Darcy nearly gaped at the man. Not even Richard handled their aunt that way. He braced himself for her explosion.
Lady Catherine settled back in her seat, expression sullen. “Bennet sisters indeed,” she muttered. “I encouraged her to associate with your nieces. Anne’s only true sign of independence has been her adamant refusal to marry Darcy.”
Anne let out a beleaguered sigh and sat back down. “True enough.”
“A refusal that goes well with my unwillingness to propose,” Darcy stated, eager to keep his vow of moments ago and to ensure no one in the room thought he was pining after Anne.
“You won’t marry Mr. Darcy?” Miss Kitty asked Anne, clearly surprised.
Richard cast her a sharp look.
Anne offered Darcy a wane smile. “Everything else aside, when I go to Pemberley, I feel sick, and Darcy would never choose to live anywhere else.”
“Sick?” Lady Catherine cried. “That’s a lie. We spent Christmas there not two years past, and you were in fine health.”
“Any time except in the winter,” Anne amended. She turned a glare on her mother. “Even Rosings makes me sick. I would like to live in London.”
“London is unhealthy, especially in the summer,” Lady Catherine protested.
“Not for me,” Anne replied.
The two women glared at each other over the tea service. The room was silent for a long moment. In the grate, the fire crackled.
“Mr. Phillips,” Mr. Searle said, turning to Elizabeth’s uncle. “You are invited to join us for dinner.”
Part Four
Only Friendship
Chapter Eleven
Considering his declaration at tea, Elizabeth expected opulence at Mr. Searle’s, and it was there, but not in an objectionable way. Lady Catherine’s London house was cluttered with numerous china ornaments and paintings. Any exposed wood, be it paneling or furniture, was elaborately carved. The fabrics were thickly embroidered and generally fringed or tasseled in gold. Elizabeth had seen several chairs with large bullion knots embroidered on the seats and backs. She sat in one once and felt the embroidery through her skirt.
In contrast, Mr. Searle’s house had a pleasing appearance, but minimal decoration. At one end of the parlor they were shown into hung a single portrait of a man who, considering his resemblance, must be Mr. Searle’s father. Everything else in the room was functional, though also beautiful. This included many sleek sconces, which gave the room an almost daylight appearance. The furniture looked more comfortable than fashionable, with elegant clean lines.
In further evidence of functionality, there were no gaping fireplaces. Instead, the long parlor was heated in a way Elizabeth knew of but had never seen; by ceramic stoves. They stood in two corners, diagonal from one another. From what she could see, and had heard, the fuel boxes opened out the back, into other rooms. This allowed servants to tend to the fires without intruding.
A glance showed Elizabeth that she, her sisters and Uncle Phillips were the first to arrive. Their uncle leading, they moved into the room and toward the portrait at the far end. There, a diminutive, neat little woman waited beside Mr. Searle. She was introduced as his mother.
While those introductions were taking place, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam were shown into the room. They were introduced to Mrs. Searle as well, though Elizabeth didn’t miss how Mr. Searle’s eyes kept straying toward the parlor door. She noted the extra warmth in his smile when Miss de Bourgh was announced.
“Your late husband?” Uncle Phillips asked Mrs. Searle once the introductions were through.
She turned to the painting, her smile wistful. “Indeed.”
“A skilled rendition,” Uncle Phillips offered.
“Please, everyone, sit.” Mr. Searle gestured to the collection of sofas and chairs behind them. “Miss de Bourgh, this is one of the pieces I was telling you about, brought over from Denmark,” he added. “Let me show you. I believe you’ll approve.”
“Miss Kitty, did you note the stoves?” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked Kitty as Mr. Searle led Miss de Bourgh away. “I’ve read quite a deal about them. Let me explain how they work, and how they keep ash from the room.”
“They keep ash from the room?” Kitty said brightly, though Elizabeth suspected she cared not at all. “How fascinating.”
