Elizabeth could not help but smile at that. “You shall insist upon making me laugh at myself, won’t you, Jane? Very well then, I am being a ninny. But I do not wager I have made many friends here. Even before I sneezed in their faces and fainted in their flowerbeds.”
“You were sick. No one can blame you for that.”
“You couldn’t. Mr. Bingley’s sisters most certainly will try.”
Jane shook her head. “They have been nothing but lovely to me these last few days.” Jane, however, had only seen them downstairs, as neither Miss Bingley nor Mrs. Hurst had ventured to visit Elizabeth in her sick room. “And the gentlemen with them. Truly, Lizzy, they have been kind hosts, all the more notable given the way we invaded their home. I have felt more welcomed here than even when visiting our aunt and uncle in London—and the Bingleys are not family.”
Was that heightened color in her cheeks when she said it? Elizabeth was not certain. No, Jane, she thought. Not family yet, but they might be soon enough, if things with Mr. Bingley proceeded as they all hoped.
How she hated admitting her mother could be right about anything. But it could not be denied that this trip to Netherfield had produced the results of the sort her mother wanted most. Every night, Jane had returned to her room, blushing and filled with stories about her conversations with Mr. Bingley. Elizabeth had never seen her so smitten, and Jane had fancied a man at least once a year since she’d been sixteen. There’d been the clerk in her Uncle Philip’s offices, and then the curate who’d written her terrible poetry, and the sea captain, and the music-master for the Gouldings… a young lady as pretty as Jane had never lacked for admirers, though most were in no position to do more than flirt or ask for a dance.
Mr. Bingley was single, and young, and handsome, like all the others. But, did it follow that his possession of a large fortune must make him also in want of a wife? What if he, too, wished nothing more than to write Jane some pretty verses and be her partner in a country dance?
And now, by getting sick and forcing Jane to stay at his house longer, Elizabeth had unwittingly helped her mother in her matrimonial schemes. Oh, she hoped she was not a party to bruising her sister’s heart.
On the other hand, Elizabeth felt as if she, too, had come to know Mr. Bingley very well during her stay. She could not say if he was in love with Jane—though he clearly admired her a great deal. However, she could say, without reservation, that she found him to be the only one of Jane’s admirers she’d ever found to be as open and artless as her own sister. The music-master certainly wasn’t, and she’d actually had suspicions that the attentions of the sea captain had not been entirely noble.
But Mr. Bingley she liked. His conversation had been pleasant and easy. Everything, in fact, that conversation with his friend Mr. Darcy had not been. Not pleasant….exactly. Not easy, that much was certain.
And also certain: it would never happen again. Elizabeth could hardly imagine facing the gentleman after what had transpired.
Still, she had run out of excuses to linger upstairs. She checked her reflection in the glass before heading below. A bit pale, perhaps, after her fever, but she’d again reached the stage that Mr. Darcy might deem “tolerable”, as he once had. And she made sure to keep her handkerchief at the ready in her sleeve, in case of any sneezes that might take her by surprise.
Thus armed, Jane and Elizabeth descended the stairs to meet the Bingleys and their other guests for breakfast.
Elizabeth kept her focus resolutely on Mr. Bingley as they entered the room and greeted everyone. She accepted his sisters’ words of praise for her swift recovery. The smell of the food did not tempt her, but she accepted a cup of tea.
Above all, she felt, rather than saw, Mr. Darcy’s gaze upon her. So they were to do this again, just as before. Stare and stare, and say nothing. Or at least, he intended to. But Elizabeth had learned her lesson there.
What a strange thing it was, to know that someone was watching you, no matter how hard you tried not to. But maybe it was the very effort of refusing to notice it that made it that much more powerful a sensation.
Stop it, she begged silently, as she drank her tea, her eyes downcast.
It did not stop. Mr. Darcy was seated not beside her, nor across from her, but at a slight diagonal which would have filled her line of sight during any attempt to make conversation with anyone else in the room. It was a cruel trick of fate, indeed, as she had determined never to speak to him again.
