Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

D arcy crumpled up the half-written—badly written—letter on the desk and tossed it towards the fire. His mind was too full, his body too exhausted to write out the questions he needed answered.

Bingley is an idiot.

How many times had Darcy told him to take care around young ladies and card players, and how many times had Bingley assured him he would, and then forgot or drank too much to keep his guard?

Now he was close to falling in love, again, although at least this time it was with a mild-mannered lady—of neither connexions nor fortune, it was true, but Miss Jane Bennet appeared, at the very least, to be of gentle birth and have a good heart. Worse than any romantic entanglements, Bingley had talked too much while playing cards with new acquaintances in town, and managed to sink far too much money into a dubious investment scheme. He had confessed it to Darcy only hours before Netherfield filled with revellers for the ball he had foolishly promised to the youngest Bennet girls, and then—his worries off his chest—had proceeded to dance and laugh and make merry with his guests.

If Darcy had felt it unjust that his friend could enjoy himself after settling his concerns onto the one man who could likely address them, it hardly mattered—his spirits were already uneasy. He had dreaded the evening that lay ahead with a houseful of country folk nattering about his income, his height, his need for a wife. It was bad enough in town, but this visit to the country had been planned as a respite from social obligation and the grasping mothers and inquisitive neighbours that always accompanied his appearance. Was it not enough he had to withstand Miss Bingley's daily onslaught of flattery and sharp-witted asides? Numerous as her complaints were about the ball, she would have much more to say in coming days about her guests' deportment, fashions, manners, and dancing skills—none of it complimentary, he was certain, as she despised everyone in the neighbourhood. He was in near agreement, having been in Hertfordshire for more than six weeks and finding its walking paths and variety of fish and birds more impressive than its inhabitants.

Except for one. Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

She was singular in company, a lady with whom he argued and flirted, who drew his attention in any room or conversation she entered. With whom he had danced last night, after spending much of the evening trying to focus his thoughts on Bingley's bungling of his fortune and the desperate entreaties from Lady Catherine demanding he come and address some difficulties at Rosings. Problem solving had been a lost pursuit, for when Miss Elizabeth walked through Netherfield's doors wearing a demure ivory gown, green and blue ribbons woven into her dark hair, he lost all rational thought. Darcy had known she was pretty, in an uncommon, natural way that would not appeal to him if not set off by luminous eyes and a smile that held more delight and secret amusement than any he had ever seen. But last evening, her effect on him was unsettling and her display of vibrant wit and beauty had shaken him to the core. God only knew how he had managed to get through a set with her, oddly combative as she was in probing his character. He was overset by her touch, her light perfume, her sparkling eyes—narrowed when teasing, widened when laughing, but always attentive. Although, when he thought of it, she had seemed somewhat distracted, as if she sensed his own distraction. Could it be?—

Why am I staring at the wall, thinking of Elizabeth Bennet?

Truly, he needed to get away from her. From here.

He stood up and strode across his sitting room. The tea had gone tepid, but he swallowed the last of it regardless before stepping to the window and staring out at the morning sky. I could leave today. I should leave today.

Rather than add at least two more letters to the pile he must write, enquiring of his friends as to Bingley's questionable investment and enlisting his solicitor to investigate, he would pursue his answers in town before departing for Kent. It would be far quicker.

Besides, it was not only Elizabeth Bennet he wished to escape; a reprieve from Netherfield's close company would be welcome. Who holds a ball at a country estate and invites no one from town? Miss Bingley, of course— a lady too ashamed of her rustic neighbours and too angry at her brother's enthusiasm for them, leaving herself only more room for future complaints about the behaviours and social boorishness she had anticipated in her leased ballroom.

She had pulled him aside after the last of the ball-goers—the Bennets, of course—had straggled home, and urged him to take Bingley to town when he left for Rosings. Darcy was not having it. Bingley had yet to establish himself, and expected to soon welcome Hurst's sister and cousins to Netherfield. A gentleman, or one aspiring to such status, would never abandon a leasehold so abruptly and abandon those he had invited to it. But he had no such obligations. Bingley would understand his exit, and moreover, beg his pardon for adding his own woes to Darcy's always overfull business responsibilities.

His aunt showed no such humility in demanding his assistance, or likely, in pretending her ailments. He doubted she was on her death bed; death beds were often occupied by the two ladies de Bourgh, yet always they proved themselves resilient enough when he or his uncle went to visit. He would go to Kent and discuss whatever business his aunt required—gaining himself a reprieve from this company only to suffer in the feeble society at Rosings—and if Bingley remained here, he would return. Perhaps.

