Chapter Twenty-One

“He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.”

MONROE

“I AM SO NERVOUS.” JANE fussed with her dress as we sat close to each other in the carriage. FYI, I think I’d over romanticized carriage rides. Whiplash, anyone? Not that I was complaining too loudly—hello, I was living out my fantasy. At least I thought I was living. The jury was still out on that one. And what a fantasy it has been so far. I’d spent two hours walking with Mr. Darcy yesterday, discussing not only the allegory of the cave, which seemed apropos considering the subject of our limited perception of reality—and did I ever feel my limited perception right now—but also speaking about his family. He was the most vocal about his sister, Georgiana. It was cute to see how proud he was of her. Of course, I knew from the novel that she was sixteen and an accomplished young woman, but what I hadn’t expected was his concern regarding his role as a good guardian. He changed the subject quickly, though. I think it made him uncomfortable to expose any weakness, especially to someone he didn’t know well.

I took Jane’s hand. “You need not be nervous. It is plain to see that Mr. Bingley holds you in high regard, so be yourself.” Yes, I did understand the hypocrisy in my words. But I was trying to be someone else for noble reasons. “There is no need for you to be shy about who you are. You are the kindest creature.” She truly was; she was the peacemaker of the Bennet family, and she’d been sweet enough to brush my hair last night and let me ramble on about my time with Mr. Darcy.

I feared I was going way off script with that advice, but what was I supposed to say? “You should be more reserved, Jane, so Mr. Bingley leaves you for months while you torture yourself about your feelings and his?” Perhaps I should have said nothing, but it seemed unfair, considering what was going on with Mr. Darcy and me. I mean, it wasn’t all that exciting. Dang Regency rules. Mr. Darcy was all sorts of proper, and the whole chaperone thing was kind of a bummer—not to say anything would have happened. Don’t get me wrong, though, I thoroughly enjoyed my time with him. And despite missing my non-horsehair toothbrush, running water, electricity, lattes, and everyone I cared about, I was having a great time. Okay, so I was a little homesick, but was I ever rocking this Elizabeth thing.

Mr. Darcy had even sent me a book this morning, The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling , along with a letter that read:

Dear Miss Bennet,

I do hope you will enjoy the book. While it is a work of fiction, I believe the way Henry Fielding explores human nature might be of some interest to you. I look forward with anticipation to discussing his words with you.

Yours sincerely,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

It wasn’t as romantic as Fitz’s letter, but I was freaking giddy about it. It’s not every day a girl gets a letter from the real Mr. Darcy. Honestly, Fitz and Mr. Darcy were so similar, even with their taste in literature. I’d spent most of the day reading the book, which was very much like watching a soap opera. Poor Tom was not all that lucky in love, and I’m not sure Sophia truly deserved him, given she had only married him after he’d inherited money and land, but what did I know?

I knew that Fitz would have found a great deal of value in its study. The wit and satire were right up his alley—he was all about eighteenth century literature. As for me, I kept thinking someone should make it into a musical. Fitz would definitely roll his eyes about that. But I also thought about how Fitz would have seen the deeper meaning in the story, about how we place people in society based on birth, wealth, and education.

Strangely, Pride and Prejudice had many of the same themes. Mr. Darcy didn’t even realize how much his own story had been a matter of modern-day study. It’s the reason we end up loving him so much, because he overcame his pride and saw Elizabeth for who she was and not the circumstances in which she’d been born.

I’d always admired Fitz because he prided himself on the station he made for himself, not the one to which he was born. And I used to believe he looked at the individual, not the class in which society had placed them. But maybe I’d been wrong. I feared now that during the entirety of our relationship he’d seen me as unequal to him, a stain on his reputation, even.

Jane patted my hand. “I am so happy you are with me, Lizzy. With you by my side, I feel less intimidated.”

“Do you speak of being intimidated by Mr. Bingley or his sisters?”

“His sisters,” she mumbled, embarrassed. “They are so accomplished. And do you see how beautifully they dress? People say Miss Bingley plays and sings like an angel. I surely do not play half so well. What if they ask me to perform?”

I didn’t know who these people were that Jane spoke of, but I highly doubted Miss Bingley was anywhere close to an angel. I kept that snarky thought to myself, though. “Jane, you are just as accomplished as Miss Bingley. You are just too modest. But if it makes you feel better, we can perform a duet if our guests ask you to play this evening.”

Jane threw her arms around me. “Oh, Lizzy, thank you. Perhaps we could perform ‘The Battle of Prague,’ the song you helped Mary with yesterday.”

Yep, I’d gone down that rabbit hole. However, it was more due to my role as a voice and piano instructor and the evident lack of proper instruction Mary had received. I had a sneaking suspicion Mrs. Bennet liked her even less than she liked me. Although now that I had Mr. Darcy’s attention, I was becoming one of her favorites. She’d been the happiest woman in the world yesterday after she’d returned from Lucas Lodge.

“I would love to,” I responded.

“You have been practicing much, Lizzy. I think you are now the finest player among us.”

I gave her an uncomfortable smile.

For the rest of our ride we talked about the number of courses they might serve at Netherfield and whether it would rain before we returned home.

I looked eagerly out of the carriage window as we drove down the long gravel drive lined with majestic trees, readying us for the grandeur awaiting as we approached the house at Netherfield Park. It felt like I was entering a magical realm, like how I felt when Fitz and I had arrived at Pride and Prejudice Park. This time I wasn’t waving out the window at the footmen, even though I kind of wanted to. They looked so cute just standing there, probably freezing, waiting to help us out of the carriage. But I remembered how quiet Fitz had been in that moment. Had I embarrassed him? Was I an embarrassment?

