“It is not for me to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If he wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go.”
Elizabeth pondered the contradiction between Mr. Wickham’s words and his actions. Had he not said until he could forget the father, he could not expose the son? Was that not what he did when confiding in Elizabeth? Mr. Wickham did not strike her as a man easily intimidated. His old friend’s presence ought not toprevent him from enjoying an evening among society. Elizabeth found herself resenting Mr. Darcy for placing him in such an uncomfortable and precarious position.
Yet in the next moment, logic reasserted itself, and she acknowledged the inconsistency in his behavior. She understood his reluctance to pass an evening under the same roof as Mr. Darcy, but there was something disingenuous in his refusal to attend. She did not wish for these conflicting thoughts to spoil the evening, and so she set them aside until they could be examined more thoroughly.
Elizabeth began to make her way about the room, conversing with her neighbors. All were eager for the Christmas season. From Mrs. Long, she learned that a gathering was to be held at Haye Park on Christmas Eve. It was not commonly done, and Elizabeth suspected the Longs sought to introduce a new mode of celebration. She felt confident her mother would not object, and thus they would attend.
She became strangely aware of Mr. Darcy’s presence as she moved about the room. After speaking with Mr. Goulding, he next engaged Sir William Lucas in conversation. He gave every appearance of being an attentive listener; his eyes did not glaze over, as others’ often did, when the knight began to discourse on St. James's Court. At one point, from the other side of the drawing room, she met his gaze. Blushing, she looked away.
Some time later, she took a glass of punch and moved to stand by an open window. The room had grown oppressively warm, and she longed for a breath of cooler air.
“Miss Elizabeth.” Mr. Darcy appeared at her side. “Are you well?”
“I am, thank you. Sir William’s events are always well attended. It is impossible to avoid some discomfort, given the number of guests.” She shifted slightly, allowing the cracked window behind her to come into view. “I find some relief here.Charlotte—Miss Lucas—always ensures that one or two windows remain open to permit a breeze.”
He shifted, his manner uncertain; whether it was from nerves, discomfort, or some other cause, she could not tell.
“Will you and Mr. Bingley receive other guests for Christmas at Netherfield Park?” she asked, attempting to make light conversation.Why can I never converse with him as I do so easily with others?Her glass of punch trembled slightly in her hands, and she set it carefully upon the windowsill. Her palms were damp within her gloves, and she longed to remove them and cast them aside.
“I do not believe Bingley has invited anyone besides myself,” he replied. He tugged at his cuffs and cleared his throat. “It has been peaceful at Netherfield Park, but neither of us minds. There is ample amusement and opportunity for society in Meryton and the surrounding area.”
Elizabeth could not resist a pert rejoinder. “I did not take you for one who enjoys society, sir.” Inwardly, she winced. It would not do to provoke the gentleman…at least, not until Jane’s future was secure.
His responding smile caused her stomach to flutter. “No, Bingley is far more inclined to visit with neighbors and attend parties than I; yet I have found I do not object to the four-and-twenty families in and around Meryton.” Elizabeth blinked. Had he just echoed her mother’s own boast, spoken not so long ago in Netherfield’s drawing room? Had he meant to reference it? To mock her? Or was it merely said without thought? His gaze held some deeper meaning, though she could not discern it.
“Have you read anything new lately?” The abrupt change of topic took her by surprise. “We are not in a ballroom, and so there is no impediment to the conversation.”
Elizabeth gave a startled laugh, recalling her remark during their dance at the Netherfield ball. “I recently read some of Wordsworth’s poems, sir.”
“Yes, his words would certainly not qualify as poorly written; therefore, there is no danger of starving the first stirrings of love.” He smiled, his blue eyes alight with mirth.
I think I see why he smiles so seldom. His features, already fine, became altogether striking when he smiled, rendering him devastatingly handsome.Ladies would swoon at his feet when faced with such charm.She also wondered how many of her words he recalled, for in so brief a time, he had alluded to two separate conversations.
“Wordsworth is, I confess, a favorite,” Elizabeth replied. “His verses are soothing. I confess to some partiality for his poems on spring and nature. I recall one—Lines Written in Early Spring—”
“Yes, it is one of my sister’s favorites.” He drew a steady breath and began to recite:
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And is my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
“Yes, those lines are very pretty,” she replied, impressed by the ease of his recitation. His baritone was warm, and it washed over her like a summer breeze. “I myself adoreTo the Daisy.”She took her turn, recalling the lines from her reading earlier that day:
With little here to do or see
Of things that in the great world be,
Daisy! again I talk to thee,
For thou art worthy,
Thou unassuming
Common-place Of Nature, with that homely face…
