by Violet King
Mr. Darcy stood in the shadow of an alcove. He took a step towards her and bowed. “Miss Elizabeth. How fares your sister?”
Was he truly worried about Jane? Elizabeth’s initial admonition against stalking about in dark corners like a specter died upon her lips. “Jane’s fever persists, but she is sleeping with a bit more ease,” Elizabeth explained.
Mr. Darcy nodded.
Why did he stare at her so? His attention was piercing, making her skin flush and tingle. Elizabeth averted her gaze. “I must return to her,” she said with a curtsy and fled back towards her sister’s room.
“Miss Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth hesitated, her hand on the knob. “Mr. Darcy?”
“I—” He looked almost pained.
“You are not catching ill yourself, are you, Mr. Darcy?”
“I am quite well,” Mr. Darcy said. “You are correct. You should tend to your sister.” He bowed, and with no further words, turned on his heel and walked rapidly back down the hall in the opposite direction.
Elizabeth shook her head. She could not even manage to feel offended. What an odd man!
At half past six, Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. The Bingleys asked after Jane’s health, and Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst immediately exclaimed their sympathy for Jane’s condition, remarking how miserable it was to be in the grasp of a violent cold. But their sympathy quickly ebbed. They immediately returned to their own affairs as though Jane, in her sickroom, no longer existed.
Mr. Bingley was the only one of them who seemed truly concerned about Jane’s condition for Jane’s own sake. He and perhaps Mr. Darcy, who though he attended to Miss Bingley’s constant, ill-disguised flirtations, kept looking at Elizabeth. Staring. Elizabeth recognized it was uncharitable for her to take such objection to his merely looking, but he stared so forcefully. She could hardly look up from her plate without feeling his eyes upon her.
Miss Bingley soon noted Mr. Darcy’s attention, and her remarks towards Elizabeth became less sympathetic and more barbed.
Mr. Hurst was indolent and offered little conversation, being far more concerned with his meal and the promise later on of cards and drink, and so Elizabeth mostly conversed with Mr. Bingley, who was at least congenial and interested in Jane’s well-being.
As soon as Elizabeth could, she returned to Jane. Considering Miss Bingley’s barely concealed annoyance at Mr. Darcy’s inexplicable focus on Elizabeth, she had little doubt Miss Bingley would only grow more open in expressing her disapprobation for Elizabeth in her absence.
Blast Mr. Darcy! Even in his silence, he made trouble for her.
Elizabeth could only hope Miss Bingley’s dislike of Elizabeth did not influence her brother with regard to Jane. Dear, sweet Jane, who had not even wished to engage in the ruse of pretending her only option for a visit was on horseback, and now suffered the consequences of their mother’s machinations.
To Elizabeth’s mixed dismay and relief, the sisters returned to Jane’s bedside and sat with her until summoned for coffee. Elizabeth was loath to leave her sister’s side until late in the evening when Jane settled into something more like a restful sleep. Then, Elizabeth resigned herself to the necessity, purely out of politeness, of joining the others downstairs for after-dinner entertainment.
Stepping from the room, she looked to either side, fearing Mr. Darcy might be stalking her again, but thankfully the hall was empty. When she reached the drawing room, she found the whole party there and was immediately invited to join them. At the table sat Mr. Darcy, his face unreadable but still staring. Elizabeth declined, making her sister the excuse, and said she would amuse herself for a short time below with a book.
Mr. Hurst, with more energy than he had given any reaction the entire day, breathed in through his teeth and asked, “Do you prefer reading to cards?” as though such a thing was an unimaginable tragedy.
“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a great reader, and more so, and intricate thinker, as I have heard, occupying herself with little more than mathematics and codes.”
From where had she heard such a thing? Elizabeth was careful to keep information about her ciphering work within the walls of her home. It was not rumored in such specificity, which meant Miss Bingley must have “heard” of Elizabeth’s deciphering through Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth shot Mr. Darcy a glare, which was about as effective as giving pointed looks to a sheet of glass for the effect it seemed to have on the dratted man.
“I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” Elizabeth argued. “It is true I sometimes aid my father in penning his correspondence, but that is hardly the same as occupying myself only with coding or literature or any particular interest.” Elizabeth’s protestation tasted like ashes in her mouth. Why was it she could not take proper credit for her own work?
Of course, such a thing was impossible. She was already at a disadvantage by not having a dowry of substance nor being born of an esteemed family. A woman’s only reliable method for advancement was in securing a husband, and a rumor of eccentricity along with Elizabeth’s other failings would sink what prospects she had.
“Now Caroline, your words are unfair,” said Mr. Bingley, and Elizabeth felt a sharp sense of gratitude and affection for him. “Miss Elizabeth clearly takes great pleasure in caring for her family, and I hope it will be soon increased by seeing Miss Bennet quite well again.”
Elizabeth thanked Mr. Bingley with much enthusiasm and walked towards the table where the books were lying.
“If those are not to your satisfaction,” Mr. Bingley said, “I can have others fetched from the library. I wish my collection were larger for your benefit in my credit, but I am more for riding than reading, and though my library is small, I have not yet finished working through my collection.”
Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with the books in the room. Unfortunately, it was not enough to sit quietly, flip through a book, and have the others leave her be. Miss Bingley, sensing an opportunity to flatter Mr. Darcy and express her own interest in both literature and Mr. Darcy’s property, exclaimed, “What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”
They spoke for a while longer on libraries, Miss Bingley attempting, presumably, to get Elizabeth to make mention of her family’s so it could be remarked upon. Finally Elizabeth gave up on reading altogether and set herself between Mr. Bingley and Mrs. Hurst to observe the game.
Elizabeth felt it best she not be dealt into the game as her improper interest in mathematics and codes allowed her a good facility at predicting probabilities and winning more than she lost. She could not hide her skills when playing Mr. Darcy, nor would she want to. Taking Mr. Darcy down a peg would be too satisfying, even if it were only a Pyrrhic victory.
“Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?” asked Miss Bingley.
Elizabeth’s interest was immediately piqued. Though she had read Miss Darcy’s correspondence, and worse, recently written to the young woman herself, she hardly knew anything about Miss Georgiana Darcy beyond the fact that she was the younger sister of Mr. Fitzwilliam and Reginald Darcy.
Miss Bingley continued, “Will she be as tall as I am?”
Mr. Darcy responded, “I think she will. She is about now Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height, or rather taller.” Mr. Darcy was staring at Elizabeth again.
Elizabeth, not one to back down, met his gaze squarely. Whatever problems he had with her, she hoped he would express it to her sooner rather than later, else she be subjected to yet more discomfort through his silent regard.
“How I long to see her again!” Miss Bingley fanned out her cards and leaned forward, inclining her body towards Mr. Darcy as she spoke. “I never met with anyone who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”
“Has Miss Darcy expressed much interest in books or codes?” Elizabeth asked.
Miss Bingley pursed her lips. “She
reads widely, but of codes, it would not have occurred to me to ask.”
“Oh!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “I had assumed you had a special interest in such topics as you had made such an effort to unearth such information concerning myself.”
“One hears all sorts of things while conversing with new acquaintances,” Miss Bingley said, her tone syrupy sweet. “I did not mean to trouble you.”
Elizabeth smiled brightly. “Trouble me? Not at all! I take pride in helping my father, and my family, as best I can.”
Five cards were dealt, and glancing over Mr. Bingley’s shoulder, Elizabeth saw he had an excellent hand. He stared at the cards, moving on from the left to the center, and Elizabeth realized he did not know it. He moved to lower his arm, as though to abandon the cards, and Elizabeth murmured, “Stay.”
“What was that, Miss Bennet?” Miss Bingley asked.
“I believe I shall play this hand,” Mr. Bingley interjected.
“Superb,” said Mr. Hurst.
Miss Bingley, sensing the conversation was moving away from her, said, “Miss Darcy is so very accomplished for her age!”
“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have the patience to be so very accomplished in so many ways, as they all are.”
“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?”
“Precisely as I said. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely have such skills, and I have never heard of a young lady spoken of, the first time at least, without being informed that she was indeed, very accomplished.”
“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has too much truth. Any woman can be trained to accomplish common things, but I am very far from agreeing with your estimation.”
Elizabeth, unable and frankly unwilling to hold her tongue, remarked, “Does this mean Mr. Darcy’s judge of a lady’s accomplishments has more to do with her mastery of the uncommon?”
“Most certainly,” said Mr. Darcy. “No one can be esteemed who does not greatly surpass the usual. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, and besides all of this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be little deserved.”
It was fortunate Elizabeth felt no need to live up to Mr. Darcy’s standards. She doubted he would ever discover a woman who could meet his expectations.
“All of this she must possess,” added Darcy, as though all of this was not more than enough, “and to that she must yet add something more substantial in the improvement of her mind.”
Elizabeth could not help but laugh. “I am certain it will be delightful when you meet such a paragon.”
Miss Bingley, seizing upon Elizabeth’s statement with the same gleeful expression of the cat capturing a mouse in its teeth, asked, “Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of this?”
Outside of a children’s tale, for certain.
Elizabeth refused to relent on her perfectly reasonable assertion. “I can only say I have never seen such a woman. But should I meet her, I will endeavor to be suitably impressed.”
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley cried out against the injustice of Elizabeth’s statement, both protesting that they knew many such women. Elizabeth surmised their insistence came mostly from a high self-opinion. Miss Bingley certainly presented herself as one who believed oneself in every way accomplished.
Miss Bingley turned to Mr. Darcy for support, which in Elizabeth’s mind seemed like a terrible idea, and said, “Certainly, you have made acquaintance with such women.”
“I have met six,” Mr. Darcy said, offering no further elaboration. With that, the conversation came to an end.
Elizabeth soon afterward gratefully returned to her sister’s sickbed. Her natural good humor reasserted herself as she imagined her sister’s reaction to the entire affair. She only prayed Jane’s health would improve quickly enough for her to admonish Elizabeth for her impropriety.
After some time, three firm raps sounded on Jane’s door.
