All Bets are Off (First Impressions)

11. Eleven

Eleven

“All secure, Mr. Hill?” Elizabeth asked, glancing at the neatly tied baggage atop the coach. The morning air was crisp and damp, the mist clinging to the hedgerows, but her spirits soared with the promise of escape. At last—freedom. A week at Netherfield had felt an eternity, with every polite exchange and stolen glance a fresh trial. Now, with Jane recovered and the open road before them, she could breathe again.

Jane emerged from the house behind her, swathed in a warm shawl. Though her cheeks had regained some of their color, her movements were still tentative due to her lingering headache. A pity their mother would never heed Elizabeth’s admonishments! Give her another wealthy, single man, and Mrs. Bennet would send her eldest daughter off again in a storm without a second thought.

“Are you certain you are well enough to travel, Jane?” Elizabeth asked, scanning her sister’s face for any sign of fever or faintness.

Jane smiled faintly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I am quite well, Lizzy. Truly. It will be a comfort to be home again.”

Elizabeth nodded, though she felt far from reassured. Jane’s modesty often led her to downplay her own needs, and Elizabeth worried that three miles out in the cold might be more taxing than her sister admitted. Still, there was no denying the relief of leaving Netherfield behind.

A rustle of movement drew Elizabeth’s attention back to the house, where Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy had emerged to see them off. Mr. Bingley’s cheerful demeanor was as steady as ever, and Elizabeth could not help but note how his gaze lingered on Jane, his concern evident in the way he hovered near the carriage door.

“Miss Bennet,” Bingley said warmly, offering Jane his hand through the door of the carriage. “I trust the journey will not tire you too much. Please do not hesitate to send word if there is anything you require.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Bingley,” Jane replied. “I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality and care during my illness.”

“Think nothing of it,” he said, his expression brightening. “It has been a pleasure to have you both here.”

Elizabeth inclined her head to their host, but could not help the way her eyes drifted to the man standing behind him. Ah, yes… The Poet.

Darcy, standing a few steps behind Bingley, said nothing, his expression as inscrutable as ever. His dark eyes flicked toward Elizabeth briefly, a momentary glance that conveyed neither warmth nor irritation. If he harbored any relief at their departure, he hid it well, though Elizabeth imagined he must be as eager as she to put their curious and contentious interactions behind them.

“Mr. Darcy,” she said, nodding to him before the footman closed the door. “I trust you will find Netherfield more peaceful without us.”

His brow furrowed slightly, as though weighing her words for hidden meaning. “I would not presume to call your presence disruptive, Miss Bennet. Your sister’s health was a matter of genuine concern.”

Elizabeth inclined her head, unwilling to engage further. She leaned back and permitted the footman to close the door, pulling the blanket more snugly around her sister’s lap.

Bingley stepped away, his cheerful farewells ringing in the air as the driver prepared the horses. Darcy remained silent, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the mist-shrouded hedges. Elizabeth found herself watching him for a moment longer than she intended. And then she blinked, snapping herself back to sanity. Whatever had possessed her to regard the man with anything more than strategic curiosity?

The carriage lurched forward, breaking her train of thought. As Netherfield’s shadow receded into the distance, Elizabeth exhaled. Finally, she could have a few moments of peace.

Jane’s voice drew her attention back. “Lizzy, do you think… do you think Mr. Bingley regards me too highly?”

Elizabeth blinked, surprised by the question. “Why should that trouble you?”

Jane hesitated, her hands twisting the edge of her shawl. “He is so amiable, so generous. I cannot help but wonder if he perceives more in me than there truly is to admire.”

“Jane,” Elizabeth said firmly, taking her sister’s hand, “if Mr. Bingley admires you—and I believe he does—it is because he sees what I see. Your kindness, your grace. Do not diminish yourself in his eyes or your own.”

Jane’s cheeks flushed, but she said nothing more. Elizabeth sat back, her thoughts turning inward as the familiar landscape of Hertfordshire rolled past.

