Chapter Eight
The road from Meryton to Netherfield had grown steadily worse with every passing mile.
Darcy had noted it without comment as the carriage wheels pressed deeper into softened ground, the rhythm of their progress shifting from smooth to uneven, then to something slower and more cautious.
The rain, which had begun as little more than a fine mist when they departed, had strengthened into a steady fall that blurred the hedgerows and rendered the distance uncertain.
Bingley, seated opposite, seemed determined to take no notice of it. “I cannot say I regret the evening,” he said, drawing his gloves free with a careless tug. “Colonel Forster is an excellent fellow. I am glad we made his acquaintance.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “He spoke well Meryton’s hospitality.” The militia was to be quartered in the market town over the winter. Many places disdained the soldiers and shunned them, but this little part of the country seemed eager to have the redcoats stationed nearby.
“And of you,” Bingley added with a quick grin. “It appears my friend Fitzwilliam has left a favorable impression.”
Darcy allowed himself a small smile. “My cousin is adept at recommending those he esteems.” He had learned over the course of the evening that the colonel of the militia had served with his cousin, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, on the continent.
A wound had seen him home and reassigned to a militia regiment permanently.
The colonel took advantage of the change and married a young woman, who would be joining him in Meryton shortly.
“That sounds very much like Fitzwilliam,” Bingley replied. “I do hope he is keeping safe while he is on the continent.”
Darcy did not answer at once. He was considering the evening—not its diversions, which had been unremarkable, but the smaller particulars that lingered despite themselves.
A conversation carried beyond the brightness of the assembly room.
A manner composed without effort. A refusal given without hesitation or discomfort.
He shifted his gaze toward the rain-streaked window and said, almost absently, “I share your concern. His last letter spoke of his good health. May it remain that way.”
Hurst, who had thus far remained silent, gave a low murmur that might have been agreement. He appeared more concerned with the prospect of a fire and a chair than with the society they had just left.
The carriage slowed as it approached Netherfield. It came to a stop under the covered portico, and Darcy sent up a prayer of thanks to whomever designed the manor house. It was good not to be thoroughly drenched while disembarking from the carriage.
Darcy stepped down first, the damp air settling about him at once. The gravel beneath his boots had softened, though not so much as to hinder his footing. A servant moved forward, and Darcy surrendered his cloak without ceremony, passing into the warmth of the house with a measured breath.
Bingley followed, shaking the rain from his sleeves with little concern. “Come,” he said, already turning toward the drawing room. “We shall see what remains of the evening.”
Darcy expected little beyond the usual. He did not expect to find Mrs. Collins seated near the hearth.
He paused just within the doorway. For a moment, he simply observed.
She sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture upright though not rigid.
The light from the fire softened the line of her cheek and caught faintly in her hair, lending warmth where the evening had likely offered little of it.
There was a composure in her that did not entirely conceal her unease.
She looked, Darcy thought, as though she had placed herself within the room and meant to disturb as little as possible.
Miss Bingley stood nearby, her expression arranged into polite animation as she turned at their entrance. “Ah, you have returned at last,” she said.
Bingley crossed the room at once, his attention fixed upon the unexpected guest. “Mrs. Collins?” he said, his surprise unfeigned. “I did not know you were to be here this evening.” He grinned broadly, his approbation obvious to Darcy.
Mrs. Collins rose, inclining her head with modest grace. “Nor did I, sir,” she said. “An accident obliged me to return.”
Bingley’s concern was immediate. “An accident? I hope nothing serious—”
“The axle of the gig broke not far from the house,” she replied. “I was compelled to come back to Netherfield, and the rain has made the roads difficult.”
Darcy watched as she spoke. There was no complaint in her tone. No attempt to soften the inconvenience by apology, nor to exaggerate it into distress. She stated the facts plainly and allowed them to stand.
Bingley shook his head, his expression earnest. “I am most sorry, Mrs. Collins. Had I known you would be here for the evening meal, I would have given my excuses to the colonel at once.” He glanced at his sisters, displeasure marring his features for a brief moment.
Miss Bingley gave a soft laugh that did not quite reach her eyes. “My dear brother,” she said, “we could hardly have anticipated such an occurrence. Indeed, we had wished for the company of ladies only this evening.”
