“Well, Miss Kitty,” he said as he stroked Cassandra lightly, “how fares my commission?”
Kitty blushed. “Very well, sir. I am working on it even now.”
“Would it be too much to ask to have a preview?”
Elizabeth was enchanted at the appearance of dimples on Mr. Darcy’s face. Goodness, he was handsome!
Kitty bit her lip, and for an instant, Elizabeth thought she might deny the gentleman his request. But she rose and handed her sketchbook over. As Darcy looked upon her work, Kitty said with apparent worry, “It is not finished, you understand. It has been very difficult to sketch without drawing her attention. I have pretended to draw you, you see, and I have to move between the two drawings constantly.” Her eyes fell. “It is not very good.”
Elizabeth watched as Mr. Darcy’s face grew softly serious. “I beg to differ,” he said in a low voice, thick with emotion. “I . . . ” He glanced up. Was there a brightness in his eyes? “I am astonished. This is splendid!”
Kitty seemed not to believe her ears. “You like it?”
By that time, Mrs. Annesley had joined the two, and she gasped as she looked over Mr. Darcy’s shoulder. “Miss Kitty, I must agree with Mr. Darcy. This is very fine work!”
This was too much for Elizabeth, and giving way to her curiosity, she crossed over to see. “May I?” she asked.
Mr. Darcy handed the sketchbook back to Kitty, who gave it to her sister. On the page was an unfinished charcoal portrait of a young lady engrossed in drawing. It was undoubtedly Miss Darcy. Her dress was only suggested and there was no background to speak of, for Kitty had focused on her subject’s features — the turn of the chin, the graceful long neck, the curl next to her ear, the way her eyebrows creased ever so slightly when she concentrated. Kitty had captured it all.
“Oh, my,” Elizabeth breathed. “Kitty, this is wonderful!”
“Oh, I am ever so glad!” cried the girl. She babbled on: “It will be much better when it is finished, but to know that you like it — (cough) — well, thank you!”
Mr. Darcy had recovered his equability. “I look forward to it.”
His face was as Elizabeth expected — cool, unruffled, almost emotionless. Yet, there was a slight earnestness to his statement now that Elizabeth knew to listen for it. How many times had she missed it in the past? She did not know.
To mask her confusion, she mindlessly turned the pages in Kitty’s book. Almost by accident, she came upon her own portrait. When, she wondered with astonishment, had this been done? She looked up to see Kitty completely red in the face. She gently recovered her sketchbook.
“You were not meant to see that,” Kitty admonished her sister slightly.
“Why on earth not?” Elizabeth cried. “You have such a talent; everyone should know!”
“No! (cough)” Kitty was adamant. “Please do not tell anyone. I cannot bear the teasing.”
Elizabeth almost asked what she meant by that, when she remembered Lydia’s habit of disparaging others who owned talents she did not possess. Elizabeth opened her mouth to tell Kitty that she should not mind, that her skills were such that no one would pay heed to Lydia’s silly pronouncements, when the girl herself burst into the room.
Kitty immediately closed her book, but it was unnecessary. Lydia’s target was the gentleman in the wheel-chair.
“Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam told me what you did! Thank you, thank you!” She hurled herself at his head, wrapped her arms about his neck, and kissed his cheek. Cassandra scrambled to safety behind a sofa. “Thank you for letting me ride Miranda. She is so beautiful! You are the kindest man in the whole world!”
Mr. Darcy tried to free himself. “I am glad . . . you are pleased . . . Miss Lydia.” He was unsuccessful. “Would you please release me?”
Lydia heard not a word the man said. “The colonel said that Miranda will remain at Longbourn for as long as you are here! How wonderful! I shall ride her every day, and care for her, and — and I hope you NEVER leave!”
* * *
“I understand Miss Lydia was quite appreciative after her ride,” Colonel Fitzwilliam quipped to Darcy as they shared an after-dinner port in Darcy’s parlor. “I hope you enjoyed it.”
“It was very embarrassing, if you must know,” Darcy admitted. “But I thank you anyway for bringing Miranda — and Georgiana’s horse, too.”
