Chapter Twenty-Seven
Netherfield Park
Darcy
“Well, that was an enjoyable afternoon.” Bingley adjusted his hat and pulled on his gloves before settling his greatcoat about his shoulders. “I regret riding now, however. Hurst, forgive my doubts—you were right about the rain.”
“My knees never lie.” Hurst stamped one foot on the threshold. “Though I am a young man still, they ache fiercely before a storm. I fear the roads will be nigh on impassable now.”
Darcy made no reply; the observation was true enough.
The rain fell in relentless sheets, drumming against their hats and soaking through the heavy cloth of their greatcoats.
They would be drenched before reaching Netherfield.
The road had turned to mire, and to press their horses faster would be folly.
“I hope Caroline has ordered something warm for dinner,” Bingley hunched within his collar, water dripping from the brim of his hat. “A hot bath and a cup of tea will be most welcome to ward off this chill.”
Hurst gave a weary groan. “Aye, the cold seeps right into one’s bones. I am not averse to summer rain, but any drizzle after October is beyond the pale. I shall never be warm again.” He continued to grumble as they rode on, shaking a damp fist at the heavens in protest.
Darcy remained silent. He disliked the chill and the downpour as heartily as the others, yet complaining would serve no purpose.
All three were wretched, and nothing but arrival at Netherfield could relieve their misery.
He bent his mind to guiding his mount through the muck, eyes fixed on the faint line of the road.
When a cross-field track offered to shorten their journey by half a mile, he led them across it without a word.
At last, the warm lights of the stables came into view.
Grooms hurried out, taking the reins as the riders dismounted.
Darcy handed his mount to a waiting lad with a brief word of thanks, adding instructions that the animal be well attended before stabling.
Then, weary and chilled to the bone, he turned towards the house.
A hot bath and a pot of tea were all he desired.
They entered the house by a side door. “It would be dreadfully boorish to soil the floors with mud,” Bingley declared with good humour, leading the way to an antechamber near the kitchens.
There, they shed their dripping greatcoats and mud-spattered boots, leaving them for the servants to clean and dry.
House slippers soon appeared—proof that the valets had been watching for their masters’ return.
Still damp, they made their way to their chambers.
“Have hot water for baths sent up, will you, Jones?” Bingley asked his valet.
“At once, sir. Shall I inform the ladies to hold tea?” The valet’s hands rested neatly behind his back, his expression a polite mask.
“If it is not too much trouble.” With a boyish grin, Bingley disappeared down the passage, Darcy and Hurst following.
Darcy’s own valet awaited him. A steaming bath already prepared—a mark of Brisby’s habitual forethought.
Immersing himself, Darcy let the warmth drive the chill from his limbs.
After half an hour he emerged restored, dressed afresh, and descended the stairs in search of tea.
Halfway down, he remembered Miss Bingley would also be present.
He grimaced, but pressed on; avoidance was beneath him.
His fortitude was quickly rewarded. The ladies had company: Lady Westland, Mrs Fiennes, and Miss Bennet sat near the fire with Bingley’s sisters. Their smiles of greeting met him as he entered, and he crossed to join them.
“We had no notion you were to call, Lady Westland.”
“Miss Bingley invited us to dine. The rain has trapped us here, it seems, and we shall not return to Longbourn this evening. ’Tis a shame, for Mrs Bennet had planned a fine supper.
” Her tone held no great regret. A glance at Elizabeth told him she was not so sanguine to be away from home for the night.
He did not blame her. Her little girl would miss her mother.
“Let us pray the weather is more obliging on the morrow.” The words carried a double sense, for in truth he prayed the rain might continue, detaining them another day.
The thought no sooner formed than he reproved himself—selfishness ill-became him when a child might pine for her mother.
He amended with a smile. “May the sunshine and the wind speed the drying of the roads so you may return to Mrs Bennet’s hospitality.
” He added a playful wink, earning a laugh from Lady Westland.
