A Vision of the Path Before Him

by Elizabeth Frerichs

  Elizabeth studied him as though measuring his sincerity. “I am sorry, Mr. Darcy. I should not have jumped to conclusions.” She smiled archly. “You are such a puzzle it ought not to surprise me that I have misunderstood you.”

  Darcy bowed. “I hope you may yet sketch my character accurately.” He offered his arm once more, and they walked in silence back to the house.

  After Elizabeth returned to her sister, Darcy shut himself in his room, pacing its length. How could he be so close and yet so far? Elizabeth had hinted that she did not return his affections.

  It had only been three days! Darcy reminded himself. Of course she did not yet care for him as he cared for her. He had weeks of interactions, months of pining stored up. He had forgotten himself, treated her as though she were an intimate, rather than an acquaintance he wished to know better.

  Perhaps she even felt it was arrogance that caused him to treat her thus—that he cared only for his own feelings and not hers. What had she said Before?

  Her voice, so full of anger, floated back to him as clear as the moment she had uttered it. “From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

  Damn the assembly! Why had Bingley insisted on dragging him out when he was still suffering the effects of Wickham’s betrayal? Afraid for Georgiana and plagued with might-have-beens, Darcy had retreated from society. Only his affection for Bingley (and some very pointed words from his Aunt Matlock about the harm he was doing to Georgiana’s peace of mind) had pried him from his study. Having his supposed income bandied about was not unusual, however, coupled with the knowledge that money had almost caused Wickham to destroy his dearest sister, it had been intolerable. A headache followed soon after, leaving him surly and unwilling to engage with such people.

  Not that his behaviour had been out of character for his previous self. Elizabeth had made him see that his motives had been flawed from the beginning. He was polite—because Darcys were always polite, not because all persons deserved respect and politeness. And she was right: he had been aloof—it had always shielded him from at least a third of those who wished to take advantage of him in some fashion.

  But no more. He had ceased his aloofness, working to connect with those around him, to see them as fellow-travellers and to appreciate them as such. There would always be those who sought to take advantage of the Darcy name, but he would no longer allow them to rob him of friendships and acquaintances beyond his small circle.

  Elizabeth had said she had not known him a month before she felt immovable dislike. Perhaps it was hopeless. For a fraction of a second, he considered giving up, relinquishing his hopes for Elizabeth’s friendship and love. Then he straightened his spine. No, he would not give up until she demanded his absence. Besides, more was at stake than Elizabeth’s love—he could not leave Bingley and Miss Bennet to the tender mercies of Miss Bingley. Nor could he allow Wickham to seduce Miss Lydia. Others depended on his future knowledge though they did not know it.

  Perhaps, however, Elizabeth was not the right ally in his quest to save the Bennets. Or at least, not until he had thoroughly changed her opinion of him.

  Darcy went to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. How else could he prove to her that he had changed? At least she appeared to have created room in her mental sketch of his character for improvement and mistaken impressions.

  The assembly. He could apologise for insulting her at the assembly. It would be beyond embarrassing, particularly if she was unaware of his insult. Knowing Elizabeth, she would desire to know precisely what he was apologising for. If he had known then that he was looking upon his own personal goddess, he would have begged for an introduction. Instead, he had been unwilling to risk talk, and, as he had no expectations of meeting anyone worthwhile at a country assembly, he had spoken harshly to Bingley, lest the man parade a group of women before him. It hadn’t occurred to him until later that Elizabeth had likely been in hearing distance. Truly he had been ridiculous! And extremely uncaring—disdainful of others’ feelings.

  His eyes traced the path to Longbourn as far as was visible through the autumn bedazzled trees. Mrs. Bennet’s comments about Elizabeth floated through his consciousness. How could she be so dismissive of such a treasure?

  Was that why his comment had so wounded Elizabeth? He had appeared to parrot Mrs. Bennet’s beliefs: Miss Bennet was the loveliest woman there, and no one else was worth dancing with. He winced, recalling that he had disparaged Elizabeth’s beauty.

  He needed to apologise—if nothing else, Elizabeth shouldn’t wonder if her mother was correct. Jane Bennet was sweet, but Elizabeth’s lively wit, strong opinions, sparkling intelligence, and pleasing figure made her a pearl beyond price. He hesitated. Would she take such an apology amiss? See it as another example of him pushing unwanted feelings on her?

  Perhaps he ought to wait until she had taken leave of Netherfield. He did not wish to make her uncomfortable here. The last thing he desired was for her to “nurse her sister” even more assiduously. Given the plausibility of the excuse, Darcy might not see Elizabeth for the remainder of her stay if she felt threatened.

  If, as had happened Before, Miss Bennet came down with her sister tonight, Darcy would continue his campaign to change Elizabeth’s understanding of his character.

  Chapter 9

  After dinner that night, the Misses Bennet did indeed come down. When Darcy, Bingley, and Mr. Hurst entered the drawing-room, Miss Bennet was seated on the settee nearest the fire, wrapped in shawls. Elizabeth had ensconced herself in a chair by one of the windows, and Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were seated on a sofa across from Miss Bennet, the tea things laid out in front of them.

