by Meg Osborne
What now? She had brought nothing with her on her mad walk to Netherfield, nothing for entertainment. Her one and only thought had been for Jane. She certainly did not wish to return to the sitting room, and fall victim to Caroline Bingley’s inquisition once more. Delighting in the opportunity for a solo exploration of Netherfield, Lizzy picked her way down the corridor, carefully nosing into first this room and then that, but the house, whilst beautiful, was unremarkable. The Bingleys had done little to make it their own, and beyond those rooms occupied by themselves or their guests, which Elizabeth was certainly not about to prowl into, much of the interiors and furniture remained untouched. Lizzy descended the stairs, certain she had no other option open to her than returning to the parlour, and was bracing herself for an hour’s worth of conversation, when a door caught her eye. It was ajar, and it seemed at that moment that it beckoned to her. She moved almost without realising it towards the door, laying a light hand on it and straining to listen. Silence. She pushed the door open a little further, and was rewarded for her curiosity with a bookcase teaming with leather bound treasures. She was so excited she almost clapped her hands. If walking was to be denied her, at least she might read. And what choice!
She ran her hands along the spines, tracing familiar titles with her eyes. She lifted one book, opened it and scanned the front page, before its neighbour caught her eye and she returned to the shelf, lifting this new book for her perusal. She had not read more than three sentences before she was utterly captivated by her novel. So much so, that she did not hear the sound of footprints rapidly approaching the library. It was the creak of the door hinges, then, that startled her to attention, and she flinched with such energy that her book leapt out of her hands, dropping to the ground with a thud.
“Miss Elizabeth!”
“Mr Darcy!” Elizabeth laughed, faintly embarrassed to have been so visibly startled by his arrival in the library. Her eyes dropped, and she bent to retrieve her book, but he was quicker, his hands closing on the slim volume before hers could reach it. He glanced at the title, before handing the volume to her.
“Have you read any others of his?” Something that might have been a smile crept over his usually stern features, and Elizabeth felt her heart rate slow.
“I haven’t.” She raised an eyebrow. “Have you?”
“I have heard it he is a fine author. Alas, I am not afforded regular time for reading.”
“Indeed?” Elizabeth was undeterred. Something in Mr Darcy’s manner encouraged her to proceed, in a light, teasing tone she might never before have previously considered employing against such a man. “And what is it that so occupies your time that it does not allow for the improvement of one’s mind by reading?”
Mr Darcy’s lips quirked, and Elizabeth expected them to turn down in his habitual grimace. Instead, he smiled, and the effect was remarkable. She opened her mouth to say something else, but was so thrown off by his demeanour, that no words came.
“I would question the assertion, Miss Elizabeth, that one’s mind is ever improved by the reading of novels.”
His tone so closely matched hers, his attitude was so warm and friendly, that Elizabeth could not hold back another laugh. This, too, he shared, so that they both found themselves breathless once the moment of amusement had subsided.
“I ought not to be so surprised to hear such criticism of literary works from your lips, Mr Darcy. It seems to me that you do not do anything purely for pleasure, there must always be some greater purpose behind one’s actions.”
“Is that so terrible?” Mr Darcy asked, stepping past her towards the window. Two upright chairs bordered a small table, and he sat, angling the chair so that it faced her.
“No,” Elizabeth conceded, accepting his unspoken invitation and joining him, sinking comfortably into her seat. “But I think life would be dreadfully dull if one only read to improve one’s self, and not purely for enjoyment once in a while.” She sighed, recalling a recent lecture over the breakfast table at Longbourn. “I imagine you would find one adherent to your view in my sister, Mary, who argues that the only book one needs read at all, aside from the Bible, is Fordyce’s Sermons.”
“Ah, yes,” Mr Darcy’s eyes lit up with some recollection that Elizabeth was not privy to. “I must confess now, on knowing you a little, that you are very different from your sisters.”
“Different from some of my sisters,” Elizabeth countered. “The one I am closest to, the one I most wish to emulate in her gentleness and patience - both characteristics I am not innately blessed, with, I must confess - is at present asleep in the room above us.”
