Darcy and Diamonds

by Caitlin Marie Carrington

  He knows my married name? Elizabeth recovered from this slight shock and curtsied with as much as propriety that her pride—and her gown–would allow. “Mr. Darcy. What a delight.” Elizabeth felt her cheeks burn as she spoke. How banal, how stupid she must sound!

  He met her eyes again and they stared at each other helplessly for a moment. Elizabeth could not help but notice his fine if slightly funereal clothing, his height—he truly towered over everyone here, both physically and in terms of society–and the broadness of his shoulders. He filled the doorway. His hair was still dark and full, though there was a light sprinkling of silver at his temples. He did not smile, but she could see fine lines radiating from his eyes.

  He had smiled over the years, for someone.

  Mr. Darcy glanced down, his long lashes dusky on his handsome face. Blast, but he had only grown more refined and more starkly handsome as the years had passed. Whereas Elizabeth felt as ruffled and cross as a hen thrown off her nest.

  “Bingley had told me you might attend,” Mr. Darcy finally said. His right, gloved hand stretched and then flexed, making a fist. He stared down the long hall, toward the front room where the rest of the party was gathered.

  If she thought he would further enlighten her as to why he had come to Netherfield, she was immediately disappointed. He lapsed into silence, glancing only briefly at her. She watched as various emotions filtered over his face, the differences between a sunny day and then the sudden arrival of storm clouds.

  Finally, he cleared his throat and gestured to the front of the house. Though probably only ten seconds had passed, Elizabeth felt flustered and could barely attend to his words when he said, “Shall we?”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “I do believe dinner will be served soon.”

  They each had taken only one step when the parlor door opened behind them. Elizabeth turned to see Caroline Bingley stepping through the doorway. The woman stopped, shocked, when she saw Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.

  Caroline Bingley?!

  No, Elizabeth corrected herself. It was Mrs. Caroline Doughton now.

  But still: Caroline. Alone in a room. With Mr. Darcy.

  “Oh,” Caroline said, her voice low. Her cheeks flushed with color, setting off the vibrancy of her red hair, which was upswept in an elegant design—except for one long, loose lock that looked as if someone had run their fingers through her hair and pulled it from its pins.

  In truth, she looked quite beautiful.

  Elizabeth glanced from one to the other, surprised to see Mr. Darcy’s face turn a color rather reminiscent of a tomato. Her thoughts comparing him to garden vegetable were the only way she could keep a serene, untouched smile upon her face.

  Caroline! And Mr. Darcy!

  For his part, Mr. Darcy’s jaw clenched tight. Elizabeth could not tell if he was angry or guilty, or both. Instead of looking back at Caroline, he stared down at Elizabeth. She inhaled and almost took a step back. The fire, the fury, the absolute passion in his eyes was unmistakable. And then it was all gone. Cloaked. He was a conjurer with emotions, she thought. They had been there one moment and were now mysteriously missing, vanished into the ether.

  “Mrs. Allerton.” Caroline left the doorway and came to stand next to Mr. Darcy. “How pleasant to see you. I didn’t realize you’d left Steadham House at last.” She glanced down at Elizabeth’s dress, a practiced, bemused smile gracing her pale face. “It appears you are out of mourning.”

  Elizabeth could not conceal her blush. This blasted dress! It looked as if she were trying to—trying to do whatever Caroline and Mr. Darcy might have been doing in that parlor!

  Perhaps she should have stayed home.

  “Mrs. Allerton, Mrs. Doughton.” Mr. Darcy cleared his throat and offered them each an arm. “May I escort you to dinner?”

  Caroline slipped her hand easily onto his arm and tossed Elizabeth a small, triumphant smile.

  “I’ve left something in the parlor,” Elizabeth lied. “I’ll see you both at dinner.”

  And then she turned before either could respond and walked, shaking, into the room. She shut the door gently, quietly—and then slumped against it.

  What had they been doing?

  Was Caroline the reason Mr. Darcy had come to Netherfield, at last?

  And why was Elizabeth’s heart beating like a trapped bird, when she didn’t care about Mr. Darcy at all.

  Not at—she put her hands against her chest to calm herself—not at all.

