Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

BEING REASONABLY SURE that Miss Elizabeth would be asleep, Mr. Darcy looked in on her later on that night, just before he retired for bed. He chastised himself for doing so. If anyone saw him, it wouldn't look good, he didn't think, going into a maiden's room (even one so ill) just before bed, very late at night.

So, he made sure that no one would see him.

And no one did.

Well, no one, that is, except the maiden herself, who was not at all asleep. She was sitting up in bed with a book of Shakespearean comedies, and he started at the sight of her.

"Miss Bennet!" he said. "I must have taken a wrong turn."

"Oh?" she said. "Well, I found myself a bit confused in the house, I must say, and it is a relief to know that you, who have been staying here for weeks, still find it confusing, too." She gave him a little smirk, to let him know that she didn't believe for a moment that he'd gotten turned around.

"I must go."

"You should, likely, yes," she said airily. "Why, you may catch my illness, and then we shall be felled by it, a houseful of people with coughs and fevers, and everyone will be ever so cross, and it will be all my own fault. You mustn't come near me, really, but I must say, I am dreadfully bored, Mr. Darcy. And you, whatever I may say about you, are not boring."

He went still, then, looking her over.

She coughed, and then groaned. "Oh, dear. Apologies, sir, you must not mind me. I am feverish and saying things I shall regret later, undoubtedly."

"What do you say about me?" he said.

"Me?" She touched her chest. "Who says that I say anything about you?"

"You did. Just then. You said, ‘whatever I may say about' me, that I wasn't boring."

"Oh, yes, but that was just a turn of phrase," she said with a shrug.

He raised his eyebrows.

She lifted the book. "He has nothing in this house that was published before 1743, I don't think. Except Wordsworth, that is. We mustn't forget Wordsworth."

He moved closer. "Bingley is not one for, er, books, not in general."

"He's a man of action, yes. Not contemplation," she said. "But he is earnest, is he not? That earnestness, it's rather affecting, rather…"

"You like him, then?"

She sighed, looking up at Mr. Darcy. "Why, of course, sir."

"But me, you don't like me."

She made a face, sinking back into the pillows of the bed. Then she started coughing again.

He began to back away. "I'm awfully sorry. I need to let you rest."

"You most certainly do not. I have been resting all day, and I think I shall likely be awake all night because of it!"

He paused his movement.

"Anyway, you don't like me ," she said.

"Well, that's only because you don't like me," he said.

"Posh," she said. "You have not liked me from the moment you clapped eyes on me."

"Oh, I assure you, Miss Bennet, that isn't true," he said, and his voice had gone somewhat husky, embarrassingly .

She didn't seem to notice. "I may have judged you harshly," she said. "A man such as yourself, I thought you wouldn't have been very intelligent, you see, because why bother being intelligent if you have no need of intelligence?"

"Everyone needs intelligence." He was confused.

"Oh, you know what I mean."

"I obviously do not."

"Some people have everything already," she said. "Servants and coaches and roast lamb and walls covered in fine art. And those people don't need to do anything at all. They don't need to know things or puzzle things out."

"You think it's easy seeing to an entire household of servants?" said Mr. Darcy. "You think that doesn't take skill and intelligence?"

Her lips parted. She was silent.

"Apologies," he said.

"No, I think I was in the midst of apologizing to you," she said. "I rather bungled it. I'm not entirely skilled at delivering apologies, I'm afraid."

He laughed softly.

"You are intelligent, that is the thing," said Elizabeth. "You have interesting things to say. That bit about dancing being a human attribute, not a sign of civilization, that is something I hadn't quite thought of. Or the idea that perhaps our civilizations aren't quite so advanced as we may think. Why, when you think of it, it is true that we have made many advances in all manner of things—look at the houses we build or carriages or even how much better firearms are getting—but in terms of society, has anything changed?"

"Well," said Mr. Darcy, "I suppose fifty years ago, I should never have associated with someone like Bingley."

"Yes, and I shouldn't exist, for my father would never been able to marry my mother," she said. "Is that the advancement, then, the idea of welcoming the money from trade?"

"I don't know," he said. "That does seem to be the way things are moving. I have investments in trade myself. "

"But society seems determined to keep things exactly as they are, and to bar the way from anyone who has not inherited their money."

"Well, it isn't working, is it?" He smiled at her.

She smiled back.

"I have a book written later than 1743 in my room," he said. "I have just finished reading it. It's The Scottish Chiefs ."

"Oh, is that the one about William Wallace?" said Elizabeth.

"Would you like to borrow it?"

"Oh, if you please," she said, putting aside the Shakespeare.

"I shall be back momentarily," he said.

When he put the book in her hands, she lit up, and he felt a singular sort of pride, for having pleased her. There was something about this woman, like the charged air of a gathered storm.

He cleared his throat. "About Charles."

She looked up at him, curious.

"Mr. Bingley, I mean," he said. "You know he holds you in high regard."

"Yes," she said.

