by Beau North
Darcy told himself that his sudden protectiveness of Bingley had nothing do to with the pert little woman who was the current object of his ire. He supposed he should not be surprised to learn she was one of the Bennets. He supposed his luck must falter some time.
“We are so happy someone has finally taken up Netherfield,” Mrs. Bennet cooed. The matron’s sharp calculating eyes made Darcy’s frown deepen.
“And these are my daughters…Jane.” Mrs. Bennet nudged her eldest at Bingley, causing Jane to blush. Bingley waited until she looked up into his eyes and quietly said her how-do-you-dos.
“I am very happy to meet you, Miss Bennet.” Bingley was rewarded with another modest smile.
“And this,” said Mrs. Bennet, continuing in a markedly subdued voice, “is Elizabeth, my second eldest, and Mary, my middle daughter. My two youngest, Kitty and Lydia, are already dancing.” Mrs. Bennet gestured carelessly towards the dance floor.
Bingley smiled broadly.
“Ladies, it’s wonderful to meet you all. This is my friend Will Darcy.” Darcy felt something like a smile on his face, superficially polite over his clenched teeth.
Bingley joked, making the women titter. “He’s not normally so talkative.” The sound of her chuckle was like being poked between the eyes. Darcy forced his face into a smooth expression, silently cursing his friend. He murmured a terse “good evening” to the women.
The mother examined him keenly for a moment as if she were inspecting a piece of meat from the butcher. After a moment, she sniffed haughtily as though dismissing him. Darcy paid her no mind, turning his attention to the other Bennet girls.
The younger of the girls, he dismissed immediately; she was pretty but didn’t shine like the others. He allowed himself to look at her. Elizabeth. The name suits her, he thought. She smiled happily at Bingley, but when her eyes turned to him, he could see the spark of laughter in them—and something else underneath, something questioning.
She wasn’t as pretty as Jane, but in a way she was far more beautiful. Jane’s beauty was soft and genteel, whereas there was a natural wildness to Elizabeth’s looks, particularly in the intelligent expression of her dark eyes. They were like two pools of liquid ink, full of secret mysteries waiting to be explored, discovered.
A man could drown in those eyes.
Her eyebrow arched ever so slightly as if she had heard his thought. She played with her necklace, a locket of some kind. The gleam of the gold chain against her neck drove him to distraction. Again and again, he found his gaze drawn to the dip at the base of her throat.
Suddenly, she smiled at him, taking him aback. It was a smile of pure mischief, wicked without being lewd. No woman had ever smiled at him in such a way. And he was unsure he liked it. He looked to Bingley for help, only to find that Bingley and Jane were on the dance floor. Mrs. Bennet had wandered off, leaving Darcy with the other two girls.
“We’ve all been on tenterhooks for your arrival, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said in a low, melodious voice. To her credit, the younger sister gave her a scandalized look.
“Oh?” Darcy croaked. The sound of her mouth shaping his name affected him in a way he had never expected. An inexplicable, cold tension clawed up from the bottom of his stomach, tightening his throat, making it difficult to speak. Get a hold of yourself, man!
“Oh yes,” she said in mock seriousness. “We’ve heard so very much about you already. Tell me, how does a man manage the climb down from Mount Olympus these days?”
Darcy scowled. This had Caroline’s fingerprints all over it. It certainly was not the first time Caroline Bingley had put him in the situation of appearing to be more than simply her brother’s cantankerous friend. That Caroline should gossip about him was bad manners enough, but that this sassy miss should tease him openly…
Elizabeth tilted her head slightly, studying him with the same easy look of amusement. The spill of her dark hair distracted him, and his fingers itched to caress one of those glossy curls. He cleared his throat. “I assure you, Miss Bennet; whatever you may have heard, I am just a mortal man.”
***
Darcy found refuge in a dark corner near the refreshment table. Thrusting his hand into his pocket, his fingers grasped the smooth river stone he always carried. It had been a gift of sorts from his sister, whose frequent childhood illnesses led him to give up smoking when she was eight. She gave him the rock so he would have something to do with his hands. He would never have admitted it to Georgiana, but he missed smoking more than most things.
