoforte. She determined to maintain a cool demeanor, but her quickening pulse betrayed her best efforts to remain calm as he drew near to her. The look in his eye, which had so clearly seemed one of disapprobation when endured from across the room, now danced with amusement—or perhaps what flickered there was nothing more than reflected candlelight.
“Do you not feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”
If he had asked her to fetch tea from India, Elizabeth could not have been more surprised. She felt herself the object of some sport and briefly considered a conspiracy between him and Miss Bingley to embarrass her, but a quick glance toward the lady in question revealed her to be wholly absorbed in the instrument. He could not possibly wish to dance with her at this moment, and in this setting—and indeed, she reflected, he had not actually asked her to dance. He had only suggested that she must feel so inclined.
“I know, Mr. Darcy, you wish me to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste. But while I was not clever enough this morning to thwart such a scheme, I must warn you I am a quick study. I therefore tell you that I do not want to dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare.”
“Indeed, I do not dare.” He smiled at her then—a flash of humor so fleeting, it barely gave her opportunity to confirm that Mr. Darcy did in fact possess teeth. He attempted to regain his stern composure, but an egg once cracked cannot be mended, and Elizabeth suddenly understood his strange behavior in a different light. A single man in possession of a large fortune, universally the object of reverence from his inferiors, respect from his peers and obsequious fawning from ladies, must be in want of teasing, and desperately so.
Elizabeth surmised that she, being his equal in class yet so decidedly beneath him in circumstance, held a unique position among his general acquaintance. She could speak freely to him, but could little affect him. As such, he was free to take amusement from her ripostes without taking them to heart. She felt it was therefore no great compliment to her, to be singled out by Mr. Darcy to be his partner in a minuet of words. However, they were to inhabit the same house for some days, and Elizabeth already felt her patience for forced smiles and false praise wearing thin. She returned Mr. Darcy’s arch smile. In this particular circumstance, she found she was inclined to dance.
The following evening, Jane was well enough to join the party in the drawing room. Mr. Bingley immediately saw her situated near the fire and, once assured of her comfort, engaged her in quiet, earnest conversation. Mr. Hurst was asleep; Mrs. Hurst occupied in counting her bracelets; and when Miss Bingley asked Elizabeth to join her for a turn about the room, she could think of no plausible excuse not to do so. Elizabeth observed Mr. Darcy’s sharp glance in her direction. For the first time, she recognized it not as censure, but as keen anticipation of a diverting scene.
“Will you not join us, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked as Miss Bingley linked arms with her and began a slow circle of the room.
“I shall not, for you can have but two motives for such an activity, and my joining you should interfere with either.”
The two ladies demanded an explanation of this cryptic comment, and Mr. Darcy readily obliged.
“Either you have secrets to share in confidence, in which case I should only be in your way; or you are cognizant that your figures appear to the best advantage when walking, in which case I can admire you better from here.”
“Oh! Shocking!” Miss Bingley cried. “However shall we punish him for such a speech?”
“Why, tease him of course. You are his intimate acquaintance; you ought to know how it is done.”
“Tease Mr. Darcy? Impossible. How does one begin to tease calmness of temper and presence of mind? We shall end by being the object of our own joke, if we attempt it.”
“Why Miss Bingley, you suggest that Mr. Darcy is without flaws!” Elizabeth said with a sly glance in Mr. Darcy’s direction. Though holding a book, the gentleman was following their conversation as clearly as his eyes followed their figures. “Even the best and wisest of men have follies and whims that can be exposed to diverting effect. Tell us how we may laugh at you, Mr. Darcy, or we shall be forced to apply to Mr. Bingley for assistance.”
“There is no need. I own my faults readily enough. My temper I cannot vouch for. I might be called resentful. My good opinion once lost is lost forever.”
“Implacable resentment—that is a fault indeed, but one cannot laugh at it. You are no help whatsoever, Mr. Darcy. Miss Bingley, we have no choice but to ask your brother.”