A fortnight away might be all I require to shake off this fascination with Elizabeth Bennet.

Now determined of his goal, Darcy went downstairs and dined gratefully alone in the breakfast room with yesterday's newspaper. Three-quarters of an hour and two cups of coffee later, he was still feeling the effects of too little sleep. A walk, perhaps towards Longbourn on that path along the stream, would do him well before he rode to town this afternoon. And if he happened onto a young lady eager to walk off the drowsiness of a late night—which was certainly not what he wished for, of course—then he could try to hold a conversation with her that might end more pleasantly than the one they both had bungled the night before.

If Bingley was a fool, Collins was the greatest nincompoop on all of Earth. How did the man think he could convince Elizabeth Bennet to be his wife?

He glanced at her, swaddled within his greatcoat, a smear of mud on her cheek. Even in the gloom of this neglected boat-house, he could see her brow wrinkled, perhaps as deep in contemplation of their situation as he. Twenty minutes earlier, he had been winding his way down the path closest to Longbourn, heading towards the small footbridge where he and Bingley had twice encountered Miss Elizabeth with one or two of her sisters. As he neared it, a cold breeze blew. Steadying his hat, Darcy felt a familiar ache in his arm. A glance skywards told him he should begin turning around and return to Netherfield. Rain is approaching. If Elizabeth is out walking, I should caution her of the weather. Thus decided, he crossed the bridge and walked up the embankment where the view was more expansive. And then he heard voices. Her voice. And that of a man. He hastened towards them, slowing only when he could hear the ridiculous words being spoken.

"—and every window presents a view such as you have never seen, and will only see when you are mistress of Hunsford Parsonage?—"

Dear lord, not that dunderhead.

"Sir, whatever glorious windows and chimneys you might offer, I shall meet your fervent entreaties with violent refusals. Please, leave me be!"

Alarmed, Darcy pushed through the shrubbery.

"Good morning, Miss Elizabeth, Mr Collins. Am I interrupting anything?"

The surprise in their expressions was matched equally by the relief in hers, and frustration in the vicar's. Darcy did not believe a word the man issued about the reasons for such a spirited conversation, nay soliloquy, before noon on the morning after a ball. No one was yet awake at Netherfield, and he would wager Elizabeth was the only female Bennet who had stirred at Longbourn. Yet here was Mr Collins, a man eager to speak and eat and impose himself, claiming a tour of his future estate, on the arm of his clearly reluctant cousin? No. He was not having it.

Within moments Darcy was steering the lady away from her cousin, and hardly had they gone fifteen yards before she was asking to be released and make her own way home. To run, if necessary! And then, they were hiding together in a manner he had not done since playing Sardines at his very first house party and being caught behind the heavy drapery with the very much engaged yet daringly forward Miss Letitia Stuart. He, unlike, Bingley, had learnt his lessons and remembered them. And in spite of that one regrettable encounter, he was a gentleman.

There was something so daring in Elizabeth's manner, but she was an innocent—one determined to keep her innocence from Collins, at any rate. He did as she requested, darting to hide in the shrubbery, and would have ensured her safe return to Longbourn but for the tree branch that brained the clumsy cleric.

Now they sat, damp and muddied, trying to converse mere feet away from the only mildly sentient cause of their situation.

"I am certain rescuing fallen vicars from the mud is not the way you planned to spend the day after attending a ball," she said.

"No, such altruism is reserved for only the second Tuesday of the month."

He heard her laugh. "Oh, now I am all anticipation for whatever is planned for next week."

He would not be here next week. Would her cousin still be at Longbourn?

Collins is a fool.

"Yes, he is."

Darcy turned to her, suddenly aware he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

Quietly, she said, "My cousin would have you think his sharing every thought and unlearnt opinion to be a display of intelligence, but I am impatient for there to be an actual point to every thought and opinion."

"I can claim to be an impatient sort as well, but my particular insult is in reference to his determination that you be his bride."

Even in the dim light afforded them, Darcy could see her astonishment. "You are surprised he, or any man, would propose to me?"

"No," he whispered loudly, hoping the sounds of the storm would deafen Collins's hearing. "Rather, I am surprised by his surety that you understand him as a prize and would wish to marry him."

"I blame my mother." She sighed. "You are seeing all of my faults, sir. I am impatient, freely shower others with incivility, accuse my mother of poor faith, and refuse foolish gentlemen who mistake my disgust for charm."

"These are grave faults indeed."