Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

E lizabeth had known, as soon as the words were out of her mouth, the utter stupidity of her question.

“Would you consider such a man as I have described as husband for your sister?”

The answer was as obvious as the facts of their existence. His sister, according to Miss Bingley, had a settlement of thirty thousand pounds. Such a man as Mr Collins was not worthy of securing a dance with her in company, much less Miss Darcy’s hand in marriage. Yet, the whole world would think it was the best that Elizabeth Bennet could do.

Indeed, Mr Darcy was ready to toss Mary at him without a moment’s hesitation.

Why should he not think that? He does not know Mary, her naivety, her eager desire to please, nor her abysmal abilities at doing so. Mary was gifted in saying precisely the thing that most unquestionably should remain unsaid, at precisely the worst moment one could say it. Besides, in Elizabeth’s opinion, her sister was much too young to think of taking any husband—much less a…a chucklehead. Neither does he know whose perceptions I most trust, between my father’s and my mother’s.

Abruptly, she felt heavy hands upon her shoulders.

“I am sorry,” Mr Darcy murmured. “I do not know your family well enough to understand who might be appropriate for whom. It was a thoughtless remark.”

She turned to face him, a little surprised to find how near he was. Once again, the perfection of his features struck her, and amazement that a man so beautiful—never mind his great fortune—would make her an offer of marriage. Now, here he was apologising, when it was she who had made a rather tasteless joke, in the face of that as-yet-unaccepted offer. The urge to touch him was overpowering. She surrendered to temptation, touching the bristled cheek—a growth of beard already showing though he had been clean-shaven this morning. So different, the texture of a man’s cheek, and she wondered how the sensation of it would feel against her own smooth one.

“My mother is terrified,” she said softly. “Every day, she worries what future the morrow will bring. Any respectable man will do if it means a daughter married, to her mind.”

“Your father does not share her alarm?”

“My father possesses a singular ability to avoid thinking anything about the future at all.”

She had accepted her father’s opinions of Mr Collins sight unseen, she suddenly realised, without considering her mother’s in the slightest. Perhaps Mr Darcy was correct—there might be some good in her cousin, and Mary might like him, young as she was. It was not as though her father was solely right and her mother solely wrong in this. She looked up at him to say so.

His mouth came down upon hers—an onslaught of tenderness and need. He tasted of fire, of sparks shattering in champagne effervescence, of some kind of pull that drew her in, his mouth exerting the perfect pressure. The kiss would not stay in one place—just as he would not—constantly moving out of range of easy dismissal and cooler mind, trailing up her jaw to an exquisite point behind her ear. It ought not to be sensual, such an innocent spot of flesh—but it was, and she felt her arms wrapping about his neck in a vain effort to get closer.

“Elizabeth,” he groaned her name as if he were in pain. “Elizabeth.”

The kiss returned to her lips, intensifying from sparks to a real conflagration, inciting an agony of desire so powerful, it did not seem possible to exist within it.

Abruptly he reared back.

One moment she was being kissed to within an inch of her life, and the next moment she was standing alone, the library door swinging wide in the wake of his hasty departure, its draught fanning her hot cheeks.

A day after that kiss, Elizabeth was still unsure what she ought to do.

Jane would be shocked, were she to know what had happened, and insist upon returning home immediately. Home, to Longbourn, where her mother awaited Elizabeth with an expectation that she regard the potentially ridiculous Mr Collins as a suitor.

Impossible, of course. I think I am in love with Mr Darcy.

At the same time, her mind continued offering up frightening conclusions. Her father’s words haunted her. “Elizabeth, your mother was the prettiest young lady I had ever before seen. Quiet, demure, sweet, pleasant-natured—every young buck in the country wanted her. Nothing would do but that I marry her at once and set up my nursery before any other could beat me to the mark. I hurried into it, without a thought, and have paid for that hurry every day since.” With every telling, his bitterness was obvious.

Her mother’s words were not much fonder. “Mr Bennet paid court to me every day for a month and then dropped his affections like a red-hot poker once his vows were said.”

Desire , pure and simple, was all they had shared. Of course, she had not understood it, not really.

She understood now, though she still struggled with all that it meant. She could not decide whether Mr Darcy’s decision not to appear at dinner the night before meant he was disgusted with her response to his passion, or embarrassed by his own.

“Lizzy, you are so quiet. You have not placed a stitch on that handkerchief since you sat with it,” Jane said, her voice anxious. “I do hope you are not taking ill.”

Elizabeth tried to rearrange her expression into nonchalance. “I am well, I promise—only wishing that John Stevens had predicted more sunshine.”

It was not a lie; she would love to have taken a long ramble through the garden. She almost envied Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy, who were ignoring the threat of rain, apparently out riding across Netherfield’s park. Not much else could be said, for Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst shared the morning parlour. The pair were deep in a discussion—some might say, a row—and in the moment, not paying any attention to their guests.