Mr. Bingley’s conference with Jane was thus interrupted, as the ladies appealed to him to reveal Mr. Darcy’s more amusing faults. Mr. Bingley, like his sister, seemed at a loss to recall any. “When writing letters, he studies too hard for words of four syllables,” he owned at length.
“He is rather poor at whist,” Mrs. Hurst opined from the sofa, having moved on from her bracelets to a study of her rings.
“Now there is a searing indictment,” Elizabeth laughed. “Miss Bingley, I find I am forced to agree with you. It seems a hopeless business to tease Mr. Darcy, when his closest friends can offer nothing better than this, that he has greater facility with the quill than with cards.”
She regarded the gentleman in question closely. She could not deny the pleasing effect of arrogance on his features—the smug set of his jaw charmed his lips into the curve of a smile even as it issued an unspoken challenge. “I shall not envy him his perfect character, however. A man so complete in his own right can have little use for the society of others. For what service are our faults, if not to draw us into one another’s confidence and encourage affection? Mr. Darcy may hug himself, but I will take delight in the comfort of family and friends.”
Elizabeth took a moment to savor the triumph of Mr. Darcy’s stunned silence. She cast her own proud smile, however, in the direction of Jane, whose countenance radiated better health than it had for some days as she basked in the warmth of a roaring fire and the gentle attentiveness of Mr. Bingley. If the two were not in love already, Elizabeth thought, they were well on their way.
Miss Bingley had tired of walking and conversation, it seemed, and suggested some musical diversion. Elizabeth magnanimously offered to turn pages for her. Mr. Darcy again took up his book. The insufficient light made it impossible for Elizabeth to read the book’s title from across the room, but the volume’s size and handsome binding unmistakably matched the volume of poetry that remained in her own chamber upstairs.
Mr. Darcy was reading Songs of Experience.
The next morning, Jane felt greatly improved. The sisters shared a breakfast tray in Jane’s chamber, and Elizabeth enjoyed watching her sister eat heartily for the first time in days
. The two agreed that they had imposed long enough on the Bingleys’ hospitality. Although Mama had denied them use of the carriage until Tuesday, it was determined that Elizabeth should apply to Mr. Bingley directly and request that he return them to Longbourn in his own carriage, today if possible.
Elizabeth made her way down to Mr. Bingley’s study. She had resided at Netherfield enough days to know his habit was to spend the greater part of his mornings there, in conference with his steward or attending to correspondence. She knocked gently at the door and heard Mr. Bingley invite her to enter. She admitted herself into the room to find Mr. Bingley reclined behind his desk, idly twirling a quill between his fingers as he gazed out the window. Mr. Darcy sat at a small escritoire, industriously penning words of four syllables.
“Good morning, Mr. Bingley. Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth made a light curtsy as the gentlemen scrambled to their feet.
“Miss Bennet! Forgive me, I was expecting my steward. Please, be seated.” Mr. Bingley indicated a silk-upholstered chair across from his desk, but Elizabeth politely declined.
“Forgive me for intruding. I shall not trouble you for much of your time. It is only that I can happily report that my sister is feeling well this morning.”
“I am glad to hear of it!”
“Thank you, Mr. Bingley. As I was saying, she is nearly completely recovered now, and as much as we appreciate your kind hospitality, Jane and I both feel we should impose upon it no longer. I came to inquire if it might be possible…”
Before Elizabeth could finish her request, a loud commotion emanating from the hallway drew the attention of all in the room. Three men burst through the door, the two on either end dragging the third between them. The younger man in the middle was attired in coarse garments that appeared to be freshly rent and streaked with mud. His hands were bound behind his back, but he did not struggle with his captors. Elizabeth recognized the man on the left to be Mr. Bingley’s steward, Mr. Thorpe.
Elizabeth and Darcy- Ardently Yours Page 3