  6

  Elizabeth

  Elizabeth had waited as long as she could before joining Jane and the other guests. Footmen served the lively crowd pre-dinner drinks. Jane and Charles were hosting twenty-one guests at Netherfield, including Elizabeth and her sisters, but they’d also invited friends and local dignitaries to dinner tonight.

  Elizabeth watched as Sir William Lucas told a loud joke, causing Lady Lucas to blush and Mrs. Bennet to laugh so hard she snorted. Loudly.

  Kitty and Lydia, despite being married women now, were chasing one another around the pianoforte—not as quickly as they had when they were children—but they caused a scene, nonetheless. Mrs. Graham, an elderly woman who had grown up in Lambton with their Aunt Gardiner, chastised the young ladies, though her loud exhortations simply added to the chaos.

  The rest of the large party acted more appropriately, but Elizabeth could not help but feel ashamed of her family. And this helpless feeling coalesced as anger toward Mr. Darcy, who stood near the great hearth, coolly surveying the madness.

  Why should he judge us! Elizabeth thought, feeling her cheeks heat with anger and embarrassment. He was the one locked in a parlor with a married woman.

  “Gracious, Lizzy. Has someone killed your favorite cat? You look quite provoked.”

  Elizabeth turned to find Jane handing her a glass of wine. “Just overheated. Thank you.”

  “Try it—it’s French.” Jane sipped from her own elegant glass.

  Her interest caught, Elizabeth took the wine and sipped it. “Well, Napoleon may have lost, but in the war of spirits, the French have won. This is delicious.”

  “Mr. Darcy brought Charles a case of it.”

  “Mr. Darcy.” Lizzy grimaced. “We know he is wealthy beyond belief. Why must he make such a display of it?” Elizabeth knew as soon as she said the words that she sounded peevish and awful.

  “You sound as petulant as my children when I deny them sweets.” Jane frowned, really looking at Elizabeth’s face. “I believe his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, had brought the wine back from the war. I didn’t ask how or where or why, I am just enjoying the gift. Whatever is wrong with you?”

  Elizabeth suppressed a groan and turned away from Jane’s inquisitive gaze. However, her eyes somehow immediately found Mr. Darcy across the room. And he was already staring at her.

  For a moment, neither looked away. Then Maria Lucas began shrieking about something her brother had just done and the spell was broken.

  “Nothing is wrong,” Elizabeth said, forcing herself to calm down. Why let a man—much less a man she hadn’t seen in years, and would never see again—disturb her? “In fact, I am feeling quite triumphant. We all know Kitty and Lydia tend to best any of us in finding the latest, scandalous reports. But today, I believe I have won. Prepare yourself for the most delicious gossip.”

  Jane smiled, though she couldn’t hide her concern at Elizabeth’s demeanor. Elizabeth could understand that. It was not like her to gossip, but something burning and restless inside her propelled her words.

  Perhaps Jane will say I am wrong, she thought. Do I want to be wrong?

  “I’m in terrible suspense,” Jane laughed. “What is it?”

  “Not ten minutes ago, I was walking down the hall. I stopped, across from your parlor, and who should open the closed door and step out but Mr. Darcy.”

  Jane tilted her head. “That is odd, but perhaps he was only taking a moment to calm his thoughts—as I suppose you were doing when you stared at me, then fled down t
he hallway.”

  “I greeted Mr. Darcy in the hall, and then a moment later Caroline opened the same door and stepped into the hall.”

  “Caroline! Caroline Doughton, Charles’ sister?”

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Is there another Caroline staying here?” Caroline had married a wealthy man—not quite the earl she’d hoped for, but richer than most of them. He was two-and-sixty, and they had been married for just two years. She often traveled without him, as she had done now.

  “No...what are you suggesting?”

  “Nothing!” Elizabeth said a bit too loudly. She took another sip of wine and lowered her voice. “But that is odd, is it not?”

  Jane shrugged, as loathe to accuse anyone of wrongdoing as ever. Both sisters both looked toward where Mr. Darcy now stood. Caroline had joined him and they both posed together, looking bored and elegant and generally displeased.

