Mrs. Bingley’s Sister (The Austen Novels)

Chapter 18

Darcy stood as Smith finished dressing him for dinner after having had a nice, refreshing bath from his days long journey. However, Smith was being unusually quiet. Darcy looked at him curiously.

“Smith?”

“Yes, sir?”

"What is it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Darcy gave him a little look before shaking his head, smiling slightly, and saying, "Go on. Spit it out."

Smith was a jabbering kind of valet. He often talked nonstop when he dressed Darcy, when he prepared the bedroom, when he did anything. The man was a real talker, which Darcy minded little, as he was very quiet and reserved himself. They were a well matched pair, and the man had been his valet since Darcy was eighteen. His quietness was unusual, and it indicated he had something he wanted to say.

"Ah, yes, sir, well," the man began with a slight smile, "I merely was wishing to say, you look well in the green jacket—I should think even Miss Bennet ought to take notice."

Darcy gave Smith a look, who added with a smile, "And you shan't hear another word about it from me, sir."

And he quickly left, leaving Darcy alone to examine himself in the looking glass. Smith knew about his feelings for Elizabeth, of course—Smith saw him angrily writing the letter that night at Rosings after his rejected proposal, and then he saw him dashing off the next morning. Then Smith saw him return, and he very carefully inquired of his master what might be amiss. Darcy had kept his intentions toward Elizabeth to himself, not even Smith was told, so one could imagine Darcy's surprise, then, to learn that Smith already knew.

"You knew?" he had asked incredulously after Smith had admitted he might have guessed at Darcy's interest in Elizabeth.

"Well, sir, you never seek out ladies and show them any attention as you have with Miss Bennet here in Kent; but also, she caught your eye when she nursed her sister at Netherfield, I daresay—do you not recall muttering about it to me? How you couldn't believe a lady would trek through the mud three miles? I daresay, sir, you acted very much like you disapproved at first, but I very well remember you wouldn't stop mentioning it to me, and it became more of an amusing anecdote to you as the days went on—at one point I even recall you seemed to express something like admiration for her because of it—and, begging your pardon, sir, but you did dance with her at the Mr. Bingley's ball, did you not? That is what I heard from the Netherfield downstairs, anyway—everyone was talking about it, as she was the only lady you danced with who wasn't from your party..."

Darcy remembered staring at his valet in disbelief during this speech, then letting out an absurd laugh. He laughed for probably a whole minute straight, a delirious, absurd kind of guffawing. Smith simply raised his eyebrows, and Darcy finally calmed down and replied, "Well, Smith, now you may join the ranks of both Fitzwilliam and Miss Bennet herself, the ranks of those who know my shame, my incredible folly, my presumption at having an acceptance waiting for me. I am an utter fool."

Smith had looked a little forlorn at hearing this, and after some thought, he said slowly, "No, sir, you are not a fool. You simply misread the situation; how were you to know that Wickham poisoned her against you? It is hardly entirely your fault, I daresay."

"Well, it matters little whose fault it was; what's done is done, and Miss Bennet will not be the next Mrs. Darcy."

Smith frowned at this, and he didn't speak for a moment. But finally, unable to keep silent, Darcy supposed, the man said, "Sir, did not your letter set the record straight? Surely, there may be a chance now, after she realizes—"

"No, Smith, I will not entertain such fancies," Darcy had interrupted, with a shake of his head. "I need to put this all behind me."

And it never came up after that. Darcy was a veritable recluse at Darcy House in London after departing from Kent, and only his valet knew exactly why. He appreciated how well he could trust Smith, and he was glad he didn't have to hide away his melancholy from him.

But that was then. Years having passed, any time Elizabeth was to cross his path (say, the journey to Netherfield for the christening, for example), Smith seemed to take extra care in Darcy's appearance, which Darcy did not protest, but neither did he ever comment on it, either. Tonight, though, was the first time it was addressed overtly, in Smith's inability to keep his thoughts to himself; perhaps the man was as eager as Darcy secretly was for him to have a second chance with Elizabeth.

It would be a long shot, of course. He still was unsure of Elizabeth's opinion of his character as it is. But she had been amiable to him, walking with him to his wing. That had been very satisfying, her arm upon his—dare he hope for more such opportunities?

It was finally time to descend down for dinner. Hopefully, he could win her back after all.