“Come in,” Elizabeth said, glancing at Jane who thankfully remained asleep.
To her shock, Mr. Darcy opened the door. He left the door ajar and barely crossed the threshold into the room. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said.
Too flummoxed to manage anything intelligent or accomplished, Elizabeth said, “Mr. Darcy?”
“I misspoke. At the Assembly, in my remark about your appearance.”
Elizabeth was still too confused to do more than nod.
Mr. Darcy took a breath, his posture and manner as stiff and cold as a granite statue. “You are more than passably handsome. Not that I have any regard whatsoever for your looks. But it is fair to you are near as handsome as your sister. That is all.”
Was that all? Yes, he was staring again, silently awaiting—what, a word of thanks? The gall of him. The unmitigated gall!
“That is all?” Elizabeth snapped. “This day, every moment you cross my path, you are stalking about and staring like some…ghostly menace! And now you invade my sister’s sickroom with declarations of insult, in all manner a self-proclaimed Emperor. ‘Not that you have any regard for my looks!’ Not that I have ever wished you to have such regard, but now I must narrow down your intention. Am I near as handsome as my sister when she dances? Or is it when she lies abed in the midst of a violent fever?”
Mr. Darcy opened his mouth as though to respond, but Elizabeth was too caught up in her own temper to have any wish to hear him. “You may give yourself accord to declare me unaccomplished, as though winning some measure of your regard, however infinitesimal, is a mark of accomplishment! If you believe so, you are very much mistaken.”
“My words were meant as an apology!”
“Apology?” Elizabeth laughed. “If so, you ought to make more effort in the attempt. Was there anything else? Is there a wart on my chin that I have overlooked? Or perhaps my breath is foul?”
“No.” Mr. Darcy took a step back, and after a moment, bowed. “I take my leave,” he said.
Elizabeth gave him no further acknowledgment, turning her attention to Jane, who had begun to whimper and twitch, perhaps caught in the throes of a fevered nightmare. Elizabeth felt much the same. Her skin was hot, and her body shook with fury.
She prayed at that moment for Jane’s health not only out of pure sisterly regard but also with the hope Jane would be well enough to return home before she had to endure another apology from Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Darcy will ask your hand in marriage. Twice.
The fortune teller had clearly been mad. Never mind a proposal. Elizabeth would be glad to live the rest of her life without ever having a single conversation with Mr. Darcy again.
15
Darcy’s temper, on the rare occasions it flared, ran hot. But good manners, drilled into him since he had taken his first, waddling steps, ensured he did not immediately let loose on that blasted, infuriating woman. He had apologized. And taking a page from Bingley’s book, he had even tried to compare Miss Elizabeth to her own beloved and handsome sister. And yet she had taken offense. He who had attempted to bridge the chasm between their stations to express his own regrets.
As Mr. Darcy walked down the hall towards his guest room, he went over his apology word for word to discern what part of it she could have misinterpreted.
Admittedly, the comparison to her sister cast neither lady in the best light, as Miss Bennet was currently feverish and quite ill. Maybe if he had been more specific about the context in which he was making the comparison, Miss Elizabeth would take it in the way Mr. Darcy had intended.
Not that I have any particular regard for your looks.
Perhaps he could have phrased that better. It was not that he had no regard for Miss Elizabeth’s looks, more that he did not want another woman attempting to ensnare him, or, more specifically, his income and properties. Miss Bi
ngley was certainly enamored of those two things herself and made no secret of her intentions despite Mr. Darcy’s persistent refusal to engage with her flirtations.
Though in Miss Elizabeth’s defense, she had not once showed any wish to ensnare him... or even to have a civilized discussion with him on any topic.
If Mr. Darcy was being honest with himself, he should admit some interest in having a civilized conversation with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. She might not be accomplished in the traditional sense, but her intelligence and enthusiasm sparkled, and it extended beyond mere mathematics or codes.
Miss Elizabeth had handled Miss Bingley with true aplomb when the woman had so obviously intended to insult her. And Miss Elizabeth had a certain focus, determination, and, yes, a bravery that could only be admired. At points, it might seem more suited to a man, but there was no mistaking Miss Elizabeth for a man. Her figure, her eyes, and her manner were in no way masculine.
Mr. Darcy sighed. Perhaps there had been truth to her words. His apology had conveyed nothing of those thoughts.
Should he attempt to apologize again?
Visions of a second, even more awkward attempt left him cold. No. He was not well trained in making apologies, but he understood the importance of making restitution to one he had wronged. And if, perhaps, through some small action he could bring forth, for a moment even, Miss Elizabeth’s dazzling smile, it would be worth it.
With that thought firmly in mind, he made his way to the kitchens to speak with the cook.
Mr. Darcy had finished the first stage of planning his campaign—as his cousin, Col. Fitzwilliam, would often phrase actions such as these—and returned to the drawing room just before Miss Elizabeth hurried in again to report that her sister has grown worse.
“I cannot leave her,” Miss Elizabeth said. She avoided Mr. Darcy’s gaze, instead keeping her attention focused on Mr. Bingley, who urged Mr. Jones be sent for immediately.