  “I’m not sure, Lizzy. As far as I know, Mr. Darcy has always treated Charles like a brother—until they had their falling out, of course—and I would imagine he thinks of Caroline as his sister. Charles says Mr. Darcy wishes to mend their relationship. Perhaps he wishes to be friends with Caroline again, as well? I am sure any interactions they had were entirely innocent.”

  Elizabeth watched Caroline lean toward Mr. Darcy as she spoke, her neck outstretched as she looked up at him. Elizabeth remembered how years ago Caroline had seemed to covet Mr. Darcy—as if Mr. Darcy were the best cut of meat at a butcher’s and she wanted to eat him up.

  “As a sister,” Elizabeth repeated. “Really. So you don’t think it odd—”

  “What is odd?” Lydia said, arriving breathlessly to their quiet corner. She had always had an earthy physicality and it had only increased as she’d grown older. Their youngest sister was tall and full figured, with thick, expressive eyebrows and lips she stained an eternal pink. Her hair was curling in the heat and she opened a fan to lazily cool her flushed cheeks. “La, the people here are boring! How do you stand it, Jane, to be in one place all the time? That was one advantage of the war and being married to a military man: we moved so often! Now we must be stationed in the same town for months. However do you survive it? Sir William tells the same stories as he did when we were young. Mary still wants to play the pianoforte but I won’t let her! And—wait, what are you two whispering about?”

  “Nothing,” both Elizabeth and Jane said quickly.

  Lydia shrugged and fanned herself quickly as she looked out across the room. “Mama keeps talking of this Mr. Gladwell for you, Lizzy. She’s all a-flutter that he hasn’t arrived yet.” Lydia threw a sly smile at her older sisters. “But if it were me, I would hope to be seated next to Mr. Darcy at dinner. Jane, don’t you think he and Lizzy are well-suited? They’re both unmarried and they can compete to see who can keep the most sour expressions on their faces.”

  Elizabeth had to laugh at this. “That is ridiculous! There can be no contest. Mr. Darcy shall win most easily. He has been practicing his entire life.”

  “Be charitable, ladies,” Jane reprimanded quietly. “I have heard Mr. Darcy does not venture out into Society much, and I am sure this loud room is quite overwhelming. Lizzy, you might have more in common with him than you think. You yourself haven’t left Steadham House in months.”

  “See? They’re perfect for each other!” Lydia took Elizabeth’s glass of wine, handing her empty glass to her sister. “Maria Lucas says Mr. Darcy has ten thousand a year, probably more. Once Mama hears that, you know she’ll forget she ever met a man named Mr. Gladwell.”

  “Jane, please don’t seat me next to him—” Elizabeth began.

  “Though, it’s funny,” Lydia continued on. “I know we met Mr. Darcy years ago—wasn’t he at the ball at Netherfield?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth and Jane said in unison.

  “But I don’t remember him. Not at all!” Lydia frowned and finished Elizabeth’s wine. “The oddest thing is, though, he reminds me of someone. I can’t quite place it. I have no memory of Mr. Darcy here, but I know I’ve seen him before.”

  “You saw him at assemblies and in Meryton and at the ball Charles threw here at Netherfield,” Jane said, shaking her head and taking both empty glasses from her sisters. “So naturally he looks familiar.”

  Lydia continued to stare at Mr. Darcy, her flirtatious, frothy affect falling away. “No, that’s not it.” She frowned and rubbed her bottom lip across the top of her wine glass—then finally shrugged. “Or, maybe it is! I don’t know. Who wants to think too hard at a party? Is dinner served yet, Jane? I’m starving.”

  “We were just trying to wait for Mr. and Mrs. Potter.” Jane glanced across the room, to the clock on the mantel. “They were due to arrive this afternoon and I fear something awful has happened.”

  “Who?” Lydia said, motioning for more wine from the footman.

  Jane frowned as Lydia downed half the delicate glass’ contents in one swallow.

  “What?” Lydia said. “It’s good.”

  Taking a deep breath, Jane whispered, “Mr. Elton Potter and his wife Margaret are good friends of Mary’s husband.”

  “And Mr. Potter is quite successful in his business,” Elizabeth added. “Charles’ company could do well to form a mutually beneficial friendship.”

  Lydia rolled her eyes. “How boring. I thought you two were over here sharing interesting secrets.”