Several years seemed to pass in that manner.
“Lizzy,” said Jane at last. “Can I not persuade you with a piece of toast?”
She looked up, meaning only to accept Jane’s offer. It was a mistake. Her eyes were drawn to Mr. Darcy’s face as a flower toward the sun.
He nodded, once. Jane handed her the toast.
“Thank you,” she whispered, not sure if she spoke to Jane or to Mr. Darcy.
He nodded again, smiling a little.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy,” called Miss Bingley, and she felt his attention drawn away from her. “Can you not settle a discussion between myself and my sister? I had declared I had never seen your sister Georgiana ill a day in her life, but Louisa says she was sick last summer after returning from Ramsgate.”
Mr. Darcy visibly stiffened in his chair, his face becoming once more closed and stern.
Caroline Bingley went on. “I have always thought Georgiana had an excellent constitution.”
Mr. Darcy grimaced. “Georgiana is ill no more or less than most young ladies.”
“She was sick after Ramsgate,” said Mrs. Hurst. “I am sure of it. I remember calling upon her at your house in London and being told she was too ill to receive guests.”
“Perhaps she simply was not at home to visitors,” Elizabeth blurted.
“Tut!” cried Mrs. Hurst. “What possible reason could a young lady like that have to be indisposed other than an illness! No, I am sure I am right.”
“And so you must be,” Mr. Darcy cut in. “I admit I do not recall the circumstances.” And then he returned to his breakfast, slicing at a potato with a vigor Elizabeth found entirely unnecessary.
Miss Bingley scowled and returned to her breakfast as well. The conversation had apparently not gone as she had imagined.
But it did seem to occupy Mr. Darcy’s mind, for he did not look at Elizabeth once throughout the rest of the meal, leaving her alone to contemplate exactly how she felt about that.
She did not like it when Darcy looked at her. But somehow, she liked it even less when he did not.
They left soon after, and Mr. Bingley insisted upon seeing them into the carriage personally and lingering over Jane’s thanks and his own exhortations that both young ladies look after their health. Elizabeth did her best to keep her attentions elsewhere, so that the two of them might have as private a conversation as possible at the door of a carriage. She glanced up at the house.
Mr. Darcy stood at a window, looking down upon them. His countenance was set in firm, stern lines. He must be counting the moments until he could be sure they were away.
Elizabeth did not know when he stopped staring, for she would swear she could still feel him watching her as the carriage turned down the road.
Chapter 6
To the delight of Mrs. Bennet, only a single day passed before Mr. Bingley came to call upon them at Longbourn. His sisters did not accompany him on this trip, but Mr. Darcy did.
“What a pleasure to see you, Mr. Bingley,” Mrs. Bennet exclaimed. “I have so wanted to thank you for your service to my dear girls. Your excellent hospitality in their time of need will never be forgotten.”
“It was nothing, madam, I assure you,” said Mr. Bingley. He was quickly persuaded to stay for tea, and Elizabeth was sent to ring the bell. Her younger sisters were out this morning, on a walk to Meryton, and the servants were all in a tizzy about Mr. Bennet’s late announcement of a guest arriving for dinner.
But tea would be produced for Mr. Bingley, and in short order i
t was, though Mrs. Hill looked a bit flushed when she came in to deliver it. Elizabeth poured the tea, and as she delivered a cup to Mr. Darcy, he spoke.
“You appear to have recovered quite admirably. Perhaps you have that same remarkable constitution of which Miss Bingley speaks in praise.”
“We cannot expect only your sister to be so blessed, sir.”
“I do hope,” he pressed, “that your love of walking out of doors has not been affected by this unfortunate turn of events.”
Elizabeth stared at him in shock. “I beg your pardon.”
Mr. Darcy blinked, and then a look of abject horror crossed his face. “I did not—”
“Please excuse me,” she said. “I must take tea into my father in his study.” As swiftly as she could, she prepared her father a tray and departed the room.
