Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

ELIZABETH WOKE THE next morning with a sore throat. She felt poorly and would have preferred to spend the day in bed, but not here.

She determined that she would simply hide her malady until she could get back on the horse and get home. Then, she'd crawl into bed and spend the day in the comfort of her own home, recovering.

She presented herself in the breakfast parlor, but no one else was there. It was early, she supposed, and perhaps the Bingleys kept with a schedule that was more compatible with town than the country. In town, people often slept the entire morning away, but this was because of staying up quite late at night, and Elizabeth had been put to bed by 9:00 the night before.

Food was already set out on the sideboard, so she served herself.

And since no one was there, she did not stifle her coughs, which were the only outward sign of her sickness.

"You don't sound well, Miss Bennet."

She started.

It was Mr. Darcy, standing in the doorway of the breakfast parlor.

She got to her feet, startled. "Mr. Darcy!"

"I heard you were caught in the rain yesterday," he said. "I think you must go straight back to bed. I shall have the servants bring your plate to you, and also a remedy for your throat, lemon-honey in very hot water."

"Oh, I think… that is… I am only staying to bid adieu politely, and then I shall ride back to my own home. I shall be more comfortable there."

"Nonsense," said Mr. Darcy. "You are ill."

"It's a trifle."

"Serious things often begin as trifles, Miss Bennet," said Mr. Darcy in a grave voice. "We did not think the illness that felled my mother was serious at the beginning, you know. Perhaps if we had, the outcome would have been different."

She bowed her head. "I'm so sorry about your loss, Mr. Darcy, of course, but I am not in any danger—" She broke off in a coughing fit.

At this point, Mrs. Hurst appeared in the doorway behind Mr. Darcy. "Oh dear, that cough doesn't sound good, does it?"

"I'm fine, truly, Mrs. Hurst," said Elizabeth. "I think I must simply make haste home. I shall go directly to the stables to get the horse I rode here, and if you could convey my thanks and my goodbyes—"

"Bed," interrupted Mr. Darcy firmly. "You, Miss Bennet, are going nowhere except bed."

"Oh, if she thinks she's all right to ride, then perhaps she is," said Mrs. Hurst.

Mr. Darcy rounded on her, giving her a severe look.

Mrs. Hurst cringed from him. "No, no, of course not. Mr. Darcy is right, Miss Bennet. You are not well, and you must go back to bed directly. We shall send for the doctor to come and look in on you."

"No, I tell you," said Elizabeth, "I must go home."

"Out of the question," said Mr. Darcy. "If anything happened to you, Miss Bennet, I should hold myself personally responsible for allowing it. I won't hear another word of argument. "

"I CAN'T BE too disappointed, I'm afraid," Mr. Bingley said, scooting a chair closer to the foot of her bed. "Now, here you are, under my roof, for some time, and it is perhaps the best thing that has ever happened to me."

Elizabeth knew she should encourage him, but she felt remarkably terrible.

She had a fever, nothing too awful, but just enough of one to make her feel chilled and tired. Her throat was raw. She huddled in the covers, feeling too tired to do anything at all and wishing that she could think of something to say to Mr. Bingley.

"I shall do anything in my power to take care of you," said Mr. Bingley. "I had thought perhaps you might like it if I read to you?"

"Not Robinson Crusoe , I take it," she said wanly.

He laughed heartily, as if she'd made a very hilarious joke. "I thought perhaps Wordsworth."

"Oh?" she said, with a yawn. This surprised her. She had not thought Mr. Bingley one for poetry. "You like Wordsworth?"

"I'm not one for poetry, truly," said Bingley.

Of course not.

"Wordsworth doesn't quite read much like poetry, however, just like a person's journal."

Truly? That was what he thought of William Wordsworth?

"So, anyway, I can't say I like it, exactly," said Bingley. "But at least I don't hate it. Do you like it?"

"If you don't wish to read to me, Mr. Bingley, I'd be happy enough to doze," she said, because this was quite true.

"I wish to read to you," said Mr. Bingley and began to read.

Oh.

Lord.

