Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The ladies from Longbourn—all five of them—became frequent visitors at Millwood Cottage over the next several days and weeks.
Elizabeth could not help concluding that her aunt’s sudden warmth towards herself and Georgiana owed rather more to strategy than to sentiment, particularly as Mrs Bennet devoted very little of her time to either young lady once she arrived.
She often presented herself at the earliest permissible moment for calling and had a way of establishing herself so comfortably that she might almost have been mistress of the house.
More than once Elizabeth was obliged, with as much civility as she could command, to remind her aunt that the honour was not, in fact, hers.
Elizabeth did not object to the length of the visits, but Mrs Bennet did occasionally require assistance in remembering her place.
Among Mrs Bennet’s favourite subjects during these extended calls was Mr Bingley, whose disappearance, after so promising a beginning with Jane, her aunt clearly had by no means forgiven.
Whenever the gentlemen were absent—which was frequently the case when other neighbours arrived—she spoke loudly and at length of his desertion, even while maintaining the firmest conviction that he must soon return.
Netherfield, she assured anyone who would listen, had not been shut up, and she cited the Hursts’ continued residence there with triumphant certainty, as though that fact alone might summon its former master back again.
“Mrs Hurst was particularly welcoming in church on Sunday,” she opined during one visit. “Still, I cannot understand what has kept Mr Bingley so long in Town. His sister cited some matters of business, but I do wish that he and Miss Bingley would return.”
“As I understand it, it is unlikely that Miss Bingley will return,” Elizabeth interjected.
“But since none of us have heard from Mr Bingley, I doubt we can know. Now, Jane, did you not say you meant to make rosewater in a day or two? We gathered the petals and set them to dry some weeks ago; I imagine they are quite ready for use now.”
With a grateful smile, Jane perceived Elizabeth’s intention and took it up at once, speaking readily of the still room, of the roses, and of all that must be done.
There were syrups yet to be bottled, lavender to be distilled, and a small experiment in candied orange peel which Mary had lately declared she wished to observe.
In a very short time the conversation had turned entirely upon receipts and remedies, and Mr Bingley’s absence was, if not forgotten, at least rendered temporarily harmless. That only lasted until the gentlemen returned from whatever business had occupied them that day.
Almost the moment Mr Darcy entered the room, Mrs Bennet renewed her assault.
“What have you heard from your friend, Mr Darcy? Does he never intend to return to the neighbourhood?”
“I cannot say,” he replied, making very little effort to disguise his displeasure at finding himself once more the object of enquiry regarding Bingley.
As she well knew, the subject had been canvassed often in his hearing, if not always so boldly as this, and Elizabeth could not pretend surprise at his fatigue.
While his distaste was evident, he did not forget himself.
His tone remained restrained, and his answer was perfectly civil even as it discouraged further enquiry.
A reasonable person might have allowed the matter to rest there, but Mrs Bennet could hardly be called reasonable where the possible marriage of a daughter was concerned.
“Has he not written to you?” she persisted, seemingly unaware—or uncaring—of the impropriety of the question.
“He has not, madam,” Mr Darcy replied, his voice cool. “Mr Bingley is not my ward, nor is he obliged to apprise me of his movements or intentions. I understand that he has gone to Town, but beyond that I can offer you nothing.”
Elizabeth, who could feel her own patience fraying on his behalf, found herself unexpectedly impressed by his reply.
She was by no means certain she should have borne the interrogation half so well; indeed, she suspected she herself might have stormed off or answered sardonically, which made his restraint a considerable mark in his favour.
As Elizabeth began to protest, she was distracted by Colonel Fitzwilliam.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, raising his voice to draw attention to himself, “can you tell me if there are any places in the area where we might have a picnic, even so late in the season. The last few weeks have been unseasonably warm, and I believe we would all be served by some outing or another.”
Several of the ladies laughed at this suggestion, but it was Georgiana who responded.