“No need for all that. You know I can refuse Georgiana nothing. If she must remain here, she should have some entertainment.”
“I do not believe Georgiana suffers being away from London, but perhaps you have better intelligence.”
“No, no. It is apparent she has made herself quite at home at Longbourn.” The colonel took a thoughtful sip of his port. “To be truthful, this sojourn has had a very beneficial effect on her. She is happy and outgoing — just as she was . . . before.”
Yes, thought Darcy, before Ramsgate. “The Bennets have been very kind. It is apparent that she benefits from association with cheerful young ladies.” His face fell. “I should have known that and allowed her to be in company more, rather than hide her at Pemberley. I have failed her.”
Sardonic was the colonel’s reply. “Oh, yes. It was very sporting of you to break your leg in order to provide your sister with stimulating companions. You are truly a man without equal.” He laughed at Darcy’s glare before sobering. “Bingley was quiet tonight.”
“Was he? I did not notice.”
The colonel eyed his cousin. “Do not play the innocent with me. You two were quartered together for no little time this afternoon. What in the world did you say to him?”
“That must remain between Bingley and me.” Actually, Darcy had gently taken his great friend to task for his seeming indecision about Jane Bennet. Darcy learned that Bingley was as enamored as ever but was still uncertain about Miss Bennet’s feelings. Darcy swallowed his pride and informed Bingley of his belief in Jane’s attachment to him. Bingley was at first ecstatic over the news, but then grew thoughtful. After a bit of wheedling, Darcy discovered that Bingley’s mind had turned from if to make an offer to Jane to how. Darcy suspected that Bingley was planning to make a bit of a fuss out of the business, and that meant a least a week’s contemplation, if not longer.
To Darcy, it was all stuff and nonsense. He was a man who thought things through to an exacting extreme, but once a course of action was decided, he did not hesitate for an instant. Should he endeavor to propose marriage to a young lady, he would walk straight up to her and blurt out the first thing that came into his head.
To his cousin, he continued, “It is of little interest to you in any case, I am sure.”
“You know,” Colonel Fitzwilliam pointed out, “I should take exception to that last statement if I did not know your ways as well as my own. As it is, I shall remember your intentions and not your speech.” Darcy, realizing that he had planted his foot in his mouth yet again, tried to apologize, but his cousin would have none of it. “One day, someone will teach you better manners, but it shall not be me.”
Darcy brooded. Had not Elizabeth expressed the same misgivings about him? Had he learned nothing?
His cousin continued, “I am certain it had to do with Miss Bennet. Did you give Bingley your leave to marry the girl?”
“Fitz!”
“Ah, you did. Good! Everyone needs to be married and miserable.”
“Fitz!”
“Forgive me, but after spending time with my estimable brother and his unspeakable wife, I am quite off the institution altogether. That reminds me.” He removed a letter from his coat pocket and handed it over. “This is the reply from Horace. He requires more information about Sally and her family, but he seems predisposed to oblige you.”
“Excellent. I shall write the viscount tomorrow.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam shook his head. “Saving the world again! When shall you stop? Look what you have done here in little more than a fortnight. Music for Miss Mary, paints for Miss Kitty, horses for that Lydia c
hild, and a husband for Miss Bennet. And you are endeavoring to secure the future of a servant and her family — a servant that is not even your own! You are impossible!”
Darcy did not deign to defend himself.
“Why, the only young lady here to whom you have not given anything is Miss Elizabeth! And she the one I was sure you had fixed your eye upon!” The colonel looked closely at the other man. “Or perhaps you plan to give her much more — say everything you have?”
“Fitzwilliam, I will not discuss Miss Elizabeth with you!”
“You are trying to win her esteem, are you not? Strange, I thought you abhorred gratitude.”
“I do!” Darcy cried. “I am not trying to win anyone’s gratitude! I have given a few things because . . . because that is what I want! It makes the ladies happy and Georgiana, too. That is reward enough for me.”
“You are the most generous man I know, Darce, but there are times I do not understand you. Never have I seen a person more opposed to accepting thanks. It is quite annoying.”
“You should know all about annoying, Fitz, as you are so good at it.”