  “Would you like cream in your tea, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley called before Darcy had even greeted Miss Bennet, like a tabby about to pounce upon a hapless mouse.

  Did Miss Bingley even recognise her rudeness? Or was she, as he had been, supremely ignorant of the spectacle she made of herself? He had yet to discuss her behaviour with Bingley, but he needed to do so. She could not be allowed to continue in her course—both for her own benefit and for the benefit of others who were injured by her poor behaviour. It was something he was intimately familiar with having been in her position prior to Elizabeth’s rejection. He would have to suggest Bingley go carefully though, possibly wait to speak to her until the Bennet sisters were no longer in residence—the last thing they needed was for family squabbles to spill over into the drawing-room, even if the subsequent eruption would showcase that Miss Bingley’s behaviour could be quite as vulgar as Mrs. Bennet’s.

  Postponing his response to Miss Bingley, Darcy walked towards Miss Bennet. He bowed over her hand. “Miss Bennet, I am pleased to have you join us. It is never comfortable being ill in another’s residence. I hope your presence this evening presages a quick recovery.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Miss Bennet said, her eyes downcast.

  Bingley nearly knocked Darcy over in his haste to speak with his angel. With a suppressed smile, Darcy relinquished his place to his friend. “Yes, I would like cream in my tea, Miss Bingley,” he said.

  Miss Bingley’s smile seemed frozen in place, but she poured cream into a cup of tea and passed it to Darcy.

  “Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome,” Miss Bingley lilted.

  Darcy took his cup and stationed himself near the window, not far from where Elizabeth was working on her embroidery. Bingley built up the fire, declaiming the whole while the dangers of changing rooms when ill, and helped Miss Bennet to the chair farthest from the door, lest she catch a chill.

  Elizabeth wat
ched the proceedings, a soft smile playing about her lips as she glanced back and forth between her sister and the handkerchief she was working on. Darcy watched Elizabeth, avoiding Miss Bingley’s hard stare. Was that the same item she had worked on Before? He recalled her sewing something while he had studiously ignored her, determined not to show any preference for someone so far below him. Darcy had been hunted harder than a fox among a pack of dogs, and his unattached status was a testament to his ability to elude every carefully laid matrimonial trap—even those that seemed innocuous. Showing preference towards a woman was something he had assiduously avoided—until now.

  “What are you making?” Darcy asked, angling his body towards her.

  Elizabeth started as though she hadn’t realised his proximity. “I’m embroidering a handkerchief.”

  “With?” Darcy persisted.

  “Trumpet vines,” she replied, her expression serious with a twinkle lurking in her eyes.

  “That is an unusual choice. May I ask why you chose trumpet vines?”

  Elizabeth’s lips pursed in a suppressed smile. “Asking about a lady’s handkerchief is rather personal, don’t you think?”

  “No more personal than asking about the name of a gentleman’s horse,” Darcy returned.

  Elizabeth inclined her head. “Very well. Like trumpet vines, I have always loved trees,” she said primly.

  Darcy considered her. Something told him that she was counterfeiting innocence. “And did you climb them?” he hazarded.

  A laugh gurgled out of her. “You have found me out, Mr. Darcy! My father used to say that I was practically a human trumpet vine, and so I have always embroidered them on my handkerchiefs.”

  Darcy smiled, picturing a brunette waif, dirt streaked across her face, scrambling up any number of trees. Yes, that was his Elizabeth—no one could accuse her of moulding herself to fit society’s expectations, yet she possessed wit and charm in abundance. How had gauche Mrs. Bennet raised such a treasure? “Climbing trees was a particular favourite of mine as well.”

  Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Scandalous!”

  Darcy opened his mouth to reply, then closed it as Miss Bingley’s voice rang through the room.

  “Mr. Darcy, your tea must have grown cold. Would you like another cup?”

  Darcy turned his attention to her, his face falling into its familiar impassive mask. He took a deep breath and reminded himself of his resolution to be civil, regardless of any incivility he was met with. “No, thank you, Miss Bingley.” He returned his attention to Elizabeth, who he was certain had her lips pressed together to hide a smile.

  “May I interest you in a biscuit then?” Miss Bingley asked.

  Darcy turned to look at Miss Bingley. She had leaned forward, casting her “assets” into sharp relief even from across the room—no doubt attempting to allure him—but her eyes glittered with annoyance. He would have to tread carefully. Though he had no intention of deserting Elizabeth, he did not wish to expose her to Miss Bingley’s ire. He forced his lips upwards in a semblance of a smile. “No, thank you, Miss Bingley. I am still replete from that excellent dinner.”

  Miss Bingley’s features hardened, but she nodded.

  “Have you a favourite—” Darcy began.

  “If no one else wishes for more tea, I will ring for the maid to remove it,” Miss Bingley announced.

  Darcy froze, his eyes closing as he attempted to keep his temper in check.

  A soft snort sounded from Elizabeth.