Mr. Bennet was sitting in his favorite chair, reading one of his favorite histories, but he looked up as she nearly ran into his sanctuary. “Lizzy? You look quite flushed. Is your fever returning?”
“No, Papa. I assure you I am well.” Only appalled. Jane could imagine Mr. Darcy was a gentleman all she liked, but if he meant to tease Elizabeth about one of the most embarrassing nights of her life, it proved that all the riches in Derbyshire did not confer true manners.
“I hear we have guests to tea,” her father said. “Gentlemen this afternoon, and of course, your cousin tonight. How popular we have become!”
That was correct. Mr. Collins, the heir apparent of Longbourn, was due to arrive at any hour. Mr. Bennet was remarkably sanguine about the matter, especially given that no one in the family had seen the man for many years.
“I do believe it would be a hardship indeed to deprive Jane of a visit from Mr. Bingley when all we might promise is an evening with a cousin whom we do not know.”
“Quite right,” her father replied. “At any rate, from your cousin’s manner of expressing himself in his letters, I will wager that his company is not nearly so charming as our new neighbor’s.”
Mr. Bingley might be charming. His friend was anything but.
She lingered in her father’s study for as long as she could, but eventually he shooed her off, declaring that since he’d be obliged to entertain Mr. Collins this evening, he needed all the time he could manage this afternoon to prepare.
Elizabeth stepped back into the hall, where she found Mr. Darcy waiting for her.
“Miss Bennet,” he said curtly. “Please stay a moment.”
She glared at him. “Sir, I am aware of the great debt I owe you. You rescued me, I am told, when I was quite out of my senses with fever. And though I have no memory of the incident, my sister and I will be forever grateful for your service to us that night. Perhaps I did not express my thanks well enough, but I am thankful.”
“You need not thank me—”
“I would like to put the incident behind me.”
“Indeed,” he replied. “I am mortified that I even put it into your mind before. You must trust me that it was never my intention.”
Now she looked up at him. “Then what—what did you mean? What did you mean to bring up my love of walking out of doors?”
“I had not the slightest intention of my words being taken that way, I assure you. I am…most profoundly sorry for having spoken so carelessly.”
She did not know what to say. She had never heard him speak in such tones, and found it affected her not a little.
“If I meant anything, it was in reference to your long walk to Netherfield Park last week, when your sister first fell ill. While you were indisposed, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley wondered if perhaps your own journey to the house, coming as it did after such wet weather, might have contributed to your illness. That was the walk I—” he looked away. “Never, madam, would I dare to mention an occasion best forgot by all.”
“I see,” said Elizabeth at last. He had meant to tease her, then. But much in the way they had done before. She could only imagine how her long walk to Netherfield had been the topic of much speculation upon her arrival, and even more when she, too, fell ill. “I am sorry, then, for misunderstanding you. Perhaps now we can go back to disliking each other as we did before.”
His eyes widened. “You believe I dislike you?”
She did laugh at that, and as the sound burst forth from her lips his countenance went from mere surprise to utter astonishment. “Mr. Darcy, since the earliest moments of our acquaintance, you have shown me nothing but contempt. My appearance is merely tolerable, my family barely genteel. My manners are impertinent, my accomplishments scant, and my taste in everything, from food to music to books, clearly leaves much to be desired in your estimation. It is quite the joke how little you care for me, and it is one that I know has made you and Miss Bingley merry on many occasions. Do not insult my intelligence by pretending otherwise.”
“I would never dream of it.” He turned as if to go, then stopped. “I should perhaps be glad we have had this conversation. I do not think I would otherwise have rightly comprehended the extent of your disdain for me. I assure you that your illustration of my own regard for you is no faithful rendering.”
“Is it not?” she snapped back. “Do you not find me filled with pert opinions?”
“Most assuredly.”
“And possessed only of country tastes and occupations and manners?”
“That cannot be denied.” He gestured about them.
What an infuriating man! Had he no awareness of how offensive he was? “And in all ways well beneath your notice?”
“No.”
