ELEVEN #2
Darcy had intended only to pass the smaller drawing room.
Indeed, the library had nearly been reached when Marsh, pushing his chair along the passage, passed the half-open door and the light within spilled across the corridor.
Darcy had glanced in by instinct. Then he had seen Elizabeth Bennet by the fire, and before better judgement had properly reasserted itself.
Now, Marsh had altered direction and was pushing him neatly across the threshold.
Darcy had not, strictly speaking, instructed him to do so.
Marsh, unfortunately, had become remarkably adept at interpreting silence in whatever manner best suited his own purposes.
Marsh guided the chair further into the room and withdrew quietly.
Mrs. Hurst stirred her fan with languid emphasis. “You have hidden yourself away all day, Mr. Darcy. One would almost suppose Netherfield had already become intolerable to you.”
“Netherfield remains perfectly tolerable,” said Darcy.
“High praise indeed,” said Caroline lightly. “Charles, you must treasure it. Mr. Darcy has bestowed an entire sentence upon your house.”
Bingley laughed. “I shall preserve the compliment carefully. It may never come again.”
Darcy made no reply. He was aware of Elizabeth Bennet’s presence without looking at her, which irritated him more than looking would have done.
The conversation soon settled once more into the course it had evidently followed before his entrance. Caroline and Mrs. Hurst renewed their praises of London, whilst Bingley attempted, with indifferent success, to argue in favour of the country.
Elizabeth’s reply did not come immediately. The pause was brief, but long enough for Darcy to suspect she had understood the remark perfectly.
“There was little time to consider the weather,” she said.
“No, certainly. Though I own I should have thought a carriage infinitely preferable.” Caroline smiled faintly. “To walk miles through mud, with one’s gown in such a condition afterward... It is a species of devotion I cannot imagine aspiring to myself.”
Bingley shifted, his good nature visibly uncertain whether offence had been intended. Darcy knew it had.
Elizabeth appeared entirely unmoved.
“When one’s sister is unwell,” she said, “vanity generally becomes less pressing than arrival.”
Caroline gave a soft laugh. “Are you calling me vain for thinking otherwise, Miss Eliza?”
“I accuse no one of anything,” said Elizabeth. “Though I believe comfort persuades many people that inconvenience is a kind of personal injustice.”
Bingley laughed outright. Even Hurst stirred enough to glance up from his glass.
Caroline’s smile tightened. “You make discomfort sound remarkably virtuous.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “Only occasionally unavoidable.”
Silence followed.
Darcy remained still. He had no intention of entering the conversation.
Speaking would draw notice. Speaking in defence of Elizabeth Bennet would draw more than notice.
It would invite speculation, amusement, and Caroline’s particular brand of attention, all of which he had spent the better part of the week avoiding.
He ought to say nothing.
He knew it.
He said it anyway.
“Miss Bennet is fortunate,” he said quietly, “to possess a sister willing to walk miles through mud on her behalf.”
The room went still.
Caroline turned toward him so quickly that surprise quite displaced her composure. Even Bingley blinked.
Darcy became aware, at once and with considerable displeasure, that he had entered a conversation he had managed with great effort to avoid.
Elizabeth looked at him across the firelight. There was no triumph in her expression. No amusement either. Only that same steady attention he had already found himself unable to forget once that day.
“She would do the same for me,” said Elizabeth. “Without a second thought.”
She said it simply, as though stating a fact too plain to require ornament, and turned her gaze back to the fire.
Darcy said nothing further. He remained where Marsh had left him, looked into the flames, and did not go to the library after all.
* * *
Elizabeth
Sleep proved far less willing to visit Elizabeth than she had hoped.
Jane had woken only once after retiring, feverish and disoriented enough to reach immediately for Elizabeth’s hand before properly opening her eyes.
Elizabeth had soothed her as best she could, persuaded her to swallow another spoonful of the draught Mr. Jones had left behind, and remained beside her until her breathing deepened once more into sleep.
Now the room had fallen quiet again save for the occasional crackle of the fire and the soft whisper of rain continuing against the windows.
Elizabeth lay awake.
The fire in Jane’s chamber burned warmly enough, yet uneasiness lingered stubbornly about her mind.
Knowing she could do nothing whilst Jane slept had eventually driven her downstairs earlier that evening, first only for a few moments’ distraction, then for supper, and finally into remaining longer amongst the Netherfield party than she had originally intended.
