Elizabeth’s voice sounded in the midst of Bingley’s inquiries about Miss Bennet’s health.
Darcy’s breath whooshed out as his lungs recalled how to breathe.
Once again, Bingley practically glowed as he asked after Miss Bennet and wilted immediately as Elizabeth informed him that her health had not improved.
Bingley led Elizabeth in to dinner as the host, and Darcy reluctantly partnered Miss Bingley. Per usual, she had seated him near herself. Elizabeth sat at the end of the table, next to Mr. Hurst. Darcy was certain their conversation would be lackluster. Mr. Hurst cared only for food, drink, and hunting—topics Elizabeth had little interest in. Besides, they had never seemed to get on well Before.
Darcy shook himself. That “Before” hadn’t happened, or this wasn’t happening—he had been unable to determine which. Everything seemed to match his recollections of the past: Miss Bennet was ill with a cold and ran a fever, Elizabeth had been invited to stay—probably unwillingly given how much Miss Bingley disliked her—and Bingley continued to wrestle with learning a landowner’s duties.
After dinner, Elizabeth left promptly. Darcy watched her go. His pulse pounded in time with his desire to follow her, to make sure she was all right, to ensure her needs were met. He owed her a great debt, and his love would not be silenced. He might not be able to marry her, but he could certainly do his best to repay her kindness.
His fingers curled around the edge of his seat, lest his heart send him careening out the door after her. If this was real, he did not wish to alarm her, nor to cast aspersions on her reputation.
Barely was she out of the door when Miss Bingley began abusing his beloved, proclaiming her manners to be a wretched mixture of pride and impertinence. Darcy suppressed a sly smile—Miss Bingley’s complaints appeared to revolve around Elizabeth’s lack of fawning. The woman wished for Elizabeth to behave as she herself did when encountering someone of a higher social status. Yet, for all her posturing, Miss Bingley was not of a higher social status, nor would Elizabeth fawn all over anyone. Her lack of pretense left her incapable of such behaviour, and it was part of what set her apart and made Darcy love her.
As Miss Bingley continued on, however, Darcy grew less tolerant. According to her, Elizabeth had no conversation, no style, no taste, and no beauty.
Ever her faithful chorus, Mrs. Hurst chimed in. “She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild.”
Miss Bingley glanced at Darcy as though ensuring his attention before she spoke. “She did indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must she be scampering about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!”
Darcy’s jaw clenched. How dare she! Elizabeth had come, miraculously, returned from the dead, to succour her sick sister—something that ought to be lauded. A testament to her kindness and true goodness—a far more attractive and hardy thing than Miss Bennet’s sweetness and leagues beyond Miss Bingley’s flattery and cattiness.
Mrs. Hurst nodded vigorously. “Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to hide it, not doing its office.”
“Your picture may be very exact, Louisa,” said Bingley. “But this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice.”
Miss Bingley turned to Darcy. “You observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure. And I am inclined to think you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition.”
Darcy suppressed a start, imagining Georgiana walking alone through the woods where Wickham resided. Even Elizabeth had taken a risk. He doubted she would take kindly to curtailing her walks, but perhaps, if he could convince her of the danger—if circumstances didn’t vanish with the morning’s light . . . .
“Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley prompted, an edge of annoyance colouring her tone.
“Of course not,” Darcy said. He shuddered to think of what Wickham would do if he realised how precious Elizabeth was to him. Was that why the scoundrel had absconded with Elizabeth’s youngest sister? Or had that been a misstep on Wickham’s part? Or perhaps mere carelessness? After all, Mr. Bennet had been unable to find them. Why hadn’t he asked Bingley for more details last night?
Miss Lydia was wild and thoughtless. Perhaps she had considered the whole thing a lark? Or perhaps Wickham had spoken words of love to her much as he’d done to Georgiana?
“—a most country-town indifference to decorum.” Miss Bingley finished, waiting with her gaze fixed on Darcy as though she expected hearty agreement.
Darcy dragged himself back to the present. These were questions he ought to ponder alone, not in company—especially not in Miss Caroline Bingley’s company when any misstep might leave him leg-shackled to the scheming woman.
“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said Bingley into the quiet.
“I am afraid, Mr. Darcy,” observed Miss Bingley, in a half-whisper, “that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes.”
Darcy frowned. They had had this very conversation before. He recalled it quite clearly. Miss Bingley had teased him about Elizabeth’s eyes. And he had responded. “Not at all,” he replied along with his memory self. Straightening, he finished: “They were brightened by the exercise.”
No one seemed to have a reply. Darcy himself didn’t have anything to add. If this dream/phantasm continued through the next day, ought he to woo Elizabeth? Or to respect her wish for freedom from his presence? No, he couldn’t do that—he would never be able to tear himself from her side.
