by Jennifer Joy
“I doubt that. Miss Elizabeth is too well-liked to be allowed to disappear for so great a time,” he said, trying— and failing— to keep the gruffness out of his tone.
With a smile which did not reach her eyes, Miss Elizabeth laughed, adding too flippantly, “It is no matter. There is no other place I would rather be locked inside than a library.” Her cheeks, though rosy by nature, deepened to a darker shade.
Bingley, never one to allow a conversation to be anything but merry, said, “Tis a pity my library does not have much to offer as yet. I daresay you would have become bored before a day had passed, and Darcy would have discovered you by then. He uses the room more often than I do presently.”
Darcy had found her much sooner than that. His limbs tingled as his body reminded him how she had felt pressed against him in the darkness of Bingley’s library. He only had to bend slightly, and he could have rested his chin on top of her head. She had fit perfectly in his embrace; her hair had smelled of lavender. Not the overwhelming scent of other ladies who doused themselves in perfume, but a soft perfume which had enticed his senses.
She spoke, dragging him out of his beautiful daydream. “That does not surprise me. Several times, I encountered Mr. Darcy in the library during our stay at Netherfield Park. I have no doubt, Mr. Bingley, but that you will do justice to the mahogany shelves lining the walls, adorning them with books enough to satisfy the most voracious reader.”
Much pleased, Bingley said, “Then I shall invite all of your family to admire them when they are properly adorned, as you say.” He blushed at Miss Bennet, who blushed at him in return.
Some few minutes passed thus in pleasant exchanges, and Darcy sensed that Miss Elizabeth was more relaxed. Mr. Bennet, too, was improved company now that they spoke of a subject dear to his heart. Darcy even went so far as to invite them to see his library at Pemberley. That brought a smile to Miss Elizabeth’s eyes, and he took great pleasure in seeing how her face lit up in excitement. Like the fireworks at Vauxhall Gardens.
An unwelcome figure appeared in the doorway, poking his head into the room and casting a shadow over their lively chatter.
“Mr. Darcy,” said Mr. Collins, rubbing his palms against his black breeches.
Mr. Bennet sighed and waved him over to join them. “Please do join us, Mr. Collins. Perhaps you have something worthwhile to share.” Looking at Darcy, he added, “Mr. Collins’ sole purpose at the moment is to clear your name and, therefore, ensure that the de Bourgh household suffers no disturbance.”
Ignorant of Mr. Bennet’s sarcastic tone, Mr. Collins passed by Bingley and Miss Bennet, bowing deeply as he approached them.
“Yes, Mr. Darcy, I am at your service. If there is anything at all with which I might assist you, I pray you do not hesitate to ask. Your aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh would expect as much of me, I am sure, and I consider it an honor to come to your aid in any way, no matter how humble the task.” He remained in a half-crouched position, his face growing red with the exertion. Darcy wondered how long the man could hold such a pose.
Miss Elizabeth bit her lips together, and he knew she wondered the same. Mr. Bennet’s eyes danced in merriment, accentuated by the reflection of his spectacles. Darcy covered his amusement with a cough.
“Thank you. Your assistance is as welcome now as the last time you offered it,” he said when Mr. Collins looked at him expectantly. “The only wish I have at the moment is the same we discussed yesterday— that my aunt not be informed of the recent events here until I can sort them out. I see no need to cause her unnecessary alarm.”
Mr. Collins, finally stretching himself up to his full height, pinched his lips together and reached up with his fingers as if to lock them with an invisible key. “You may count on my silence, Mr. Darcy. I will be the soul of discretion. Is there anything else with which I might assist you?”
Darcy could see that Mr. Collins would make a pest of himself unless he was given some task. “I will send a note by messenger should I require your help.”
Pleased to have been deigned such an honor, Mr. Collins sat down. “I do have a bit of news which might be of some value. We know you to be incapable of committing such a horrendous sin against your fellow man, and so we are left to wonder who, in fact, murdered Mr. Wickham with his own pistol.”
“We are aware of those particulars,” said Mr. Bennet, twiddling his fingers impatiently.
