“I beg your pardon, sir, but I have a matter that cannot wait for your attention,” said Mr. Thorpe. “Richards, the gamekeeper, discovered this brigand poaching pheasants on Netherfield property before dawn this morning. The magistrate has been sent for, of course, but this vermin has been quite vocal in requesting a personal interview with you, sir.”
Elizabeth felt the impropriety of her presence at this scene, but the three men blocked the only exit to the room. She settled for easing herself toward the side of the room and remaining as quiet as possible. She felt sympathy for Mr. Bingley, who appeared clearly out of his depth.
“Of course. Certainly… I mean, what is it he can wish to say?”
The poacher seized the opportunity to speak, and began to plead his case with Mr. Bingley. With great distress, he begged the gentleman not to press charges, asking mercy for the sake of the family he had been attempting to feed. As he spoke, his hair fell away from his features, and Elizabeth recognized the man. She did not know his name, but she knew his face. She often saw his children playing in the lane near Meryton.
Mr. Thorpe and the gamekeeper were obviously untouched by the poacher’s increasingly desperate plea, but Mr. Bingley, both generous by nature and inexperienced in the business of managing an estate, was growing visibly uncomfortable with the situation.
“Darcy,” he applied to his friend, “you must have far more experience with these situations than I. What do you suggest?”
“You have no choice but to press charges, Bingley. The offender himself owns to his crime, and the magistrate has already been notified. To set him free without punishment would set a dangerous precedent. Netherfield would be overrun with poachers within a fortnight.”
Mr. Thorpe and Richards attested to the soundness of Mr. Darcy’s reasoning, and Mr. Bingley was left with no option other than half-hearted compliance. The two men started to drag their captive out the way they had entered, when Mr. Darcy addressed the gamekeeper.
“Mr. Richards, are you certain that this man was caught before dawn? I am an early riser myself, and I noted that this morning was unusually dark. Perhaps you were mistaken about the hour of his capture. I feel certain, and I am sure Mr. Bingley would agree, that the man was apprehended in full daylight.”
The gamekeeper nodded. “As you wish, sir, if it meets with Mr. Bingley’s approval.”
Mr. Bingley was clearly confused by this turn of conversation, but nodded his assent. Elizabeth, however, understood exactly what had transpired. Her father had once explained to her the absurdities of poaching penalties. A man caught poaching at night might be sentenced to years of hard labor; an offender apprehended in daytime would likely serve only a few months in the Meryton jail. Mr. Darcy’s gesture had spared the man’s family years of suffering, and if neither the poacher nor Mr. Bingley was aware of it, Elizabeth felt a swell of gratitude on their behalf.
The men quitted the room, and Mr. Darcy returned to his letter. Mr. Bingley apologized profusely to Elizabeth for her having witnessed such a scene. She assured him that she was unharmed and that he had acquitted himself admirably. “My reason in coming here, Mr. Bingley, was to ask if Jane and I might be transported back to Longbourn in your carriage—this afternoon, if possible.”
“Of course, you and Miss Bennet may have use of the carriage anytime you wish.” Mr. Bingley seemed relieved to once again entertain simpler demands on his generosity—carriages and the like. All the charity he had wished to bestow upon the poacher, he now seemed determined to transfer to Elizabeth and Jane, and he entreated her to consider staying until tomorrow. “Surely, Miss Elizabeth, you would not risk a relapse of Miss Bennet’s illness. Not now, when she is so close to full recovery.”
Elizabeth could find no reason to refuse his generous offer, and plans were made for her and Jane to return home the following day, after Sunday services.
On the way back to her room, Elizabeth found herself greatly affected by Mr. Darcy’s liberal, though understated, gesture toward the poacher. Once again, the words of his housekeeper haunted her as an oracle come to pass. He is the best landlord and the best master that ever lived. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what would give him a good name.
