Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

D arcy put off explaining his damp, bedraggled appearance to Bingley in favour of a warm bath and hot tea. His man, Parsons, though less voluble than Bingley, was predictably chagrined at the state of his clothing—and the lack of it.

"Your great coat, sir, and your hat. The former is missing and the latter is rather unspeakably bent and sodden."

Ah yes, his coat had been wrapped round Elizabeth when last he saw her climbing into Longbourn's pony cart. He had refused it, claiming its retrieval as opportunity to visit Longbourn and see to her health and that of Mr Collins the following day.

"But you will walk to Netherfield without it? No." She had begun shrugging it off her shoulders before climbing into the cart.

"Yes—after the cramped hours in there," he had said, nodding towards the boat-house, "a brisk walk of a mile or so would do me well."

Besides, the pony cart had been exactly that—a conveyance meant for children and small animals. Elizabeth was perched, barely, on the seat beside Longbourn's groom and Mr Collins was sprawled in the wagon, muttering loudly about the indignity of having fallen half in the water as Darcy and Goulding struggled to pull him out of the boat.

He had best forget how much he had wished his coat returned, not for any protection from the cold but for a taste of Elizabeth's warmth and scent. He shook his head, hoping to clear it of such foolishness. It had been a strange few hours in a close, damp place and he knew he would be met with frantic questions and raised eyebrows upon his return to Netherfield.

He would give them a curated version of his morning, and say nothing that would impugn Elizabeth. He hoped Collins and Goulding were as circumspect. She had done nothing wrong, had not behaved poorly or taken advantage of his proximity to create expectations. Far from it. In fact, until she had revealed his insult and gained his mortified apology, she seemed irritated by his very presence. As if she did not like me. Understandable, given the insult he had stupidly made the first time they met. He had been completely unaware of it—unaware of her —but he had offended her, and Wickham's spiteful words had poured salt in the wound, made clear by her cool manner when they had danced. Today, it seemed they had cleared the air, and thanks to their shared annoyance of her insipid cousin, they had, if not forged a friendship, at least established a truce.

Truce? Hardly so. Half a dozen times he had fought off the urge to enfold her in his arms and comfort her, warm her, protect her.

In the dreariest, most unpleasant of places, full of mud and spiders, he had wanted to kiss her. A mad gesture, one that laid his character beneath that even of Collins. The poor girl had been assailed by two men—three, even, if one counted Goulding's teasing—and upheld her honour, patience, and humour.

And I wished to trespass on that honour, even after learning of her dislike. I am an ogre.

Yet shortly after earning her esteem, he confessed that he had walked out purposely, thinking he might encounter her. As dangerous as his confession, his impulse to find her had been equally so, and he could only be thankful for doing that rare thing—acting outside his own deeply engrained behaviours to walk into the woods and come upon the scene he had. Yet I was little better than Mr Collins, stalking her .

His intentions were honourable, at least. He sought only conversation, for where they had left off at the ball had left him unsatisfied. His own thoughts were jumbled. Disgust for Collins, respect for Elizabeth's steadfastness against his pursuit, unease at what would come next for her at Longbourn. She was an enigma in some ways—amiable yet guarded, clever yet vulnerable.

Not vulnerable to me, as I am to her, he thought, realising he was thinking of her by her Christian name alone. Yes, it was best he get himself to London.

Darcy rose from the cooling bath water and slipped into his robe. Parsons remained fretful over the state of his hat but wisely said nothing more of it as he assisted him in dressing. Darcy was too lost in thought to notice. No one in town would be alarmed by a day's delay in his arrival; he was spared from penning any letters announcing it. The worst that could occur would be anyone forming the impression he was too enthralled with Miss Bingley to leave her brother's leased estate.

But certain as he was he must leave—he did have business with his solicitor—he was equally reluctant to go without knowing the resolution of affairs between Mr Collins and Elizabeth. She had refused the man twice. He was repulsive and obsequious, stupid and clumsy—everything opposite to the lady he sought to marry. What made him think he had a right to marry her ?

"Longbourn is entailed," Bingley reminded him at dinner when Darcy told a much-abbreviated version of his adventure. "My understanding is that Mr Collins is here to visit his future estate and his relations there. It would be ideal for the Bennets to marry one of the daughters to him, but..." He cleared his throat. Unlike his sisters, Bingley was not a man given to insult or scorn, and he was clearly searching for a way to say Collins was too repugnant to consider the eldest Bennet girls as keen prospects.

Miss Bingley did not share his hesitation. "Jane is a sweet girl and deserves far better than life as Mrs Collins, but he would do well with any of the others. Life as a cleric's wife would restrain Miss Elizabeth's impertinence and provide her some discipline."

"You think her undisciplined? A lady who walked three miles to care for her ailing sister, parried her cousin's insulting proposals politely so as not to damage his opinion of her family, and then brought him to shelter when he was injured? I call that discipline in mind, body, and spirit." Darcy bit into a piece of cheese to keep himself from continuing his defence.

"Admirable indeed," agreed Bingley. "She is indefatigable, and would make a worthy soldier had she, of course, the ability to join up and?—"

"Her tongue is undisciplined," came his sister's sharp retort. "She is impudence itself. And now, having taken shelter with two, nay three unmarried men? What is that to say of her reputation?"

"It enhances it, Miss Bingley." Desiring discretion, Darcy nodded at the footman and waited for him to leave. "Had Mr Collins been less persistent and less prone to accidents, there would be no story to tell. But he pursued her, he was knocked down by a passing limb, and we carried him to shelter when the weather took a sudden turn. Never was she alone with him, or any man. Mr Goulding will attest to that."

"It remains unseemly."

"Unseemly behaviour for a man of the church," he countered. Some would say it of my own .

"But the pertinent question before us, and the Bennet family, is whether or not Miss Elizabeth Bennet will now marry Collins. She may have refused him, but circumstance and the needs of her family overcome any preference she may have for a local farmer or officer." She looked directly at Darcy.

He frowned; her meaning was clear. "As I said, she and Mr Collins were never alone, and he was unconscious much of the time."

Immediately, even before Miss Bingley's indrawn breath, he understood his mistake. If Collins had been insentient, he was all but declaring he and Elizabeth had been unchaperoned in the boat-house. "It is of little consequence. I am to town tomorrow."

The shrill protests raised by Miss Bingley were nothing to the greeting made to him the following morning at Longbourn. Town had never held such appeal.