“Richard, you can hardly expect us to be willing to participate in a picnic so late in November. It may be warmer than what we typically experience in Derbyshire at this time, but I think you have forgotten that you are no longer in Portugal.”
“Portugal?” Lydia interjected. “Have you been to Portugal, Colonel? Papa said something about it the other morning as he was reading his paper.”
Fitzwilliam smiled at the girl. “I was, Miss Lydia. A great many of us were. My regiment served there for a time, but I fear it is far less romantic than it sounds. A soldier’s life is often a hard one, and not always comfortable, but I have been grateful for the chance to serve my country in this way and rise in the ranks. ”
He hesitated a moment, then added, in a tone of easy good humour, “It is hardly the sort of existence a considerate man would wish to share unless he had something better than tents and short rations to offer. Even those in the militia are acquainted with a fair degree of deprivation; they are not often required to leave England’s shores.
It is somewhat different in the Regulars—we are at least paid a little better—but it is a hard thing to be forever absent from home. ”
Mrs Bennet was listening to this with a frown, and Elizabeth wondered at its cause. She was not left to wonder for long.
“Will you be sent back to Portugal soon, Colonel?” she asked.
“I cannot say for certain, madam,” came the reply. “I am at the whim of my general, but I believe I shall remain in England for some time yet.”
As he spoke, he glanced towards Mr Grant, and Elizabeth observed that both gentlemen looked briefly in her direction before the colonel gave the smallest shake of his head. Had she not been watching, she might easily have missed it.
She was still attempting to decide what that silent exchange might signify when he compounded the mystery by sending her a most unmistakable—if entirely surreptitious—wink.
Elizabeth stared at him. She knew very well that her grandfather considered the colonel a most eligible solution to a variety of family concerns, and she had long suspected that the matter had been discussed before they left the Continent.
It was obvious to her that the colonel had been aware of her grandfather’s plans upon his arrival, and that knowledge had coloured his first greeting.
He had since remedied the error and been far less familiar after that initial meeting.
Still, such open playfulness, here and now, startled her, particularly as it was so entirely inappropriate.
Her astonishment had scarcely settled when another movement caught her eye. Mr Darcy’s jaw had tightened at the action.
Then she understood she had not been the only witness to the colonel’s brazen—was it flirtation?
The discovery produced in her a most confusing mixture of sensations.
That Mr Darcy might be offended on her behalf was, she admitted, oddly comforting.
She could not pretend to comprehend why he should be so.
What possible claim had he upon his cousin’s harmless attention?
Why, if it were harmless, did she feel a most improper spark of pleasure in knowing he had seen it and been troubled by it?
Her tangled thoughts caused her to lose a portion of the conversation, and she started from her reverie when Mr Darcy’s voice broke gently through it.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “are you unwell?”
She had not even realised he had come so near, and all at once she became aware of the eyes of nearly everyone in the room upon her. The colonel looked faintly entertained by her abstraction, but the rest looked sincerely concerned.
“Pray forgive me,” she said quickly. “I was not attending. I fear I allowed myself to wander into my own thoughts. Was something required of me?”
“Nothing at all,” Darcy replied, his voice low and reassuring, “only that we had spoken to you, and you did not answer.”
His gaze remained upon her, steady and intent, in a manner that made her conscious of herself without quite knowing why. The sensation stirred a warmth beneath her skin, spreading slowly, as if she stood too near the fire.
During the weeks they had resided under the same roof, she had come to know Mr Darcy far better than she had ever expected.
In spite of her grandfather’s insistence that they could never suit, Elizabeth found herself inclined to doubt it.
Their conversations had ranged over every conceivable subject, and never once had he spoken down to her or treated her opinions as something to be indulged rather than considered.
Indeed, she could not deny that he often listened to her more attentively than her grandfather himself.
More than once he had even altered his judgement after something she had said.
He did not do so lightly—he required evidence, argument, reason—but once convinced, he acknowledged it freely and without resentment.
It was a quality she had come very much to admire.