He was terrible at it. He read in monotone. He paused at the end of every line, not at the at end of the sentence. ("Five years have past five summers with the length— pause —of five long winters and again I hear— pause —these waters rolling from their mountain-springs— pause —with a soft inland murmur once again") He mispronounced sycamore and then caught himself. And then he said "bounteous" instead of "beauteous," which she really thought she ought to have forgiven him, for anyone could make such a mistake, but she wasn't feeling charitable, only rather put upon by being forced to listen to his droning voice.

She pretended to go to sleep, hoping he would just stop.

Eventually, he did, though not until they had gotten three-quarters of the way into the rather long poem.

He closed the book and murmured, "Aren't you pretty, then, even while you are ill? I've never seen such a woman as you, Miss Elizabeth. You're like a force, you are."

She was warmed by this.

He took her hand, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, and she wondered if she should be flattered by this or worried that he was taking liberties while she was sleeping and when she was ill.

"A man like me shouldn't get a chance with a woman like you, I don't think. If you haven't figured it out already, you will soon. I am not nearly as intelligent as you are."

It took all of her control not to react to this. But she was pleased. She liked that he'd said it. She liked him.

"It will be an unequal match forever, and I know it, but I shan't mind," he said. "It would be my pleasure and my delight to spend my life trying to earn the right to have you." He kissed her knuckles and laid her hand down. "Rest, my beautiful Elizabeth."

He left.

She relaxed, thinking that he wasn't perfect, but that she couldn't help but be a bit moved by his admiration. A man who thought her something to strive for? It wasn't the worst sort of match she could imagine, not at all.

She coughed some more, burrowed into the pillows, and fell into a fitful sleep .

IT WAS MIDMORNING when Miss Jane Bennet arrived, flushed, muddy, fair hair falling elegantly out of her bonnet, in the breakfast parlor.

Mr. Darcy smiled when he saw her. He could not help but smile. Wasn't she pretty, then?

"Well, of course you must see your sister," said Mr. Bingley, and took it upon himself to escort Miss Bennet to Miss Elizabeth's room.

"That's the one you like," said Miss Bingley to him dolefully. "Why couldn't Charles like her instead? She's the eldest, after all, and she doesn't say the sort of frightful things that the other one says."

"What frightful things?" said Mr. Darcy absently, gazing into Jane's wake.

"Oh, you know. You've listened to her," said Mrs. Hurst.

"I haven't," said Mr. Darcy.

"We were speaking of the time we were invited to dine at the house of the French comtesse," said Miss Bingley, "and she said something wretched about the way we must have kept all the invitations in a memory book to look at."

"You actually have saved all the invitations," said Mrs. Hurst.

"Yes, but it was the way she said it, as if it was a foolish thing to have done," said Miss Bingley. "As if she would never do such a thing. But she has never dined with a comtesse either, of that I am sure."

Mr. Darcy felt a smile itch his lips. What he would give to be a fly on the wall on these conversations between the women, then. He should like to see what Miss Elizabeth had to say if this was a sampling of the ‘wretched' things.

But he mustn't think this way, he reminded himself and the smile fell from his lips.

Only two days ago, he and Bingley had spoken together, having a conversation about the Bennet women in Bingley's study over glasses of port .

Bingley had said, "I know she is not greatly my superior in terms of her status or her wealth, but she is my superior, Darcy. She's a woman to strive for. The look of her, it's…"

"Yes," Darcy had muttered, picturing Elizabeth Bennet, who was not pretty, not exactly, but was still the most interesting woman he'd ever seen. He would not mind gazing upon her for years and years, from every single angle. He wondered what she looked like with her hair down or with her—

These sorts of thoughts were beneath him.

"And not just the look of her," said Bingley. "Her wit. She's dazzling with a turn of phrase. She's so very, very clever. Some men might not want a clever wife, but I think—"

"Wife?" Darcy broke in at that point, and was astonished that he sounded somewhat winded, as if Bingley's declaration of intention had left him breathless.

"Yes, I know," said Bingley, "it's soon, and perhaps I don't know her well enough. But I am intent on getting to know her. Thus far, the more I know of her, the more I admire her."

Darcy didn't say anything.

"You don't approve?"

"She is singular, Miss Elizabeth Bennet," said Darcy finally, running a finger around the top of his glass. "I see why you are enamored."

"Oh, Lord, Darcy, you aren't secretly also interested—"

"No, no," said Darcy, "no, I like the other one. The sister. The pretty one. Jane."