Elizabeth had barely stepped out of the carriage before the sound of Mrs. Bennet’s exclamations filled the air. “Oh, my dearest Jane! My poor, sweet girl—how pale you still look! But we shall have you feeling better in no time. Lizzy, where is her shawl? Does she not need another shawl? And Mr. Bingley, I suppose, sent you off with nothing but kind words and no further assurances?”

Elizabeth sighed inwardly as she helped Jane down. Before they could even cross the threshold, Mr. Bennet appeared at the door, his expression wry as he greeted them.

“Welcome home, girls,” he said. “I trust you survived Netherfield unscathed. We have missed you sorely, but you will be delighted to hear that we have been well compensated for your absence with an extended visit from Mr. Collins.”

Elizabeth blinked. “Mr. Collins? Your cousin, Mr. Collins? I did not even know we were to expect him!”

“Oh yes, did I not tell you? I suppose I did not. Yes, indeed, he arrived at two o’clock, the day before yesterday. And he has made quite the impression. Why do you think your mother was kept away from visiting her dearest Jane at Netherfield during her illness?”

Elizabeth’s heart sank. “Probably because she was busy trying to ‘secure the future’ of another of my sisters.”

“Aye, I would imagine some coins have changed hands over the matter already. Oh, do not scowl so, Lizzy. I daresay you will find him diverting.”

The word “diverting” held enough irony to make Elizabeth wary. Her suspicions were confirmed the moment they entered the drawing room. A man of rather expansive height and girth rose from a chair, his face lit with an eager smile that showed more teeth than necessary. He was dressed impeccably, though with a stiffness that suggested he cared more for appearances than comfort.

“Ah, my fair cousins!” he exclaimed, bowing deeply. “How delightful to at last make your acquaintance. I am your most humble servant, William Collins, rector of Hunsford Parish and honored clergyman under the patronage of the esteemed Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, whose faint smile betrayed her amusement.

“We are pleased to meet you, Mr. Collins,” Jane said.

“And I, dear cousin, am overjoyed to find you safely returned,” Mr. Collins continued, his gaze shifting to Elizabeth with an expression that made her distinctly uncomfortable. “And you must be Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Your reputation for wit and beauty precedes you.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to thank him or recoil. “You are very kind, sir.”

He beamed, clearly taking her mild response as encouragement. “I hope to spend much time in your company, Cousin Elizabeth. I consider it my duty to foster familial ties during my stay, and you, I am certain, will be an engaging conversational partner.”

Elizabeth offered a tight smile, already devising ways to avoid such conversations. “Yes, well, if you will forgive me, Mr. Collins, my sister is still feeling rather poorly, and I would like to help her upstairs to rest.”

“Oh! Of course, of course. Indeed, I did think Miss Bennet seemed rather pale, but I had supposed that was only in contrast to your more… vivid coloring.” He spoke the last with almost a gasp in his breath, and when Elizabeth rounded sharply on him, he was dabbing his mouth as if he had just finished eating.

Lydia leaned closer to Elizabeth, her whisper loud enough to be heard by all. “You watch, Lizzy. I bet I can make him say ‘Lady Catherine’ three times in one breath before dinner.”

“Lydia,” Elizabeth warned, her tone sharp enough to cut her sister’s laughter short. The last thing she needed was for Mr. Collins to overhear and mistake Lydia’s teasing for genuine interest.

“Lizzy’s right,” Kitty whispered. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Lydia.”

“But why? I could do it,” was Lydia’s petulant response.

“Because that is too easy. It should be four times. No! Make it five.”

Elizabeth shot them both a glare, but Mr. Collins seemed, mercifully, to suffer from that peculiar sort of hearing impairment that is selective in nature. He was speaking again to their mother, and indeed, the name Lady Catherine had left his lips at least twice in one sentence—the lady’s virtues, her generosity, her wisdom, and her superior taste in furnishings.