Miss Bingley glared at Mrs. Hurst as though trying to recall her to her part.
Mrs. Hurst began again in a trembling voice. “I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet; she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it.”
Miss Bingley smiled maliciously. “I think I have heard you say their uncle is an attorney in Meryton.”
Mrs. Hurst wagged her head. “Yes. And they have another who lives somewhere near Cheapside.”
“That is capital,” added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.
“If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside,” cried Bingley, “it would not make them one jot less agreeable.”
Darcy’s lips curled up as he sent Bingley a glance. This play put on by Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst was nothing but a farce. They were not imparting new information—both men were well aware of the Bennets’ situation. Though their words remained true, what were vulgar relatives and connections to trade compared with honesty, and women of true strength and virtue, and love? If Elizabeth had lived and he could have won her love, he would have gladly suffered whatever he must.
Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst renewed their mirth at their “dear friend’s” vulgar relations. Darcy sat, his jaw aching as he bit back a flood of uncharitable words.
What would Elizabeth do? She would sweetly poke holes in their logic and beliefs. He could not do so though. He could, however, refuse to entertain their talk—it was something he had learned to do after Elizabeth’s reproof in hopes of refusing to support Miss Bingley’s cattiness.
And so, he stood, made his excuses, and left. Bingley had shown glimmers of reining in Miss Bingley’s behaviour in the future-past so perhaps he would do so again. Upon reaching his room, Darcy sank onto a chair and allowed his mind to wander.
Was there any way to prove what was true? Had Before been a dream or reality? Was now a dream or reality? Perhaps Heaven had sent a vision of the future so he might change it. If he awoke here in the morning, if Elizabeth was still alive, if matters remained as they were tonight, he could change it. He could woo Elizabeth—though sh
e had stated she had not long known him before forming an immovable dislike. Would her dislike remain if she grew to know him as he was now? He had made a start this morning. She seemed thoroughly confused by his behaviour.
And Wickham—he could deal with Wickham as he ought to have done. But how? The scoundrel must not be allowed to continue preying on innocent young women. He must not be allowed to prey on Elizabeth’s family! But Darcy must protect Georgiana. How to do both remained a mystery. If only his father were alive and awake to Wickham’s atrocious behaviour.
Fitzwilliam! He could write Fitzwilliam. And perhaps Elizabeth herself could advise him. It would be difficult to explain to her why he would share such an intimate concern, but between her kindness and her wisdom, she would be the ideal person to advise him.
Elizabeth. Darcy let himself revel once more in the reality of her existence. She was alive and in the same house as he. If his memories held true, she would spend some time with the group later this evening. Miss Bennet had remained at Netherfield for an excruciating four days—but Darcy would not let these days go to waste as he had done Before. He would woo Elizabeth. He would write Fitzwilliam. And he would do his best to aid Elizabeth in any way necessary. Penn would know if Miss Bennet’s condition deteriorated enough to warrant a London doctor.
When Darcy reached the drawing-room, he discovered loo to be the activity of choice for the evening. The table had already been set up, and cards lay at the ready. Miss Bingley immediately swooped forward, offering him a cup of coffee.
“Just as you like it,” she said with a simper.
Darcy nodded and took a seat at the table. The Hursts and Bingley were already seated. Play progressed in a fog. Darcy kept enough attention on his cards to avoid a fleecing or anything Miss Bingley could twist into a marriage proposal, but every other cell in his body strained to catch the first evidence of Elizabeth’s presence, the sound of her footsteps, the opening of the door. What felt like hours passed before she finally appeared.
Bingley stood at once. “Miss Elizabeth.” He bowed. “How is your sister?”
“Not well, but she is asleep now,” Elizabeth replied with a smile for his concern.
Bingley waved towards the table. “Would you like to join us? We are playing loo.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I do not believe I ought to stray from my sister for long. I shall amuse myself with a book.” She moved to their table, glancing over at their game.
“Do you prefer reading to cards?” Mr. Hurst asked, laying his cards down for a moment. Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “That is rather singular.”
Miss Bingley’s lips curled into a sneer. “Miss Eliza Bennet despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else.”
Elizabeth flushed. “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure! I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.”
Darcy leaned forward, anticipating another bout of wits. Indeed, Elizabeth had pleasure in many things: her walks, her family, reading, laughing, speaking with Miss Lucas, dancing, and being kind to those in need—be it a shy miss at an assembly or the tenants of Netherfield.
“In nursing your sister, I am sure you have pleasure,” said Bingley, “and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said. She walked towards the end table where a meager pile of books lay.
Darcy had brought down a selection of books from the library because he could not bear to be in Miss Bingley’s presence without having an escape. Mental, if not physical.