They meandered toward one of the stoves, but not the one near the remainder of the party. Jane and Mr. Bingley simply looked at each other and moved to sit together on a sofa, of one accord. Elizabeth noted they, too, took a spot as far from anyone else as possible. Nearby, her uncle and Mrs. Searle spoke together in low tones on the topic of a recent exhibit at the national museum.
A bit reluctantly, Elizabeth turned to Mr. Darcy, not hiding her trepidation. Of course, she’d been left with him. No one else wished to converse with the man. At least he hadn’t, so far, made any attempt to separate Jane from Mr. Bingley. Elizabeth felt his obligation to Miss de Bourgh had kept him from interfering with Jane’s and Bingley’s attachment in the park. It was up to Elizabeth to play that role now.
Hopefully, Mrs. Searle has assigned seats at dinner, and Mr. Searle had put Jane and Mr. Bingley together. For now, it would be best to draw Mr. Darcy as far from the pair as the room allowed. “I find I’m terribly interested in watching the London streets. Do you care to join me at the window?”
“If watching London’s streets is your heart’s desire, who am I to deny it?” he said dryly.
Elizabeth turned away to hide her surprise and headed toward one of the tall windows. Had Mr. Darcy just engaged in mild banter? Could he, in fact, mean to be pleasant?
She selected a window halfway down the room, not wishing to crowd Kitty and Colonel Fitzwilliam, who both laughed over something. Below, the quiet street was empty. Mr. Darcy came to stand beside her, his shoulder near to brushing hers. She cast him a quick glance. Although they’d walked together only the day before, she’d already forgotten how tall he stood.
“Fascinating,” he said in that same wry tone. One hand flicked out, gesturing toward the empty street.
Now he was being more his usual, disagreeable self, but Elizabeth would keep him beside her nonetheless. “Have you read any interesting books of late, Mr. Darcy?”
“I imagine that depends on your interests. Of late, I’ve been reading about various breeds of sheep.”
Elizabeth shot him a startled look. He was so near, the scent of his shaving soap wafted about her. She acknowledged it was an altogether pleasant odor. “Sheep? I would never have guessed cloven-hooved stock numbered among your interests.”
His profile to her, a slight smile tugged at his mouth. “That is because you do not know that my holdings stand quite high in my affection.”
“And your holdings require intimate knowledge of sheep?”
He nodded. “Two of my tenants are having a dispute over a patch of land. To the north of one is more land, but he deems it unusable. I thought to find a breed he could pasture there. If I lease that land to him, along with a gift of sheep, I may award the disputed property to the other farm.”
“How very equitable of you,” Elizabeth acknowledged. She would have taken Mr. Darcy for one who made arbitrary decisions in short order, not troubling to care about the plight of those he surely deemed his inferiors.
“You sound surprised.” He glanced at her askance.
“By your attention to detail,” she admitted, leaving out her thoughts about his superciliousness. “Most gentlemen employ someone to see to such matters.”
“As do I, in the form of a steward. He’s long been instructed to come to me with any conflict he sees no ready, fair resolution to.”
“You’re commended for taking such interest.”
“Am I?” His smile was sardonic. “Or should others be decried for ignoring their primary role? We are here to see to the good of our people, the prosperity of our lands. We are not,” he dropped his voice to a near whisper, “simply meant to live a life of indulgen
ce and pleasure.”
“Such radical ideas, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, feigning shock.
“You disapprove.” He didn’t hide his censure.
Elizabeth paused, a sharp retort on her lips. She tipped her head to the side, considering. Without, a lacquered carriage rolled by, its lanterns lighting the way.
“On the contrary, I approve,” she finally admitted, voice almost as low as his earlier whisper. “My father managed Longbourn with great dedication. He was well loved by his tenants. If only I’d been a son, I would have taken his place.” She swallowed, the admission one she’d never made, even to Jane or Kitty. “I would that I had been. It felt like a betrayal to permit our uncles to sell. As men of business, they took the best offer. They made no effort to find the right person to watch over the wellbeing of our tenants, our fields, brooks, pastures and woods.”