“I would accuse you of wishing us gone, but I know you better than that, sir. I shall simply agree and enjoy the evening.”
Miss Bingley, quick to reclaim the countess’s attention, engaged her at once. Miss Bennet conversed with Mrs Hurst, leaving Elizabeth momentarily unoccupied.
Darcy drew a chair beside her. “Mrs Fiennes, I hope you are well?”
“I am, sir. I might ask the same of you. Riding from Meryton through such rain—have you a constitution of iron, Mr Darcy? Must we fear for your health?” Her words held playful concern, and though she checked her laughter, the curve of a smile would not be suppressed.
He straightened with exaggerated gravity.
“I am as hale and hearty as any man in England, madam. Never has a trifling cold discomposed me for more than a day, and I should not suffer one now, least when I may enjoy such delightful company. To be confined above stairs when I might sit here, basking in your smiles, would be an affront indeed.”
Her grin faltered for a moment before returning, wider than before. “I am pleased to hear it, sir. I cannot abide a sickly gentleman.”
Their repartee ended with the arrival of Bingley and Hurst. A tea service followed closely behind, and Miss Bingley hastened to serve her guests and relations. Darcy accepted his cup with a polite thank you and turned once more towards Elizabeth.
She looked lovely. He seldom noticed a lady’s appearance, at least not in the way most ladies imagined gentlemen did. Ordinarily, he observed little beyond the hue of a gown. Yet now he found himself observing everything.
Elizabeth’s hair was dressed to accentuate the shape of her cheekbones.
Her gown, of deep plum silk, was modest but elegant, the rich hue lending warmth to her complexion.
The mauve cashmere shawl across her shoulders was patterned with green leaves and violets.
As she lifted her cup, the fingers of her other hand toyed with the fringe, the single betrayal of the restlessness he suspected she concealed.
With concern, he leaned forwards and asked quietly, “Mrs Fiennes, will your daughter be content without you?”
She started slightly. “Oh—yes, she will do very well,” she replied. “Miss Lane is a gem, and Elinor loves her dearly. I suspect I shall not be missed until it is time for bed. When I return to Longbourn, I must devote the day to her.”
“She is an engaging young lady.”
She met his gaze with a hint of playful challenge. “You have determined that from one brief meeting?”
He hesitated, uncertain whether she mocked him or merely jested. “She is much like you,” he answered at last. “Anyone acquainted with Miss Fiennes’s mama could perceive as much.”
“So I am to take your words as a compliment to myself?” Her teasing was unmistakable now.
“Undoubtedly. You are an engaging lady, and your daughter speaks to your merit as a mother. I should be glad to know her better—indeed, to know you both better.”
He spoke more boldly than he had intended, unsure of how she might receive it.
Elizabeth had often withdrawn from him; each time, it seemed as though some memory or thought had seized her .
Good humour gave way to skittishness and fear, her confidence to uncertainty.
He did not comprehend it entirely, but how he longed to do so.
He saw her draw inward; her eyes dropped to her cup, her features composed. “I thank you for your kind words, Mr Darcy.”
A silence settled between them, and he cursed himself for pressing too far. Searching for a safer topic, he seized upon the most prosaic in existence. “It has been some time since I have seen rain descend so heavily.” The weather, Darcy? he chided himself. Imbecile.
Elizabeth’s restraint softened. “Indeed. We knew it would rain when we set out, but had no notion it would be so severe. Still, the winter wheat will be glad for it.”
From there, their talk turned to crops and rotations—a subject Darcy found unexpectedly absorbing, made livelier by her knowledge. Her remarks revealed both study and practical understanding; and as they spoke, her reserve gave way to animation.
At length, glancing about the room, he observed Miss Bingley conversing with Lady Westland.
Their gazes met. Her frown was faint but telling, her brows drawn in thought before she turned back to her companion.
It seemed she had decided that Lady Westland’s favour was now of greater advantage than securing his own.
The party remained in the parlour until it was time to dress for dinner.
