Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

The Next Day

M r Darcy certainly did not appear as a man in love. Whatever Miss Bingley’s feelings on the matter, she must have been quite mistaken. Elizabeth, accustomed to eating later than the family for the sake of waiting upon her sister, had breakfasted alone since arriving at Netherfield three days before. She had been astonished to find him in the breakfast room, still, this morning, and she glanced surreptitiously at the solemn man who shared her table.

Elizabeth could acknowledge that she had, likely, been harsher in her estimation of his character than was fair. It was true that his cutting remark towards her at the assembly had given her a poor opinion of his temperament, his arrogance, and his manners. However, she had regarded him with new insight the evening before. With poor Miss Bingley, he had demonstrated considerable patience with her unending adulation. Really, had the man demanded she kneel before him, she would have offered herself as a footstool. Mrs Hurst was correct; Miss Bingley was losing her dignity over him, and while she was to be pitied, Elizabeth would have been hard-pressed to show the same restraint as Mr Darcy.

She had thought him a tad hard on Mr Bingley, but now that she understood him to be acting more in the role of guardian than simply as a friend, his attitude made sense. Considering her new knowledge of the situation with Mr Bingley’s sisters, she thought Mr Darcy had actually exhibited remarkable forbearance with the lot of them. Towards herself, she was not quite so certain.

Was he so accustomed to women instantly falling all over him in adoration? He was wealthy, yes, but so were the Bingleys. From the Bingley sisters’ conversation, it appeared they both had fallen in love with him. He is more handsome than I first considered, now that I have decided he is not quite so supercilious as I once believed , she thought with an inward smile. He was also very blue-blooded—Miss Bingley gloated over his kinship to the earl of Matlock, unquestionably a fixture in society’s highest circles. There was hardly a more desirable connexion in all of England.

But…in love ? Would Miss Bingley so passionately sob over the loss of a highborn uncle? Imagine choosing the vacuous Mr Hurst as one’s mate, simply so that one might never again feel the pain of unrequited emotion? What was it about this man that inspired such admiration?

It is not his ability to make pleasant breakfast-time conversation. To distract herself from the urge to giggle, she returned to the sideboard to examine the morning cakes.

“The honey cake is an excellent choice,” Mr Darcy said, suddenly at her elbow and startling her. “I do not know why so many prefer the plum when honey is served.”

“I am in no humour at present to give consequence to a cake that has been slighted by other diners,” she replied in mock-sober tones, reaching for the plum. She could not help it, and the giggle escaped anyhow as she looked up at him.

To her surprise, he flushed.

“Point taken, madam,” he said, his expression grave.

“Come, now, Mr Darcy, you are noted for your presence of mind. One so gifted must surely appreciate a talent for turning past insults to present pleasure.”

“I have been reminded that I made myself ridiculous in your eyes. Should I be pleased?”

“Is not your memory under as excellent a regulation as your pride?”

He shook his head, sighing. “You are determined to prove me absurd.”

“Nothing of the sort, surely,” she murmured. “Perhaps slightly…inconsistent.”

“Besides, you need prove nothing,” he said gravely. “Not when I continue to offer up, constantly, new fodder for your amusement.”

She smiled again. “I do love to laugh. But I hope I am not so frivolous as to search for faults instead of follies. In this instance, I was not thinking of your feelings, but my own. I completely comprehend not wishing to dance, although an assembly seems an odd outing to attend when one is affronted by the notion. I do not at all understand your need to offer offence along with your rejection. You did not want me to like you, plainly.”

“Thus, you did not.”

“I will not exchange one offence for another by admitting it.”

He appeared to hesitate. “Would you be so kind as to accompany me for a walk in the garden? The sun is shining, if it provides little in the way of warmth. When you have finished your breakfast, of course.”

Elizabeth was astonished at this invitation. Was it an apology, of sorts? A concession of attention? She did not require it, happy to settle for mere civility; neither, however, did she wish to be unmannerly. “I should not leave Jane for too long,” she said, hesitating.

“Your own health ought to be considered. The briefest airing, I promise.”

He was trying, it seemed, and it would be rude to suppose it to be mere condescension.

“Thank you, yes,” Elizabeth agreed. “I am almost finished with my breakfast.” She gestured to the plate she still held, upon which the plum cake rested; but Mr Darcy had evidently had enough of the meal.

“I shall see you downstairs in perhaps quarter of an hour?” he asked, to which Elizabeth politely nodded.

After his departure, however, she returned to her sense of astonishment—at herself, as much as anything. What she ought to have given was proper thanks for the invitation, while declining for Jane’s sake—her sister was improved, but not nearly recovered. It would have been a perfect excuse for the avoidance of half an hour’s awkward conversation.

What was I thinking?

Then, she did something more inexplicable than ever. Returning the plum cake to the sideboard, she instead served herself a slice of the honey cake, reseating herself at the empty table. She took a bite, finding it truly, wonderfully delicious…down to the very last crumb.

What was I thinking? Darcy wondered at himself, much astonished.

You were not , the face in his looking-glass reminded him. He had returned to his chambers to fetch a warmer coat, and now peered at his condemning reflection. You were ashamed of yourself for insulting her, embarrassed that she so coyly admitted it, and you gave way to wanting. To desire. To the temptation of half an hour of her company without a servant looking on, or worse, Miss Bingley.

Until last evening, he had suddenly realised, he had simply been more furniture in the room to Miss Elizabeth, or a potted plant, perhaps—and not a very interesting one. Something had changed; she looked at him more frequently, teased him more often, smiled more fully—seemed simply more aware of him. He was ashamed to say he had not truly noticed her essential apathy towards him until that change—until she no longer treated him as…as a potted plant. Unfortunately, the difference between wanting a disinterested Miss Elizabeth and this new, ar resting version was the difference between warming oneself at a pleasant hearth and running headlong into a wildfire.

Along with his extraordinary desire was a new, added intrigue. He wanted to know why. What had happened to make her tease him about his flawed manners, instead of despising him for it?

That is all I need to understand , he told his sober countenance. A simple walk in the garden, and I shall henceforth leave her severely, permanently alone.

With a spring in his step, he hastened to Netherfield’s marbled entrance hall to await Miss Elizabeth.