Mr. Bingley, however, was most polite. He seemed not the least bit concerned over the chattering of her sisters. In fact, Elizabeth thought he might be a bit amused, almost charmed. Lord, he was perfect for Jane, wasn’t he?
“And you, Mr. Bingley, how do you like it here at Netherfield?” asked Mrs. Bennet.
“Exceedingly well, madam,” said Bingley, smiling. “I must say the company in this part of the country is first rate.”
“Well, it’s always a bit of a roll of the dice in the country, is it not?” came a dark, sardonic voice.
Everyone turned as Mr. Darcy made his way into the sitting room. He had a cane that morning, and Elizabeth had not seen him with it. He moved forward with it, his scars illuminated in the light through the windows, and Elizabeth had to admit he resembled some kind of grotesque three-legged beast. She schooled herself not to allow this to show on her face, however, coolly regarding Mr. Darcy as he approached.
Her mother, however, was so startled that she choked on a biscuit and was afflicted by an attack of coughing.
Mr. Darcy settled down on a chair, looking at those assembled. “After all, there are simply less people about in the country. One might settle somewhere in which the company is agreeable, but one might chance into a group of quite horrid people instead.”
Mrs. Bennet furrowed her brow, quite offended. “Why, what a thing to say!”
“I’m sorry,” said Mr. Bingley in a tight voice, glaring at Mr. Darcy. “I’m afraid I have not introduced Mr. Darcy. May I present him to you? And this, Mr. Darcy, is Mrs. Bennet, and her daughters, Miss Lydia, Miss Catherine, and Miss Mary.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Mr. Darcy, helping himself to a biscuit.
“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Bennet, still quite aflutter, “but I simply can’t let stand the idea that there are horrid people about in the country. Why certainly, there are horrid people everywhere, and most especially in the city. The city is quite rife with crime, is it not?”
“No, madam,” said Elizabeth, shaking her head at her mother. “You misunderstand him. He does not mean that all people in the country are horrid, or that there are no horrid people in the city.”
“No, of course not,” said Darcy. “But in the city, if one manages to make the acquaintance of a horrid group of people, one can avoid them, being that the society is so varied. In the country, one must often dine and socialize with the same families over and over. If one makes an unfortunate acquaintance, one must bear it.”
“Darcy, truly, it is not quite so easily to steer clear of certain people in the city, either,” said Bingley. “I did not realize you would be coming down this morning. Your valet said you were quite out of sorts.”
“Yes, I’ve made a remarkable recovery.” Darcy’s mouth was full of biscuit. Crumbs dribbled onto his cravat as he chewed.
Mrs. Bennet was aghast.
Bingley bowed his head, and his face was turning red.
Darcy swallowed and brushed at the crumbs.
“Well,” said Mrs. Bennet, “if anyone would flourish in the city, I think it would be my Jane, who is so very lovely that no one can help but love her. I often tell my other girls that they are nothing to her. They are so very plain when compared to her beauty.”
“You tell your daughters they are plain?” said Mr. Darcy, reaching for another biscuit. “Tell me, how do they respond to such pronouncements?”
“It is simply a fact, Mr. Darcy,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Why, it has nothing to do with how amiable one is. After all, we are quite close with the Lucas girls. Their Charlotte is practically my sixth daughter, so often is she with us. And she is so very plain, but we do not mind in the least. She is a lovely girl.”
“If you do not mind,” said Mr. Darcy, “then what is the advantage in pointing it out at all?”
“Oh, I don’t,” said Mrs. Bennet. “That is, I would never say to Charlotte’s face that she was plain. That would be rather rude.”
“I see.” Mr. Darcy nodded. “Then it is only something to be said when she cannot hear, unless of course, the subjects are your own daughters, because rudeness does not apply to family.”
Elizabeth was torn between wanting to slap Mr. Darcy in the face and rather wanting to hug him. She had not heard someone put her mother in her place so soundly in her entire life. Even her own father, who routinely disagreed with his wife, tended to do so in such a way that only fed his own amusement, not necessarily in a way that communicated his censure.