Loath to forfeit Elizabeth’s company, and determined to secure a place next to her at table, he urged his valet to haste.
Once properly attired, he stepped into the corridor, uncertain whether to wait and escort the ladies or to join them below.
What if they have already gone down? He stood there for a moment, feeling the awkwardness of the situation.
As he turned towards the staircase, a door opened and Elizabeth emerged. She wore the same gown, but her hair was pinned and plaited in an even lovelier and more intricate arrangement. His breath caught; he bowed deeply. A vision, he thought. Perfect in every particular.
Elizabeth
Mr Darcy straightened and greeted her with a courteous smile. “Mrs Fiennes—you look lovely.”
She looked heavenward, a small laugh escaping her. “I am precisely as I was half an hour ago, sir.” She hoped the lightness of her tone masked the flutter of discomfort his words had stirred.
“Have your companions gone down to dinner?”
“No. Jane and Suzanne chose to assist one another and sent me on my way.”
Mr Darcy’s smile deepened. “Then may I have the honour of escorting you to the drawing room?” He offered his arm, which she accepted, and a warmth spread from the place where her hand rested on his sleeve, stealing through her with a strange exhilaration she could neither name nor govern.
They descended together, Elizabeth lifting her gown with her free hand.
He did not speak, and she, bound by habit, kept silent—the echo of Fiennes’s voice in her mind reminding her to speak only when addressed.
It was absurd to recall such moments now, or so she tried to convince herself. Yet lately her dead husband’s lessons returned with unwelcome persistence, as though some hidden corner of her mind had grown weary of suppression. The past—her experiences—long confined, demanded to be heard.
Why can I not enjoy the compliments and company of a kind, respectable gentleman?
It was no moral failing, and yet fear pricked at her all the same.
The harder she strove to banish it, the more insistently it pressed on her.
As they walked towards the dining room, another thought intruded—perhaps attempting to forget was never the best way to heal.
It was a sobering realization, one that would require solitude to consider; yet solitude was not to be hers for some time. So once more, she pushed the unpleasant memories aside, sealing them within a quiet corner of her mind until a more fitting hour.
Miss Bingley and the Hursts awaited them in the drawing room. Their hostess greeted them with distant politeness, her smile thin and perfunctory. Elizabeth wondered what offence she might have given but could think of nothing done intentionally.
When Mr Darcy guided her a little apart from the others, he spoke in low tones. “I fear our hostess’s cool demeanour is directed at me rather that at you.”
Elizabeth gave him a puzzled look.
“Miss Bingley has long desired my regard—or rather, my proposal. Despite my assurances to her brother that I should never offer for the lady, she persists. I hoped she would resign herself to disappointment—at least, where I am concerned.”
“Have you ever sought to dissuade the lady from her designs?” Elizabeth enquired. “Perhaps she believes it is but a matter of time before you offer for her.”
“I have treated Miss Bingley only with the respect due to the sister of a valued friend. If I have made any overtures, they were without design, and I am unaware of them.”
She tilted her head, regarding him steadily. “Then perhaps you ought to find an opportunity to tell her so. If she nourishes hope, plain speaking would end her suspense and free you both from misunderstanding. You might also come to enjoy each other’s company as friends.”
He nodded, a slight furrow forming between his brows as he pondered her counsel. “You speak with reason—not that I am surprised. ’Tis what I have come to expect from you. You are a woman of uncommon intelligence.”
“More flattery, sir? Take care, lest it turn my head.” She meant it as a tease, but he turned to look at her, the seriousness in his manner left her breathless.
“Disguise of any sort is my abhorrence,” he said solemnly. “I speak only as I find.”
Words failed her, and she drew a slow breath, willing her pulse to steady.
Mr Darcy’s kindness disarmed her—far more than his boldness ever could—and that was what frightened her.
No man’s regard ought to have the power to disturb her so deeply; yet, as they waited for the summons to dinner, she could not deny that it did.