Chapter 2

Darcy edged as close to the pianoforte as he dared, but could not draw near enough without creating speculation as to his intentions towards Miss Elizabeth Bennet. At this distance, the effects of her soothing presence were ineffectual and his symptoms began to beset him once more; how tired he was of feeling ill!

Whether he had caught something before departing London or the air of Hertfordshire simply did not agree with him, Darcy could not say for certain, but he had suffered a persistent headache, dizziness, and nausea since arriving at Netherfield some three weeks prior. Whatever his ailment was, it was not quite enough to render him bedridden, but it was taxing upon his mood and surely made it unpleasant for others to endure his company. Though Darcy had visited the local apothecary, a Mr Jones, numerous times, he had yet to hit upon a cure. He had tried what felt like every powder, potion, and tincture in the man’s shop, yet nothing had soothed his misery.

Until he caught a whiff of Miss Elizabeth’s hair.

Darcy could not entirely account for it, but upon being seated next to her at the Gouldings’ dinner party, his symptoms had entirely fled as if they had never been present to begin with. He had, at first, imparted his relief to mere happenstance and enjoyed his first hearty meal since entering this rustic county—Mrs Goulding had purportedly crowed over Darcy favouring her dinner to the entire neighbourhood afterwards—but then the sexes had separated and he had struggled to keep down his port. Upon drawing near to Elizabeth again after rejoining the ladies, Darcy made the connexion between the soft scent of lavender emanating from her hair and the abatement of his illness. He had made sure to remain—discreetly—near her for the rest of the evening, only to again feel sick upon her departure. Since then, Darcy had made every effort to be in her presence whenever possible.

In doing so, he had discovered something incredible: Elizabeth Bennet was the most enchanting young lady of his acquaintance. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing. Moreover, her Gift, which he had previously disdained for its lack of utility to a gentleman of standing, was a great deal more impressive than he had initially considered it. He had, at that wretched assembly, believed her only capable of growing flowers in her hair, which might be a boon to a perfumier but not a landed gentleman of good fortune. He learnt later that she was capable of producing all sorts of greenery, from flowers to herbs and even the occasional fruit. She was well known throughout Meryton for her healing potions and Darcy himself could attest that her mere presence was enough to drive sickness away. It was marvellous, really.

This much he had acknowledged to himself, but there was more to admire in the lady than a tolerable appearance and a useful Gift. Even without the lavender scent which soothed his stomach, Darcy would have been drawn to her by her magnificent green eyes. They were so full of mischief and intelligence that he longed to speak with her, but so far had only managed to join in her conversations with others, as he had attempted yet again before she dismissed herself to play for the company. He was disappointed, of course, but at least he had the pleasure of watching her as she performed. Her friend was correct; she sang delightfully, even if her mastery of the keys was somewhat lacking.

A wave of sickly-sweet perfume, which reminded Darcy strongly of the smell of rotting oranges, caught him off guard and he nearly gagged. When he had controlled the reflex, he turned to find the expected source of his surge of misery; Miss Bingley was prowling towards him wearing a predatory smile. Her Gift—if one could even call it that, given her questionable mastery of it—was to create her own scents from her skin. Purportedly, they were meant to entice and persuade, but Darcy had never felt any urge in Miss Bingley’s presence other than one to flee. Lately, given his sour stomach, she was even more unbearable to be around than usual.

“I can guess the subject of your reverie,” was her flirtatious rejoinder when she was close enough to converse. So close to his ear, Darcy was again beset by the stench of her acidic perfume and he leant away; should she accidentally touch him, skin to skin, his abilities as a Familiar would only make her odour stronger and possibly render him unconscious. Worse, when he woke, she could claim compromise and he would be stuck with her horrid redolence for the rest of his life.

“I should imagine not,” was his reply, meant to discourage further discourse when he would much rather be listening to Elizabeth play.

Miss Bingley, never one to take a hint, tittered a laugh behind her fan. “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner. Why, there is hardly a respectable Gift in this room! In the neighbourhood, even. I suppose one cannot hope for better in such a backwater place; it makes me long for town.”

“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a substantial Gift wielded by a pretty woman can bestow.”

“Oh?” There was a certain gleam in Miss Bingley’s eyes which Darcy did not like. “I suppose you mean my brother’s latest angel. Miss Bennet’s ability to converse with lesser beasts is passably beneficial, I suppose, but even that would be nothing in London, especially given her sad situation. Unless you refer to some other fortunate lady…” Her lashes fluttered and her scent became somehow more potent.

“I refer to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

He did not fully understand why he was inclined to be so honest with Miss Bingley, but he blamed his weakened state and the incessant throbbing behind his eyes.

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet! I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite? And how shall you like having so many flowers around Pemberley? Just imagine, your sister will never have to send for shoe roses again.”

“I have recently learnt that Miss Elizabeth’s Gift is not restricted merely to flowers; she is capable of growing many kinds of plants in her hair, which could be useful in various situations.”

“Oh, certainly. She shall make a farmer an excellent wife someday, if that is the case.”

Though Miss Bingley said this with a poisonous bite, Darcy was struck by the notion. He might have great wealth and connexions to the peerage, but he was a gentleman farmer at heart. Miss Elizabeth’s abilities would be a boon to any man with an estate, to say nothing of the healing poultices she could produce for her Familiar and his dependents. Perhaps she was more practical a choice than he had previously believed.

Miss Bingley sidled closer and Darcy felt a renewed swell of nausea. She reached for his arm and, already on the verge of casting up his accounts, he nimbly evaded her grasp by excusing himself to fetch a drink. This placed him further away from Elizabeth than he liked, but at least he was free of Miss Bingley and her aromas.