His eyes found Elizabeth Bennet, watching her as she chatted with Charlotte Lucas. He observed the way she used her hands when she spoke and the animation in those shining eyes. Charlotte spoke in her ear, making Elizabeth throw her head back laughing. Her eyes met his briefly, dancing with mirth. Yes, she loves a laugh, he thought bitterly. Not only did she have the gall to laugh at him behind his back, she made fun of him to his face! Did she not know who he was?
“Why don’t you just tie her to the train tracks and get it over with,” Bingley said from beside him, forcing Darcy to look away from the maddening young woman.
“Tempting thought.”
“Can’t you at least pretend to have a good time?”
Bingley’s plea only irritated him more. Have a good time?
“Charles, please.”
“I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen so many pretty girls in one place,” Bingley said with a sigh, looking at Jane.
“You’ve been dancing with the only pretty girl in the room.”
“Darcy.” Bingley leaned in. “You can’t tell me she isn’t the most beautiful creature you’ve ever seen.”
“She smiles too much,” Darcy said curtly. “And I hate to remind you, but you’re not exactly immune to a pretty face. Remember that girl in Bremerhaven you wrote to me about?”
“Gitte.” Bingley remembered well the girl in question, whose parents had been so upset by his attentions to their daughter that they sent her to live with a spinster aunt in Münster. At the time, Bingley thought he’d die from his broken heart. He threw himself into his duties in refitting Bremerhaven with utilities, plumbing, and roads. He worked so hard that his superiors in the Sixty-Ninth joked that he had to leave the other Seabees some jobs or they’d all get fat and lazy.
He knew what Darcy was doing, of course, by throwing his adoration for Gitte back at him in an effort to diminish Jane. Bingley laughed as if he expected it, which he had. He knew Darcy’s turn of mind better than he let on. He gave his friend an unusually sly look.
“Elizabeth is very pretty too, don’t you think? If you can keep from scaring her, you should ask her to dance.”
Darcy scoffed. Oh, very good, Charles. Very astute, he thought bitterly, still smarting from her rudeness towards him.
“Who?” he asked shortly. “That plain-faced little bumpkin?”
Darcy knew how rude and conceited he sounded, and even if he had not, he could see it reflected in Charles’s face.
“Darce—”
“You’re wasting your time with me. If you’d like better company, I’m sure your Jane will oblige.”
Bingley shook his head. “That is the best idea you’ve had all night.”
Darcy pushed away a pang of regret for the way he talked, far too irritated to concern himself with his friend’s bruised feelings. He quietly cursed Bingley for dragging him to this disaster, cursed Elizabeth Bennet’s shining eyes, and mostly cursed himself for allowing any of it—saving one final curse for the high price of good cotton.
His litany of curses was interrupted as the band on stage began to play, the cheers and claps of the townspeople drowning out all other sounds. The bandleader was announcing a “special treat,” and Darcy was stunned to see Elizabeth Bennet climbing the stage steps, smiling and waving at the crowd.
Some strange dark magic was rooting him to the spot when all he wanted to do was turn and run. His skin felt too tight on his bones. His palms were slick and chilled
while the rest of him felt feverish.
Every light in the room went dark. A single spotlight illuminated her on the stage as though she were the sole woman on earth. Unrivaled. Incomparable. Matchless. The room immediately fell to a hush, the only sound the low murmur of people in the room whispering as though they knew something auspicious was about to happen.
Then she started to sing, and everything changed. Her voice rang out, clear and true, reverberating through the darkened hall.
All in the merry month of May
When the green buds they were swellin’
Sweet William Green on his deathbed lay
For the love of Barbry Allen
He had not remembered her voice as well as he thought he had. He had an almost photographic recall for the curve of her breasts and the straight line of her naked back, but her voice had faded in the days after his quiet escape from the woods. It washed over him now: a deep heat he felt all the way down to his bones.