Mr. Darcy was silent. Elizabeth didn’t dare look at him. She’d permitted too much emotion into her reply, she knew. They were in a parlor, soon to sit to dinner. Banter was required, not stark truth.
“Could you have prevented the sale?”
She shrugged. “I cannot say for certain. I will admit, in my grief, I was unaware of the details of the world for some months, during which the sale took place. Likely, the answer is no.”
“If you could not prevent them selling your father’s holdings, then you should not carry guilt,” he said gently.
“Yet I do. If not for permitting the sale, then for being born a woman.”
“That, you must never be guilty for,” Mr. Darcy stated. “I cannot imagine a world without Elizabeth Bennet, loving daughter and dedicated sister.”
Elizabeth felt hot tears in her eyes. Another carriage rolled past below. She berated herself for permitting the conversation to take such a serious turn. A handkerchief appeared in her vision, proffered by steady fingers. She could see the fabric was very fine, the simple white square embroidered with the initials F.G.D.
“Thank you,” she murmured, accepting the offering. She blotted at her eyes. The soft white cloth smelled like Mr. Darcy. Shaving soap and fresh winter air. She tucked the square away. It wouldn’t do to return his handkerchief unlaundered. “I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.”
“There can never be a need to apologize for speaking the truth.”
She let out a shaky laugh, for the hubris of that statement restored her usual concept of the man at her side. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, you cannot believe that to be true.”
He stiffened, his dark dinner jacket straining slightly at the seams. “I can, and I do. Honesty is a cornerstone of civilization.”
“Civilization, perhaps. Society, never,” Elizabeth countered.
“Honesty served Searle well yesterday, with my aunt,” Mr. Darcy countered. “Would I had been more honest with her sooner. Anne and I wouldn’t have had to spend years fending off her attempts to force us to wed.”
“I do not pretend to read minds, sir, but I have every confidence that Mr. Searle was not wholly honest with his feelings yesterday.” She could only imagine what had passed through their host’s thoughts during Lady Catherine’s interrogation.
“You would have men lie?”
“I would have men and women alike employ discretion, as I should have done.” She gathered her amusement close, to ward off sorrow. “This parlor is no place for the words I spoke moments ago. Nor should you have been burdened with them.”
“Your feelings are no burden.”
“No, I daresay not to you.” Why would they be? He would forget their conversation by the time dinner was through. She was, after all, nothing to him.
She glanced over to see his frown and chided herself. Mr. Darcy had begun their conversation amiably. She was the one failing the obligations of polite society. She mustered a pleasant expression. “The weather has been quite lovely, for winter, do you not think? Yesterday’s brief squall aside, of course.”
He swiveled to face her. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” Elizabeth asked, turning from the view to regard him.
He studied her for a long moment, expression thoughtful. Around them, the others talked, some in quiet murmurs, others louder. At the far side of the room, Kitty laughed again, the lively sound underscored by Colonel Fitzwilliam’s chuckle. Miss de Bourgh and Mr. Searle had joined Jane and Mr. Bingley, each couple seated together on sofas which stood across from each other. Her uncle and Mrs. Searle still spoke together, near the portrait.
“Ten honest words with you are worth more than all the platitudes in London,” Mr. Darcy finally said.
Elizabeth stared at him, surprised into reordering her thoughts. “Then here are some more. In the past, I’ve been under the impression you find both me and my words aggravating, perhaps even unappealing.”
The corners of his mouth turned down. “Aggravating I will grant you. Unappealing? Never.”
“Truly?” He put a lie to his own words, that she was not handsome enough to tempt him to dance. “Precisely how much of my honesty do you wish to receive, sir?”
Mr. Darcy’s frown deepened. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. A skirt rustled as Mrs. Searle strode to the center of the room.
“I believe it’s time to adjourn to the dining room,” she said cheerfully.
Elizabeth offered Mr. Darcy something of a commiserative smile, for she knew she was provoking him. “It seems you are saved, for now, Mr. Darcy.”
“What if I do not wish to be saved?” he countered.