The carriage came to a stop, and a footman opened our door to reveal a Georgian-style mansion with large sash windows and a grand entrance with a portico supported by columns. It was everything I’d imagined it would be. For all I knew, I was imagining it. If so, my brain cells deserved all the props. Now if only they could imagine me a hot shower.

Jane and I exited the carriage with the help of the footman. I was really hoping for Mr. Darcy. I needed a hand-flex scene in my life. And you had better believe I would take my gloves off for that. No hand flexing happened, but our hosts and hostesses greeted us in the spacious entrance hall that glowed with hundreds of candles. The candlelight made the house seem much cozier than grand. Grand it was, though, with a sweeping staircase and artwork framed in genuine gold. I wished I had my phone so I could take a picture.

But the grandest sight of all was Mr. Darcy, who seemed to be eagerly awaiting my arrival, judging by the way his eyes gave me a good once-over. That’s right, Mr. Darcy was checking me out in my pretty pink dress that definitely made the girls stand out. Unfortunately, Miss Bingley had stationed herself next to him and was shooting deadly daggers at me with her eyes. She was such a Winnifred, meaning she was as gorgeous as could be, even if she had feathers sticking out of her hair. To each their own—I went with pearls.

Mr. Bingley bounced on the balls of his feet, enamored with Jane. “Welcome, welcome,” he said cheerily as Jane and I handed our shawls to the butler.

Jane and I curtsied and then said in unison, like we were the Doublemint Twins, “Thank you for the kind invitation.”

“Your home is beautiful,” I commented.

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Bingley said enthusiastically. “I credit Caroline for that.”

Miss Bingley sneered at me.

“You have excellent taste, Miss Bingley,” I complimented her, knowing she probably wouldn’t love it.

And she didn’t, judging by her pinched expression, although she replied, “You are all kindness.”

“Shall we proceed to the dining room?” Mr. Bingley asked while offering his arm to Jane.

Miss Bingley immediately seized upon Mr. Darcy’s arm. Mr. Hurst escorted Mrs. Hurst. I’d always imagined Mr. Hurst as being quite a bit older than his wife, but in this place, they seemed to be only a few years apart if that. The book never states their ages. Maybe the movies had steered us wrong.

Mr. Darcy stiffened when Miss Bingley took hold of him, but he lingered back, waiting for me. “I do hope your journey was comfortable this evening,” he asked.

The carriage could do with some shocks, but I didn’t mention it. “It was. Thank you.”

“The roads here leave much to be desired,” Miss Bingley complained. She wasn’t wrong, but it was rude of her to say.

“I love the country,” Mr. Bingley said as he gazed at Jane. I liked him.

Jane blushed and smiled. They were adorbs.

Netherfield’s dining room was more like a hall and much grander than the Bennets’. It had high ceilings and velvet curtains, with a long table of fine mahogany in the middle of the room that could seat probably twenty people. Fine china dishes and silver cutlery adorned one end of the table and gleamed in the candlelight. The aroma of consommé lingered in the air—I assumed it would be the first course.

As a myriad of servants pulled out the elegant high-backed chairs with upholstered seats, Mr. Darcy shook off Miss Bingley and directed me to take the seat next to him. He sat closest to Mr. Bingley, who was at the head of the table. Jane sat on the other side of him. She cast me a furtive smile.

Miss Bingley took my other side, and her icy stare made the room feel like a walk-in freezer.

But I did as I probably should have done in real life—I ignored her. I knew I couldn’t outwit her, and in the end, if everything went according to the story, I would end up with Mr. Darcy. Her opinion didn’t matter. I should have remembered that in my real life.

“Mr. Darcy, thank you for the book. It gave me many hours of pleasure today.”

“I am glad. I feared you might have read it before.”

“I had not.” At least I didn’t think I had.

The servants glided between us, dishing up the first course. It surprised me how quietly they served, moving as if choreographed.

“What did you think of the tale, Miss Bennet?” Mr. Darcy was eager to know.

I watched to see which spoon I should use before I answered. I’d never been good with etiquette, and there was no Fitz to whisper in my ear to guide me. However, I did feel in some part as if he were helping me in this strange situation. He was the one who had taught me how to truly love literature and to look for the deeper meaning behind the words. All I’d given him in return was a love for Olivia Newton-John in Grease . I guess that made us even.

“I found Tom’s struggle with his natural impulses, and his desire to lead a more virtuous life, fascinating. As humans, I believe we must all conquer certain natural tendencies.”

“And what are some of your natural tendencies?” Mr. Darcy asked.

I felt as if this were one of those questions that was fraught with peril—there was nothing casual about it. Mr. Darcy wanted to understand me, and I knew if my answer wasn’t to his liking, he would probably move on.

I clung to the napkin on my lap and thought, WWED? What would Elizabeth do? She would tell the truth because she wouldn’t want to be with anyone who didn’t love her for herself. I found myself in a precarious situation because I, too, wanted to be loved for myself. So whose truth did I tell? It had to be the only one I could—my own.

I swallowed hard before I said, “I have a tendency to try to fix situations I think are broken, even if my efforts cannot really help, or even knowing my interference might make the problem worse.” I twisted the napkin even more, waiting for his response.

Mr. Darcy took his good, sweet time responding, while his gray eyes bored a hole in me. What did he see?

“Miss Bennet,” he crooned ever so sexily, sounding almost as alluring as Fitz. “If we all had such natural tendencies, I believe the world would be a better place.”

That was it. With those words, Mr. Darcy captured a little piece of my heart that belonged to Fitz.

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