Stretching his neck and lifting his head to an exalted height, Mr. Collins continued, “It was through my persistent inquiries amongst the officers I was able to learn that Mr. Wickham owed a tidy sum to none other than Mr. Denny. When I went to confirm the rumor with Mr. Denny, I found him defensive in his manners and particularly close-mouthed. His eyes darted about, and I perceived a layer of sweat which often occurs when a gentleman finds himself in an uncomfortable situation or caught in a falsehood.”
The same could be said of men pressed to wear black coats and clerical collars. Mr. Collins dabbed his reddened face with a limp handkerchief.
“Mr. Bingley and I spoke with Mr. Denny as well. He told us about the debt and assured us Mr. Wickham had given him payment. I did not sense any resentment on his behalf— only sadness at having lost a friend.” Hopefully that would deter Mr. Collins from badgering Mr. Denny.
Mr. Bennet commented to the crestfallen clergyman, “On that point, I must praise your initiative, sir. It has been my opinion all along that none other than a fellow officer is responsible for what befell poor Mr. Wickham. Of course, I do not think it wise to make accusations without solid proof.”
“What sort of proof? We cannot suppose Mr. Wickham’s killer will confess openly. The only physical evidence missing is his pistol, and nearly two days have passed. His murderer could have hidden it anywhere by now,” said Miss Elizabeth. She brought up a good point. The killer— whoever it was— would not make his identity easily discoverable.
Once again finding a purpose to latch on to, Mr. Collins pronounced, “That is why I will persist in investigating Mr. Denny and any other officer or gentleman who might have harbored resentment against Mr. Wickham. Resentment is, after all, a poisonous sentiment and a powerful motive to wish a man dead. I will not desist until I have uncovered all of Mr. Wickham’s secrets.”
Darcy swallowed hard, his throat feeling dry though he had drained his teacup. What if Mr. Collins somehow discovered the source of his resentment against Wickham? It was just the sort of information an unwitting, but well-meaning, man would stumble upon.
Mr. Bennet cleared his throat, looking pointedly at Mr. Collins. “Only a certain type of man, I think, would act on it. Most people in life, you will find, resent at least one person, but would never consider killing them.”
Mr. Bennet’s expression made Darcy wonder about the relationship between himself and Mr. Collins. Perhaps Mr. Collins had best lock his door that night… just in case. Although Mr. Bennet did not seem the sort of man to resort to such extremes. He did not seem to be the sort of man to resort to any extreme at all.
Replacing his handkerchief in his pocket, Mr. Collins rubbed his hands together. “Of course, there is the one question which keeps rising to the fore. Why can no one confirm where you were at the hour of midnight? I have asked many individuals, and not one of them could say with any certainty they had seen you. It is baffling.”
Elizabeth’s teacup clattered against her plate. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
Mr. Bennet considered Darcy closely, his eyes enlarged through the glass of his spectacles. Darcy felt like an insect being examined under a microscope. Was it possible Mr. Bennet knew the truth?
Had Darcy not mastered his composure many years ago, he would have been tempted to squirm in his chair. It was difficult, but he met Mr. Bennet’s inspecting gaze through the tense silence which settled over them.
The clock propped on top of the mantelpiece chimed. It was time to depart.
“We do not wish to overstay our welcome. Thank you for receiving us, Mr. Bennet,�
�� Darcy said as he rose to his feet.
Mr. Collins wrung his hands. “How distressing. I have so much more to relate. I do not flatter myself to be an exceptional investigator, but some small detail which someone else might overlook could prove to be important, and I so happen to have many such details.”
Bingley’s face lit up with pleasure. “I have a splendid idea! Mr. Bennet, I would like to invite you, your family, and Mr. Collins to my home to dine this evening. I apologize for the suddenness of my invitation, but I do hope you accept it.”
Darcy shot a questioning look at Bingley. He already had a planned dinner party for the evening. An invitation of the female-heavy Bennet family would cause an uneven table. Miss Bingley would be beside herself. Not that Darcy cared, but he did not have the patience to listen to her complain about it all evening.
