by Pamela Aidan
Bingley nodded vigorously, his mouth being stuffed with toast and jam. Wiping sticky fingers on a cream-colored linen napkin, he rose from the table. “Your obedient servant, sir,” he intoned, bowing to Darcy in his best servile manner.
“May that day come quickly! Get your gear; the morning is beautiful, and I am on edge for a good gallop.” With that, he strode out of the room, leaving Bingley to follow as he might.
The groom brought Nelson to the mounting block as soon as Darcy appeared in the stable yard but had a difficult task keeping him there when the great black became aware of his master’s approach. His ears pricked forward, and swinging his massive fore-quarters around to face the entry arch, he pulled the groom with him as he surged toward the sound of Darcy’s boots on the cobble.
“Nelson, you brute! Leave off dragging that poor fellow around!” Darcy tried without success to look sternly at his horse, who was too occupied in nickering a greeting to be concerned with the welfare of his groom. Darcy reached out his hand for the reins. “Here, give them to me. You will never get him back round, I fear.” Only too happy to relinquish them, the groom placed them into Darcy’s hand and backed away to watch.
Under his master’s direction, Nelson allowed himself to be led back to the mounting block, and Darcy neatly swung up, gathering the reins into his expert grip. He was almost tempted to ride on and leave Bingley to catch him up. Instead, he nudged Nelson into a trot, then a restrained canter, directing him into a tight figure eight that circumscribed the stable yard, thus demanding the animal’s full attention to his commands.
“On edge,” he repeated to himself as he signaled Nelson to change lead at the crossing of the eight. He had described himself so to Bingley, and the phrase limned him perfectly. Ever since the evening at the squire’s, his entire being, body and soul, seemed in the grip of distraction. The cause of his disquiet was no mystery. The object herself, though, was nothing but a mystery, whose lure he found difficult to ignore.
The last two evenings had been spent in Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s presence, though not strictly in her company. Bingley’s information had been correct, and Darcy recalled the unexpected exhilaration he had felt upon confirming her attendance on both occasions. It had taken prodigious concentration on his part to position himself close enough to overlisten her conversations and fulfill his own social obligations without attracting her notice or the curiosity of others.
Darcy felt Nelson tense, awaiting his signal as they again approached the crossing of the figure. He leaned slightly to the left, applying pressure with his knee as a toss of Nelson’s head communicated his displeasure with such disciplined exercise. Once, not long after the horse had been broken to bit and bridle, Darcy had taken him out into the wilder grounds of Pemberley, eager to see what the animal could do. The vista before them had excited both horse and rider, and before he knew it, Nelson had the bit between his teeth and they were careening over field, ditch, and fence in a manner that had both thrilled and terrified his rider. Both had survived the neck-or-nothing ride with only a few bruises, and Darcy had taken care in Nelson’s training that the like should not happen again; but the emotions that had overwhelmed him then had not been forgotten.
Thrilling…yet terrifying! Darcy mused as he brought the powerful beast beneath him to a neat, precise halt at the center of the eight. Those emotions seemed to have resurrected recently in his breast, but this time their cause did not threaten danger to his body. He leaned over Nelson’s neck and stroked the powerfully muscled arch with approval and affection. No, the danger the young woman presents is to your heart…your very soul, he acknowledged to himself. No less thrilling — he paused and stared hard across the fields toward Longbourn — and certainly no less terrifying. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, what have you wrought?
His friend’s “Hallo” broke Darcy’s reverie, and he turned, waving his crop in greeting. “More than past time you should have appeared, Bingley! Waylaid by a vicious poached egg?”
“Waylaid by an insistent sister, more like! Caroline wanted to be assured of our intention to dine with Colonel Forster and his officers on Monday next. Said she was obligated to invite someone for dinner and wanted to spare us the inconvenience of entertaining them.”