Oh Mother, oh Mother, go make my bed
Make it both soft and narrow
Sweet William’s died for me this day
And I’ll die for him tomorrow
The ballad of “Barbry Allen” was given a life of its own through her unadorned, a cappella voice. Darcy felt goose bumps ripple across his skin despite the stuffiness of the room. He wished for the swoon of a violin or even for someone to start plinking a banjo so it did not sound so damn mournful. Watching her sing, the sound struck him deep in his gut like a string being plucked too hard. He realized that it was fear—not just fear but inexplicable and outright terror. He’d always been master of himself until that moment. Now it was as though he’d been tossed into deep, dark waters with no way to find the surface.
As soon as he felt in control of his body, he forced his legs to carry him outside into the cool air and the safety of the evening quiet. He kept walking until he could hear nothing but crickets singing their evening song and the sound of his own footsteps on the pavement. Still, her voice clung to him like pieces of a fever dream half remembered. He walked all the way back to Netherfield, trying to outrun it. He was not successful.
Chapter Two
The following weekend, half of Meryton attended a picnic given by Mayor Lucas. The Lucas home was an imposing, old house built in the Georgian Revival style with two graceful columns in the front and a flagstone side porch, framed on either side with tall magnolia trees and smaller, delicate dogwoods, all set on an expanse of rolling green lawn. If the house ever had a name like Longbourn or Netherfield, it had been long forgotten. For as long as anyone could remember, it had always been referred to as Lucas Lodge.
The autumn sun dried up most of the previous week’s rain. Darcy inhaled the fresh air deeply; it was heavy with the smell of fallen leaves, pine, and wet earth—the scents of fall. It was not as strong or as crisp as at Pemberley with its fruit orchards and walnut groves, but it made him smile regardless. Autumn had always been his favorite time of year. The breeze shifted directions, carrying the aroma of roasting pork coming from the fire pit. His stomach gave an involuntary rumble, and he was glad to be standing alone.
Standing apart was neither new nor a hardship for Darcy, nor were the people of Meryton bothered by it. It seemed they preferred his self-imposed exile almost as much as he did—a mutually unspoken agreement to the satisfaction of both parties. He leaned against the side of the brick colonnade, trying to observe one person in particular without drawing attention to himself.
Darcy could not remember a time when he was so at war within himself, when his mind and good sense were not in harmony with his desires. For the past week, he had been thrown into one social situation or another, and at almost all of them, the Bennet girl had been present.
He tried—oh how he tried—to keep his distance, but time and time again, he found himself drawn to her. At dinners, he would tune others out to hear what she said. He observed her intellect and wit on display enough times to be impressed. He witnessed her kindness towards others and admired that too, though none of her kindness had been for him. Every time they spoke, he was met with a cool politeness and nothing more. Her apparent dislike of him did nothing to satisfy his curiosity; if anything, it only made it stronger. Darcy found himself lying awake some nights, thinking of the unsaid things he saw in her dark eyes. He was fascinated, and it unsettled him.
The girl in the pond had been a fantasy that played itself out in his mind for months. A woman with no past, no future. She existed only in those stolen moments—only for him. He desperately wanted to reconcile that creature with the spirited young woman he saw now.
His frank desire was a source of embarrassment for him, and while it was not directly her fault, he resented her for it. Even now, his eyes followed the sound of her laughter to its source, making him feel like an unwilling player in his own personal comedy of errors.
Elizabeth and Charlotte were playing horseshoes against Charlotte’s brother John and a local who looked to be a few years older than the others. Darcy was not surprised that Elizabeth had an uncanny skill at the game. Only once, when she looked up to see him watching her, did she falter, throwing the shoe two feet wide of the mark.
Darcy frowned as young John Lucas reached out to ruffle Elizabeth’s hair with an ease of affection that came from years of familiarity and friendship. She laughed and shook out her long chestnut curls, playfully hiding behind Charlotte with promises that she would never surrender. It looked like an old game between two childhood friends, and Darcy hated and enjoyed it in equal measure.
Careful as he was, he would have been horrified to know that not only had his behavior been noticed, but that his audience of one found great amusement in his helpless observation.