Bingley continued, looking briefly down at the floor, “I had a party planned for this evening, but I was informed that some of my guests will not be able to attend. The cook has been working all day, and it would be distressing to waste her talents.”
Unable to attend? More like they were avoiding him— believing him to be a common criminal. Darcy tensed, angry he should be judged unfavorably by the majority of the village on the pretense that he had chosen not to dance at their silly assembly. Only, now, it did not seem so silly. Perhaps he should have asked a lady or two instead of spurning them all.
He felt Miss Elizabeth’s eyes on him, the very lady he had insulted the worst. He regretted it deeply. She had not deserved his biting remarks. She had heard him. He had looked directly at her as he uttered the words he now regretted, “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me, and I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.” How was he to know she did not hold to the same money-hungry ambitions as her own mother? Still, it was inexcusable of him to have voiced his erroneous view and insult her. The room grew unbearably warm, and Darcy’s pulse pounded mercilessly at his temples as he realized how he had wronged her; how profoundly his own words had prejudiced her against him.
It had been convenient to use the deficiencies of others to excuse his behavior, but now he saw himself as she must have seen him. He had not acted as was expected of a gentleman, and never before had he been so painfully aware of his own faults. He was angry. Angry at himself.
Darcy looked at Miss Elizabeth. She stood incredibly still with her hands clenched together, like a child struggling to keep her piece. Could she find it in her heart to forgive him?
“Please do join us, Mr. Bennet. You would be a welcome addition to our table,” Darcy said before he could stop himself.
Miss Elizabeth raised her head and met his gaze. She had the finest eyes. Dark, lush eyelashes fluttered over her cheeks when she blinked, adorning her vibrant, chocolate brown eyes.
Through the fog surrounding Darcy, Mr. Bennet said, “We are honored you should consider us worthy company. We accept your invitation, Mr. Bingley, and I thank you.”
As Bingley made arrangements, Miss Elizabeth mouthed the words to him, “We need to talk.”
She was right. They had a murderer to catch. Though, now, Darcy doubted his ability to think any clear thoughts in her presence.
Chapter 12
“Did he propose?” asked Mother, bustling into the drawing room to wrestle with the girls for her position before the fire.
“Move over, Kitty, you are hogging all the warmth,” complained Lydia as she rubbed her hands together.
“Hush! I want to hear Jane’s answer,” hissed Kitty, looking intently at the settee where Jane sat.
Jane smiled demurely. “No, he did not propose. However, he did invite us to dine with them this evening.”
Mother clapped her hands and turned around to warm her backside, jostling Mary out of her way with a bump from her plump hip. “Oh, how wonderful! And so soon after the ball! I am certain he will propose tonight. You must wear your best gown and Lydia shall let you borrow from her collection of ribbons.”
Lydia’s face crumpled up like an angry toddler about to throw a tantrum.
Mrs. Yeats, with an expression of concern, touched Lydia’s forehead. “You look feverish, Miss Lydia. Do you feel well?”
“As well as can be expected when you force us out into the cold and when my own mother gives away my ribbons,” replied Lydia saucily.
“Lydia, mind your tongue, dear. If it were not for Mrs. Yeats suggestion, Jane would not have secured an invitation for us to dine at Netherfield Park,” Mother chided. “Maybe there will be some officers there!”
Mrs. Yeats withdrew her hand. “I will send for a fresh pot of tea. Perhaps I worry over nothing.”
To Elizabeth, Lydia looked flushed from being out of doors and irritated that Jane might receive a proposal before she did.
“You are only upset because you have received no gentlemen callers, and Jane is near to securing a proposal. Even Mr. Darcy appears to have taken a fancy to Lizzy,” teased Kitty.
“Pshaw! Lizzy can have Mr. Darcy. He is handsome enough, but I could never marry a man who refused to dance,” retorted Lydia.
“He danced at the Netherfield Ball,” observed Mary dryly.
“Mr. Darcy did seem sensitive to your reactions,” Father said to Elizabeth, pushing his spectacles down to perch on the end of his nose. “Do you favor the gentleman?”
