Darcy and Elizabeth

by Maria Grace

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” She smiled just enough to be pleasant and proper. Nothing like the genuine, spontaneous smiles of Meryton’s Elizabeth.

  At least he knew how to manage such smiles. He bowed smartly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Miss Bingley appeared at Bingley’s elbow. “Lady Elizabeth, would you consider favoring us on the pianoforte?”

  “Capital notion, Caroline. And Darcy, you can turn pages for her, even sing a few bars yourself.”

  Darcy’s brow tightened into a hard knot. “I do not perform to strangers.”

  Bingley withered, as he deserved to for making such a suggestion.

  “No offense to you, Lady Elizabeth. I will turn pages for you should you desire the service.”

  The lady’s eyebrow arched and the corner of her lips lifted. Was she amused, puzzled or tolerant?

  Reading ladies was far too complex.

  “I believe I can reconcile myself to singing alone.” Her voice was modulated, and musical, exactly as a lady’s should be.

  He followed her to the pianoforte. The whispers following in their wake were no surprise. He could hardly offer the time of day to a female before the rumors began. That was simply a part of the landscape now. He glanced over his shoulder. No, still no gossip writers, at least none that he recognized.

  Lady Elizabeth sat at the pianoforte and placed a complicated score before her. Few would attempt to exhibit with such challenging music. Even Miss Bingley might think twice about making this the showcase of her skill. But Lady Elizabeth seemed made of sterner stuff. She calmly placed her hands on the keyboard and delighted the room with her mastery. Her hands flowed with effortless grace, so mesmerizing he nearly forgot to turn the pages. Her next piece was an old ballad, one of Darcy’s favorites, sung and played just as flawlessly as the first.

  Elizabeth Bennet would never have attempted the first piece, but she might have the second. She would not have been able to manage some of the fingerings and the highest notes were out of her range. No question, her performance would pale beside Lady Elizabeth’s, and yet it would have had a compelling charm all its own. Perhaps even more appealing than the superior performance displayed before him.

  Darcy escorted Lady Elizabeth away from the pianoforte. Every unattached man in the room, and some attached, watched her as they walked. Her grace and her figure made it difficult to look away. He should be pleased to have such a woman on his arm. Any man would.

  “Would you care for a hand of cards, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, not looking directly at him.

  He hated cards. A damn foolish way to lose money.

  Miss Elizabeth did not play cards, at least not whilst she was at Netherfield. There she kept to her books, though at the same time she claimed to like many things, even cards.

  What would it be like to play a hand with her? Her eyes would sparkle over her cards, never revealing the luck of her hand. She would banter and tease with each bet, taunting him to reveal more than he wanted, trying to sketch his character.

  As she had in the ballroom at Netherfield. What conclusions had she drawn there? Surely she must be aware of his regard.

  “Mr. Darcy?” Lady Elizabeth blinked up at him, eyes sparkling, lips smiling.

  But her face was all wrong. She was the wrong Elizabeth. As pleasant and ladylike as she might be, she was the wrong Elizabeth. Any further time in her presence would surely drive him mad.

  “Thank you, no. I must ... excuse me ...”

  He bowed and strode off. Where was Bingley? He must be somewhere in the room.

  There! Laughing and joking in a knot of young ladies hanging off his every word.

  Too many long, purposeful strides brought him to Bingley, and he pulled Bingley aside.

  “Darcy are you ill? You look like the very devil himself.”

  “I must take my leave. Pray give my regards to your sister.”

  “If you are unwell, you may certainly spend the night here with us. I shall have a room made up.”

  “No ... I ... I need to be ... home.”

  Bingley studied him. He glanced at Lady Elizabeth, brows rising, and nodded slowly. “I understand. I will call for your carriage.”

  “Thank you, I shall wait outside.”

  The cold night air embraced him, soothing the raw oppression of too much company burning his skin. Too much company and too little of the right Elizabeth.

  He would conquer this. He must.

  December 26, 1811 Boxing Day. London

  After Bingley’s party, sleep did not come easily. It rarely did after so large a social gathering, especially with the wrong Elizabeth haunting his dreams. By the time Darcy was dressed and in the soothing order and solitude of his study the next morning, the housekeeper was receiving the tradesmen and handing out parcels for Boxing Day.

  The maid came in with a breakfast tray which included the newspaper. Darcy poured himself a fragrant cup of coffee and settled into his favorite chair with his paper. He scanned for something of interest.

  Theater announcements noted the opening of a new panto, Harlequin and Cinderella. Mother would have enjoyed that one—the panto was one of her favorite events. She probably would have insisted Father acquire tickets for the day after Boxing Day.

  “But why not on Boxing Day?” he had asked.

  “If for no other reason than to help you develop patience, Fitzwilliam.” She kissed the top of his head and straightened the ruffled collar of his skeleton suit.

  “I do not like patience, Mama.”

  “That is all right dear, none of us do. But it is an important virtue, nonetheless. In any case, we have important things to do on Boxing Day and will not have time for the theater until afterwards.”

  “What must we do?”