Mr. Bennet, seated comfortably in his chair, looked on with amused detachment. “And there you have it, Lizzy,” he said when Mr. Collins finally paused for breath. “Our cousin is a man of many fine words and, it would seem, even greater admiration for his patroness.”

Elizabeth suppressed a smile, though she longed to escape the room. “It is always enlightening to hear of such devotion.”

“Indeed, Miss Elizabeth!” Mr. Collins exclaimed. “I believe it is my duty to speak well of those who have so kindly supported my station. Lady Catherine’s wisdom—”

Elizabeth quickly interrupted. “We are most fortunate, Mr. Collins, to hear of her many merits. I am sure my father will be eager to discuss them further during dinner. Come along, Jane. Let us make you comfortable.”

As Elizabeth turned Jane to fairly drag her out of the room, Lydia and Kitty crowded after them. “You’ll take the bet, won’t you Lizzy? Come, now, it is not like you to be shy.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Perhaps later, Lydia.”

“Oh, but it’s no good later. If I wait too long, you’ll see that I’m right and you won’t take the bet at all.”

Elizabeth rolled her eyes as they mounted the stairs. “Very well, I shall consider myself warned. I will not take your bet at all. Satisfied?”

Lydia stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her arms crossed as she pouted up at them. “You’re no fun, Lizzy.”

Darcy sat at the far end of the drawing room, his fingers tightening around the book he had not turned a page of in at least ten minutes. The muted hum of conversation grated on his nerves, particularly Miss Bingley’s laughter—discordant, like the notes of a poorly tuned instrument. Across the room, Hurst dozed with the effortless indifference of a man for whom boredom was a lifestyle.

Darcy’s focus strayed to the others. Miss Bingley was leaning toward her sister, her tone hushed but animated, her glances in his direction far too frequent for comfort. He forced his attention back to the pages in his lap, but the words blurred, and his thoughts churned with unwelcome insistence.

That blasted poetry. Why, why had he done it? Now Miss Bingley probably thought he had written it for her .

Elizabeth’s face when he had read aloud returned to him unbidden: the faint flickering of her jaw, the way she bit her lip as though physically restraining herself from comment. He could almost hear the laughter she had refused to voice. Oh, he had made his point, indeed. She had told him the very best way to drive her away, and he had pulled it off with élan. Sort of.

But rather than to put her back on her heels, as he had hoped, now she was just laughing at him.

Well… did that, after all, achieve his ends? Hang his pride for a moment. Why should he care what a country miss thought of his dignity? Was she prepared to cease her assault on his senses? That was the material question.

And why was she so determined to pluck him apart in the first place? It did not appear to be the usual flirtation—she hardly seemed interested in complimenting him or making herself agreeable in the common way, so he could only surmise that she had chosen him as some sort of social rival in a game to which he had never been told the rules. Was his self-inflicted humiliation enough to send her elsewhere for her amusement?

Enough! He snapped the book shut, the sharp sound startling Hurst, who grunted in his sleep. He had spent far more than enough time this evening fretting about a woman who was not even in the house.

“Oh, Mr. Darcy, will you not join us?” Miss Bingley called. She rose and crossed the room, settling herself on the settee nearest him with an air of possessive ease. “Surely you are not still brooding over the Bennets’ departure? I daresay we shall have our fair share of entertainment soon enough.”

“I am brooding over nothing, Miss Bingley.”

“Of course not,” she said with a coy smile. “You would never, naturally. But I think, perhaps, the absence of one lady in particular has cast a rather unexpected pall over the house.”

Darcy lifted his head abruptly. “What? I—”

“I was only observing, Mr. Darcy, that my brother is somewhat… diminished this evening.”

Darcy released his breath slowly and darted a glance at Bingley. “I see nothing amiss in his manner.”

“Do you not? Well, perhaps it is less apparent to another man. But a lady cannot help but notice the, ah, energy Jane Bennet has inspired.”

Darcy narrowed his eyes. “To what does your observation tend, Miss Bingley?”