"And you? You hold him in high regard as well?"

"He is a flattering man to be near," she said, turning her attention back to the book. "I am not used to such attention, but I cannot say that I do not enjoy it. Yes, I hold him in high regard."

Right, then.

Stop feeling lightning strikes around Elizabeth Bennet, he scolded himself.

"WHATEVER I DO is in a hurry," Bingley was saying. "If I decided to quit Netherfield, I should do it in moments. At present, however, I have no such interest. I feel certain I shall be here a hundred years. "

It was morning, and Mr. Darcy was waiting for some sign that Mr. Bingley knew that he'd given Elizabeth that book last night. How was he to explain that?

I just thought to look in on her, the woman you have told me you are hoping to marry, right before bed, all alone, and there was nothing untoward about it.

What had he been thinking?

Why was he such an idiot? Elizabeth had said he was intelligent last night, but the truth was that he was not even remotely intelligent. He was a dull sod who could not do anything right.

"Staying for a hundred years isn't doing anything in a hurry," Jane was saying.

"No, no," said Bingley. "It's not. If I am to stay put, I shall stay put, but if I get an urge to leave, I shall do it in a hurry."

"Oh," said Jane, furrowing her brow, looking a bit confused.

"You comprehend me?" said Mr. Bingley.

"Very well, sir," said Mrs. Bennet.

For Mrs. Bennet was there. She'd come to look in on Elizabeth, and she'd brought all of her other daughters, who seemed to have been brought for the reason of oohing and ahhing over Netherfield and also to agree with their mother whenever she pointed out that the doctor said that Elizabeth must not be moved.

For his part, Bingley agreed, too. "Perish the thought of moving her! " he said, hand to his cravat.

Now, Bingley spoke to Mrs. Bennet. "Oh, marvelous, madam. I must say, it is a good thing to be understood."

"Yes," said Mrs. Bennet. "Indeed it is. And to be in a hurry is to be efficient."

"True," said Jane, "but it also means one doesn't take time to think things through."

"It's a fault," said Bingley, smirking.

"Lizzy is exactly that way," said Mrs. Bennet. "The two of you are pair, I think. She never thinks anything through, either. She simply makes up her mind and acts."

"Well, I think we suit each other exceedingly well, then," said Mr. Bingley, smiling.

"I agree," said Mrs. Bennet. "Lizzy is not the prettiest of my girls, of course. That honor must go to my Jane here. Why, when Jane was but fifteen, there was some man who wrote a whole passel of sonnets about her beauty, saying he'd never seen such a pretty girl."

Jane blushed. "Oh, but Mama, that man, he was dreadful—"

"Fifteen," said Mr. Darcy, standing closer to Jane. "How old was he?"

"Well, Jane was grown," said Mrs. Bennet. "And he was a respectable gentleman. I thought he'd run off with her, really."

Jane made a face.

Mr. Darcy felt his entire body go stiff. "Fifteen is very young," he said softly.

Jane looked up at him gratefully.

"Why, my own sister—" But then he broke off, for he had a scheme, not one that he could necessarily be proud of, he supposed, but one that would save Georgiana from ruin if necessary. The scheme was to marry her to Bingley, if Wickham ever tried to tell anyone what had happened.

Of course if Bingley married Elizabeth, that wouldn't even come to pass.

Maybe that was for the best. He didn't wish to saddle his sister with a man she didn't care for, not in the end.

"Your own sister, I understand, is tall and accomplished and the epitome of girlish perfection," said Jane, smiling at him. "All this and more have I heard from Miss Bingley. She seems to be quite enamored with your sister. She must be extraordinary."

Mr. Darcy wondered at Jane Bennet. Was she that innocent or did she simply impose a good opinion on everyone by sheer force of will?

Certainly, she must have detected Miss Bingley's ire, hadn't she?

But later, he could not be sure. Perhaps it was the discussion of Georgiana that led him to sit down and compose a missive to his sister, or perhaps it was only that he wished for something, anything at all, to do to keep himself from looking in on Elizabeth and asking her what she thought of the book he'd brought her.

Bingley, it turned out, had thought nothing untoward of it, thanking him offhandedly for lending Elizabeth something to read. She is quite engrossed, and I think it distracts her from her discomfort, so thank you, my friend.

"How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive a letter from her brother," said Caroline.

They were in the drawing room. Caroline was practically on top of him, where he sat at a desk composing. Jane was sitting diagonally, with a book open on her lap.

Perhaps if he ignored Caroline, she'd be quiet.

"You write uncommonly fast," she said, leaning in over his shoulder.

Did he? Truly? "You are mistaken," he said. "I write rather slowly."

"Oh, you must write ever so many letters, Mr. Darcy! For so many reasons. You know ever so many people! Oh, and for business as well! I should find all of that odious."

He sighed. "Well, thankfully, it is I who must compose these letters and not you."

"Pray tell your sister I long to see her."