Darcy’s gaze shifted toward Miss Bingley.
Her hands twisted in front of her, revealing her irritation.
The statement was carefully constructed.
Its surface offered nothing that could be directly challenged.
Beneath it lay something less gracious. The lady moved away and took her seat. He said nothing.
Instead, he turned his attention again to Mrs. Collins. She had not moved. There was a faint tightening at the corner of her mouth, a small restraint that suggested she had understood the tone, if not the words themselves. Her perception was keen, and Darcy silently praised her for it.
“I must not impose further,” she said. “If the weather improves, I should be glad to return home at once. My son—” The word seemed to catch slightly, though she did not falter.
Bingley stepped nearer. “Mrs. Collins, you must not think of setting out again tonight. Our ride back from Meryton was sufficiently wet, and I would wager that no carriage could make the journey now with any comfort—or safety.” He spoke with such sincerity that Darcy found himself in agreement.
Mrs. Collins inclined her head. “I would not wish to cause inconvenience,” she said. Her gaze darted toward Miss Bingley before turning back to Charles.
“You cause none,” Bingley returned. “We are honored by your presence.”
Darcy shifted slightly, his attention drawn elsewhere.
Miss Bingley had taken a seat on the settee.
Georgiana sat between her and Mrs. Hurst, her posture drawn inward, her hands clasped tightly together.
She had arranged herself with care, but there was a tension in her that he recognized at once.
Her shoulders had narrowed, her gaze lowered more often than not.
She was ill at ease.
Darcy crossed the room. “Georgiana,” he said, his tone gentler.
She looked up at once, relief evident though she sought to conceal it. “Brother.”
“You appear fatigued,” he said. “It has been a long day. Perhaps you would prefer to retire.”
She acted without delay. “Yes,” she said. “I believe I should.” She rose quickly, then steadied herself, smoothing her gown with a small, habitual gesture.
Miss Bingley glanced at her. “So soon?” Her voice was syrupy and false. It made Darcy cringe.
“My sister is tired,” Darcy said, refusing to give her any other reason.
Miss Bingley smiled. “Of course.”
Georgiana inclined her head and moved toward the door, her steps lightened by the prospect of escape.
Darcy watched until she had gone. When he turned back, Mrs. Collins remained standing.
“I, too, should be glad of rest,” she said. “If it is not too great a trouble.”
Miss Bingley’s smile returned, though it had altered slightly. “Not in the least. You will be shown to a chamber at once.”
A servant was summoned.
Mrs. Collins inclined her head once more, her composure unbroken, and followed without further word.
Darcy observed her departure. There was something in the restraint she maintained—something deliberate and steady—that held his attention longer than he expected.
The door closed. Silence lingered only a moment. Then Miss Bingley spoke.
“I cannot imagine,” she said, her voice sharpening as the pretense of politeness fell away, “how such a situation could be allowed to occur.”
Mrs. Hurst shifted in her chair. “It is most inconvenient.”
“More than inconvenient,” Miss Bingley continued. “To be imposed upon in this manner—without warning, without preparation—”
Bingley frowned. “My dear Caroline,” he said, “Mrs. Collins could hardly have planned for the axle of her gig to break.”
“That is not the point,” Miss Bingley replied. “The point is that she is here, and we must now accommodate her.”
Darcy remained silent. He watched.
Mrs. Hurst spoke again, her tone measured. “Her situation is not entirely without merit. Her son will inherit the family estate, I understand.”
Miss Bingley inclined her head. “Yes. That, at least, is something in her favor.” She paused, considering. “Though I cannot imagine a gentleman of sense choosing to marry a woman whose child would not inherit his fortune.”
The remark was delivered with casual certainty. Darcy felt a faint tightening in his jaw.
Bingley spoke at last, his tone no longer light. “I must say I find it difficult to understand how you can speak so of a lady who is, at present, our guest.”
Miss Bingley turned to him, her expression smoothing once more. “My dear brother, you are always so ready to defend. I merely observe what must be evident.”
Bingley did not look convinced. “Observation need not be unkind,” he said.
Miss Bingley smiled faintly. “Then I shall endeavor to be more agreeable.” She reached for the cards upon the table. “Shall we play?”