Tenants, servants, stewards, friends—was there no one who would give an ill report of Mr. Darcy? Elizabeth almost wished that there were, for she was beginning to feel the consequence of paying him too much attention. If not for the vast differences in their wealth and connections, she might all too easily fall prey to romantic imaginings. She resolved to dispel any burgeoning attachment within her, or any appearance of such, by speaking to Mr. Darcy as little as possible for the remainder of her stay at Netherfield. At one point that afternoon, she found herself alone with him for a full half-hour, but she studiously kept to her book and maintained her silence. What a relief it would be to return to Longbourn at last!
For his part, Darcy did not take offense at Elizabeth’s sudden reserve. Rather, he passed the same half-hour admiring her capacity for companionable silence as much as he now esteemed her wit. As he watched her depart Netherfield in Mr. Bingley’s carriage the following day, he felt a deeper loss than that of stimulating conversation. Darcy discovered he had simply grown accustomed to her presence. Even when they were not in company together, he took pleasure in knowing her fine eyes and quick mind to be somewhere nearby. Should the radius of her influence prove greater than the three miles’ distance to Longbourn, he might truly be in some danger.
Chapter Four
The Netherfield Ball
Mr. Bingley was a gentleman true to his word, for he made good on his promise to host a ball at Netherfield once Jane returned to the full bloom of health. Preparations for the occasion had occupied the attention of all Longbourn, and indeed most of Meryton, for over a fortnight. Anticipation of the event fostered such high spirits in the Bennet household that even the somber sermonizing of their houseguest, Mr. Collins, could not bring them low. In fact, this otherwise priggish rector, who was to inherit Longbourn upon the unhappy but inevitable event of Mr. Bennet’s demise, appeared to anticipate the evening with great pleasure. He had even secured Elizabeth’s hand for the first set. Elizabeth was less than pleased to have been singled out from among her sisters for this honor, but determined not to let Mr. Collins ruin her enjoyment of the evening. If dancing with her cousin was a necessary obligation, it seemed best to dispense with it as early in the ball as possible and thereafter be at liberty to devote her attention elsewhere.
Elizabeth scanned the crowd as soon as she entered the drawing room of Netherfield, searching through the throng of red-coated officers, skipping over the familiar faces of neighbors, and ignoring the amused expressions of Miss Bingley’s fashionable London friends.
“Are you looking for someone, Miss Bennet?”
“Oh! No.” Elizabeth’s pulse quickened in alarm. How could she admit that she had indeed been seeking a particular person when the gentleman inquiring was the very object of her search?
“I mean… That is to say… Good evening, Mr. Darcy.” She hoped an especially graceful curtsy and the care she had taken with her appearance that evening might mask the sudden defection of intelligent speech. Much as she had attempted to convince herself otherwise, she could no longer deny that her high anticipation of the ball could be chiefly accounted to the prospect of Mr. Darcy’s company. Since her stay at Netherfield, their meetings were few in number and trivial in nature, affording no opportunity for conversation of consequence. And never had Longbourn suffered a lack of intelligent conversation so acutely as it had since the arrival of Mr. Collins.
Indeed, Elizabeth had been searching for Mr. Darcy, and to be sought out by him so quickly upon her arrival both surprised and pleased her immeasurably.
“If you are not otherwise engaged, Miss Bennet, might I have the honor of the first set?”
“I regret, Mr. Darcy, that I am already engaged—by my cousin, Mr. Collins.”
Mr. Darcy smiled ruef
ully and emitted a low rumble which Elizabeth might have taken for laughter, had she not known the gentleman to be incapable of such. She regarded him quizzically.
“By my accounting, Miss Bennet, I have asked you to dance three times now and been uniformly refused on every occasion. Might I have the pleasure of knowing how many times I must apply for your hand before being accepted?”
Elizabeth gave him an arch smile as the orchestra struck up its tune and Mr. Collins approached to claim her. “It would appear, Mr. Darcy, at least once more.”
Mr. Collins’ mode of dancing proved as affected and unseemly as his manner of speech, but the man appeared determined to demonstrate mastery of both occupations at once by plying Elizabeth with insipid compliments throughout the set. These she ignored whenever possible, preferring instead to observe the graceful motions of Mr. Bingley and Jane and the admiring glances that followed them from every corner of the room.