“No,” said Mrs. Bennet. “Mr. Darcy, I believe you are willfully misunderstanding me.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Darcy, biting into his biscuit. “I did not realize.”
Miss Bingley spoke up. “Perhaps Mrs. Bennet is growing tired after so long a visit. You have seen that your daughter is quite well cared for. I imagine that was the purpose of your errand.”
“Oh, to be sure,” said Mrs. Bennet. “I am so grateful for your keeping Jane here. She is quite ill, I think. She would not complain, of course, it is not her way. She has always been thus, even when she was a child. She is an exemplary daughter. Of course, she is my own, so perhaps I am blinded by my deep love for her, but I cannot but think my picture is accurate.”
“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly,” said Mr. Bingley. “She is an extraordinary creature, your daughter.”
Miss Bingley tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, I’m sure she’ll be recovered soon and home with you.”
“Nothing would bring you more joy than to be quit of her, Caroline,” said Mr. Darcy, who was getting more crumbs on his cravat.
“Darcy!” exclaimed Bingley, on his feet.
“I assure you, that is not true,” said Miss Bingley, also on her feet.
“You’re a wretched liar, Miss Bingley,” said Mr. Darcy. “And your manners leave something to be desired. Truly, if you can’t pretend to be polite, why not be truthful about your scorn?”
“I’m afraid I need to be excused,” said Miss Bingley. Her lower lip was trembling. “A headache has come upon me rather suddenly.”
“Caroline,” said Mr. Bingley. “Wait but a moment.”
However, Miss Bingley had fled from the room.
Mr. Bingley pointed at Mr. Darcy. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”
Darcy shoved the rest of his biscuit in his mouth, and he did look rather pleased.
Mr. Bingley turned to Mrs. Bennet. “I truly cannot apologize enough, madam. Please, my friend has been through a recent tragedy, and I am afraid he is not himself.”
Darcy raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t contradict Mr. Bingley.
Mr. Bingley turned to the younger Bennet sisters. “I know what might cheer us all. Plans for a ball. What do you say? Ought I throw a ball here at Netherfield?”
“Oh, yes!” said Lydia, smiling widely. “A ball is quite the thing. We should like that very much.”
“Then you shall name the day,” said Mr. Bingley. “Anytime after your sister is recovered.”
* * *
Darcy stayed in the drawing room as they all left, eating biscuit after biscuit.
Moments later, Bingley returned to the room, walking briskly across the carpet to stand in front of him, arms crossed over his chest.
Darcy reached for another biscuit.
Bingley reached down and snatched it out of his hand.
Darcy furrowed his brow, disappointed. He sighed.
“I have determined that you don’t actually want to leave,” said Bingley.
“Oh, is that so?”
“If you wanted to leave, you would leave,” said Bingley. “I think you are behaving in this manner, because you are being a child. A very spoiled child. You are throwing a tantrum for attention.”
Darcy sat up in his chair, leaning on his cane.
Bingley put his finger in Darcy’s face. “Well, listen, Darcy, I don’t care. Yes, it’s all very horrible that you have a scarred face and that you are in constant pain, but I’m done with hearing about it.
”
“I’m sorry my discontent has ceased to amuse you.”
“Oh, don’t play that card,” said Mr. Bingley. “It won’t work with me. I am not indifferent to your pain. Indeed, I have made allowances for far too long because of it. I know you are in physical pain and emotional pain and that you have become mean and improper and awful. But you will stop.”
“How do you propose to make me do that?”
“I shall throw you out else.”
“Excellent, well, then I shall be gone before dinner.”
“Will you really?” Bingley tilted his chin. “I don’t think you will. I think you want to stay. I think you want to feel better. I think you are being a child and you only need a firm hand. So, listen, Fitzwilliam, here is what you will do. You will apologize first to Miss Bingley, and then we shall go round to the Bennet household, and you will apologize there. Sincere apologies, mind you, nothing rote and unconvincing. And from now on, if you can’t think of something nice to say, you will keep your mouth shut. Am I clear?”