“Why, half the town must already believe she and my brother are engaged. Do you not think it amusing?”

Darcy’s expression darkened. “Gossip is rarely amusing, particularly when it concerns a lady’s reputation.”

Miss Bingley faltered, but only briefly. “Oh, I mean no harm, of course. But speaking of amusing…” Her eyes sparkled with a mischievous edge as she added, “I must say, Mr. Darcy, your recital last night was quite unexpected. Such… fervor.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “I am glad it provided you with amusement.”

“Not merely amusement!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands dramatically. “I found it quite moving. You must have another verse to share.”

“I do not,” Darcy said flatly, his grip on the arm of the chair firm enough to leave marks.

“Surely you cannot mean that. A man of your talents?” Her gaze lingered on him, her smile widening. “Now that I think of it, I must wonder what inspired such sentiment. Could it be that your muse has departed this morning?”

He stiffened, heat rising to his face. Miss Bingley leaned closer, her tone lowering conspiratorially. “I have noticed, Mr. Darcy, that you have been… how shall I say… more willing to indulge whimsy of late. I cannot help but wonder if this has anything to do with that silly wager you made with my brother.”

Darcy froze, his breath catching. “The wager has nothing to do with poetry.”

“Oh, I am sure it does not,” she said lightly, though her eyes gleamed with something sly. “But I do think Charles has forgot all about it. He has been rather preoccupied with Miss Bennet, as you must have noticed. It would be such a shame if all your efforts toward forced and unnecessary ‘civility’ went unnoticed.”

Her words crawled under his skin, needling at him in ways she could not possibly understand. He rose abruptly, cutting her off mid-sentence. “If you will excuse me,” he said coldly, “I find I am in need of some air.”

Miss Bingley blinked, momentarily thrown, but quickly recovered with a simpering smile. “Of course, Mr. Darcy. Do enjoy the evening air. Perhaps it will soothe your spirits.”

He ignored her, striding from the room and into the cool night. The gardens of Netherfield stretched before him, silvered by moonlight. He walked briskly, the sharp air doing little to calm the storm in his mind.

Elizabeth Bennet.

Her presence lingered like a shadow he could not shake. Her laughter—her almost laughter—during his recital still echoed faintly in his ears. She had refused to mock him outright, but her eyes had betrayed her amusement, and he could not decide if he was sympathetic at her mirth over the spectacle he had made of himself, or infuriated.

But then the memory of her sitting beside Miss Bennet near the fire rose unbidden, her care for her sister so clear, her quick defense of that sister before Miss Bingley so perfectly aimed. She was unlike anyone he had ever known—so full of contradictions. Bold yet tender. Clever yet infuriating.

And entirely too captivating.

Darcy stopped abruptly, his hands clenching at his sides. He hated it. He hated that he could not forget her. And most of all, he hated that she had got under his skin in ways he could neither explain nor endure.

The path to Meryton was alive with the usual bustle of villagers going about their errands, but Elizabeth’s thoughts were elsewhere as she walked alongside Charlotte Lucas. Jane had been too pale and tired to join them, and for a mercy, all three of her younger sisters had found something else to do.

“So, Lizzy,” Charlotte began with a sly smile, “you had a week at Netherfield. How is your wager progressing? Have you managed to thaw the infamous Mr. Darcy into swooning admiration for you, or are you preparing to admit defeat?”

Elizabeth sighed. “Must we discuss it, Charlotte? The man is insufferable. I doubt he even notices whether one exists to thaw or not.”

“Ah, but you forget—winning his approval is not about him noticing you. It is about you making him notice you.”

Elizabeth glanced at her friend with narrowed eyes. “I see. So I am to resort to fluttering my lashes and simpering, am I?”

Charlotte laughed. “Hardly. You could not simper convincingly if your life depended on it. But you do have charm, Lizzy. Wit, intelligence—all those things men claim to admire until they realize they cannot best you. Surely even Mr. Darcy can be made to appreciate that.”

