“I shall be honored to listen,” he said.
The words were ordinary. Perfectly proper. Yet the way he said them, with that steady attention still upon her, made Elizabeth’s pulse unaccountably quicken.
She crossed to the pianoforte and took her seat, conscious of him in a way she had never been conscious of any gentleman in a room. As she arranged her music, she told herself not to be foolish. An apology did not undo everything. A kind look did not prove admiration. A man might regret giving pain without wishing for any particular acquaintance afterward.
Still, when she began to play, she felt his eyes upon her.
Not rudely. Not with the careless appraisal of a gentleman deciding whether a woman pleased him. Rather, he watched as though he wished to understand her, and that was a far more dangerous sensation. Her fingers found their places upon the keys, and after the first few measures her nerves settled into the music. She did not play brilliantly, and she knew it. She had neither Mary’s solemn diligence nor the training of ladies educated by masters in town. But she played with feeling, and when she risked one brief glance across the room, Mr. Darcy was still looking at her.
This time, he did not look away.
Hope, small and unwelcome and radiant, began to bloom within her.
Perhaps he had not thought so poorly of her after all.
Chapter 16
Darcy was knotting his cravat when Bates entered with the fresh coat over one arm and an expression of unusual deliberation.
Bates had been with him long enough to know that Darcy disliked unnecessary speech before breakfast and long enough to ignore the preference when duty required it. He was a steady man in his middle thirties, born near Lambton, with the sort of quiet competence Darcy valued more than polish. He could brush a coat, mend a glove, manage a trunk, and discover more of a household’s true state in one hour below-stairs than most gentlemen learned in a month above it.
This morning, he closed the door with care.
Darcy’s hands paused. “What is it?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I thought you ought to know that Miss Bennet is in the house.”
Darcy turned from the glass. “Miss Bennet? Which one?”
“The eldest Miss Bennet, sir. She dined here yesterday evening, was caught in the rain coming from Longbourn, and took ill after dinner. She was given a chamber for the night.”
Darcy frowned. “I heard nothing of it.”
“No, sir. That appears to have been intentional.” Bates’s expression remained properly blank, but only just. “Mrs.Nicholls thought it best someone tell you. She said the Netherfield servants were instructed not to trouble Mr. Bingley with the matter, on Miss Bingley’s orders.”
Darcy stared at him for one silent moment.
Miss Bennet ill in the house, and Bingley not informed.
“Has an apothecary been called?”
“I could not say, sir. Mrs. Nicholls did not think so.”
Darcy’s irritation sharpened into something nearer anger. He had known Miss Bingley to be selfish, vain, and much too certain of her own consequence, but there was a difference between coldness of manner and neglect of a guest. Miss Bennet was Bingley’s guest. More than that, she was the sister of a woman Darcy had already injured. To allow her to suffer through the night without proper attendance, merely because her illness inconvenienced Miss Bingley’s comfort, was inexcusable.
“Thank you, Bates,” he said evenly. “You did right to tell me.”
“Yes, sir.” Bates helped him into his coat, then brushed an invisible speck from the sleeve. “Mrs. Nicholls also wished it understood that the owner of the house expects guests to be treated properly, whoever they may be.”
Darcy’s mouth tightened despite himself. “I am beginning to like the mysterious unknown owner of Netherfield exceedingly well.”
Bates’s face did not change, but Darcy suspected the remark would find its way to Mrs. Nicholls before noon.
When Darcy went down to breakfast, Bingley was already at table, bright despite the early hour and entirely ignorant of the fact that the lady he most admired lay ill somewhere above them. Miss Bingley sat with her coffee, dressed with her usual elegance and wearing the faintly satisfied air of a woman who believed the morning arranged to her liking. Mrs. Hurst looked sleepy; Hurst looked as though breakfast was the only reason Providence had invented mornings.
Darcy took his seat, accepted coffee, and waited until the servant withdrew.
Then he said, as though merely continuing some known subject, “How does Miss Bennet do this morning, Bingley? Did she pass a comfortable night?”