***
Thomas Bennet watched from a safe distance, noticing how often Darcy’s eyes were drawn to his second oldest daughter. He allowed himself a chuckle watching the young man’s face scowl at Lizzie as if he were solving a particularly difficult equation. Mr. Bennet wished him luck with that. He decided to take pity on Darcy. Besides, he thought, my girl is starting to settle like a bottle of dressing. Mr. Bennet didn’t care much for Elizabeth using Longbourn as an excuse to hide from the world. He didn’t know what had happened to make his daughter lock up her heart, but he thought it was high time to shake things up.
Elizabeth laughingly told her family of Mr. Darcy’s insult the night of the dance, but Mr. Bennet suspected that the offending party thought rather the opposite. He considered bringing it up to Mr. Darcy, demanding an apology perhaps, but he decided to sit on the information for a time when it would be more useful. One never could tell when they’d find themselves in need of verbal ammunition. He approached the younger man, catching him off guard.
“Enjoying yourself, Mr. Darcy?” He stuck his hand out to him, smoothly covering the young man’s embarrassment at being startled. “Thomas Bennet. From Longbourn Farms.”
Darcy started again, to Mr. Bennet’s great amusement, before taking his hand in a quick, firm shake.
“Will Darcy. Pleased to meet you. I don’t think I’ve seen you at many of the Centennial events.”
“Good heavens, no.” Mr. Bennet looked aghast at the very idea. “I let my wife drag me out of the house once a week at most.”
“You and your family are my friend Bingley’s closest neighbors, I believe?”
“That I am. He seems a nice enough fellow.” Mr. Bennet nodded towards the jovial young man currently chatting off Jane’s ear.
“A very decent man, Bingley. I’ve known him since Yale.”
“That’d be college, I assume.” Darcy looked back at him blankly, unsure what to make of the older man. He started to see where Elizabeth got her teasing spirit. “Am I correct that his business is building?”
Darcy nodded. “General contractor. His company was awarded a government contract to expand the bases in the area. Camp Croft, Fort Jackson, Fort Benning, and so on. He needed to locate himself somewhere that would be an easy d
istance to his work sites.”
“I understand he’s a very busy man.” Mr. Bennet continued without missing a beat, “What does he have planned for Netherfield?”
“I’m encouraging him to plant,” Darcy said, surprised and pleased with Mr. Bennet’s directness. “Though Charles doesn’t know the first thing about farming.”
“You have some farms yourself, as I understand.”
Darcy nodded. “Yes, and an orchard.”
“Oh yes, I’m familiar with your enterprise, Mr. Darcy. Very impressive.”
Darcy was surprised by the man’s apparent knowledge of him. Everyone knew the bulk of his wealth came from his factories. Textiles and munitions nearly doubled his fortune during the war, and he had made some savvy investments that ensured his family’s security for generations to come.
He was grateful for all of these things, but Darcy’s real love was in the land. His farms employed the people around Pemberley, giving the place life and self-sufficiency while most of the South was still in poverty. He had not made a lot of friends in some circles with his refusal to withhold employment from people of color, but it was nothing Darcy lamented. If someone wanted to work, he had jobs—no matter the color of their skin or place of worship.
“Thank you, but I can’t really take the credit,” Darcy said truthfully. “I have foremen and a good staff that keep things running.”
Mr. Bennet gestured at Bingley. “It sounds to me like your friend could use a little of the same. I guess you’ll help him bring somebody in?”
Darcy shook his head. “No, I would suggest someone local who knows the land and the weather here. Maybe you could recommend someone?”
“I know a few people who could handle that land well enough and be glad of the work,” said Mr. Bennet, pleased with the idea. “Why don’t you bring your friend around in a few days for supper? We’ll talk shop first, and I’ll give you a short list of names.”
Mr. Bennet, who loved social experiments, decided to test his suspicion regarding Darcy’s fascination with his favorite daughter. “Come by on Tuesday,” he said eyeing Darcy. “My Lizzie is making blackberry cobbler.”
