Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

E lizabeth’s intent was to bring Jane, now much improved, into company after dinner. When the ladies removed, she headed upstairs to fetch her, while Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst went in an opposite direction. Thus, she was a little taken aback when Miss Bingley called for her to wait before she was halfway up the flight. Elizabeth turned, pausing as the other woman climbed to reach her.

“I have wanted to speak with you,” Miss Bingley said, her voice low and urgent.

“Oh?” Elizabeth replied, keeping her expression neutral. It seemed this was a tête-à-tête Miss Bingley had not wished her sister to hear.

“Yes. I have noticed you have drawn the attention, however briefly, of Mr Darcy.”

However briefly? “We have had a few pleasant conversations, I suppose,” she answered carefully .

“I…as-as your hostess, I wished to warn you not…not to raise your hopes. Mr Darcy is engaged to be married.” Her words, which had begun in a stilted manner, proceeded forth in a rush. “To his cousin, the daughter of a great property in Kent. It is a family matter, the union of two great estates. I am certain he finds you engaging, but it has been an agreement of long standing, although little known outside of the family.”

“Oh?” Elizabeth repeated, much astonished.

“Yes. I just…I just thought you should know.” With that, she turned away and scampered back down the stairs.

Could it be? Elizabeth wondered, placing another stitch in the handkerchief she embroidered.

At first, she had easily dismissed Miss Bingley’s ‘warning’ as preposterous, but as the evening wore on, some doubts emerged. Not about another betrothal; obviously, Mr Darcy could not be engaged to be married, and still ask for her own hand. Miss Bingley’s message had been, beyond question, a scheme to thwart Elizabeth’s own interest in him, and it was wisest to discount everything the woman said. Yet, Mr Darcy could not have been less sociable and more unfriendly had he been disgusted by every single person in the room—herself included.

He ignored everyone in favour of his book; he seemed wholly engrossed in it. Only Mr Bingley and Jane had anything much to say, and since it was not at all interesting to any except themselves, the party descended into tedium.

By the time Miss Bingley nervously invited Elizabeth to take a turn about the room, Elizabeth—looking for any excuse to think of something else besides her own qualms—agreed immediately. Mr Darcy looked up from his book.

“Will you join us, Mr Darcy? I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.” Miss Bingley’s hopeful look revealed her motive to earn his attention, and despite her obvious machinations, Elizabeth felt some pity along with her annoyance.

Remarkably, he immediately agreed. Moments later, the three of them were strolling around the vast room. His hands were clasped behind his back—to prevent Miss Bingley taking his arm? Or herself? At the tip of her tongue was a question for him regarding his potential betrothal to some unknown cousin, solely for the diversion of needling Miss Bingley…except he spoke first.

“Have you heard from your mother yet, Miss Elizabeth? Does illness still prevail at home?”

Miss Bingley glanced sharply at him before turning back to Elizabeth. “Is your mother ill? I am sorry, I did not realise. How unfortunate. Is your family often thus afflicted?”

“On the contrary, it is rare for us. We have been unlucky of late, it seems, and Mama is still feeling poorly. She assures me that it is an insignificant cold, but it has kept her and my sisters confined to Longbourn.”

“You must not take Miss Bennet home yet, then,” Mr Darcy said. “You would not wish to undo her recovery by exposure.”

Was he doing his best to prevent her departure by forcing Miss Bingley’s insincere agreement? That woman hastened to give it, whatever her true feelings on the matter .

“No indeed, Miss Elizabeth—we would not have dear Miss Bennet’s recuperation spoilt when she is so very fragile. Who knows what might happen, were she to leave our comfort and care so early in her recovery?”

Her tone implied that sending Jane back to Longbourn was tantamount to pushing her into the wilderness to forage for sustenance. It was one insult too many, in an evening filled with them.

“Thank you for your concern. We would not impose upon your hospitality for any longer than is absolutely necessary. Jane will be very happy to be returned home the minute Mr Jones advises.”

The subtle rebuke—and Mr Darcy’s frown—had Miss Bingley recanting any opinion at all.

“You have been worried, naturally,” Mr Darcy interjected, interrupting Miss Bingley’s rambling effusions. “I am certain that by staying in one place, Miss Bennet’s improvement proceeds at the quickest possible pace.”

Elizabeth glanced at him again, and he gave her the subtlest of smiles, so brief that it was gone almost instantly.

But seeing it, seeing how a smile transformed him, caused her an inexplicable breathlessness.

“That may be true,” she said, unable to resist the urge to press him a little. “However, it is possible that the familiar surroundings of home might also ease her recovery. It is difficult to know what is best.”

“Fear of the unknown can be paralysing,” he replied, and suddenly she knew they were not speaking of the question of Jane’s stay at Netherfield, but the question he had asked her two days before. “Some might choose to remain fixed in a less desirable present, in prejudice against a future they cannot picture.”

I can picture it , she thought. Picturing it is not the problem. “Is it always fear?” she asked. “Might judgment, sense, and experience advise looking to the past for answers in the present?”

“The past is not always doomed to repeat itself. The participants have a say in their own futures.”

There was truth in his words, and yet it was not so easy a problem as he designed it. History had shown, time and again, that the human condition was one of perception—and that humans were inordinately bad at recognising their own shortcomings. She and Mr Darcy simply did not know each other well enough, at this point, to make a rational decision.

“And yet, we almost always participate using recognised patterns of behaviour. Would one visit the theatre for a performance of Hamlet and expect Ophelia to meet a happy ending?”

He raised his brows at her comparison. “Why would one simply wish and hope for a different part than that assigned by some phantom director, without applying for it? Nor would a person of sense and action mindlessly repeat the lines rehearsed by others who have played the character before. One’s own disposition must inform the performance.”

There was certainly nothing wrong with his performance now! Elizabeth was unaccustomed to a man such as he, able to discuss subjects beyond the weather or the next assembly; even her father was too fond of teasing to often be serious. What would it be like, to have a husband of such intelligence? Life would never be dull again! And yet, it did not change certain facts of existence—for instance, a union requiring the close connexion of two such opposites as Lord Matlock and Mrs Bennet. Elizabeth tried to picture introducing her mama to the earl—and failed utterly. “Not every particular might be within a person’s power to change. The expectations of family, for instance, or the circumstances of birth. These are fixed.”

His head tilted back, the corner of his mouth tipping up ever so briefly, as if he, too, found the conversation pleasantly unpredictable. “Expectations are also shaped by experience. When they are sufficiently considered, a reasoning person might make alterations to them.”

It was true that his sister’s experience with an inappropriate suitor had made it desirable for him to wed expeditiously; certainly, he could have offered for the cousin before this, had he intended to, as his highborn relations must realise. It was also true that he was a man not easily moulded by the ideas of others—indeed, to look at him with the Bingleys, one would say that he was the sculptor, and they were the clay.

Neither am I easily moulded , she reminded herself. Unbidden, a vision intruded, one of his calloused hands upon her skin…touching and shaping. She flushed, his eyes raking over her as she tried—without much success—to quell the rapid beating of her heart at his expression. It was almost as if they were alone in the room. He was easily the best-looking man of her acquaintance; in comparison, John Lucas was a scarecrow, and Reginald Goulding, a toad. It was incredible, almost as incredible as the sentiment he expressed, however veiled—one she would not have believed such a short time ago. He wants me to marry him, to be with him, to stay with him, always.

Miss Bingley saw the look as well; her pinched lips and angry air were clear evidence that she understood the failure of her scheming. “Do let us have a little music,” she snapped, stalking towards the instrument. “Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr Hurst?”