It was foolish, that was the thing. Mr. Darcy could no more marry some country miss from Hertfordshire with no connections and no fortune than he could get a special license from the archbishop. He must not stand in Bingley's way, not when Bingley could marry one of these girls without any issues or raised eyebrows.

So, there was no point in voicing any interest in Elizabeth Bennet.

There was no point in having any interest in Elizabeth Bennet.

Interesting how you trapped her here under this roof because of a trifling cold, though, isn't it?

Mr. Darcy wished that voice in his head would stop its dreadful noise.

Back in the breakfast parlor, the women had now decided to speak of the mud on Jane's petticoats as if it were the worst of sins, indicative of the stain on Jane Bennet's soul. Everyone knew that women who walked alone were taking their reputations into their hands.

He broke in gently that no one would suspect Jane Bennet of anything other than sweet solicitude, and they both agreed with him in somewhat dejected tones.

"Even so, what would have induced her to do such a thing?" said Miss Bingley.

"Perhaps she cares about her sister," said Mr. Darcy.

"Oh, you like her," said Miss Bingley, looking him over. Then her brow furrowed as if some horrid thought had just occurred to her, and she got such a look of wild fury and fear over her that Mr. Darcy feared she might explode at any moment. Except it passed, quite quickly, and Miss Bingley turned away, smoothing at her skirts, quite composed. "I suppose, then, any moment I am to wish you joy." Her voice was careless, now.

Mr. Darcy didn't trust that careless tone. "I think not, Miss Bingley, as you must understand. However—"

"Think of the mother-in-law you will have," she said, her voice growing fierce.

"I think, Miss Bingley, that mother-in-law will be your brother's," he said.

"So, you don't like her?"

"We have just established that I do like her, very much."

"But not in that way? You are not… you would not…?"

Mr. Darcy gazed at her, unsure as to why she was harping on this .

WAS CAROLINE BINGLEY in love with him?

Hitherto, Mr. Darcy might have said no, but he was beginning to think that he may have been abundantly stupid. It was true that whenever he danced with women at balls that Caroline attended, she had a tendency to tease him, asking leading questions, which he now was beginning to think was Caroline's way of reassuring herself that he wasn't serious about any of those women and that she still had a chance.

He wasn't serious about any of those women, of course.

But he would never marry Caroline Bingley.

At dinner, she often contrived to sit across from him, but that evening, he put himself on the same side as her, but with someone between them—this person turned out to be Jane Bennet, by happenstance. He wished it to be more obvious when Caroline was looking at him.

Indeed, she did twist around to look in his general direction often, but every time she did, she only spoke to Jane. "Whatever was going through your head this morning? Such a walk? Three miles!"

"I didn't want to do it, truly," said Jane. "I only had a conviction, deep inside, that Lizzy would come for me if our situations were reversed. Lizzy is braver than me, you know, but I found I could do it if I only thought about her. Frankly, I thought I would find her on horseback, galloping home, because she is so very determined, and I thought no one should stop her coming home if she had made up her mind."

"No," said Mr. Darcy, "I would not hear of that. Your sister was too ill for travel."

"Well, she is not overfond of horses, to be true," said Jane. "I'm aware of how it may have looked for me to come on my own, but I thought that surely no one could assign a bad motive to something done out of sisterly concern."

"No," said Mr. Bingley, "no, of course they couldn't."

"Definitely not," said Mr. Darcy. He did like Jane Bennet. She was a good sister and a very pretty girl, and perhaps he was being ridiculous thinking overmuch about the other sister.

So, after Jane excused herself to go see to Elizabeth, and the Bingley sisters started harping onto their criticisms—how could she have done such a thing, truly?—Mr. Darcy cut them all off. "I think she did exactly what she should have done, given the circumstances. She had to see to her sister, and there is nothing else to discuss."

"But her hair , so blowsy," said Miss Bingley. "So wild."

"Yes," said Mr. Darcy, "as we all know, men disapprove of women's hair looking wild."

Miss Bingley drew back, looking nearly wounded.

Mr. Bingley was chuckling, and she turned to her brother, as if realizing she had not gotten a joke, and then her expression went stormy again.