  Jane met Lizzy’s eyes but before either could respond Mr. Roush, the butler, came rushing to Jane’s side. His cheeks were flushed and his balding head gleamed with water. Elizabeth realized that, in fact, his jacket was soaked, as well.

  “Mrs. Bingley, excuse me, but Mr. and Mrs. Potter have arrived.”

  “Oh!” Jane cried. “Does Mr. Bingley know?”

  “And whyever are you wet?” Elizabeth said.

  “Mr. Bingley does know,” Mr. Roush said, bowing slightly. “Apologies for the sodden footprints, Mrs. Bingley. There has been a sudden downpour and we were outside, assisting the Potters. Apparently their carriage wheel broke just outside of Meryton. Luckily, they were picked up by a passing carriage with another guest in it, one Mr. Gladwell.”

  “How convenient!” Lydia said, clapping and motioning for more wine.

  Jane shot the footman a withering glare that stopped him in his tracks. She turned back to her butler. “How dreadful. I shall attend to them immediately. But tell me, are the Potters well?”

  Mr. Roush hesitated and then a lady’s loud shriek sounded from the hallway. “I am soaked, Elton!” the woman shouted. “This rain is simply unacceptable! What sort of country has rain during the afternoon?”

  The butler’s face paled and Jane gave one panicked glance at her sisters, and then rushed into the hall with Mr. Roush on her heels.

  “Oh dear,” Elizabeth said. “Jane and Charles so desperately want to impress them. But Mrs. Potter can’t really blame them for rain, can she?”

  Lydia shrugged and grabbed more wine from the footman, now that Jane was gone. Another fierce shriek sounded from the hallway and they could hear Mrs. Potter shout at various footmen about her precious crates.

  “Well,” said Lydia brightly. “Perhaps this house party will be interesting, after all!”

  7

  Darcy

  Darcy was accustomed to being given the place of honor at almost any table at which he dined. And while he was more than pleased to sit next to Jane Bingley, tonight he also was seated across from Mrs. Bennet.

  Over the years, Darcy had told himself many times that his memory must be faulty. No woman, even Elizabeth Bennet, could be as perfect as he remembered her. No one that young could have been so witty and yet so wise. No lady could truly be as beautiful as the image he held in his mind—glowing skin, glowing smile, shining eyes. And surely she could not be as secretly kind and devoted as he had suspected, after witnessing her interactions with her sisters and friends.

  He had told himself a thousand times to forget Elizabeth Bennet, and not to trust his obviously b
iased, flawed memories.

  How terrible, then, that his recollection of Mrs. Bennet proved to have been absolutely perfect.

  It made him reconsider that, perhaps, he had allowed a woman he loved to slip from his life, so many years ago. Perhaps Elizabeth had been all that he remembered, and more.

  It also made dinner…interminable.

  “Jane, darling, do not forget to spread your good graces to your other guests,” Mrs. Bennet said, her enunciation slightly marred by drink, and her volume enhanced by it.

  Jane Bingley, who was indeed as blandly pleasant as Darcy remembered her, colored slightly. She nodded at her mother, then glanced imploringly at Darcy.

  “My apologies, Mr. Darcy. I should not have monopolized your conversation. I am just—I am just simply delighted that you and Charles have renewed your friendship.” She leaned forward, her voice low. “Charles will never say as much, but he has missed you greatly.”

  Darcy opened his mouth to respond, but before he could utter a word, Mrs. Bennet leaned across her daughter’s new husband—Mr. Jannis sat on Jane’s other side—and rapped her knuckles on the table to get her eldest daughter’s attention.

  Darcy gritted his teeth. He could not detest Mrs. Bennet as much as he felt he did, could he? She was Elizabeth’s mother, after all. There had to be some redeeming feature to her.

  Hadn’t there?

  “Yes, mother?” Jane said, a practiced and serene smile on her face.

  “Your sisters were wondering, and I am sure your other guests would concur, if we might have dancing tomorrow night? You have the new pianoforte that Charles bought you. The very latest model, and we are all eager to enjoy it.” Mrs. Bennet paused and looked briefly at Mr. Darcy. He could read the challenge in her mien perfectly well. It told him all he needed to know. Beyond her being a small-minded, shallow and silly woman, she disliked him.

  Intensely.