That stopped her tirade in a flash.
“No, Miss Bennet, I am afraid you are not. You should be, for all the reasons you have so charmingly presented. And yet, you are not.”
Elizabeth was struck dumb. Mr. Darcy, however, went on as if, his tongue having been at last loosed upon this subject, he could not keep it in any longer.
“I cannot account for it, but when I am in your presence, you are the only thing I notice.”
Her breath came in a gasp.
He did not stop. “But now that I have been made aware of your dislike, I will take my leave. I have no wish to make your afternoon any more unpleasant than I already have. Best wishes for your continued recovery, and, again, you may be assured of my absolute discretion in that other matter.” He bowed and departed, and was already back on his horse and halfway down the lane before Elizabeth was capable of moving.
And when she was, she rushed to the door to watch his form, straight-backed and tall upon his horse, disappear from sight.
Chapter 7
Mr. Collins was everything that Mr. Bennet expected, and more. Pompous, vain, silly, and obsequious by turns, the follies of the heir apparent to Longbourn were so many and diverting that he could not help but enjoy the poor man’s visit to their home.
Elizabeth was less amused by her cousin and his endless recitation of the splendors of Rosings Park and the parsonage at Hunsford, and his inquiries as to the state of the Longbourn china and the culinary accomplishments of each Bennet child. She could not help but feel as if he were sizing them up, one by one, as one might livestock, and she feared, moreover, that her mother was not discouraging him in this matter.
“Lizzy, do take Mr. Collins with you on your walk into Meryton,” she pressed, as Elizabeth was tying the strings of her bonnet.
Lydia and Kitty, beside her, audibly groaned. They were very much hoping for a reprieve from his speeches and lectures and admonishments to read Fordyce’s Sermons.
“Yes, Mama,” Elizabeth acquiesced, casting a rueful glance at Jane. Perhaps Elizabeth should have opted to stay home with Mary. But at least there would be fresh air. Not even Mr. Collins could ruin that.
There was some enjoyment to be found in Mr. Collins’s style of conversation, Elizabeth reflected, as they all five walked into the village. He talked a great deal, and hardly anything he said required a response, most of which were dutifully supplied by Jane, so she was free to become quite lost
in her thoughts.
And she had so very, very many thoughts.
She could not account for her outburst toward Mr. Darcy. They had never been easy in each other’s company, that was true. But what possible excuse could she cling to for speaking so abominably to his face, especially once she knew he’d never been referencing her fever-driven run through the Netherfield hedge maze at all? If he’d ever thought her manners lacking, such behavior must only have confirmed it.
She blushed to think of the things she had said to him. To admit that she’d heard him casting aspersions on her beauty the night they had met, that she was fully aware of the snide comments he and Miss Bingley so enjoyed making about her family— surely she had not stooped so low? Why, he brought out the very devil in her!
And yet—his response had been most unexpected. He did not deny thinking and feeling any of those things. But neither did seem to make him care.
When I am in your presence, you are the only thing I notice.
The confession had struck her deeply, not least because it could have been her own. It was a curious thing and yet, undeniable. She did not want to notice him. She rarely wanted even to speak to him. But she could not help it.
And then there was the other matter. The one that Mr. Darcy and Jane were quite insistent should be completely forgotten by everyone. The incident that Elizabeth could not remember at all.
Jane had told her that Mr. Darcy had arrived at their room with Elizabeth in his arms. In a nightgown. That he’d found her wandering about the gardens and carried her to her room.
One would think she might have retained even a shred of memory of something like that! Elizabeth, who would go to her grave swearing she could feel Mr. Darcy’s mere gaze? She must recall an occasion in which he had actually touched her. Held her in his arms.
And, yet, she could not. Could not even imagine the sensation of being pressed against that broad chest, of having her arms thrown about those strong shoulders. Jane assured her that she had seen it with her own eyes. That she had watched, stunned, as Mr. Darcy swept into their room and lay Elizabeth down on the bed.
In Darcy's Arms Page 4
