Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
When Mr Grant departed Netherfield some time later, Darcy went in search of Elizabeth. He found her close to where he had last seen her, seated in the sparsely furnished library with a book resting unopened in her lap.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he began, but hesitated, his expression uncertain. “Forgive me, but I am quite at a loss how I ought to address you.”
She had stood upon his entry, and as she looked at him now, her lips curved faintly into the barest hint of a smile, but it was her eyes that held him.
He had seen them sparkling at others, but as she looked at him, there was no warmth in them—a reminder that his offence was not yet forgotten.
When she spoke, her voice was quiet. “Like you, Mr Darcy, I am merely the grandchild of an earl. My mother possessed a title by courtesy even though she chose not to use it after her marriage to my father. I have no claim to any title of my own.”
“That was not my meaning, Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said quickly. “I had supposed you to be the second eldest Miss Bennet for I have long been accustomed to think of you as Miss Jane Bennet’s sister. This is not the case. By rights, should you not be Miss Bennet, even though your cousin is older?”
“Miss Elizabeth will suffice, sir,” she replied, pausing just long enough for her next words to carry weight. “Only do not call me ‘Miss Eliza.’ I allow the Lucases that liberty, but I dislike hearing it from anyone here at Netherfield.”
“I take it Miss Bingley does not have your leave to address you so?” Darcy asked, his brow lowering in apparent concern at this further proof of his hostess’ apparent rudeness.
Although he had recognised that Miss Bingley did not care for the woman in front of him, still he supposed she would not address the lady in that way without some ‘by your leave.’
“She does not have my permission,” Elizabeth answered with a touch of asperity. Had her tone not already indicated her displeasure, the look on her face would have made her dislike even more clear.
Darcy inclined his head in acknowledgement, then spoke with deliberate care as he continued.
“I sought you out for a purpose. When your grandfather visited, he made it known to me that you overheard my unfair and untrue words at the assembly. I had realised it earlier, but had not found the chance to apologise. Allow me to do so now—both for what I said and for the bitterness of spirit in which it was spoken.”
Elizabeth arched her brow. “Bitterness of spirit? That is a very polite description for arrogance and vanity.”
He did not flinch, but his jaw tightened slightly. “It is an accurate one.”
Throughout their exchange, he had remained standing before her, his posture composed but formal.
Then, with a suddenness that hinted at the effort it cost him, he asked if they might sit.
When she inclined her head in assent, he guided her to a chair before taking the one beside her, leaving between them a space that was sufficient for propriety’s sake—yet closer than some might have thought appropriate.
“I had not wished to attend the assembly at all,” he confessed quietly.
“After a trying summer, I had just left my sister alone at my estate so I could fulfil my promise to my friend. That evening, I was in no humour for conversation and allowed my own discomfort to dictate my behaviour. My words were not only unkind—they were false.”
She tilted her head, her gaze steady upon him—measuring, he suspected, the truth of his words. “So, my grandfather chastised you for insulting his granddaughter, and you wish to make amends because you are now aware of my connexions?”
“No,” Darcy said with quiet force. “It is not that.” The words came more sharply than he intended, and he forced himself to moderate his tone.
He cleared his throat and began again, “I realised you heard me that night at Lucas Lodge when you addressed me so pointedly and declared the night as tolerable.”
He hesitated, the memory pricking his conscience even now.
How careless he had been—how unguarded—that night at the assembly.
“I would have spoken that night,” he continued, “but Mrs Bennet’s interruption made it impossible.
Today, your grandfather confirmed that you had indeed heard—and he did not spare his reproof.
” A faint, humourless smile touched his lips.
“He reminded me that my father would never have approved of such ungentlemanly speech.”
The silence that followed pressed upon him, heavy with the weight of his own mortification.
He drew a slow breath, steadying himself.
“Still, I need no reminder to know my behaviour was inexcusable. I should never have spoken as I did—regardless of who you were. The fault was entirely mine.” He shook his head slightly.
“I thought only of myself in that moment, and I am ashamed of it. I ask again that you forgive me. What I said then bears no resemblance to my opinion of you now.”