“I shall tell my valet to start packing.”
“We shall see if that is what you do,” said Bingley and stalked out of the room.
* * *
Darcy didn’t leave. He made up his mind to go, but he never gave any orders to his valet, and he never called for his carriage to be hooked up to horses, and he didn’t send word along to Pemberley that he would be coming home.
Perhaps Bingley was right. Perhaps he didn’t want to leave. Maybe he even wanted to feel a bit of happiness.
He didn’t deserve to feel happiness, of course, not when he was an utter failure, a worthless being.
But he didn’t go anywhere.
And so, he found himself in a sitting room with Caroline Bingley, her brother looking on.
“I owe you an apology,” said Mr. Darcy.
Miss Bingley would not meet his gaze. Or perhaps she could not bear to look at his ugly face. Either way, he pushed on.
Mr. Darcy cleared his throat. “Perhaps I owe you many apologies, Miss Bingley. I suppose I should have explained earlier to you that I was not attracted to you in return.”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide.
He licked his lips. “I know that you could no longer find anything about me attractive, so don’t concern yourself with thinking I consider your interest in me to be ongoing.”
“Mr. Darcy… it is not your face that has made me feel badly toward you,” Miss Bingley murmured. “It is only the manner in which you now speak to me. Indeed to everyone. You were always so polite before.”
“I was awkward before,” said Mr. Darcy. “I had trouble speaking to everyone. I thought all the things I am saying aloud now, but I held my tongue out of consideration.”
“You thought these things?”
“Darcy,” said Bingley. “Is this an apology? Because it does not quite sound like one.”
“I thought I was being polite, but I was concealing the truth, and it caused you further pain when it was revealed,” said Darcy. “I am sorry that I caused you pain. In truth, it does not bring me any pleasure to think that I have hurt you, Miss Bingley. I wish you well. I wish you happiness, in fact. I am deeply sorry for anything that I have done which has made your happiness difficult to attain.”
“Oh,” said Miss Bingley, nodding. “Well, I thank you for your frankness, sir, and for your apology.”
“I promise not to be so unthoughtful in the future,” he said.
“You are forgiven,” said Miss Bingley.
“I do not deserve that,” said Mr. Darcy. He turned to Bingley, eyebrows raised, a silent question. Had he done that well enough?
Bingley looked annoyed, but he nodded.
Bingley still insisted that Mr. Darcy apologize to the Bennets, but was willing to let the matter rest for a bit.
So, time passed, and Miss Jane Bennet soon felt well enough to return home. She and Miss Elizabeth left and were conducted home. Mr. Darcy had no occasion to speak to either of them, even though he rather supposed he owed Elizabeth some sort of apology as well, if only for his rudeness to her mother.
But he had to admit he disliked Elizabeth’s mother. She was an artless woman who considered herself crafty, even though everyone could see through her. There was nothing more detestable.
Poor Elizabeth, he thought, growing up with that woman telling her that she was plain, that she was nothing compared to her sister. She was not a plain woman, not at all. She had a lively look to her, a pleasing countenance, eyes that were bright with intelligence, a body both slim and round in the right places… Perhaps he had given too much time to thinking about the beauty of Elizabeth Bennet, but she was very beautiful.
She was beautiful and smart and willful and stubborn, and he was overcome by his feelings toward her.
Perhaps that was why he stayed. In Pemberley, there was no chance of seeing her or of hearing her speak.
Eventually, Bingley was making plans for the ball at Netherfield, and he thought that a visit to the Bennets was just the thing for both an invitation and for Mr. Darcy to beg Mrs. Bennet’s pardon.
Darcy wasn’t keen on it, but he did it.
He bowed low and told Mrs. Bennet that he was dreadfully sorry for what he had said to her. He said that he had been in an awful accident that had left him permanently injured and that the pain put him in a frightful mood much of the time. This was no excuse for his poor behavior, however, and he could not find any reason why he should have said the things he said. Indeed, there was no reason for Mrs. Bennet to forgive him at all. He had been wretched. He had no right to beg for her pardon, but he did it anyway. He appealed to her better nature to give him that which he did not deserve.
