Darcy had expected Miss Bingley’s resentment, Bingley’s anxiety, Mrs. Hurst’s indolent civility, and the unavoidable awkwardness of sitting at table with the sister of an invalid guest. He had also expected Elizabeth to look tired after a day of nursing, walking, and worry.
He had not expected her to look lovely.
That morning she had been all brightness and motion, her eyes sharpened by fresh air and exercise, her cheeks warmed from the walk across damp fields. There had been mud upon her hem then, and something in the sight had stirred an unreasonable pleasure in him, perhaps because it proved the young woman from Gracechurch Street had not been an accident of circumstance. She still moved through the world as though difficulty were an invitation rather than a barrier.
Now she stood in the drawing room in a simple gown, her hair arranged neatly, her color softer, her expression composed. She looked entirely proper, entirely gentle, and yet Darcy could not forget what lay beneath the quiet muslin and smooth curls: spirit, courage, wit, and some wild, ardent force that seemed always to be held in check only because she chose it. He liked both versions of her equally.
Perhaps too much.
Bingley crossed to her almost before she had finished her curtsy. “Miss Elizabeth, I hope Miss Bennet is improving?”
“She is no worse than she was this morning,” she replied. “She has slept a little, which I consider the best possible employment for a patient determined to declare herself not ill.”
Bingley smiled, relief softening his face. “Then I shall be satisfied for the moment, though I hope you will not hesitate to command anything she requires.”
“I shall be very despotic, sir, I assure you.”
Darcy looked briefly toward the mantel to conceal his smile.
Miss Bingley, seated upon the sofa with an elegant arrangement of silk and displeasure, observed that Miss Bennet was fortunate indeed in having such devoted attendance. Mrs. Hurst murmured something suitable, and Hurst, who had been turning the pages of a newspaper without appearing to read aword, roused himself enough to ask whether the dinner bell had rung.
A few minutes later, it did.
Bingley immediately offered his arm to Miss Bingley, who accepted it with a look of restored consequence. Hurst rose to escort his wife, leaving Darcy standing beside Elizabeth with the most natural duty in the world before him and the most unreasonable sense of privilege attending it.
He bowed. “Miss Elizabeth, may I?”
Her eyes lifted to his, and for one brief moment, the room seemed to narrow to the space between them.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”
She placed her hand lightly upon his arm.
It was nothing. A courtesy required by the arrangement of a dinner party. Yet Darcy felt the slight weight of her fingers through his sleeve as though every nerve in his body had been waiting for that particular touch. He led her toward the dining room with as much composure as he could command, aware of Miss Bingley glancing back at them, of Bingley speaking cheerfully ahead, and of Elizabeth beside him, quiet but not uneasy.
At the dining room door, she said softly, “I hope your morning was less eventful than mine.”
Darcy looked down at her. “Less muddy, perhaps.”
Her mouth curved. “A distinction I am willing to grant.”
“Not necessarily an improvement.”
That startled a laugh from her, low and brief, and Darcy carried the sound with him into dinner like a private victory. As the first course was served, the conversation remained where politeness placed it: Jane’s health, Mr. Jones’s opinion, the weather, the unfortunate state of the roads. Miss Bingley contributed with an air of generous suffering, Mrs. Hurst withoccasional languor, and Bingley with such earnest concern that Elizabeth’s expression warmed whenever she answered him.
When both the weather and Jane’s health had been thoroughly canvassed, conversation faltered for a few moments. It may have continued to do so, had Bingley not possessed an almost heroic resistance to discomfort. He turned, with the air of one determined to restore cheer, to the subject of Netherfield’s arrangements. He spoke of the house, the grounds, the park, and finally confessed, with a laugh against himself, that he had not yet learned half the names of the farms attached to the estate.
“I thought leasing a place would be the simpler way of learning whether I suited the country,” he said. “Now I begin to think the country means to examine whether I suit it.”
Elizabeth smiled at him. “That is very likely. The country may be civil, but it is rarely careless in its judgments.”
“Then I must hope to make a good impression upon it. How does one begin?”
“With humility,” she said at once.
Bingley laughed. “That sounds ominous.”
“Not at all. Only practical. A new master of any estate would do well to suppose, for the first few months, that everyone knows more than he does.”