“I hope Miss Bennet continues to improve?” He asked, after a moment of silence.
Elizabeth started. She was so used to the very same question tripping from Mr Bingley’s lips, so touched by the concern their host did not even try to disguise, and his desire to always be of service in the hastening of Jane’s return to good health, that to hear the same sentiment emerge from Mr Darcy was surprising. She snuck a glance at him and was surprised to see no hint of wry humour or weary obligation underpinned his question: it was sincere, his concern genuine.
“You are kind to enquire Mr Darcy,” she said, at length. “Jane seems to be slowly making a recovery, although she is still very tired.”
“It is wise to allow her to rest, then,” he remarked. “And you, Miss Elizabeth. Are you - well?”
“You inquire as to whether I am contagious, after being so often in the sick-room?” Elizabeth asked, with a teasing smile.
Mr Darcy’s eyes widened, momentarily, and Elizabeth feared he had seen a slight in the words she had intended for humour. Instead, he answered in a mirror of her tone of voice.
“I merely wish to know whether I ought to plan on being confined, myself, or prepare for the suffering of my friends. But you seem healthy enough. Perhaps we will be lucky enough, all, to survive unscathed.”
“Perhaps -”
The door flew open, silencing Elizabeth’s response, and Caroline Bingley appeared.
“Oh!” Her mouth fell open, as she regarded the comfortable picture of her two guests sitting, freely conversing in the quiet of the library. “Mr Darcy!” Her eyes narrowed. “Miss Elizabeth! What are you doing in here?”
“Playing chess,” Mr Darcy said, swiftly. Before Elizabeth could react, he had moved one pawn forward a square. “Miss Bennet has taken pity on me, after hearing about my dismal attempts to rout Charles, and is affording me the opportunity to practice, before I face him again. It is your move, Miss Elizabeth.”
Lizzy glanced up, seeing a gleam in the dark eyes that fixed on her, and obediently she lifted her hand, delicately selecting a piece, and moving it in tandem with his.
“Oh.” Caroline frowned. “Oh, I see. Well - you know - we have a perfectly good chess-set in the parlour. And -” she glanced towards the window. “You might have more light there.”
“I did not wish to disturb your piano playing, Miss Bingley,” Mr Darcy said.
“Oh, I have finished!” Caroline’s response was breezy but insistent. “Do, please, bring your game to the sitting room! I am sure Charles will be eager to see you again, Miss Elizabeth. You must come. I shall order a fresh pot of tea, and have the fire stoked, so we might be far more comfortable in there.”
THEIR CHESS GAME HAD been abandoned, or rather, left behind them in the library, for both Darcy and Elizabeth had been marched out of the library with almost military precision.
“Miss Elizabeth!” Charles had leapt up at their appearance at the doorway. “I do hope your sister is still recovering?”
“She is sleeping at present, Mr Bingley,” Elizabeth replied, shooting Darcy a look. “But she was very touched to hear of your concern.” She turned back to Caroline. “And apologises, again, for being a burden to her generous hosts.”
Caroline lifted her chin, evidently perceiving that there was an insult hidden in Elizabeth’s otherwise polite words. Darcy, too, was sure that the apology was not meant quit
e as genuinely as it was offered. He had to swallow a laugh at the confusion that flared, fleetingly, over Caroline’s face, before she was able to wrestle her thoughts back under control.
“Well, shall we take tea?”
It was a demand, rather than a request, and both Darcy and Elizabeth obediently sat, forming a circle with Charles that Caroline nonetheless sought to be head of.
“I might offer you a tour of Netherfield later, Eliza dear,” Caroline said, as she slid back into the role of beneficent hostess. “For I do want you to feel comfortable to consider this your home, for as long as you are here.” The snide note in her voice suggested that this was her attempt to return a slight for what she perceived as Elizabeth’s criticism. Elizabeth merely smiled, and nodded, agreeing that she would be grateful to Miss Bingley sparing the time and attention to give her a tour, and being interested to hear a little of the history of the Bingleys’ most treasured possessions.