Darcy answered Bingley’s shrug with one of his own and commanded him to mount quickly and join him at the front of the manor house. Nudging Nelson into a brisk trot, he left the stable yard behind, reining the horse in when he had gained the carriage drive. It is beyond the time for excuses, he told himself. I require that you speak to her at Sir William’s this very evening. Darcy squared his shoulders but then bit his lower lip and looked up into the bright morning sky. And God help you!
“Your coat, sir.” Fletcher carefully eased the form-fitting garment up onto his shoulders, then tugged the front down and into place. Stepping back, he surveyed his master’s appearance with a critical eye that had brooked no imperfection in his dress for the last seven years. Darcy awaited the verdict with a mixture of impatience and apprehension. He might not have brought his most fashionable clothes to the country, he thought while his valet circled him as if he were an objet d’art, but what he had, he desired to wear to the Lucases’ gathering with some distinction. “Very good, sir. ‘Every inch a king’” came the judgment. Darcy nodded.
Bingley met him in the hall, his eyes fairly crackling with anticipation. “Good, you are down and ready! I have warned my sisters they may dally all they wish, but we are to leave in ten minutes.” He flung a dismissive hand toward the stairs. “They may all ride in Hurst’s carriage if they want to arrive late!” He began to draw on his gloves as he sent the footman for their greatcoats. Darcy stepped to the door as the sounds of hooves on gravel and rattling harness grew louder and then came to a halt.
“Your carriage, Bingley. Do you wish to leave —”
“Immediately, Darcy. What good fortune, not a sister in sight. Hurry, man!” With a conspiratorial grin, Darcy quickly shrugged into his greatcoat and grabbed his hat and gloves.
Bingley raced down the stairs and leapt into the carriage with Darcy on his heels. “Drive on!” Bingley shouted, pulling the carriage door out of the servant’s grip. He shut it with a bang and then collapsed on the seat opposite his friend.
“Miss Bingley will not thank you for leaving her to travel with the Hursts,” observed Darcy as the carriage pulled smartly away.
“True,” responded Bingley, settling back into the cushions. “Just as I shall not thank her for inviting Miss Bennet to dine at Netherfield on a night when I was sure to be absent! You remember why I was late to the stable this morning? Well, Miss Bennet was the guest my sister did not want to ‘inconvenience’ me with entertaining. Had I not discovered the truth by pure chance, Miss Bennet would have come and gone leaving me none the wiser!”
“Perhaps your sister merely wishes to strike up a friendship with Miss Bennet independent of your regard,” offered Darcy, schooling his face so as not to betray his doubt of any such purpose. Bingley merely returned him a skeptical eye.
The remainder of the drive passed pleasantly in recollection of their tour of Netherfield that morning. They talked of plans, with fields planted and harvested, ditches cleared, ponds stocked, fences mended, and livestock added until the estate had fair become Paradise by the time they reached the gates of Lucas Lodge. As the carriage swept past the stone pillars, their conversation dwindled, and both men felt descend upon them an awkward silence, which deepened the closer they drew to their destination.
Sir William’s effusive welcome was accepted by the two gentlemen with aplomb. Darcy allowed Bingley to say all that was correct for both of them while he covertly surveyed the drawing room. Their formal greeting delivered, he accompanied Bingley into the room but abruptly changed course when he saw his friend’s destination was a table in an alcove adjoining the drawing room. There the two eldest Bennet sisters and a number of other young ladies were gathered around Miss Lucas as she demonstrated techniques in
the painting of china, a rage that had swept higher Society a year ago, Darcy recalled, but was now considered passé in London. Before Bingley could make his bow to them, he was enveloped in a rainbow of muslin. Darcy looked away, cringing at his near escape from the crowd of females who were now demanding Bingley’s opinion of Miss Lucas’s art. He availed himself, for some minutes, of a nearby window offering an excellent view of the lodge’s park before conscience prodded him to look back at his beleaguered friend, only to behold Bingley wearing a beatific smile and with the situation well in hand.