Shouldn't poke fun at her, perhaps, Mr. Darcy thought. Yes, he should be kinder to her. It was not her own fault that she had developed feelings for him, and he had been in the same situation before, when he admired someone who did not admire him back.

They all retired to the drawing room later, and Mr. Darcy found himself pulled into a game of loo. Mr. Hurst was quite serious about his card games, though Mr. Darcy could not see the reason to become so intent on them.

He was glad of the distraction, then, when Jane entered the room.

"How is your sister?" asked Mr. Bingley.

"Sleeping," said Jane.

"We shall deal you in," said Mr. Hurst. "Here's a chair, then."

"Oh," said Jane, looking out over the table, blinking rapidly, looking nervous. "I haven't brought much with me for betting at cards, really."

Darcy suddenly realized the game was probably betting too high for her, and he wouldn't induce her to financial hardship for the world. Bingley was actually often complaining about his sisters and cards. Sometimes they ran right out of their allowances if he didn't intervene. Of course, Mrs. Hurst was married now, and she had her dowry to herself and Mr. Hurst didn't mind anything to do with cards, even if Louisa overspent.

"I think I'd rather read," said Jane.

"Do you prefer reading to cards?" said Mr. Hurst. "That's rather singular."

Mr. Darcy smiled at her. "You should be my partner, Miss Bennet. We can decide what to play together."

"You can't do that," said Mr. Hurst. "That's not the way the game is played."

"Well, I'm out, then," said Mr. Darcy, putting his cards out on the table face up.

Mr. Hurst protested loudly, but Mr. Darcy was already up, moving out to intercept Jane, who smiled gratefully up at him.

He indicated that they should sit together on a couch nearby. They made their way there and were about to settle down when Miss Bingley called out from the table in a loud voice.

"How is Miss Darcy? Has she grown much since the spring? Will she be as tall as I am?"

Mr. Darcy sat down slowly, realizing this for what it was, an attempt to get and keep his attention with a subject he was readily willing to speak of, his younger sister.

But it was more than that, also. Caroline was trying to assert herself as knowing more about Mr. Darcy and more about his life and being acquainted with his loved ones. She was trying to show both him and Jane that she was the proper object of his affections.

He replied that his sister had indeed grown.

Caroline rejoined by slavishly praising his sister's accomplishments.

And here, finally, he was saved by Bingley, who spoke up, while scrutinizing his cards, "I'm amazed at how accomplished young women are. They are always doing something or other. I can't imagine having the patience for all of it."

"Patience for what?" said Caroline .

"Oh, the whole of it. Covering screens, painting tables, playing piano, netting purses, the list goes on," said Bingley. "Is it my turn?"

"No," said Mr. Hurst. "It's Louisa's turn."

"I think you're right that many people describe women as accomplished," said Mr. Darcy. "But I think the word begins to lose its meaning if it applies to everyone. I can't say I know many women at all who are really and truly accomplished. No more than half a dozen, in my estimation."

"Oh, yes," said Caroline gravely. "Agreed."

"Well, then," said Jane, blushing deeply, "you would think of me as frightful, I'm sure."

He turned to look at her. "Oh, no, I didn't mean it in that way."

"Didn't you?" said Caroline.

"I must say, accomplishments have not been required in my house," said Jane. "No one would call me accomplished."

"I haven't meant to be severe on your entire sex, Miss Bennet," said Mr. Darcy, feeling the need to backtrack entirely. Why was he always saying these sorts of things? "What I was trying to say is that, erm, the way that society demands women be accomplished is actually making it so that no one is accomplished. And, why, really must a woman be accomplished, in the end? What is the purpose of it? In my estimation, I'd rather have a woman who was well-read than one who could cover a screen."

Jane blushed again. "I cannot cover a screen, not well, I don't think. So, there we are."

"Miss Bennet," said Caroline coldly, "is one of those women who seek to recommend themselves by feigning modesty."

Jane blushed fiercely, ducking down her chin. "I think I must have done something to anger Miss Bingley, and I likely should know what it was, but I beg of her—"

"Oh, I apologize," said Miss Bingley, sighing heavily. "It isn't you, Miss Bennet." She glared at Mr. Darcy.

He hadn't been unkind to her during this exchange, so how was it she was laying the blame at his feet? He resolved not to speak to Caroline at all after this. He must avoid her entirely.