Her thoughts drifted reluctantly back over the day.
The Bingleys had, upon the whole, behaved with undeniable generosity.
A carriage had already been sent to Longbourn that afternoon carrying a note explaining Jane’s continued stay, together with a request that a few necessary articles of clothing be forwarded for both sisters.
Bingley himself had appeared genuinely concerned for Jane’s comfort, whilst even Mrs. Hurst had displayed enough civility to inquire after her several times throughout the evening.
Yet Elizabeth could not entirely persuade herself that Miss Bingley welcomed her presence with equal sincerity.
Indeed, she rather suspected the contrary.
The impression had existed before today, faintly enough to be dismissed whenever Jane spoke warmly of Miss Bingley’s attentions, but the events of the evening had rendered the matter considerably less uncertain.
It had required Jane herself, weak and feverish as she was, to insist that Elizabeth remain with her before Caroline extended the invitation at all.
Even then the civility had carried the air of something performed because propriety required it.
And there had been the conversation afterward downstairs.
Elizabeth smiled faintly to herself in the darkness.
Mrs. Hurst had scarcely allowed her to sit by the fire before the discussion turned toward London and the superior refinement of those fortunate enough to reside there permanently.
Caroline had joined in with enthusiasm soon afterward, both ladies appearing perfectly agreed that elegance diminished in direct proportion to one’s distance from town.
Poor Mr. Bingley had attempted repeatedly to defend the countryside and its inhabitants, though with considerably more good nature than success.
Elizabeth had not found the conversation particularly offensive. A little transparent condescension was hardly fatal. Yet she had recognised it for what it was.
Then her thoughts shifted, against her better judgement, toward Mr. Darcy.
Curiously enough, she had scarcely thought of him throughout the greater part of the day.
Jane’s illness had occupied her too entirely for vanity or wounded pride to find much room beside it.
Indeed, it was not until she descended that evening and discovered him absent from the drawing room that she remembered him with any particular clarity at all.
Nor, she realised now, had he been present when she first arrived at Netherfield that morning.
The recollection of his expression upon entering the drawing room returned unexpectedly to her.
You are still here?
The words themselves ought perhaps to have offended.
At the assembly he had spoken with sufficient coldness to ensure she understood precisely how little consequence he attached to her existence.
Yet this evening’s remark had not resembled that insult at all.
If anything, he had appeared almost startled by finding her there.
More startled, indeed, than a gentleman ought reasonably to be upon discovering a guest in his friend’s drawing room.
Elizabeth shifted slightly beneath the coverlet.
There had been something else as well. Something she could not entirely reconcile with Mr. Wickham’s account of him.
Wickham had described Darcy as a man capable of charm whenever advantage required it.
A proud man certainly, but one still perfectly willing to court favour when it suited his interests.
Yet the observations of the evening sat uneasily beside such a portrait.
The comments made by the rest of the party suggested that even at Netherfield, amongst people long acquainted with him, Darcy habitually kept himself apart.
This was not a man who transformed himself into agreeable company whenever usefulness demanded it.
It was, Elizabeth thought slowly, simply a man who kept to himself.
And then there had been his defence of her.
The recollection returned with inconvenient clarity.
Not merely the words themselves, but the visible surprise they had occasioned in the room, most particularly in Miss Bingley.
A man may flatter where he chooses without astonishing his companions by it.
Yet Darcy’s single observation had altered the entire atmosphere of the conversation.
Plainly, he did not speak often in company.
Elizabeth frowned thoughtfully into the darkness.
Perhaps Wickham had not lied precisely. Perhaps resentment had merely coloured his account more strongly than she had first perceived.
The possibility unsettled her more than she cared to admit.
Then, annoyingly enough, another thought intruded itself.
Mr. Darcy was, unfortunately, quite handsome.
He would be considerably more so, she decided, if he made any attempt whatsoever to appear pleased by the existence of the rest of humanity. A smile now and then would improve him immensely.
Elizabeth nearly laughed at herself.
As though the improvement of Mr. Darcy’s countenance were a matter deserving serious reflection.
She dismissed the thought firmly and turned her attention back toward Jane sleeping quietly beside her. Whatever contradictions existed within Fitzwilliam Darcy were of no immediate importance beside her sister’s health.
Closing her eyes at last, Elizabeth offered one final prayer that Jane’s fever might soon break.