In Darcy's Arms

by Gwendolyn Dash

  “Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip. That was altogether too much. When she risked a glance in his direction, she saw Mr. Darcy’s mouth set in his usual stern, cold lines.

  But Miss Bingley was not deterred. “Charles, when you build your house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley.”

  “I wish it may,” her brother replied, with no small amount of humor.

  “But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighborhood and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire.”

  A wonder that she might make such a pronouncement, having never been.

  “With all my heart! I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it.”

  “I am talking of possibilities, Charles.”

  Mr. Bingley chuckled. “Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation.”

  There was little use in pretending to read. Like her father, Elizabeth was a connoisseur of human folly, and her interest was much piqued by Miss Bingley’s continued heroic efforts to attract the attention of her brother’s friend. She laid the book aside and drew near the card table, stationing herself between Mr. Bingley and his sister.

  “Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring? Will she be as tall as I am?” asked Miss Bingley of Mr. Darcy, who had looked up at Elizabeth’s approach. His gaze met hers, and Elizabeth blinked in surprise at the intensity.

  For a moment, Elizabeth forgot what she was doing at the table. At Netherfield at all.

  Mr. Darcy did not break his gaze as he replied. “I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller.”

  How did he know her height?

  Miss Bingley had not given up. “How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners, and so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is exquisite.”

  “It is amazing to me,'' said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”

  Mr. Darcy was still not looking at his cards. Elizabeth’s skin felt heated. How very odd. Why did he not look away? Why was she unable to?

  Miss Bingley continued, in a tone of some annoyance. “All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?”

  “Yes, all of them, I think,” said her brother, amiably, and Elizabeth felt the spell break at her companion’s outrageous claim. With some measure of relief, she turned her attention to Mr. Bingley as he expounded on his theory of accomplishments. “They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”

  Elizabeth could not help but smile at this. How suited he was for Jane, who similarly saw nothing but the best in everyone around her!

  Darcy frowned at his friend. “Your list of the common extent of accomplishments has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished.”

  “Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley, clearly overjoyed to find something to agree with Darcy about.

  “Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.”

  This was likely a mistake. His attention shot back to her, as piecing and intense as ever, and a thrill stole across her skin. “Yes. I do comprehend a great deal in it.”

  “Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word.”

  That left Elizabeth quite out of the matter. She could not draw at all and was indifferent at the pianoforte. Her French was tolerable, her Italian non-existent. Mr. Darcy could stare all he liked, but she was hardly up to his expectations.

  Miss Bingley, however, was not done, though her voice had taken on the mindless buzz of a drone. Indeed, all sounds, all feelings, paled in comparison with the rush of blood within Elizabeth’s veins as Mr. Darcy studied her.

  Said Miss Bingley: “And beside all this she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.” She preened at Mr. Darcy, who paid her no mind and stared only at Elizabeth.

  With an impertinent roll of her eyes, Elizabeth opened the cover of her book again.

  “All this she must possess,” added Darcy then, “and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.”

  She swallowed and felt her cheeks heat. But no, she would not let him tease her. Closing the book once more, she said, “I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.”

  “Are you so severe upon your own sex,” he shot back, “as to doubt the possibility of all this?”

  “I never saw such a woman.”

  “Pity,” he replied. “Well, that’s the country for you.” And then he returned his attention to his hand.

  “Indeed!” Miss Bingley agreed, as if he needed her support. “In my acquaintance I know many women who are most accomplished. What a shame it is that you haven’t had the opportunity to move in real society, Miss Eliza.”

  “A very great shame,” said Elizabeth. “Perhaps, then, I should be better at cards.”

  Mr. Darcy did not look up, but she could see the corner of his mouth curl up at her words.

  Chapter 3

  The following day at Netherfield passed in a similar manner. Elizabeth hid above stairs for as long as possible, nursing her sister, whose fever lingered, occasionally cresting into bouts so severe poor Jane would turn restive, tossing and turning on the sheets and moaning nonsense. Elizabeth was alarmed, and ready to call back the doctor at once, but Jane insisted she delay.

