Chapter XVII
“Lizzy,” said Jane that evening when they were back at home, readying themselves to retire. “It seems your opinion of Mr. Darcy has undergone a rather dramatic reversal.”
Elizabeth, who had been sitting at her vanity, lost in thought, smiled at Jane in the mirror, though the gesture was tinged with the rueful knowledge that in the matter of Mr. Darcy, she had been mistaken. “Yes, I must suppose it has.”
When Jane sat down on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed, she knew this was not a brief discussion of the sort they usually indulged in. “You could not have known.”
Surprised at the comment, Elizabeth turned to face her sister. “You speak of Mr. Darcy’s behavior when he came to Hertfordshire in October.”
Jane offered her usual gentle smile. “Even I—the one you always tease about seeing only the good in people—noticed Mr. Darcy’s behavior, though I never thought as ill of him as you did.”
“And now?” asked Elizabeth, curious.
“I told Mr. Bingley that I do not hold Mr. Darcy’s actions against him. So far as I can tell, he was acting from a sincere concern for his friend.” Jane fixed Elizabeth with a teasing smile. “More than that, I cannot hold a grudge against the man who may become my dearest sister’s husband.”
“Oh, Jane,” said Elizabeth. “It seems your fancies are taking hold of you.”
“Do you deny Mr. Darcy’s interest?”
Elizabeth paused for a moment, and that moment told her sister everything. “No, I do not deny it. But it is still far too early to be making comments about my future wedding.”
While Jane smiled, she did not falter. “The question then becomes your feelings on the subject—Mr. Darcy’s appear obvious.”
Wilting a little at her sister’s comment, Elizabeth looked down at the floor. “If you are asking what I feel about Mr. Darcy’s intentions, the answer is that I do not know myself. There is still a significant distance between us.”
“That distance is lessening, Lizzy,” said Jane. “I have never seen you so open with a gentleman.” Jane smirked. “And it is not as if he is ill-favored.”
“Not ill-favored at all,” came Lydia’s voice as she entered the room, Kitty following behind. “Why, Mr. Darcy is almost as handsome as Mr. Wickham. All he needs is a little more liveliness and a red coat, and I dare say he would be perfect.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed at her youngest sister as Lydia flopped on the bed, Kitty settling beside her.
Mary entered at that moment, appearing interested in their conversation, though Elizabeth had never seen Mary interested in any discussion of a man.
Curious, Elizabeth regarded her sisters, all of whom had taken up residence on her bed and showed no inclination to move away soon.
“What do you know about Mr. Darcy?” demanded Elizabeth.
It was Kitty who responded. “He was very kind tonight, Elizabeth. I found him to be an excellent dancer.”
“Mr. Darcy was quite altered tonight,” said Mary. “He asked me about the pianoforte and the books I have read of late.”
“He is also wealthy,” said Lydia, throwing Elizabeth a mischievous grin. “Mama noticed, you know. I dare say she has quite forgotten about her anger over Mr. Collins’s failed proposal.”
Elizabeth groaned and put her head in her hands. “Just what I need—for Mama to involve herself and put Mr. Darcy to flight.”
“Then you confess you find him agreeable now?” teased Jane.
“I confess nothing, Jane,” replied Elizabeth, looking up with a mock glare at her sister. “Let us simply say that I am more open to the possibility than I was before.”
Jane nodded, pleased she had provoked the confession, while the rest of her sisters watched her with varying degrees of amusement, interest, or calculation. Elizabeth rose from her chair and gave them all a pointed look.
“I believe it is time to retire.”
“Oh, let us stay up and talk,” said Lydia. “Like we used to do when we were children.”
“When we were children, we were all much smaller,” Elizabeth pointed out.
“It will be fun, Lizzy,” said Kitty, taking her hand and drawing her onto the bed.
They stayed awake for some time after, speaking of various subjects and teasing Elizabeth or Jane about their conquests.
It was a tight fit, as Elizabeth did not have a large bed, but eventually they all fell asleep there, sprawled across the surface and one another in undignified poses, covered with blankets and huddled for warmth.
As Elizabeth dropped off to sleep, she reflected that she had not felt so close to her sisters in many years.
THE NEXT MORNING, MR. Darcy and Georgiana arrived at Longbourn at an hour that was almost too early for visiting.
The first notion anyone in the house had of the visitors was the sound of carriage wheels in the drive.
As was their custom, Kitty, who was nearest the window, pulled the shades aside, peering out at the dingy winter day.