  Darcy’s eyes flew open, and his lips curved up as he saw the mischief dancing in her eyes. At least Elizabeth was entertained. Perhaps it was worth the annoyance if Miss Bingley’s manoeuvring brought her amusement.

  “Yes, and then we can get out the card table,” Mr. Hurst rumbled.

  Miss Bingley glanced sideways at Darcy. “No one intends to play cards.” She stood and rang for a maid.

  Mr. Hurst looked around as though searching for someone to gainsay this proclamation, but none did. Mrs. Hurst would follow where her sister led, and Bingley and Miss Bennet remained entirely wrapped up in each other. Darcy had no intention of playing cards, and he doubted Elizabeth had any such desire. With a sigh of resignation, he inclined his head towards Elizabeth and rose, returning his empty teacup to the tray. Though he had intended to spend the evening as Bingley did, whispering together with his beloved, perhaps reading would be the better part of valour. Elizabeth did not yet welcome his advances, and he did not wish her to feel trapped. His lips curled in a smile as he considered her earlier mirth. Had she ever laughed with him before? In his presence, yes, but at something he had said? He did not think so. Perhaps things were not so hopeless after all.

  In pursuit of bringing Elizabeth further entertainment, Darcy once again chose the first volume of Field Management and Crop Rotation by Edward Plantinger. If all proceeded as it had Before, Miss Bingley would choose the second volume to his in hopes of gaining his attention, and Elizabeth would again be entertained. The things he did for love!

  This time, however, he returned to his chair near Elizabeth.

  “Field management, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked, one eyebrow arched.

  “Certainly, Miss Elizabeth. Do you not find crop rotation fascinating?” he teased. As a matter of fact, he himself had enjoyed this set of books and had brought it as a reference for Bingley and because he was considering implementing the man’s suggestions at Pemberley.

  “It is among my favourite subjects,” she said with mock seriousness.

  Darcy leaned forward. “Ah, but I have observed that you often profess opinions which in fact are different from your own.”

  “Indeed?”

  Darcy nodded. “Thus, given the tone of your answer, I have concluded you prefer crop rotation treatises above all other literature.”

  Elizabeth chuckled. “Perhaps you have taken your supposition to an extreme in this case, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Perhaps,” he agreed, settling into a chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Miss Bingley appropriating the second volume and choosing the chair nearest his. He opened his book and began to read. Though he had read this volume and even implemented some of the author’s suggestions in the prior year, he was once more intrigued by the man’s arguments.

  “Mr. Darcy, why would anyone put clover in a wheat field?” Miss Bingley asked.

  “So that the land may regain needed nutrients,” Darcy said without looking at her.

  Several moments later, Miss Bingley coughed politely.

  Darcy steadfastly refused to respond to her bid for attention. From where he sat, he could see Elizabeth suppressing a giggle on the one side and Miss Bingley craning her neck on the other side as though she could ascertain which page he was on and read it.

  “Does the author explain why he suggests planting legumes in the volume you are reading?” Miss Bingley said.

  “Yes.”

  Though Miss Bingley continued her barrage of questions and other attempts to gain his attention, Darcy valiantly persevered through his book, answering her queries with a minimum of information.

  At length, she gave a great yawn. “How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library.”

  Darcy’s lips twitched, but he kept his gaze fixed on his book.

  Miss Bingley yawned again and cast her book aside. She turned to her brother who was speaking with Miss Bennet about a ball. “By the bye, Charles, are you serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure,” she said, sending Darcy a sly smile.

  “If you mean Darcy,” cried her brother, “he may go to bed, if he chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a settled th
ing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send round my cards.”

  Miss Bingley sighed theatrically. “I should like balls infinitely better if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing made the order of the day.”

  Bingley grinned. “Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball.”

  Miss Bingley pouted, but, as no one else interjected, she let the subject drop. Before long, she stood and walked about the room in a bid for attention. Darcy studiously ignored her gambit.

  “Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example and take a turn about the room. I assure you that it is very refreshing after sitting for so long in one attitude,” Miss Bingley called.

  Darcy froze. Why hadn’t he remembered this earlier? Too distracted by basking in Elizabeth’s presence, he hadn’t thought any further ahead. Would Miss Bingley’s increased dislike of Elizabeth cause her to do something more drastic than she had done Before? Ought he to join them, or should he merely watch as he had done previously? His prior response had been a poor attempt at flirtation—one that Elizabeth had neatly turned to embarrassment on his part. Given her response in the garden this morning, however, he still needed to tread carefully.

  Well, if he continued the pretense of reading his book and listened intently, he would be available should Elizabeth require assistance. He suppressed a smile, considering how often he had crossed verbal sabres with her to no avail. His Elizabeth was more than capable of handling anything Miss Bingley—or any other miss of the ton—could dispense.

  Her face alight with curiosity, Elizabeth folded her handkerchief and joined Miss Bingley in her perambulations.

  Darcy fixed his gaze on the book in front of him, turning a page in a semblance of reading.

  “Do you not find it exhausting to remain in one attitude for too long?” Miss Bingley began.