Jane nodded, peering at Elizabeth with some concern, obviously not convinced.

Thankfully, Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy entered at that moment, distracting her.

After Mr Bingley had greeted them all—and ensured that Jane moved to a seat closer to the fireplace—he made an announcement. “We are to have callers soon, I believe. From the south hill, Darcy and I spotted a carriage on the lane leading to our drive, and what are the odds but that it is heading for us? I thought it best to return to the house.”

“Charles, you ought not to have cut short Mr Darcy’s ride over a neighbour’s whim!” Miss Bingley chided.

“Nonsense! We have had a brisk trot already, and he did not mind—did you, Darcy?”

“Not at all,” Mr Darcy replied politely. But Elizabeth saw him glance her way with an odd expression upon his face.

Was he happy to see her? Or the opposite?

They had not long to wait before the housekeeper announced their callers—Mrs Bennet, with Lydia.

“Mama! I did not know you were well enough to go out!”

“Oh, it was but a slight head cold.” She paused, however, to withdraw a large handkerchief and loudly blow her nose. “It has delayed my ability to see my poor sick girl. Kitty is still suffering—her cough sounds like the bark of that old hound of your father’s. But Mr Jones says she will be well soon, and it has not gone to her chest. I simply had to come and see how my dear Jane has fared.”

Elizabeth blushed for her mother, but Miss Bingley smiled expressively at Mr Darcy.

“Jane, why are you downstairs?” Mrs Bennet demanded. “I am sure Mr Jones said you must stay abed! How careless you are with your health! You must retire immediately!”

“Mama, Mr Jones said she could come down for an hour in the morning if she stayed near the fire—which as you can see, she is,” Elizabeth interrupted the diatribe.

Mrs Bennet sniffed. “Hmph. I daresay you have persuaded her to run as wild as you do at home, Lizzy.”

“Miss Elizabeth has been most attentive in her care of Miss Bennet,” Mr Darcy interjected. “Indeed, I have never seen such affectionate concern.”

Miss Bingley’s smile turned sour.

Pointedly offended by what she perceived as disagreement, Mrs Bennet sniffed dismissively. “Had you raised Lizzy from an infant, Mr Darcy, you would expect she give her mother as much consideration! The girl once swallowed my wedding ring rather than hand it back to me, and her clouts had to be searched for a week to retrieve it! Please remember, I have borne five children—five! What once was high, now droops. What once was flat, now bulges, and not a one of my offspring listens to me, even so.” She blew her nose again noisily.

Lydia giggled, Miss Bingley looked cheerfully smug again, while Elizabeth’s face flamed. Thankfully Mr Goulding with his son, Reginald, arrived to pay a morning call at that very fortuitous moment. Mrs Bennet could no longer dominate the conversation, for Mr Goulding was more garrulous than she. Elizabeth had known Reginald for years, however, and could tell that he seemed to be growing ever more impatient with his father as the minutes passed—surely, the two had come for a purpose.

“It is said you are not opposed to amusement, and indeed, Netherfield’s accommodations are the grandest in the county,” Mr Goulding said at last. “It has also been said, by some, that plans might be in the offing to hold an entertainment of some sort, befitting these lovely premises. At least, there are those who speak of its possibility.”

“We heard you have promised to host a ball soon, sir, and it would be most unsatisfactory if it was not true,” young Mr Goulding—glaringly dissatisfied with his father’s vaguer hints—interrupted.

Lydia clapped. “Oh, yes, Mr Bingley! It would be the most shameful thing in the world if you did not keep your promise to hold a ball at Netherfield. It is why we were determined to call today, even though Mama is so snuffly!”

Before Mr Bingley could reply to these demands, however, the housekeeper again entered; all eyes turned to her.

“Excuse me, sir,” she addressed the senior Mr Goulding. “Apparently your father quit the carriage where you bid him wait, and no one quite knows where he has disappeared to.”

The elderly Mr Goulding was a much beloved fixture in the community, although in recent years he had grown increasingly confused and feeble. The news that he was missing visibly alarmed the older gentleman—and annoyed the younger. Mr Goulding stood at once, excusing himself, while Reginald fumed .

“I told you not to bring him. He does not know his head from his toes these days.”

Mr Goulding was out of the door before anything else could be said beyond his hasty apologies, his son following at a more aggrieved rate. Miss Bingley opened her mouth, and by her expression, Elizabeth simply knew it would be an unkindness, a slur upon a benign, ageing gentleman.

But before she could speak, Mr Darcy quickly stood. “Bingley, you will want to accompany me. If you will please excuse us, ladies, we had better help Goulding find his father. John Stevens has predicted rain this morning, and sooner rather than later.”

Mr Bingley made haste to follow him out; the last thing Elizabeth heard him say to Mr Darcy before the door shut behind him, was “Who is John Stevens?”