He gritted his teeth. "I have." He pointed. "See? Here. You told me to write that earlier, remember?"

"I think your pen needs mending."

"It's fine," he said.

"I mend pens remarkably well."

"I am capable of mending my own pens." Now, his voice was growing sharp.

"I know you are," said Caroline, "but I am only offering to help."

"Thank you," he said in a low voice. "But I am all right here."

"Tell your sister I am in raptures with her beautiful design for a table, which I think is infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's. "

Jane spoke up, no guile in her voice. "You are quite admiring of Miss Darcy."

Caroline turned to look at her. "Well, she is admirable."

"I was observing to Mr. Darcy how much you have sung her praises," said Jane with a smile. "I must say, it makes me curious to meet her. Mr. Darcy himself is so very admirable himself, I cannot but think his sister must be so as well."

"Meet her?" said Caroline, looking severely at Darcy. "You have offered some meeting between your sister and Miss Bennet?"

"Oh, no," said Jane, laughing self-deprecatingly. "I did not mean to imply I ever would meet Miss Darcy. Likely, I never shall. Why, I don't know how long your family will even be settled here at Netherfield. Mr. Bingley says he could be dislodged from Netherfield in a moment—"

"What?" said Bingley. "That's not what I said. I said I was to be here a hundred years."

"Oh," said Jane. "I must have gotten it all wrong, then. I am sorry. But I am glad to hear it, I must say, for we have quite enjoyed the company of you and yours since you have been in the neighborhood."

"Yes, most certainly you have," said Caroline, walking away from Mr. Darcy. She approached Jane, her chin high. "You have enjoyed it ever so much, have you not?"

Jane furrowed her brow. "I have just said so." She was wary, sensing something angry in Caroline's mien, but unable to place it, clearly.

"Miss Bingley," said Mr. Darcy in a low voice. "Perhaps you might let Miss Bennet read her book and spend more time commenting on my letter. If you like, you could comment on my handwriting or how well I blot out any mistakes I might make."

Caroline's nostrils flared. "I was not aware, Mr. Darcy, that my kindness toward you was so repulsive."

"I never said it was repulsive," said Mr. Darcy.

"Come now, Caroline," said Mr. Bingley, "you have been pestering him for upwards of twenty minutes now. Let the man write his letter and be silent. "

Caroline's face twitched. She turned to Jane. "And you, you sit there, all wide-eyed, as if you have no idea what is going on."

"I haven't any idea," said Jane. "I own that it perhaps it was not the most wise decision for me to come here to be with Elizabeth—"

"No, I have said again and again that you must be here for your ailing sister," said Mr. Bingley. "And Caroline has truly no reason to find fault with your presence. Why, we are all cheered by a bit of company, I say. We are all sick to death of each other. We are quite pleased to have you here, Miss Bennet."

Jane smiled at him. "Thank you for saying so, sir."

Caroline threw up her hands. "I cannot bear this."

"Bear what?" said Bingley.

"It's my fault," said Mr. Darcy. He got up from his letter. "Perhaps, Caroline, you and I should step into the corner over there for just a moment? I feel as though I have allowed you to labor under an assumption that I should have cleared up a long time ago."

"What assumption?" Caroline put her hands on her hips.

"Well, for your sake, madam, I would not say it while everyone is looking at us."

For, of course, they now had the full attention of the entire gathered company. Even Mr. Hurst looked entertained, and he didn't like anything except cards.

"Everyone is always looking at us, though," said Caroline. "It is as Charles says and we are all sick of each other and know everything about each other, and there is no reason to hide anything. Say whatever it is you wish to say, Mr. Darcy. Out with it."

He should have demurred. It was cruel. But he was agitated, and it was so awful, looking at them, the sweet, innocent beauty of Jane Bennet and the absolute crass artifice of Caroline Bingley, and he didn't demur. He spoke. "You seem to have gotten an impression of me, Miss Bingley, an impression of my intentions."

She lifted her chin. "You mean your intentions toward Miss Bennet, because—"

"My intentions towards you," he said.

Her expression froze.

"I've never had any," he said.

She was still frozen, entirely still.

He regretted it. He wished he could take it back, not make it so public, or so stark, or so mean-spirited. He started towards her, his voice lowering. "No, no, I shouldn't have… we have been friends, Miss Bingley, we have laughed together so many times, and I should have seen it earlier, but I am remarkably—"

"You're mistaken, sir," she said, her voice tremulous.

He stopped, inclining his head. "Oh."

"No, I never thought… you and me?" She let out a high-pitched artificial laugh. "I've never even considered such a thing."

"Right then," he said. "My mistake."

"Yes," she said.

Then, it was dreadfully, horribly silent, and no one spoke for a stretch of moments that seemed to drag on interminably.

Eventually, Bingley excused himself to go and check on Elizabeth, and Jane said she would go with him.

Caroline said brightly that she'd like a walk in the gardens, and Louisa accompanied her.

Mr. Darcy finished his letter. He felt like a cad.