  “I do not want to be a bother,” Jane said, weakly. “Mr. Jones has already seen me. If I am not somewhat recovered by tomorrow, you may call him back. But, please, do not go to the trouble.”

  Elizabeth promised her faithfully and was relieved when next Jane was in the throes of a fever that Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley were not present to witness it.

  And when Jane was at rest, Elizabeth ventured downstairs to astonish Mr. Bingley’s sisters with her singular opinions, to shock Mr. Hurst with her simple country ways, and to offend Mr. Darcy with her endless impertinence.

  The weather had turned very bad once again—a blustery series of storms which not only prevented Mrs. Bennet from visiting her sick daughter, but also contrived to keep them all in the sitting room for hour upon hour, and had no small part in ensuring that she and Mr. Darcy had plenty of opportunities to sharpen their wits against each other.

  No topic was beneath their notice for debate. An offhand comment from Mr. Bingley regarding how quickly he might quit Netherfield should the impulse seize upon him, or the relative virtues of long letters versus short. It seemed impossible that Elizabeth should have an opinion or a stance on anything except that Mr. Darcy would comment on it—and disagree, likely as not.

  Though, Elizabeth was forced to confess, she took pains to disagree with all of his statements as well. She did not know what sort of devil had got into her, but somehow when his eyes were on her, she could not help but rise to every challenge he issued. And he did seem to look at her so very often.

  She had not yet made out whether or not she liked it.

  As the afternoon waned, Elizabet
h felt the stirrings of a headache. How very disagreeable it was to spend time with a houseful of people who disliked you. She was tired and listless, and Miss Bingley’s offer to take a turn about the room with her seemed the most insipid suggestion in the world. So they could not walk about the grounds, due to the poor weather. Did that mean she should like to march around the room as if they were children in a nursery? No, but march they did, upon Miss Bingley’s insistence.

  By and by, her object became clear, as Mr. Darcy, whose attention was caught by the novelty of the action, unconsciously closed his book and watched them stroll around the furniture.

  “Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley cried at once. “Can we persuade you to join us?”

  “I think not,” he replied. “I can imagine but two motives for your walk at present.”

  “What could he mean?” Miss Bingley cried, a bit too loudly for Elizabeth’s headache. “Do you know, Miss Eliza? I am dying to know what could be his meaning.”

  “Indeed, I do not,” she replied softly, cringing. “But depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it.”

  Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives.

  “I have not the smallest objection to explaining them,” said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. “You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence and have secret affairs to discuss.”

  Somehow, Elizabeth managed to refrain from scoffing at that theory.

  “Or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking.” He said this last while staring pointedly at Elizabeth, and she clutched her shawl about her shoulders. “If the first, I should be completely in your way, and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire.”

  Was this what passed for gentlemanly conversation in town? For the first time, Elizabeth wondered if her hosts had a point about the relative merits of London and Meryton. For she had never felt so exposed as she did in Mr. Darcy’s presence, when he said such things in such a tone and looked upon her in such a way. It was enough to forget the pain that increased in her head every moment.

  Or, very nearly.

  “Oh! shocking!” cried Miss Bingley, with a smile that made it clear she meant precisely the opposite. “I never heard any thing so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?”

  Elizabeth sighed at the volume of her companion’s voice. “Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination. We can all plague and punish one another. Tease him—laugh at him—and he shall be punished indeed. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done.”

  “But upon my honor I do not!” Miss Bingley cried, at a level clearly pitched more for Mr. Darcy, all the way across the room, than Elizabeth, into whose ear she yelled. “I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me that. Tease calmness of temper and presence of mind! No, no. I feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself.”

  “Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to me to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love a laugh.”

  “Miss Bingley,” said Mr. Darcy, “has given me credit for more than can be. The wisest and the best of men, nay, the wisest and best of their actions, may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke.”

  His pointed stares would do nothing to intimidate her. “Certainly,” replied Elizabeth, “there are such people, but I hope I am not one of them. I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without.”

  Darcy stared at her.

  She stared back.

  After a moment, he said, “Perhaps that is not possible for any one. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule.”

