CHAPTER FOUR
The interior of Mr Bennet’s house was just as I imagined it would be after having seen the exterior. There were clues here and there that it had been remodelled in the last century—an awkwardly placed arch, marble flooring in the hall, and a pair of windows in the parlour that looked too Palladian in style to match the rest of the glazing.
Miss Bennet urged her father to come out of his library, and he greeted me with distant civility. He was slightly bent as though from the weight of old age and had about him an air of distraction. He was not in the least inclined to nurse along a conversation. Miss Elizabeth went directly to a chair and began to sew, and a young lady came into the room bearing a tray.
“My sister Mary,” Miss Bennet explained, before serving my tea, and I searched vainly for something tosay. Thankfully, Miss Bennet’s manners were such that she smoothed over what threatened to be an awkward silence.
“As I said earlier, Mr Darcy, you handle Bandit very well. How do you do it?”
“Having bridle-trained a few high tempered stallions, I adopt a certain tone of voice.”
“Truly? I have tried to speak to him insistently but to no avail.”
“That is because he only hears your tone that, forgive me for saying so, is far too forgiving.” I tried to keep my attention focused solely on Miss Bennet, but I saw Miss Elizabeth’s eyes roll just a little as she listened. And so I said, perhaps too pointedly, “Neither is a tone of exasperation likely to command his attention.”
Mr Bennet observed he had yet to see anything other than his dinner command the dog’s attention, but his eldest daughter then described to her father the obedient creature he had become under my tutelage.
“My wife did not allow dogs, perhaps for good reason,” Mr Bennet said, “but my daughter is a pudding-heart where that mongrel is concerned, and I am a pudding-heart wheresheis concerned.”
All three daughters graced their father with such a loving look at his confession that I could not help but be struck. For some reason, I felt compelled to offer myassistance.
“If you like, perhaps I could show you how to manage him better.”
“Would you, sir? But that would be marvellous! I can only agree, however, if you promise such an undertaking is no imposition on your time. I understand you are here for the shooting?”
Mr Bennet roused himself a little, and we spoke sparingly of sport. I finished my tea and excused myself, only after making arrangements to come back to train Bandit to heel.
Unfortunately,Miss Bingley held back tea at Netherfield Park on my behalf. I had no desire for more, however, and this became yet another stone in her shoe.
“Tea, Mr Darcy?” she asked sweetly.
“Thank you, no. A glass of claret would be welcome, however.”
The wine was dispensed by a footman at the chinoiserie cabinet where the spirits were kept, a circumstance that threw Miss Bingley into confusion.
“Wine? But I know how much you enjoy your tea, sir,” she said.
I might have relented because, in truth, I am not thoroughly wicked, were it not for the footman’s expression as he lifted his eyes to me for clarification. It was almost as though he willed me tocross her.
“I believe I would like the claret,” I said, turning to speak to Bingley.
“Well! But I prepare his tea just as he likes it,” I heard Miss Bingley say to her sistersotto voce.
There was something in this proprietary statement that caused me to rebel. While sugar in my tea was not my preference, nor was tea without cream, I decided then and there never to ask for my tea to be stirred in the same way twice in a row.
My programme of disrupting Miss Bingley’s claims of familiarity grew over the following days. I suspect that some discussion of the lady’s discomposure must have been indulged below stairs because Carsten began to give me a few hints.
“I have heard, sir, that Miss Bingley has requested the roasted capon for dinner,” he said one morning shortly after the incident of the tea.
I frowned at such a seemingly random comment, but then my valet casually added that Miss Bingley believed that dish to be one of my favourites.
Our eyes met in a flash of solidarity. “Is that so?”
That evening, when I was offered a portion of the capon, I declined, opting instead for a second helping of soup. It would have been very poor taste for Miss Bingley to remark upon my odd selection, and she refrained but only with obvious difficulty. Her assurance was knocked slightly out of square, and shefaltered more than once in leading the dinner conversation.
Meanwhile, I became a great favourite of the servants and began to enjoy my status. My horse was always saddled before Bingley’s, and Mr Hurst complained his hot water was late in the mornings, while mine arrived promptly, still steaming, with shy smiles and deep curtseys.
My host seemed fairly unaware of these doings, as were Mr and Mrs Hurst. Louisa Hurst was a slightly empty-headed, incurious lady, which was just as well, given she married a lump of flesh who loved only food and drink.