“Touché. Annoying the king’s enemies has kept me alive these many years. It is a hard habit to break.”
“Must you practice on me?”
“Yes. You are too tempting a target, even if you are the best man I know.” He raised his glass. “I truly hope you receive everything you deserve.” As Darcy sipped, he added, “And Miss Elizabeth.”
Darcy nearly choked on his port.
Chapter 15
THE SUCCEEDING DAYS FLOWED in much the same manner as those before. Mr. Bennet spent the bulk of his time ensconced in his book room. Mrs. Bennet supervised the management of the household with Jane’s assistance. Mary practiced her instrument and Kitty her art, both in the company of Georgiana and Mrs. Annesley. And when Lydia was not underfoot, she could be found in the stables, attending to Miranda.
Mr. Bingley visited as often as he could manage, which meant every day. He often arrived just after breakfast and seldom left before dinner. He was usually accompanied by his sisters and sometimes by Mr. Hurst, but they always left after tea. Colonel Fitzwilliam was at Longbourn as often as Mr. Bingley, and he spent his time with his cousins.
The cold of the season forced the Longbourn party to remain indoors, except for Lydia’s insistence upon riding. As for Mr. Darcy, he was wheeled between his makeshift bedroom in the parlor to the sitting room and dining table. He was not satisfied to be simply a subject for drafting or a passive audience for music. He labored for hours on the reams of correspondence that he had forwarded from London. His capacity for work caught the attention of the household, and even Mr. Bennet remarked on it, although in a rather sarcastic manner that mortified Elizabeth.
The weather curtailed Elizabeth’s ramblings, but the reader should know she merely shortened her walks, not eliminated them. When she was not about her chores, she spent more time with Mary and Kitty, taking pains to know them better. She would have done the same with Lydia, but standing for hours in a dirty stable with great, smelly beasts was too much of a sacrifice even for Elizabeth’s generous heart.
So occupied was the Longbourn family with their guests that the news of Mr. Wickham’s departure for debtors’ prison in London received little notice except for Mrs. Bennet’s quip of, “Good riddance to bad rubbish! Such a hateful man! Spreading lies about dear Mr. Darcy!”
Fanny Bennet was a creature of extremes. When Mr. Darcy rudely dismissed the Bennet ladies at the Meryton assembly, she judged him the proudest, most disagreeable man in the kingdom. Now that he was a guest in her house and a potential suitor for one of her daughters, the tables were turned. No better man ever lived, she told anyone within earshot. So kind, so refined, so handsome — and rich — surely, he was worth ten thousand a year, if a penny! Mr. Darcy’s enemies became hers, and Mr. Wickham was condemned as a scoundrel of the worse sort.
What she would have said about Wickham had she known the true extent of his ill use of the Darcys could only be imagined. Thankfully, for Georgiana’s reputation and Darcy’s peace of mind, not a hint of Ramsgate ever reached Mrs. Bennet’s ears.
A few days later, a break in the weather encouraged Mr. Bingley to invite the Bennet ladies and Georgiana to Netherfield for the day. To be precise, the invitation was issued by Miss Bingley, but no one was deceived as to the real initiator of the offer. Georgiana was loath to leave her brother, but she was convinced by Darcy to go and enjoy herself. So it came to pass that Longbourn was devoid of female inhabitants when an express arrived for Mr. Darcy.
Darcy received the message in his room as Bartholomew shaved him. What Darcy read caused him to start and suffer his second shaving cut in Hertfordshire.
“Oh, sir!” cried his valet, “I must insist you be still, or I cannot guarantee your safety!”
“Never mind, Bartholomew, it was not your fault,” Darcy replied as he wiped his chin. “Finish up. I must have words with Mr. Bennet directly.”
Darcy’s conversation with Mr. Bennet was more immediate than he thought. No sooner had Bartholomew accomplished his task of cleaning the soap from his employer’s face than the master of Longbourn came into the room without so much as a knock on the door. Darcy was surprised at the breach of manners, but his indignation turned to astonishment. Mr. Bennet was red-faced as he shook a handful of papers in his upraised hand.
“What can I do for you, sir?” Darcy could see that Mr. Bennet was trying to restrain his temper.