A rustling among the ladies put a period to his meditation on Bingley’s remarkable ability and drew his attention to one particular lady. Her eyes crinkled in merry good nature, Miss Elizabeth had taken a seat at her friend’s elbow. Captivated, Darcy watched as she chose a small piece of china, lifted it appraisingly, and then, with a mischievous grin, dipped her brush into paint and applied several bold strokes. The first brush was summarily abandoned for another. Down it was plunged into another color and applied as boldly as the first. Gasps and laughter erupted all round as she set down the piece for the group’s inspection.
“There, Charlotte, I have exhausted my talent at china painting. You may fire it or dispose of it as you wish. Who is next?” Elizabeth handed her brush to an eager young gentleman, vacated her chair, and sketched a quick curtsy to the group. “If you will please excuse me.” She smiled at them and faced in Darcy’s direction. Immediately, he turned his head away from her, feigning indifference to her approach.
Darcy sensed rather than beheld her step past him. A curious but delicious tingling sensation swept through him in response to her brief closeness, the warmth of her seeming to drift around him caressingly as she passed. Mesmerized, he looked after her, his stomach knotting as she paused only a few feet away in contemplation of the company scattered before her.
He must have moved, however involuntarily, for Elizabeth suddenly turned back to him, her countenance exhibiting a startled air, which told him that she had not noticed him.
Before he could adequately appreciate the blush that colored her cheeks, she curtsied deeply to him. “Mr. Darcy! Pray, pardon me.”
“Miss Bennet.” He favored her with a clipped bow and hastily moved away, almost treading on Miss Bingley as she entered the room.
“Mr. Darcy!” she purred. “Pray, tell me you are not leaving! I depend upon you, sir, to rescue me from the stifling boredom that is sure to descend any moment, if it has not done so already.” She took possession of his unoffered arm and demanded a promenade about the perimeter of the room. “How wicked of you and my brother to hie off by yourselves! I was quite desolate.” She pouted prettily as they made their way.
Miss Bingley set a leisurely pace, but all too soon they drew near to the group in the alcove. “Oh, look, Darcy, they are painting china! How gauche!” She sniggered, not bothering to lower her voice. “No one paints china anymore. No one in London would admit to such a thing!” Darcy found that, although he was forced to acknowledge the truth of her observation, he could not join in her amusement and wished his companion had not exhibited her disdain in such a public manner.
Thankful that they had at last completed the circuit of the room, Darcy handed Miss Bingley over to the solicitude of their host. Seeing that a pot of strong, hot coffee had been added to the tables, he accepted a cup and took himself to the large fireplace whose finely carved mantel dominated the room. Leaning against it, he attempted to ameliorate the tension he felt by putting names to the faces around him but found that he was unable to prevent his eyes from searching out Elizabeth Bennet.
There! Surrounded by a group of officers. Darcy felt the tension in his chest ratchet upward. Now, she has broken away and goes in search of?…Ah, yes, the invaluable Miss Lucas. He had cause to think well of Miss Lucas, Elizabeth’s friend and confidante. Her conversations with Miss Bennet had naturally been the most instructive as to the latter’s character and interests, making them the most worth overhearing. He had gathered every bit with growing interest as accumulating pieces of the mystery of his fascination for her.
The ladies were engaged in a lively conversation with Colonel Forster, who seemed quite at ease with them both. Darcy put down his cup and set himself unobtrusively in the way of catching their discourse. Its content this time was of a disappointing sort, a campaign for a military ball that any female in the room might be capable of launching. The colonel graciously capitulated, the ladies curtsied their thanks and moved on, their heads quite close in shared confidences.
Suddenly, Elizabeth laid a hand on her friend’s arm and, with a pleased manner, directed her attention across the room. Darcy followed their gaze and with much less pleasure saw Bingley and the eldest Miss Bennet conversing in low tones in a secluded alcove. They were not unobserved by still others. Darcy could see Miss Bingley watching her brother with displeasure and then cast at himself a look that demanded he do something. With great reluctance, Darcy started across the room.
“Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?” Darcy stopped short in astonishment as Elizabeth Bennet turned and tossed him a saucy smile with her impertinent question.
For a few eternal seconds, he despaired of retrieving the use of his faculties. He stood transfixed, his mind desperate to form the sort of riposte that such a query required but failing him utterly. “With great energy; but it is a subject which always makes a lady energetic,” he replied with a coolness that was the antithesis of the riot of emotions in his breast.
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed at his answer, and her chin lifted slightly. “You are severe on us.” The accusation hung in the air, electrifying the distance between them in a manner that was at once alarming and intoxicating. Darcy knew immediately that she was referring to more than his innocuous observation. His words at their first meeting had not been forgotten. It was time to apologize. He took a quick, steadying breath.
“It will be her turn soon to be teased,” intervened Miss Lucas apprehensively, attempting to dispel the antagonism between her friend and her father’s distinguished guest. “I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.” The light of challenge in Elizabeth’s eyes dimmed into that of a genuine chagrin in which she seemed to invite Darcy to participate as she acceded to her friend’s unspoken warning.
“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend! Always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable.” She paused and turned to Darcy. “But as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.”
“Lizzy!” exclaimed Miss Lucas, her voice edged with agitation. “Do oblige me!”
“Very well.” Elizabeth sighed with charming reticence. “If it must be so, it must.” She lifted a grave aspect to Darcy’s intense regard. “There is a very fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar with — ‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge’ — and I shall keep mine to swell my song.”
She turned away in the company of her much-relieved friend, who as threatened, opened up the pianoforte that stood before the great window. The instrument glowed in candlelight as Elizabeth took her place before it. The other guests crowded toward the instrument, but Darcy stepped behind them, seeking some privacy in which to compose himself and evaluate what had passed between himself and the bewitching Elizabeth Bennet.
Undoubtedly, there had been some tension, he admitted, but surely her words at the last had been provocative. He warmed to the thought. She desired an apology, that was certain. But was he deceived in believing that she would be open to more once it was offered?
The first notes of a popular air interrupted his thoughts, vibrating delicately through the drawing room. Darcy recognized it at once as a piece that his sister had been working on before the fateful incident of t
he summer past. His familiarity with it excited his curiosity and drew him forward to seek a place from which to observe the lady without notice. Discovering a suitable vantage point that gave him an unobstructed view of her profile, he quietly sat down.
Technically, her performance was not the finest, but the lightness and emotion her fingering conveyed were arresting. Then, when she joined voice to music, Darcy learned enchantment. With growing pleasure, he surrendered to her rich timbre as it washed over his senses. The plaintive entreaty of the song and the tender expression that graced Elizabeth’s features as she sang gave rise to a resonance in unexplored depths within him that spread rapidly throughout his being. Darcy leaned forward, unwilling to miss any nuance, and tightly gripped the armrests of his chair. It was all he could do to stay in his seat, so strong was the urge to draw closer. He imagined leaning over her, reaching past her to turn the score’s pages…her warmth, the scent of lavender.
He could not say when she struck the air’s last note, lost as he was in the spell her song and his fancy had conspired to weave. Applause circled the room, recalling him, but it quieted before he could add his own. Cries of “Another, Miss Eliza!” were insistent enough to give the lady pause as she rose from the instrument. A beguiling smile revealed a sweetly positioned dimple as she graciously acceded to the general demand and resumed her place. Darcy could not prevent his sigh of satisfaction when she placed her fingers once more upon the keys.
Her second selection was as the first — elegant in its simplicity — but possessed of a joy of life and love that contrasted happily with its predecessor. Darcy felt a smile spread across his face that he would not have wished to account for had he been observed, its origin so private that he himself was not sure of its meaning. This time he kept his wits about him and joined in the appreciative applause at the end. Elizabeth rose again from the pianoforte and would not be persuaded to return. Swiftly, she made way for another to take her place and stepped lightly through the audience, accepting the praise of her friends and neighbors with what seemed to Darcy a most becoming absence of self-consciousness.