“No,” she said so emphatically, she felt the need to justify it. “I mean, I do not hold Mr. Darcy in any higher regard than I do any other gentleman.” Now, was that entirely true? The guilt twisting her stomach told her it was not.
The stares in the room urged her to continue.
“I will own that he is handsome, as Lydia has observed, but I do not consider him to be a good match for me.” She clutched her stomach, which had grown a mind of its own and protested at her every word.
Mother folded her arms. “Why ever not? The gentleman undoubtedly believes himself superior, but I should hope you do not consider him above you. You are a gentleman’s daughter and, therefore, you are his equal. If he shows an interest in you, I hope you would do nothing to discourage his attentions.”
Oh, if only she knew!
Mrs. Yeats returned to the room with a brew for Lydia, who drank with relish when she tasted it.
“This is delicious,” she exclaimed.
“I added some sugar to the herbal tea to make it more agreeable. If you are developing a fever, it should help,” Mrs. Yeats once again felt Lydia’s forehead.
Elizabeth quietly retreated to her room to ready herself for dinner at Netherfield Park. She could stand no more questions about Mr. Darcy. He was better suited for a lady who gave herself airs. Or was he?
She had seen how easily he had conversed with her father even though he disapproved of his lackadaisical attitude toward life; how he had come to her defense when it was suggested that nobody would notice her absence… She had tried not to show it, but her father’s thoughtless comment had stung. Not that he meant any harm by it, but it had pained her all the same. Mr. Darcy had noticed. She was sure of it.
She stared into the contents of her armoire, her fingers tracing the white work on her best muslin dress. The neckline and cinched bodice flattered her slim figure, especially when worn with her gold pendant. The maid could twist a blue ribbon through her hair to complement the flecks in her brown eyes. Did Mr. Darcy like blue?
The patter of footsteps heralded the arrival of her mother. “Lizzy, I want you to wear your best dress. We cannot waste any advantage you might have over Miss Bingley if Mr. Darcy is, indeed, to choose one of you as his wife.” She paused only long enough to bark her orders before continuing down the hall to advise and encourage her other daughters.
Elizabeth grimaced at herself in disgust. What had she been doing? Dressing to please Mr. Darcy? With a rebellious resolve, she plucked her favorite cotton gown with long sleeves from her armoire and donned it before she could change her mind. If it was good enough fo
r the Meryton Assembly, it was good enough for dinner at Netherfield Park. It was green.
Darcy had no difficulty selecting a waistcoat for dinner, but his cravat was entirely another matter. Either it was too tight or draped down his neck like a turkey’s wattle.
What would Miss Elizabeth wear that evening? He still remembered the first time he had seen her. She had worn a green dress, the color of grass before the dew dried from its leaves. Like a breeze of fresh air in a sea of white gowns and low necklines, her modesty and lack of pretension had singled her out in the large ballroom. She had not sought him out or pranced in front of him like competing dancers on the theater stage.
Pulling out a fresh neck cloth, Lawrence, his patient valet, attempted to tie it once again, holding his breath as he folded.
His conscience troubling him for being so bothersome, Darcy said, “That is perfect, Lawrence.” An apology would be just as difficult to make with a perfectly tied cravat as with a droopy one.
Darcy’s shame bent itself firmly toward determination. He would find a way to speak to Miss Elizabeth and ask— beg her, if he must— for her forgiveness that night.
He descended the stairs to the tune of Miss Bingley attacking the pianoforte. No doubt, she sought to intimidate the Bennets with her accomplishment at the instrument and played in the hope they would arrive in time to hear her performance. It was wasted on Darcy. Georgiana’s musical talents, with her soft fingers which glided over the keys, far exceeded Miss Bingley’s attempt to dominate it to her will.
He joined the Bingleys and Hursts in the drawing room. Bingley paced in front of the fireplace, pausing every so often to rub his hands together.
Mr. Hurst leaned against one side of the settee, patting his stomach impatiently. Mrs. Hurst, as determined as Miss Bingley to elevate herself above their expected company, embroidered a complicated pastoral scene which would eventually adorn a pillow or be framed to adorn a wall for all to see and compliment.