“Mr. Darcy, I am a reasonable man. I consider myself a gentleman, and I know the expectations that come with that office, but this is too much, sir!”
Darcy had been trained from childhood to deal with all sorts of people, from tradesmen to peers. He managed the lives of hundreds between his house in London, his estate of Pemberley, and his manifold investments. An angry person was an unreasonable person, he knew. To accomplish anything, a tense situation must be placated. He calmly sat back in his chair, laced his fingers over his midsection, and spoke in a calm, steady voice. “I do not have the pleasure of understanding you. What is it that upsets you?”
“These! These bills I have just received!”
Darcy’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“You have taken over my household! You treat my servants as your own, you have changed the food served at my table, and you have filled my house with your relations! And I have not said a word, much as I wished. I, at least, know my place as a host. You are injured, and I will do right by you even though you hurt yourself by your own thoughtlessness! But now you have gone too far — too far, sir!” He shook the papers at Darcy. “It is one thing to stable your carriage horses while you are in residence, but to expect me to feed and care for your entertainments? You take advantage of me!”
“Entertainments?” said Darcy dangerously. “Do you speak of my sister’s horse?”
“Yes, and that other nag, as well!”
“You mean Miranda, the one I provided for your daughter’s amusement.”
Had Mr. Bennet been more in control of his emotions, he would have taken heed of Darcy’s calm, silky tone for the warning it was, but he was too enraged to comprehend that the windy seeds he was sowing were about to reap the whirlwind.
“I do not appreciate your attempts to buy my family’s approbation!”
Bartholomew gasped at the insult, but Darcy said nothing. He stared hard at the other man until Mr. Bennet took note of his countenance. Some of the redness in the older man’s face faded, and that was when Darcy spoke.
But it was in a voice no one at Longbourn had heard before. It was not the bored tones of a man of quality, which Darcy used when he first entered Hertfordshire, or the more natural and relaxed speech he habitually reserved for family and friends. No, this was the voice of the master of Pemberley, used by a man who could break a yeoman with a word, a banker with a glance, or a barrister with a glare.
His eyes never leaving Mr. Bennet’s, he said
between his teeth, “Bartholomew, kindly retrieve the paper from Mr. Bennet’s steward and hand it to this gentleman.”
With a smirk, the valet reached into a satchel and pulled out a single sheet. With a flourish — for Bartholomew was enjoying himself — he presented it to Mr. Bennet, who took it, curiosity and apprehension growing on his face. He waited, but as Darcy said nothing more, only glared, the older man read what he was given.
“What is this?”
“Surely it is self-explanatory,” Darcy said drily.
“This is a list of figures. Why do you have it?” Bennet looked up, his anger returning. “Why is my steward giving you details of Longbourn’s business?”
“Not all of your business, only that of your stable,” said Darcy coldly. “Kindly read aloud the figure at the bottom.”
Bennet glanced down. “Seven pounds, six shillings, eight pence.”
Darcy continued to glare at Mr. Bennet. “That is the cost of stabling my horses since I came here — all of them, including the two additions and the feeding of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s horse during his visits, through the day before yesterday.”
“You are keeping account of it?”
Darcy did not answer the older man. “Bartholomew, immediately draw up a bank note for my signature. Seven pounds, six and eight, payable to Mr. Thomas Bennet, Esq. of Longbourn.”
Mr. Bennet paled. “Mr. Darcy, that is not — ”
Darcy shot back, releasing all of his pent-up outrage. “You have questioned my integrity. You have accused me of taking advantage of you. You have leveled great insults against me. How dare you, sir? I am not accustomed to such treatment. I have never cheated anyone — gentleman, merchant, or servant — in my life!” Bartholomew handed Darcy the paper, on which he quickly scrawled his signature. “It was my intention to settle accounts with you upon my departure, but apparently you cannot depend upon my reputation.” He gave the bank note back to the valet. “As the physician has ordered that I stay here, leaving is not an option. Therefore, we shall settle all costs thus incurred to date and begin a process of regular payments. Give him the bank note, Bartholomew. Will that satisfy you, sir?”
Mr. Darcy Came to Dinner Page 19