When the set ended, Elizabeth made quick work of disentangling herself from Mr. Collins’ attentions, only to find herself transferred from the company of one ill-bred relation to another. As she searched the room for Mr. Darcy’s tall figure, Lydia emerged from the crowd with two officers in tow.
“Lizzy, you must dance with Wickham, for Kitty has been engaged by our disgusting cousin, poor girl! He was headed in my direction, I swear, but I have always been faster than Kitty by half!”
Lydia giggled coyly on the arm of Lieutenant Denny, and the other officer bowed and extended his hand in invitation to Elizabeth. Lieutenant Wickham cut a rather dashing figure, with a smile as bright as the buttons on his regimentals, and Elizabeth accepted gamely. Her own acquaintance with the man was slight and largely informed by the effusive admiration of her younger sisters. Kitty and Lydia had returned from Meryton singing Mr. Wickham’s praises some days past. They crossed paths with Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy as the gentlemen left Longbourn, the former having called to personally extend his invitation to the Netherfield Ball.
At the time, Lydia’s impertinent insistence that Mr. Bingley also invite all the officers had mortified Elizabeth, but now she enjoyed the envious stares of the young ladies in attendance as she lined up opposite Mr. Wickham. She marveled at the uncanny ability of a handsome face to appear instantly familiar; she was struck by the feeling that they had been introduced once long ago, although she knew it to be impossible.
Elizabeth noted Mr. Darcy partnered with Miss Bingley at the opposite end of the room, and she offered him a small smile when she caught his eye. He began to return it, but all trace of pleasure fled his face when his glance fell on her partner. She looked at Mr. Wickham to discover his gaze similarly narrowed in Mr. Darcy’s direction. The animosity between the two was undeniable, their stares broken only by the commencement of the dance.
Mr. Wickham refreshed his smile quickly, although his mind was obviously occupied by what had just passed. “Has Mr. Darcy been long in this neighborhood?” he inquired in a confidential tone.
“He has resided at Netherfield as Mr. Bingley’s guest this past month.”
“A month! All Meryton must claim an intimate acquaintance with him already.”
Elizabeth laughed wryly. “Most of Meryton would not lay claim to anything connected with Mr. Darcy, I fear. His reserved manner has won him few friends in this neighborhood; although I daresay he little mourns the loss.”
Wickham chuckled. “Ah, yes—the famous Darcy pride!”
“Are you acquainted with his family, then?”
“You may be surprised, Miss Bennet, given our cold greeting just now, but I have been connected with his family since infancy. My father was steward to the late Mr. Darcy, and I was his godson. Old Mr. Darcy was particularly fond of me and wished me to take orders. In fact, before his death he bequeathed me a valuable living on his estate.”
Elizabeth suddenly realized why Mr. Wickham’s face was so familiar to her. She had seen his likeness in miniature at Pemberley. The housekeeper had marked him out as Mr. Darcy’s particular favorite in boyhood, but what were her words? …He is now gone into the army, but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.
“How come you, then, to be in the militia?” Elizabeth noted the gleam in her partner’s eye with increasing wariness, but she kept her questioning purposefully playful.
“When the living became available, it was given to another.”
“How shocking! I cannot imagine Mr. Darcy, or any gentleman, doing his father’s memory such an injustice.” And I cannot imagine, she thought, how Mr. Wickham should justify relating such a tale so early in their acquaintance! “What was his reason?”
Appearing to sense her suspicion, Mr. Wickham quickly altered his tone of intimate disclosure. “For that, you shall have to apply to Mr. Darcy,” he quipped blithely.
Perhaps I shall do just that, Elizabeth thought to herself. For the rest of the dance, they spoke only of matters as pleasant as they were insignificant. Mr. Wickham inquired if she had traveled. She informed him of her recent trip to the Peak District, and he was only too happy to hear her impressions of his childhood home.