“I always feel it an insight into the people who own such belongings,” she said, with a smile towards Mr Bingley. “For example, your library. I stumbled upon it quite by chance earlier, for you know I do love to read, and I was cheered to see so many fine volumes lining the shelves. I trust you are able to find a little time for reading, in these long winter days.”
One corner of her lips lifted, and Darcy felt certain that, although she directed her question towards her hosts, its implication, its gentle mockery was intended for his ears and his alone, in reference to their conversation in the library.
“You must be careful, Charles, not to fall into the trap Miss Bennet is so ably constructing,” he said, bringing her scheme to a halt before it could be got underway. “She means to turn my own words back on me: for I posited that I rarely had time to read as much as I ought, or might wish to.” He bowed his head towards Elizabeth, acknowledging her victory in this point, at least. “I see now I must mend my ways, and shall avail myself of your fine library before the day is out.”
“An admirable course of action,” Elizabeth said. “And yet I feel a little wounded by your referring to me as laying traps. Do you think me so Machiavellian?”
“I certainly think you capable of strategy,” Darcy responded. “No doubt it will be borne out in our chess game.”
Elizabeth conceded him the point, and they turned to Charles, seeking to engage him in conversation. Caroline disqualified herself, not taking any of the opportunities afforded her to join their discussion, and instead sat with a face like thunder as she watched Elizabeth warmly converse with the two gentlemen.
Darcy found the hour a pleasurable one, a realisation that was quite a surprise to him. If anyone had suggested, merely two days previously, that he would not only survive, but enjoy conversing with Elizabeth Bennet on any topic her rapid imagination could conceive of to present for discussion, he would have thought the man a fool and dismissed the possibility out of hand. Now, he found himself watching her face, carefully, sensing from the tweak of an eyebrow, or a flash of light in her eyes, when she sought to speak humorously - which was often, and usually at the expense of herself or her companions - and the grave note that indicated seriousness. This she reserved for the mention of her sister, and Darcy was forced to acknowledge that she had, upon her first arrival at Netherfield, been quite concerned indeed for the fate of her sister.
“And yet, she rallies,” he said, drawing a period of anxious reflection on what might have been to a close with a confident assertion. “You have said yourself she seems much improved in just the past day. I am sure the worst will be over soon.”
“Indeed, and then we will be held here at the mercy of the weather, instead.” Elizabeth laughed, as a rumble of thunder overhead served as unintentional punctuation to her comment.
“How fortunate that our house is quite large and spacious enough to comfortably house everyone,” Caroline remarked, apropos of nothing. There was an awkward cough from her brother, and Darcy sensed he felt the same discomfort as flooded his own veins at Caroline’s intention, at almost every opportunity, to bring some mention of wealth and social status into the conversation, to accentuate any differences that might exist between the Bingleys and the Bennets. Elizabeth clearly noticed these attempted slights too, for the flash in her eyes indicated she was not immune to Caroline’s barbs, but she did not rise to the bait, merely allowing the words to fall away unacknowledged.
“Perhaps you would appreciate that tour I mentioned,” Caroline said, as the group fell into awkward silence. Elizabeth acquiesced with a smile, and stood, following Caroline towards the door. “Now you must not discuss us the moment our backs are turned!” Caroline said, with a wide, warning smile aimed entirely at Mr Darcy. He cleared his throat, uncomfortable, and did not relax until the door was closed behind the two ladies.
“It is good to see Miss Elizabeth coming out of herself a little,” Charles remarked, evidently ignoring his sister’s admonition. “I was a little afraid that she might be sickening, herself, when she first arrived here. She was so pale and quiet, and scarcely dared step foot from Jane’s side.”
“She was concerned for her sister,” Darcy acknowledged. “It is admirable to see.”
“Indeed.”
Some knowing tone in Charles’ voice prompted Darcy to lift his gaze, and he noticed his friend was regarding him with the merest hint of a smile about his boyish features.
