Darcy had firmly realised his danger. He almost did not care.
Elizabeth Bennet was simply the sweetest, most charming, wittiest, prettiest girl he had ever met. He was accustomed to either fawning adoration, such as Miss Bingley constantly proffered, or intimidated young misses who had hardly a word to utter. He was unused to her teasing—which was not always comfortable—but found himself eagerly wondering what she might next say. He caught himself following her with his eyes, and dreaming of her at night—hot, restless dreams such ashad not troubled him since he was a much younger man.
Had she not been saddled with such a mother, with low relations, he might already have offered for her. Even her father, himself a gentleman, had been known to indulge a somewhat questionable sense of humour.
Darcy’s nature was not an impulsive one. He was nearly convinced that he ought to flee immediately to town. Or, perhaps instead, ask her for her hand in marriage.
I do not know myself, he thought with an indecisiveness unusual to him.
She came downstairs after dinner, but could not be convinced to join the game of loo, preferring to take up a book since she felt she could not remain long away from her sister. He thought it admirable that she should be so dedicated, but Hurst was all criticism.
“You prefer reading to cards?” he remarked. “How singular.”
It was all Darcy could do to withhold his own criticism.At least she knows how to open a book, unlike you, he bit down against commenting.
“Miss Eliza Bennet despises cards,” Miss Bingley put in—enviously, he believed, and desperately wishing to offer disparagement. Heknewhe ought to have suppressed his earlier observation on the beauty of Miss Elizabeth’s eyes. “She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else.”
He glanced over to where Miss Elizabeth sat holding her book, and he saw the hurt in those expressive eyes before she shuttered them. “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” she said mildly. “I take pleasure in a great many things.”
Immediately, his man’s brain went to the numerous ways he would like to show her pleasure, and for some minutes he lost track of the conversation, the game in progress, and nearly where he was.
“Mr Darcy…Mr Darcy,” Miss Bingley’s nasal whine interrupted his more pleasant thoughts.
“Ahem. Yes?” He hoped that he had schooled his features into some semblance of indifference.
“I was asking about your dear sister. How I long to see her again! I never met anyone so lovely, so talented, so very accomplished as is Miss Darcy.”
Since Miss Bingley had only ever succeeded in making Georgiana feel awkward and uncomfortable, he managed only a nod in reply; thankfully Bingley distracted her with some conversational gambit that he again failed to follow. Miss Elizabeth was so devilish distracting! He was lost again in pleasant thoughts until Bingley said something stupid, calling every woman accomplished who could net a purse or paint a table. Why, he had no idea whether Miss Elizabeth had ever covered a screen in her life, and yet she was by far the most accomplished young lady he had ever met—in her ability to charm, to be surrounded by nincompoops andrise above them all, in her willingness to walk three miles across muddy lanes to sit beside someone she loved. Did not scripture urge ‘to mourn with those who mourn and comfort those who stand in need of comfort’? She did not simply read such words, she lived them!
“I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen women, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished,” he said with meaning.
Of course, Miss Bingley instantly agreed with him, adding a lengthy list of ‘accomplishments’ which, obviously, she felt described herself. It was difficult not to roll his eyes—he doubted she had ever cracked open the family Bible, much less adopted its tenets.
“To all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading,” he added, hoping to give Miss Elizabeth a hint as to what he found truly admirable.
Her modesty evident, she replied, “I am no longer surprised at your knowing onlysixaccomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowingany.”
“I believe I know only one,” he murmured, looking her directly in the eye, unable to help himself, and then had the pleasure of seeing her cheeks tint the lightest shade of pink. Unfortunately, Miss Bingley caught the exchange as well; he saw the fury inhereyes flare.
That lady knew, for he had made it abundantly clear, that he had no interest in her and never would. Yet, she was the most jealous person he had ever had the misfortuneto know; were it not for Bingley’s need for support in learning to bring an estate into prosperity, he would never have agreed to such a long stay. He did not know what Miss Bingley might have answered—something cutting and spiteful no doubt—except that Hurst began whining that no one was paying attention to the game in progress, and Miss Elizabeth excused herself to rejoin her sister, and he really could not decide whether or not he had done right in hinting of his feelings.
But he knew, even in his confusion, that he would send his man, Havers, to his London home sometime within the next few days, with the errand of bringing back a certain, special necklace stored there amongst the Darcy family jewels, one that, in his dreams, had featured prominently upon the delicate neck of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.Perhaps, by the time he returns, my mind and my heart will agree.
2
CONSPICUOUS BY ITS ABSENCE
“You are looking happier today,” Bromley said, upon greeting Whitby. The women usually took dinner together, and both looked forward to this part of their day. “Did you have a pleasant afternoon?”
“I did,” Whitby replied. “Miss Bingley gave me four of her nicer gowns to mend, a task I enjoy, and left me alone with it. Usually when she has a lengthy, time-consuming chore for me, she seems to find pleasure in interrupting me every ten minutes. After a series of disruptions, she likes to ask me how little I have accomplished and question why I am so slow, and I must suppress the urge to poke her with a needle.”
Bromley chuckled. “Mrs Hurst said that her sister spent all the afternoon in the stillroom. It must have kept her busy enough that she had no time for interference.”
“The stillroom?” Whitby found this to be nearly impossible to believe. Never once, in the many months she had lived with her, had Miss Bingley shown any predilection for concocting lotions or potions or herbals. “Did Mrs Hurst say what her sister found so fascinating in there?”
Bromley shrugged. “She said she was working out the receipt for a new cordial.”
Cordials? It was true that Miss Bingley found the little after-dinner drinks restorative, even medicinal, and drank one at bedtime each night—but she relied upon Mrs Nicholls for the creation of them. Whitby was quite certain Miss Bingley had never devised a recipe herself for anything at all, much less her favoured liqueurs.
