Page 30 of A Most Unwelcome Acquaintance

Caroline waited. Darcy placed the letter inside his coat. “I am less willing to condemn people for faults that are not their own.” He was speaking of more than Jane Bennet.

Caroline said, “Miss Elizabeth has persuaded you to adopt a charitable view of her family?”

His eyes moved to hers. “She has persuaded me of nothing.”

“She impressed me.” He rose from the table. Caroline wished the words back, but it was too late. His refusal to answer would tell her more than a denial.

Darcy buttoned his coat. “Miss Elizabeth does not require my defense.”

“No. She can provide that herself.”

This time, he smiled. “Yes, she can.” He bowed and left the room.

Caroline remained at the table. The silver caught the light from the window, and the blue damask looked colder than before. Unless she acted, Miss Bennet would soon rule her brother’s household.

That was no longer the whole of the danger. Jane Bennet threatened Caroline’s place with Charles, while Elizabeth endangered the future she intended for herself and, worse, Darcy refused even the simplest invitation to find fault with her.

The maid entered to clear the table. Caroline waited for her to gather the cups, remove Bingley’s abandoned egg, and brush a crumb from the place where Darcy had sat.

When the door closed, she stared at the damask for a count of five, then placed her gloved hand flat on the cloth, the motion as final as a mark on a ledger.

The problem was no longer the charm of Miss Bennet, but the certainty of her. Caroline had to remove her, root and branch, or accept a life spent in the shadow of Jane Bennet’s happiness and her own defeat.

Elizabeth was another problem. Caroline poured another cup, watched the pale liquid swirl, and decided on blue, after all.

Chapter 12

LATE AFTERNOON BROUGHT thin gray light through the windowpanes of the Netherfield study. The shadow of a sparrow crossed the glass, while now and then a bough bent beneath the wind. Darcy claimed the writing desk in the corner because it faced the wall and offered nothing to distract him from his correspondence. Its surface held a new blotter, the inkstand, the letter before him, and a quill lying across the unfinished page.

He wrote with his wrist lifted to avoid smudging, and the letter occupied most of a single sheet. The text kept to the margins with deliberate evenness and never crowded the page. Near the top, one hard stroke of the pen crossed out a single phrase.

Darcy had begun the letter four hours before and left the words visible as a warning to himself.

He had not written his sister since leaving her at Rosings. The first paragraph, courteous and unmarked, described his journey: the condition of the roads, Bingley’s hospitality, and the state of the stables at Netherfield, which he declared inferior to Pemberley but passable. He wrote: “The climate in Hertfordshire is milder and the fields greener than in the north, or so the locals claim. The sheep here require less shelter, but the fences require more repair.”

He glanced back at the top of the page, where he had written “The local society is thin and would not suit you” and then cut it. A full line lower, the replacement read: “Society here is lively and, to the eye of an outsider, more varied than in London.” Though minor, the improvement was necessary.

The second paragraph concerned Bingley. “He is in excellent spirits and pleased with both the house and the neighborhood. He has dined with several families nearby and intends to invite them all to Netherfield in return. I believe he has found the occupation he wanted.”

Darcy stopped there. Georgiana knew Bingley well enough to supply the rest, including his untidy hair, his neglected cravat, and his conviction that good humor excused both.

The paragraph shifted to Miss Bennet. Darcy wrote: “It should not surprise you to learn that he has found a particular favorite among the families here. The eldest daughter of the house at Longbourn is the object of his admiration, and, as far as I can judge, her feelings are similar.” He left it at that, resisting the urge to add his own assessment of the situation.

He went on: “The Bennet family is large, and Mrs. Bennet is as active in company as we were told. Her daughters are a varied collection, the younger two possessed of more liveliness than discipline. Bingley described the estate as comfortable, though somewhat in need of repair. There is also a working collie whose discipline is superior to that of most of the household.”

He lifted the pen, then set it down for the briefest of pauses.

In the next paragraph, the text narrowed in focus. The first sentence took two attempts before it satisfied him: “I met a young lady of uncommon intelligence, though my opinion of her formed before the introduction.” He added beneath it: “I first encountered Miss Elizabeth Bennet without knowing her name or her connection to the neighborhood, and mistook her circumstances.” He read both and left them uncrossed.

He continued: “At the assembly, she answered rudeness with more wit than resentment. I begin to think my first opinion of her was mistaken.”

There he stopped. He could not say more without risking the kind of candor Georgiana might treasure but Lady Catherine would dismiss as weakness. He reviewed the paragraph, saw the two versions of the admission, and resolved not to cover either. If Georgiana cared, she could see both the impulse to conceal and the decision not to.

He finished with a passage about Sarah. “I mentioned Sarah earlier. I believe you would admire her discipline, which reflects well on her mistress. She is a working collie and manages the Longbourn flock with a skill you would approve.” He let the implication rest and, after a moment, added: “Bingley says that everyone in the house trusts her and, unlike some people, she only takes instruction from those she knows.”

He let the ink dry before folding the sheet, pressed his initials onto the seal, and waited for it to set. The room had grown cooler, and the faint smell of rain entered through open windows. He placed the finished letter with the others destined for the evening post.

For a full minute he sat without moving, his left hand over the blotter and his gaze on the desk. Near the chimney, the clock ticked with a soft, wooden sound. He did not think of the day, the dinner to come, or the endless repetition of country routine; his thoughts remained on the sentence he had crossed out and the correction written beneath it.