  “Well, in the morning, the tradesmen will come for their boxes. Then, in the afternoon, we have invited the tenants to the manor for refreshments and games for the children. They shall have their boxes then as well. Then the alms houses of the parish must be visited and those boxes delivered.”

  “Why do we do all the bringing of boxes? Does no one bring us a box? That does not seem very fair.”

  “Life is not always fair, son. It is our privilege to be able to give in this season rather than receive. We have received so much already, it only seems right.”

  He had not understood his mother then, but she had been right. Rarely had he ever truly wanted for anything.

  He sipped his coffee—just a touch too hot and too bitter—and smacked his lips. Perhaps that was what made this dilemma of Miss Elizabeth Bennet so difficult.

  No point in dwelling upon it further. He pushed up from his chair.

  Mother would have instructed him to go and greet some of the tradesmen as they visited. Company held little appeal, but at least this would adhere to a script he understood. That was far less disagreeable than the usual variety of socializing.

  He walked back to the kitchen where the housekeeper chatted with two tradesmen enjoying small beer and a platter of bread, cold meat and cheese at a small worktable. Compared to Pemberley’s kitchen, this one seemed small. But it was tidy, efficient and snug, filled with the homey fragrances of cooking food.

  “Mr. Darcy.” She curtsied and the two men, clean, but definitely worn around the edges, rose and bowed.

  “Thank you very kindly for the box, sir,” the older of the two men dipped his head again. “The missus has been doing poorly. The victuals and the shawl will go a long way in lifting her spirits.”

  “Indeed, sir,” the other man clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Many thanks. Darcy House is known for its generosity. It be a privilege to be able to say that the cheese at your table comes from my establishment.”

  No doubt that same intelligence also improved his sales. Still, there was no harm in it either. Good work and good merchandise deserved reward.

  Darcy forced himself to make the appropriate small talk and remain in the kitc
hen a full hour whilst several other tradesmen came and went. He would have to leave the housekeeper a few pounds extra when he left for Derbyshire. She, too, should be rewarded. Putting all those boxes together according to the needs of the families was no small task.

  Mother had taken such care with the chore, it was the privilege of the estate’s mistress to do so, she had said. Did Miss Elizabeth enjoy the undertaking at Longbourn ...

  No, no, no, that was not a helpful thought at all.

  On his way to the study, the maid informed him Bingley had arrived and was waiting in the parlor.

  “Good day, Bingley.” Darcy gestured for him to sit down—it seemed the man had been pacing along the fireplace, leaving barely perceptible tracks on the dark patterned carpet before it.

  When he was at the townhouse by himself, Darcy rarely used this room. Not so formal as the drawing room, the odd assortment of trinkets that line three curio cabinets and two sets of iron shelves brought back from various trips, invited too many thoughts of people he missed too dearly.

  “You are looking much better than when you left last night. I am much relieved.” Bingley settled back into a generous burgundy bergère and crossed one leg over the other.

  “Yes, well, as you see, there is no reason for concern.” Darcy sat on the dark grey and mahogany settee across from him.

  “Are you certain? You did not look at all well—” Bingley peered at him.

  “I am entirely well. Is that all you came for?”

  Bingley laughed. “You know that is not the case. Have you forgotten how Caroline is the day after a major social event? She is doubly so when it is an event she has hosted. You would think all the worrying was done and over with the event, but no. She is ever concocting reasons for fear and trepidation: what will people be saying, what might appear in the society pages, would there be invitations extended or will she be snubbed ... Good Lord, I cannot imagine why she must worry so. It seems sometimes that she must dearly enjoy it.”

  “So you are taking refuge here to avoid her.”

  “Do not think me so ignoble. I bring with me an invitation.”

  “Another party?” Pray no, not another! “I am surprised that even you and your sister could manage another one so soon.”

  “I would be as well. No, it is not another party. I have acquired tickets for the panto, four days from now. When I purchased them, I had every intention of escorting my sister to the theater. But now, I find myself in a quandary. I seem to have planned a very important meeting with the banker that same day. I dare not try to convince him to another date.”

  If anyone else made such a claim, he would not have believed them. But Bingley ... “I cannot fathom how it is you still cannot manage to get your dates straight. You truly must consider hiring a secretary.”

  “Yes, yes, well, I will pursue that directly come the new year. In the meantime, there is an extra ticket to the panto. Louisa and Hurst are attending—”

  “Then Miss Bingley can attend with them, can she not?”

  Bingley rubbed the back of his hand along his chin. “Yes and no. She can, but she hates to be gooseberry in such a party. She insists the entire event is a waste if there is no fourth to attend with them. Pray, will you escort her?”

  Darcy rose and raked his hair, pacing the room. “You put me in a very disagreeable position, you know.”

  “I thought you enjoyed the panto.”

  “I do, that is not the point.” Was he really so obtuse?

  “Then enlighten me.”

  “Do you know what happens when I am seen in public, or sometimes even at a private event, with a woman, any woman, who is not related to me?” He stopped in front of Bingley and leveled a stare that should have explained everything.