“If you wish for other books, I can fetch you something else. Anything in my library you are welcome to.” Bingley beamed at her. “And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into.”
“I can suit myself perfectly with those here,” Elizabeth replied.
“I am astonished,” said Miss Bingley, “that my father should have left so small a collection of books.” She turned to Darcy, her arm almost brushing up against his. “What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!”
Darcy moved his arm, suppressing annoyance. Miss Bingley had little interest in books—only the wealth a quantity of them expressed. “It ought to be good: it has been the work of many generations.”
She smiled at him. “And then you have added so much to it yourself; you are always buying books.”
Darcy nodded. “I am a reader myself.” He sent Bingley a teasing smile. “I do not think one can be a landowner without increasing one’s library. There are always new techniques to be explored.”
Bingley smiled ruefully.
Miss Bingley immediately began again, drawing the attention to herself once more. “Charles, when you build your house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.”
“I wish it may,” Bingley replied.
“But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire,” she continued expansively.
Bingley grinned at her. “With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.”
Miss Bingley frowned at him. “I am talking of possibilities, Charles,” she snapped.
“Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation,” Bingley replied.
As Before, Elizabeth put down her book and wandered over to the card-table, stationing herself between Mr. Bingley and Miss Bingley.
Miss Bingley returned her attention to Darcy. “Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring? Will she be as tall as I am?”
Darcy hesitated. How tall had Georgiana been at this time? She had continued to shoot up, growing more and more womanly. Well, no matter, she would certainly meet Caroline’s height—he had seen it happen. “I believe she will.” He shifted to look up at Elizabeth. “Though Georgiana is but fifteen, she is at the age where she gains inches in height every year.”
Elizabeth nodded, a twinkle in her eye. “You must be hard pressed to keep her dressed if she grows so quickly.”
Darcy chuckled. Georgiana avoided fittings and the like as though she were being put under hot irons. Fortunately, her maid was adept at altering dresses and, at Mrs. Reynolds’s suggestion, he ordered her things with a deep hem so they could be altered.
“How I long to see her again!” Miss Bingley said shrilly. “I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”
“It is amazing to me how young ladies can have the patience to be so very accomplished as they all are,” Bingley, ever the peacemaker, interjected.
Miss Bingley gasped theatrically, pressing a hand to her chest. “All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, whatever do you mean?”
Bingley nodded. “Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”
Darcy sent a glance towards Elizabeth who had pursed her lips. “Your list of the common extent of accomplishments has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished.”
“Nor I, I am sure,” agreed Miss Bingley.
Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Then you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.”
Darcy nodded. “I do.”
“Oh, certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually m
et with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word. Besides all 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 but half deserved.”
Darcy’s lips quirked up as he recalled the first time he’d had this conversation. A year ago, yes, that had met with his idea of an accomplished woman and he’d teased Elizabeth by adding reading to the list. He was tempted to repeat his response for the pleasure of fencing with her. Yet, he had become such a different man, and he wished to make that clear to her. Georgiana had once observed how quickly accomplishments went in and out of fashion. Dances became popular and then faded into obscurity. In London, it had been essential for a young woman to be able to design a table and before that a fan and before that she had to be able to paint china exquisitely. Now, it was gauche to paint china. No, accomplishments faded. Money could be lost or gained. And pedigree was an accident of birth.
If he could have anything for Georgiana . . . .
Darcy met Elizabeth’s gaze. “That is a common perspective of accomplishments as well. To me, a woman is accomplished if she possesses a well-honed mind, is well-read in the classics, knows her strengths and weaknesses, possesses the ability to change when confronted with her flaws, and, most importantly, is kind and compassionate to all. Good character, after all, does not fade with the passage of time.”
Elizabeth studied him as though contemplating a puzzle. “Few women match such a list—once again, I am surprised by you, Mr. Darcy.”
Miss Bingley huffed but remained silent, either unwilling to gainsay the object of her hopes or unable to formulate an adequate retort.
Mr. Hurst called them to order with bitter complaints of inattention to their card game. Elizabeth excused herself to return to her sister, and Darcy tried to recall his attention to his cards, but, try as he might, his thoughts wandered upstairs to the woman to whom he owed so much.
That night Darcy had difficulty settling. Elizabeth had returned later that evening to report her sister’s worsening condition. After much discussion, she and Bingley had decided to send for Mr. Jones, the apothecary, in the morning if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Even after Elizabeth returned to her sister’s room, Bingley had continued to argue something ought to be done for Miss Bennet. Darcy had finally suggested he direct his housekeeper to provide any necessary attention to the Misses Bennet. After all, Bingley himself had landed on such a course of action the last time and it had seemed to settle him—as much as anything could settle Bingley.
A Vision of the Path Before Him Page 4