Although it cost him some effort, he met her gaze steadily and, for the first time in days, allowed himself to hope she might perceive the sincerity of his repentance.
Something in her expression shifted. A faint glimmer touched her eyes—amusement, if he were forced to name it—yet whether she meant to mock him or forgive him remained impossible to tell. “And what is your opinion of me now?”
Darcy drew a quiet breath before answering, his voice low. “That you are one of the loveliest women I have ever met, and that every conversation we have shared has confirmed your intelligence, wit, and generosity of spirit.”
She smiled tightly, and spoke with a sharpness he could not mistake. “I see,” she retorted. “Now that you know my bloodline, I am now more tolerable. Since you now know that I must no longer rely on you to give me consequence?”
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said earnestly, “whether you were the daughter of a duke or the daughter of a shopkeeper, I should never have uttered such words. I am ashamed that I did so, and even more so that you heard them. That your grandfather felt it necessary to speak to me about my offence only deepens my mortification, but I should have sought you out to apologise the moment I knew the truth—no matter your connexions.”
She regarded him in silence for several seconds, her expression unreadable. He could only hope she found his sincerity convincing. “That is a very pretty speech, Mr Darcy. I might almost believe you mean it.”
“I do,” he replied simply. For a heartbeat, neither of them looked away.
“Very well, Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth said after a moment had passed. “We shall see whether you mean what you have said and if it results in your improved behaviour during the remainder of your stay.”
“I shall strive to do my best to convince you that I am not normally the man who spoke so rudely,” Darcy answered in what he hoped was a teasing tone.
He felt he had been successful when she smiled at him, a true smile, not the one she had offered him before that moment.
Dinner was unpleasant that evening—more so than usual, to Elizabeth’s mind.
Miss Bingley’s manner towards her, already inclined towards coolness, had acquired a sharp, brittle edge as though every movement Elizabeth made grated upon her hostess’s sensibilities.
The reason was not difficult to guess; indeed, Elizabeth suspected Miss Bingley had been stewing over the matter since the moment she learnt of her visitor.
Elizabeth forced herself to apply to her supper with outward composure while inwardly she battled frustration.
What was she meant to say? How was she to soothe Miss Bingley’s ruffled dignity when she herself had committed no impropriety?
It was perfectly acceptable—expected, even—for her grandfather to call upon her in her own home.
Mrs Nicholls had been housekeeper at Netherfield long enough to know that the estate was Elizabeth’s birthright.
There was no irregularity in his arrival.
Yes, it was leased, and Miss Bingley was the present hostess, but her grandfather would not have considered that when he asked to be shown in.
Miss Bingley, who knew none of this, had viewed the entire affair as a personal affront.
Elizabeth could hardly offer a full explanation without revealing more than she wished Miss Bingley to know, yet neither did she relish enduring another evening of being treated as though she had acted with unpardonable boldness.
If a few carefully chosen words might ward off the worst of Miss Bingley’s displeasure, they were worth attempting—although she doubted they would be well received.
When the ladies withdrew, Elizabeth resolved to approach Miss Bingley at once. Better now, while the gentlemen were absent and the room quiet, than allow the discomfort to linger for the remainder of her stay.
She crossed the drawing room and stopped before her hostess.
“I do thank you for allowing my grandfather’s visit this morning,” she began, keeping her tone polite but steady.
“It is unusual for a guest to receive visitors, I know, and I am certain Mrs Nicholls would not have shown him in had he not been such a regular caller in former years. He knew the owners well and has often stayed here when returning to the area. Though he now resides near Meryton, he has long been accustomed to calling at Netherfield nearly as frequently as at Longbourn.”
Miss Bingley lifted her chin and sniffed in a manner that suggested she found the explanation barely tolerable. “It was most irregular to find you receiving a caller without prior notice. Mrs Nicholls was negligent in failing to inform me at once and request my permission.”
Elizabeth forced herself not to bristle. “She is accustomed to his visits and likely thought nothing of his arrival,” she replied, still attempting to mollify her hostess—though she knew it was a futile effort.