“How fortunate you are, Miss Bennet, to have the opportunity to travel! Much as I would like to do so myself, a man of my means cannot expect such pleasures.”
“But surely, your position in the militia must allow you to see a good deal of the country—though admittedly not at your leisure.”
Mr. Wickham smiled and winked brazenly. “It has brought me to this delightful place, has it not? I should be forever grateful to the Crown.”
Elizabeth could not help but laugh. Were these the type of charming comments that so enchanted her sisters? Lydia and Kitty were greater fools than she had imagined.
“There is a rumor,” the officer continued, “that the regiment will summer at Brighton. So at long last, I may enjoy the bracing breezes of the sea. I had planned a journey to Ramsgate this summer past, but circumstances necessitated its cancellation.”
“What a pity,” Elizabeth remarked with no real sympathy.
When the set ended, Mr. Wickham kissed her hand gallantly, allowing his lips to linger there a good deal longer than was proper. Very wild, indeed! And with these same lips he would fain make sermons! Elizabeth laughed heartily at this absurdity the moment they parted ways.
Her laughter was cut short, however, when Mr. Darcy appeared suddenly before her to request her hand in the next set. She agreed happily and was left to spend the interval in some flutter of spirits. Charlotte spoke to her of matters sensible, but Elizabeth comprehended not a word. Her distraction made the minutes stretch interminably, until Mr. Darcy at length returned to claim her hand.
Elizabeth felt the amazed stares of her neighbors as she stood opposite Mr. Darcy, but none unsettled her more than the stern glare of the gentleman himself. The countenance that confronted her now displayed none of the amiable ease with which he had greeted her earlier. They passed several uncomfortable moments between the orchestra’s introductory chords and their first figure of the dance, and she began to believe he intended to spend the entire half-hour in silence. When at length she ventured a casual remark and awaited a reply in vain, Elizabeth’s pride bristled. Teasing, teasing man! Why he should seek her company and persist in engaging her as a partner only to revive the rigid hauteur of their early acquaintance, she could not fathom. Nor did she intend to suffer the slight wordlessly.
“It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and you ought to remark in kind. Perhaps you have some observation on the room, or the number of couples.”
“Do you talk, as a rule, while dancing?”
“In polite society, I believe that conversation is generally accepted to be as much a part of the dance as the figures. Surely, those who prefer the company of their own thoughts might do better to choose a more solitary occupation and spare themselves the inconvenience of a partner.” The measure of unchecked bitterness in Elizabeth’s tone surprised even her, but she could not regret its ha
ving the desired effect. Mr. Darcy looked a bit chastened.
“Shall we talk of books, then?”
“Oh, no—I cannot discuss books in a ballroom. With so many distractions and interruptions, one cannot give literature a fraction of the concentration that is its due.”
“Then by your description, a successful conversant must be liberal with words yet miserly with meaning. To engage in such discourse would reflect no great credit on either of us, I imagine.”
“You mean, I suppose, that speaking is hardly worth your effort unless you can be assured of amazing the entire room. But if you find parsing pleasantries so demeaning, Mr. Darcy, perhaps you might condescend, in this situation, to content yourself with amazing an audience of one.”
“You presume, Miss Bennet, that it requires less effort to address an individual than a large gathering.”
“Undoubtedly, when the individual in question is predisposed to listen.” Elizabeth knew her harsh tone belied any charity intended in the statement. She was therefore not surprised when Mr. Darcy relapsed into stubborn silence. Not surprised, but exceedingly vexed. She scanned the ballroom for a pleasant diversion from this unpleasant interview, and her eyes landed on Mr. Bingley and Jane, ensconced in a corner and exchanging sweet smiles. It must be some quality of inner character that bound these men in friendship, Elizabeth thought, for their outward manners could not be more opposite.
“Of course,” she remarked, with a glance toward the happy couple, “there are those lucky few possessed of such natural charm that they need not fear a cold reception in any setting.”
“Yes, I have noted that ladies are often predisposed to believe anything uttered by Mr. Wickham.”
Elizabeth and Darcy- Ardently Yours Page 4