“He appreciates nothing but his own pride,” Elizabeth said sharply, then caught herself. Charlotte’s teasing had drawn her out more than she intended, and her irritation surprised even her. “Besides,” she added more lightly, “I am growing weary of the game.”

“Oh no, you don’t. You are not giving up now. We agreed on the terms, and I am holding you to them.”

Elizabeth frowned. “I am reconsidering the wisdom of those terms.”

“That is precisely why they are so effective,” Charlotte said with mock solemnity. “Think of it, Lizzy—oh, I have already great plans for your forfeit. And you know I will appreciate winning far less than you will feel the sting of losing.”

The jab hit its mark, and Elizabeth’s frown deepened. “You are a cruel woman.”

“I am merely practical,” Charlotte replied, her grin widening. “And I suspect you would be just as merciless if the wager went the other way.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to retort, but the hum of voices ahead distracted her. A cluster of women stood near the apothecary, their heads bent close in avid conversation. As Elizabeth and Charlotte approached, she caught snippets of their words—enough to know that Mr. Collins had become the topic of town gossip.

“It must be one of the Bennet girls,” one woman said. “Why else would he visit now, unless to secure a wife?”

“Well, it certainly won’t be Mary,” another laughed—rather too confidently for Elizabeth’s taste. “Or Jane, for everyone knows Mrs. Bennet thinks she can secure Mr. Bingley. And no clergyman alive would try managing those younger two girls. Five shillings says it will be Miss Elizabeth. She’s the second prettiest of the lot, and quick-witted, too. He would do well to choose her.”

Elizabeth halted abruptly, her indignation rising. Charlotte stopped beside her and raised an eyebrow. “It seems your cousin is already the subject of some matchmaking.”

“And I am to be the sacrifice, am I?“ Elizabeth shot back. “Of all the presumptuous assumptions—”

“Oh, come now, Lizzy! They are only having a bit of fun. You know there is never a thing in it.”

“Until a ‘harmless’ wager becomes prevailing sentiment and so many assumptions are made that I cannot withdraw gracefully!”

Charlotte lifted a shoulder. “You should be flattered. The heir to Longbourn, no less! Imagine the poetic justice of it all. Mrs. Goulding absolutely relishes the notion that the famous Bennet sisters, who always attract such notice, really are—”

“Yes, yes, I know .“ Elizabeth turned a withering glare on her friend, though the effect was lost on Charlotte, who seemed more amused than sympathetic.

“Well, why not set her on her ear by marrying the heir? It is not a terrible idea, Lizzy.”

“If you think I would ever entertain such a notion—”

“Relax, Lizzy. You forget that I met him two days ago when Maria and I called on Mary. The man may be pompous, but he is hardly an ogre or a beast. You will manage.”

“I have no intention of managing anything,“ Elizabeth retorted. “If Mr. Collins has set his sights on me, he will find them very poorly aimed.”

”I meant that you would manage to put him off easily enough,“ Charlotte chuckled. “In all seriousness, though,” she said, “about Mr. Darcy. You are not really considering forfeiting the wager, are you?”

Elizabeth sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly. “I do not know, Charlotte. The thought of continuing is exhausting. Mr. Darcy is…” She trailed off, searching for the words to describe the knot of frustration and curiosity he inspired. “He is not a man to trifle with. And I am not entirely sure what I hope to gain by this.”

Charlotte nodded thoughtfully. “It’s not just about the wager anymore, is it?”

Elizabeth hesitated, then shook her head. “No, I suppose it is not.”

“Well,” Charlotte said briskly, “whatever it is, I expect you to see it through. After all, if you lose, I expect you will never speak to me again, and that would be a pity.”

Elizabeth’s blood spiked in her veins. Charlotte was teasing… she had to be, but it still curdled her stomach to think of the stakes. As the familiar outline of Longbourn came into view, she resolved to push aside her doubts—for now. There was still time to win, and losing was simply not an option.