Mrs. Bennet seemed to enjoy his turn of speech and told him to forget all of it before launching into a long speech about how lovely Jane’s hair looked glinting in the sunlight.
Darcy gazed across the room at Elizabeth, who was sitting by the fire, a book closed in her lap. She locked eyes with him, and he felt fire in her gaze, his body coming undone.
If he could bear the idea of saddling a woman with his disfigured body and spirit for a lifetime, he would ask Elizabeth Bennet to marry him. He had grown to understand a few things about the family’s situation.
There were five girls, no male heir, and judging from the size and state of their house, there couldn’t be nearly enough money to support them all. Yes, Mrs. Bennet was nearly desperate to marry off her daughters. It didn’t excuse her behavior, but perhaps she was so blinded by fear of the future that she could not behave in a prudent manner.
No, they needed the money, and an offer from him, above their station, Elizabeth would say yes. Of course she would. She would feel as though she had no choice. He wouldn’t put her in that position. A woman such as her would surely attract another man, a better man, one who might make her smile.
He liked the way she smiled.
But as she looked at him then, there was no gaiety about her at all.
Still, she did not look away.
Neither did he.
CHAPTER FIVE
Elizabeth wished she could stop thinking about Mr. Darcy, but it didn’t seem possible. He seemed to haunt her thoughts, even her dreams. She’d dreamed one night that Mr. Darcy was Iago, whispering in her ear that she must strangle Jane and take Mr. Bingley for herself.
She awoke in a sweat, horrified by the dream. She was not the least bit interested in Mr. Bingley and she would cut off her own arm rather than hurt Jane.
This was what Mr. Darcy wrought within her—horrors and pain. She did not wish to think of him at all. Every thought she had of him was unfavorable. But she did wonder at the fact that she could not drive him from her head.
She would not call it temptation, not as they had spoken of in the stairwell. Instead, she might term it torment. Whatever the case, it would not fade, and it would not go away.
She wished he would leave. She knew that the ball at Netherfield loomed, and she did
not wish to see him there. She would be quite happy if he left and went back to wherever it was that he had come from.
But whenever she expressed these thoughts aloud, Jane would admonish her gently that Mr. Darcy had been through so much sadness that surely they must make allowances for him.
And Elizabeth would feel a stab of guilt, for she did feel pity for the man. She didn’t like to see anyone in pain, and she would not wish more of it on Mr. Darcy.
If only he had not looked at her the way that he had, at the end of their conversation in the stairwell. It was that look that haunted her, sneaked up and assaulted her when she wasn’t expecting it. No one had ever looked at her that way before. She didn’t even know what the look meant, but whenever she thought about it, her entire body seemed to get shivery and taut, and it was most distracting.
She wished for something—anything—to occupy her mind except for Mr. Darcy.
And then Mr. Collins arrived, and she regretted her wish.
Mr. Collins was a heavy looking man of about five and twenty. He had a roundish face, and his nose was too long for it, giving him an odd look, rather a warring sense of seriousness and levity.
Upon arriving, he was quick to say that he had come “prepared to admire” the Bennet sisters, although he did not wish to be forward or to say more.
The meaning was clear.
He was looking for a wife amongst the Bennet girls. Mrs. Bennet was overjoyed. After all, this would solve most of her problems. The house would remain in the family, and her own daughter would not turn her out, nor turn out the other girls. Everything would be quite tidy in that way.
But Mr. Collins was a horror. He was quite the most awful man she had ever met, worse than Mr. Darcy in some way that she could not quite explain. Indeed, the men were nothing alike, not at all, so it was difficult to quantify why Mr. Collins disgusted her so.
He was a boor, and he was stupid.
She could point out all manner of disagreeable things about Mr. Darcy, but she could never call him stupid. He had a razor sharp wit, and he was unafraid of using it.
Mr. Darcy, the Beast Page 4