“Do not tease me, Charles. I have borne it from the ladies, but I shall not stand it if you join them in their mission to forever force me to keep my wits about me. If you have a comment to make then make it.”
“No comment!” Charles said, raising his eyebrows. He grinned, which Darcy found still more infuriating. At length, he stood.
“I believe I might take another trip to your library, Charles, and see if I can liberate a book for my own enjoyment or edification.”
“Feel free,” Charles called after him. “And be sure to choose something Miss Bennet might approve of!”
Chapter Three
Darcy reached the quiet sanctuary of the library, and closed the door behind him, leaning against it a moment. He knew his friend was teasing him, knew Charles well enough to acknowledge the teasing was well-meant and ought to be taken in good humour. Why, then, did it infuriate him so much? He clenched his hands into fists and willed his breathing to slow. It infuriated him because he so hated to think that people knew his thoughts without him expressly sharing them. Charles acted on some belief that Darcy’s feelings for Elizabeth Bennet were something more than the warmth of friendship, yet even that was a vast improvement on what Darcy would have confessed to just a few days previously. When first Charles pointed Elizabeth out at that fateful Meryton assembly, Darcy had dismissed her as being utterly beneath his notice. Not handsome enough to tempt me. He groaned. Had he really uttered those words? And about Elizabeth Bennet? He had been put on the spot, offering the first response that came to mind that was designed to shift Charles’ attention away from himself and his true feelings for the bright-eyed, dark-haired young woman who moved with such grace and animation. He would rather be thought proud and rude than what he truly was: unduly taken with the lady who was, at that point, not even a name to him.
He had contented himself right in his opinion, even more so when Caroline raised the spectre of Jane Bennet merely toying with her brother’s affections. That, too, he realised, was designed with Caroline’s own ends in mind. If anyone is Machiavellian... he thought, returning momentarily to the conversation he had had with Elizabeth. Yes, of the two young women, it was Caroline who schemed and plotted. He would not be at all surprised if this tour Caroline suddenly desired to take Elizabeth on had been designed on the spur of the moment to further Caroline’s own ends, whatever they might be.
Turning back to the chess set, Darcy was amused to see that Elizabeth had acted immediately on his improvised suggestion, and moved her own pawn, mirroring his action. The first moves of a chess game were rarely remarkable, but he felt an urge nonethe
less to regard the board carefully, weighing his next move as if it might be of utmost importance. Making his decision, he moved accordingly, and wondered if Elizabeth would have cause to come back to the library that day, see it and continue their game. It was a fools’ errand, more likely than not, for she would have taken his suggestion on board only so far as offered an excuse for their absence from the sitting room.
And what was her excuse? His own was plain enough: he had grown tired of Caroline Bingley forever seeking his praise and adulation. His, even more than her brother’s. He had come to Hertfordshire at the invitation of his friend: that Charles’ sister would also be resident at Netherfield was only to be expected. Darcy knew her little, and respected her on account of her relationship with his friend. She was accomplished, in the manner of accomplishments as would impress someone like his aunt. It ought to impress him as well, he knew, for when pressed to describe accomplishment, those particular skills he listed must combine into the image of Caroline Bingley. Yet there was something about her that made the total less than the sum of its parts. Elizabeth Bennet was not a fraction as accomplished as Miss Bingley. She freely admitted her own flaws, if they could be called flaws. She could hardly play the piano. She was not artistic. She spoke no language but her own, unless one was to count a hesitant reading of German. She was not wealthy, she did not stand to inherit, she had four other, unremarkable sisters, hardly different from any other family in all of England. Yet...
He leaned back in his chair, and turned his gaze to the window. Why could he not get Elizabeth Bennet out of his mind? And why did Providence see fit to continually thrust them together? It was by chance, alone, that he had sought refuge in the library. He certainly did not expect to see her there, believing had to be still by Jane’s bedside. Yet he was not disappointed. Even in the course of their short conversation, she proved herself to be interesting, intelligent, witty, and without the cruel streak that lurked just beneath Caroline Bingley’s barbed commentary.