“It is Georgiana and Mr. Darcy,” said she.
“Mr. Darcy?” demanded Mrs. Bennet, her darted look at Elizabeth proving Lydia’s comment from the previous night. “Well, I am sure we will welcome such pleasant people to our house, though the early hour is an imposition.”
Mr. Bennet, who was reading his paper, exchanged a look with Elizabeth and rolled his eyes, a testament to his feelings about the sudden change in his wife’s estimation of Mr. Darcy.
There was something else in her father’s look, as if he had suspected something and was now anticipating the amusement of being proven correct.
Within moments, Mrs. Hill led the Darcy siblings into the room, and given the rueful expression with which Mr. Darcy regarded her, Elizabeth knew something had happened.
It took no great insight to understand the gist of it, but Elizabeth had not thought Miss Bingley would move with such alacrity.
Greetings exchanged, the Darcys sat down with them and turned to Mrs. Bennet.
“I apologize for the early nature of our visit, Mrs. Bennet, but it was advisable for Georgiana and me to absent ourselves from Netherfield this morning.”
Mr. Bennet did not scruple to refrain from laughing. “So, she did it, did she?”
Mr. Darcy looked at him with interest. “Are you aware of what happened, Mr. Bennet?”
“Nothing direct,” denied Mr. Bennet. “Last night, Hurst and I speculated on the subject. I will say that the longer the evening progressed, the more likely it became. Still, Miss Bingley moved with more alacrity than I might have expected.”
A gasp from Mrs. Bennet drew their attention. “Did Miss Bingley do something she should not, Mr. Darcy?”
“She did, Mrs. Bennet.”
“Then perhaps you should inform us of what has occurred.”
Mr. Darcy nodded. “It is not a matter that my friend would wish disseminated to the neighborhood, so I shall request your silence on the subject.”
“Of course, Darcy,” replied Mr. Bennet, his gaze resting on his youngest daughters and wife, all of whom gossiped. “We shall say nothing about the events at Netherfield and recall that they involve a young man who is paying particular attention to our Jane.”
That last comment was meant for Mrs. Bennet—if Mr. Bennet could silence his wife, she would impress upon her youngest daughters the importance of holding their tongues. Mrs. Bennet did not misunderstand the point.
“We shall not speak of the matter,” said Mrs. Bennet.
“There, Darcy. I believe you may weave your tale, for we are all afire with curiosity.”
THE RETURN TO NETHERFIELD had been mundane enough that Darcy had not thought of considering anything that Bingley’s sister might attempt.
Miss Bingley was nowhere in evidence, and in his defense, Darcy’s mind was filled to overflowing with thoughts of Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
The hour was late, and the party bid one another good night the moment they stepped into the house.
As Darcy had instructed, Snell was not in evidence, having already retired for the night.
In past years, Snell had been insistent on his need to attend his master no matter what time he returned, but Darcy had taken him aside some months earlier and all but threatened to withhold his pay if he did not take more time for himself.
Snell had not liked it, but he had understood Darcy’s preference and had made himself scarce when Darcy arrived home.
It was a simple matter for Darcy to loosen his cravat and drape his clothing over a nearby chair for Snell to deal with the following day.
Free of his jacket and waistcoat, Darcy stepped into the closet and pulled on a nightshirt, divesting himself of his trousers and shirt.
When Darcy stepped back into his bedchamber, shirt and pants in hand, an ugly surprise greeted him.
Miss Bingley, with stealth he had not suspected she possessed, had made her way into the room undetected and now lay in the center of the bed, a smile of equal smugness and what she considered seduction adorning her features.
As Darcy stopped in utter shock and consternation, the woman bared her teeth in a grin and pushed the coverlet down a little, as if in invitation.
“I have come for our assignation, Mr. Darcy,” cooed she, as if she thought he welcomed her in his bed. “It is time you surrendered to the inevitable.”
“Inevitable,” echoed Darcy, incensed by her lack of decency.
Fueled by the desire to wipe the smugness from her face, Darcy folded his arms and smirked, gratified when a flicker of uncertainty flashed in her eyes. “It seems my definition of inevitable is at odds with yours, Miss Bingley.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Miss Bingley, doubt turning to pique. “You have compromised me, and now must restore my reputation. You may as well join me—now that I have you, I shall not allow you to escape.”
Darcy snorted with disdain, again cracking her aura of confidence. “I utterly deny compromising you in any way. There is nothing that will make me yield to your intrigues.”