To Elizabeth’s right, Jane, Miss de Bourgh, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Searle stood. Behind her, she could hear Kitty and Colonel Fitzwilliam moving toward the parlor door. Over Mr. Darcy’s shoulder, Uncle Phillips came around the couches to join the others.
“I don’t believe you have a choice,” Elizabeth said. “After all, dinner is served.” She offered him a smile and went to join the others as they followed Mrs. Searle from the room.
Chapter Twelve
At some point during their first dinner at Mr. Searle’s, Elizabeth thought by Colonel Fitzwilliam, it was suggested they all walk in the park the following day. The weather held clear and they did. This began a pleasant couple of weeks, their days falling into a pattern of meetings.
They didn’t only take walks, although most days they did. They also went to the theater, where Mr. Darcy, Mr. Searle and Lady Catherine kept boxes, though none beside one another. On rainy days, they went to museums and art galleries, which often resulted in almost heated arguments between Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. To her ongoing aggravation, he refused to comprehend the value of anything that wasn’t an accurate portrait or skillfully rendered landscape. Elizabeth tried to educate him on the beauty of exploring emotion through art, but he remained adamant that art should serve the function of capturing a person or place.
Inevitably, Elizabeth and her sisters, along with Miss de Bourgh, were introduced to people known to some of the four gentlemen. Their social circle grew, and they attended parties and even dances. At these, Elizabeth danced with all the men, but mainly spent time conversing with Mr. Darcy.
This was not because he’d grown more amiable. He generally preferred serious discussion and, it seemed to her, argument. Rather, she bore him company because the others had become well-established pairs, Mr. Bingley with Jane, Searle with Miss de Bourgh, and Colonel Fitzwilliam with Kitty. Elizabeth felt it behooved her and Mr. Darcy to keep out of the way of the others. To her relief, and mild surprise, he made no move to separate his friend or cousin from her sisters.
Uncle Phillips was often, but not always, with them. He would sometimes take his carriage to call on his friends, but only after he saw to it that they had transportation to whatever social events they planned. Elizabeth soon noticed, however, that he could be relied on to accompany them whenever they called on the de Bourghs. To her, and she suspected everyone else’s, relief, Lady Catherine seemed content to talk quietly with her Uncle Phillips rather than dominate the conversation. Even so, she ofte
n glowered in Mr. Searle’s direction, which he studiously ignored.
Elizabeth rather thought their uncle was deliberately keeping Lady Catherine’s attention from the group as a kindness. Then again, he also accompanied them when they called on the Searles and, similarly, spoke with Mrs. Searle most of the time they were there. Maybe he simply had more in common with those his own age. There was, after all, no reason to prevent Mrs. Searle from chatting with the rest of them. She was a very amiable person and seemed to have no reservations about her son’s growing attachment to Miss de Bourgh. Whatever their uncle’s motives, none of the older set ever accompanied them on their long, meandering walks through the park.
Their next of those walks took place on a crisp, sun-drenched afternoon, perfect for an outing. It hardly felt like winter at all. Indeed, Elizabeth was sure she could smell the damp, earthy scents that heralded spring. She walked beside Mr. Darcy, one gloved hand resting on his notably strong arm.
“What is the point of painting the world as it is and placing the work upon your wall?” she pressed as part of their ongoing argument. “If you wish to see the countryside, gaze out your window. That will always be lovelier than a painting. Art, therefore, is at its most useful when it depicts that which we cannot see. Love. Despair. Fear. Joy.”
He shook his head, features arranged into a stubborn look she knew well. “You neglect the beauty of the moment. An artist can capture the perfection of a spring day, to keep when winter comes. He can render a portrait of a parent, to cherish when they’re gone. Memories of these things, no matter how dear, do fade.”
“What if we agree to the value of these works, for the reasons you espouse,” Elizabeth suggested. “How can you argue against also capturing emotions?”
“My mother’s face may eventually dwindle in my mind, but I shall always be capable of feeling happiness, or sorrow. What need have I of a painting to evoke what will always dwell inside me?”
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