  Bingley offered his characteristic blank gaze and shrugged.

  “The gossip begins and, more often than not, it finds its way into the scandal sheets. Speculation begins as to when an offer of marriage might be made and what the terms of the settlement might be.”

  “Surely you are exaggerating.” Bingley laughed.

  Contrary man! Darcy glowered; the expression had been known to cow the most stubborn tradesmen and servants, but Bingley hardly blinked. “It is no exaggeration. Even if it were, there is the problem of the lady in question.”

  “Excuse me?” Bingley pressed his elbows into the arms of the chair and sat very straight.

  “If I am in the company of a lady at an event, she inevitably imagines far more interest that I intend. Have you not noticed the care I took in Meryton not to excite the expectations of any young lady?”

  How well had those efforts worked? What were Elizabeth’s expectations? Did she understand what it meant when he asked her to dance? She was perceptive, surely she did.

  Bingley waved off the very notion. “What, Caroline? You must be joking. Caroline has no interest in you. None whatsoever. You are my friend and nothing else.”

  “I am not so convinced.”

  “Well, you are wrong. She is not interested in a man who dislikes the pleasures of town and would expect her to remain in the country the better portion of the year. You are entirely safe from her.”

  Darcy rolled his eyes.

  “Did you not see, even last night? She took no great pains to be with you. She exhibited no jealousy when I introduced you to Lady Elizabeth. You have nothing to fear from my sister. If that is your only objection, put your mind at rest and accept the tickets. Go with them, and enjoy yourself. You have been so dour since we left Hertfordshire ...” the bright notes left Bingley’s voice, and he sighed. “It will be good for you to go.”

  “It will placate your sister so that you do not have to listen to her continued complaints.”

  “Well, yes, that too. What say you? I cannot believe you have other engagements at present, and it would be a favor to me.”

  Darcy grumbled and muttered under his breath. It seemed as though Bingley had been asking many favors of late.

  “With Drury Lane not yet rebuilt, this is your chance to see if another can live up to Grimaldi’s performance of Clown. You have always wondered if any might be as striking, yet you never opted to see another. How can you ignore so convenient an opportunity?”

  Why did Bingley have to look so like his favorite spaniel?

  Darcy dragged his hand down his face. “Very well. Thank you for your offer. But I insist on meeting your party at the theater. I will not be seen arriving or leaving with an unmarried woman.”

  Bingley snorted. “I shall inform Caroline of the conditions of your attendance. She will not be pleased, but she will deem it better than attending alone.”

  December 28, 1811. Longbourn

  Several mornings later, Elizabeth walked with Aunt Gardiner before anyone else had risen. The morning sun framed her face in a halo-like glow as they walked through Mama’s rose garden. Only a few roses still struggled to bloom against the winter chill, but they were a reminder that come the warmth of the new year, the place would overflow with an abundance of color and fragrance.

  “I do not know how my sister manages it.” Aunt Gardiner chuckled under her breath. “We have been here near a week, and not one night have we had a simple family dinner. Last night was the closest we came, and your mother still had what, four additional guests at the table? Boxing Day, two nights ago was the card party, tonight the theatrical at the Goulding’s home, tomorrow we are all to dine at the Phillips’s. Even talking about the pace your mother keeps is exhausting. We do not go out and about nearly so much when we are at home. I fear that Jane will find us very dull company indeed.”

  Elizabeth picked a dried blossom off a woody stem, its shriveled petals raining to the ground. “Jane finds great contentment in all things. If you entertain, she will prefer that; if you make calls, she will relish that; if you stay at home, she will pronounce it all very agreeable. I wish I shared her very happy talent.”

  “It is a happy talent to be rendered content in all circumstances. I give
you leave to be envious of it. However, I should wonder if she is choosing to exercise that talent currently. There is something decidedly sad in her eyes, particularly when she thinks no one is looking.”

  “I do not think it is a problem of her choosing correctly so much as it is Mama’s constant reminders that drive her from her place of serenity. It is difficult to set aside being unhappy when you are constantly reminded of being so.” Elizabeth kicked a small pile of leaves aside.

  “Perhaps you are correct. I do hope a change of scenery will be good for her. I pray your visit to us in the spring shall not take on a similar character.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “All your commendations of Mr. Wickham have left me suspicious as to your mutual attachment. I have been observing you both very closely the last several times you have been in company with one another.”

  Elizabeth pressed her hand to her cheeks. “What has been the nature of your observations?”

  “You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you are warned against it.”

  “From you, that is high praise indeed. I shall endeavor not to allow it to overtake my good sense.”

  Aunt Gardiner paused and turned to catch her gaze. “Seriously, my dear, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve yourself, or endeavor to involve him, in an affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent.”

  “So then, I am to believe you do not like Mr. Wickham?” If that were true, she would be the only one in Elizabeth’s acquaintance to feel so.

  “I have nothing to say against him. He is a most interesting young man. If he had the fortune he ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is—you must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect you to use it. Your father would depend on your resolution and good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father.”