  Oh? “Such as vanity and pride?”

  He took the bait. “Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.”

  Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile. Perhaps when next in church, she would inquire as to the clergyman’s stance on such matters.

  “Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume,” said Miss Bingley, a little desperate to insert herself back into the conversation. “And, pray, what is the result?”

  She smiled. “I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise.”

  “No,'' said Darcy, “I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding. I cannot forget the follies and vices of others so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost is lost forever.”

  “That is a failing indeed,” replied Elizabeth. Was the fire too hot? She was feeling a little faint. “Implacable resentment is a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it.” She stopped now, before him, so suddenly that Caroline took another, stumbling step before she, too, halted. “I believe I shall sit.”

  The chair was too near Darcy. It could not be helped. Her head throbbed. And Mr. Darcy was still watching her.

  Caroline stood awkwardly over her, not willing to move away from Mr. Darcy while they still sat so closely.

  “There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil,” said Mr. Darcy. “A natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome.”

  “And your defect is a propensity to hate everybody.”

  “And yours,” he replied with a smile, “is willfully to misunderstand them.”

  “Do let us have a little music,'' cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share. “Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst.''

  Her sister made not the smallest objection, and the piano-forte was opened. Elizabeth, whose suffering by now was quite pointed, wondered if she should excuse herself and go above.

  Miss Bingley played very well, it must be admitted, and Mrs. Hurst, who was persuaded to sing some Italian songs in accompaniment, was similarly skilled. But despite the entertainment, Mr. Darcy’s attention did not waver from Elizabeth.

  She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man. But that he should look at her because he disliked her was still more strange. She could only imagine, however, that she drew his notice because there was a something about her more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present.

  This supposition did not pain her. She did not care for a man such as Mr. Darcy. His manners were cold where hers were warm, closed where hers were open. It did not matter that he made her feel strange when he stared at her and stranger still when he deigned to speak. For they never could speak without arguing, which must be tiresome.

  After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by beginning a lively Scottish air.

  Soon afterwards, Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said, “Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”

  She smiled weakly, but made no answer. He repeated the question.

  “Oh!” said Elizabeth. “I heard you before, but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say ‘Yes,’ that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste. But I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, an
d cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have therefore made up my mind to tell you that I do not want to dance a reel at all.”

  The words came tumbling out of her, almost of their own volition. She could not decide who was more astonished by such a speech—herself or Mr. Darcy! She had not meant to go on so long, but, really, this sojourn to Netherfield, Jane’s illness, her headache, the unbearable behavior of Miss Bingley—it was all too much.

  “And now,” she finished wearily, “despise me if you dare.''

  “Indeed, I do not dare.”

  Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry, and looked up into his face with no small measure of surprise. The meanness of expression which he had been so wont to show her in the past had vanished, replaced with a curious smile, and eyes that shone with some other emotion that Elizabeth dare not name. For a long moment, all they did was stare at each other, while Miss Bingley played on and on.

  And then Elizabeth sneezed. Right in Mr. Darcy’s face.

  The music stopped. Every face turned toward her.

  Elizabeth clapped her hand over her mouth in mortification. “Oh, Mr. Darcy! I am so sorry! Forgive me!”

  He withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed at his cheek. “It is quite all right, madam.”

  Gone was all the warmth of the previous moment, but Elizabeth could hardly blame him. What a remarkable show of ill-manners she had just exhibited! All that he, all that Miss Bingley, had said of them must be true. They were ill-bred, indeed. How humiliating! Elizabeth pulled out her own handkerchief and, covering her face, fled from the room.

  She dashed into the hall and took to the stairs, not pausing to see if anyone followed her, hoping desperately that no one would. Halfway up the long flight, she was forced to stop, gasping for breath, nearly doubled over from the pain in her head. A footman stared up at her, concerned.

  “Miss?” he asked. “Are you quite all right?”

  “Yes,” she gasped out. “I just need to go to bed.”

  A minute later she was in the room she was sharing with Jane. Jane sat up in bed. “Elizabeth?” she cried at her sister’s sudden appearance. “Whatever is the matter?”