Chapter 8
On the evening of the dinner at Rosings, Elizabeth braced herself for battle.
Whether it would be an attack or a defence, she could not tell, but she was prepared for any behaviour or conversation.
She had experienced some difficult ‘initiatory’ conversations with Lady Catherine, which helped her realise there were people even more arrogant and self-centred than Mr Darcy.
His aunt was a monument of selfishness and disdain for anybody she considered beneath her in social status.
Elizabeth even imagined Mr Bingley’s sisters receiving an invitation to Rosings and benefiting from the same treatment, as it was clear that their wealth would not impress Lady Catherine.
However, events unfolded so differently that Elizabeth had to admit that what she had anticipated was based on her own prejudices more than reality.
The entire family and a few friends had already gathered in the drawing-room.
The first who caught her attention was Mr Darcy, his gaze fixed upon the new arrivals.
Elizabeth avoided meeting his eyes and turned instead to the young lady beside him, assuming with deep surprise that it must be Miss de Bourgh.
More than once, Charlotte had said that the heiress of Rosings was in poor health, even feeble or unremarkable, and exceedingly timid, yet the elegant young woman in front of her was far removed from the image she had constructed in her mind, helped by her friend.
She recovered from her surprise when a familiar voice spoke her name. Miss de Bourgh curtsied, and Mr Darcy smiled as one does at an old acquaintance before turning towards the gentleman beside him.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam, Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” he continued, smiling again, making Elizabeth wonder whether smiling had become his new battle plan. A circle of smiles formed at once; even Lady Catherine managed a grimace that could almost pass for benevolence.
Unexpectedly, Artemis had no place in the drawing-room that evening, for they were welcomed with a surprising warmth from Mr Darcy—a stark contrast to his usual demeanour.
And the surprises continued. Before long, Mr Darcy offered his arm to escort her to dinner, then seated himself beside her, far enough from the head of the table where their hostess presided.
“A small tactic learnt over the years,” Mr Darcy murmured, referring to the fact that they had been the first to enter the dining room and thus chose their seats freely. The words were spoken again with a joyful familiarity that had nothing to do with the man she knew.
Elizabeth managed a smile, still uncertain how to behave.
She only began to feel at ease when she noticed Charlotte’s anxious expression—clearly imagining a rough exchange of words soon to take place between her and Mr Darcy that could shatter the peace of her marriage.
It was a small act of vengeance directed at Mrs Collins , who had turned sweet Charlotte into an unthinking admirer of Lady Catherine, much like her husband.
“I did not recognise Miss Lucas in Mrs Collins,” Mr Darcy remarked as he settled into his seat next to her.
Elizabeth thought that neither could she when her friend was in Lady Catherine’s presence. Then, with a flicker of resolve, she turned to him and, smiling, murmured, “Nor did I.”
The man beside her laughed, suddenly and without restraint, eliciting surprise from some and a touch of alarm from others.
“What is so amusing?” asked Lady Catherine.
“Miss Bennet and I are old friends, sharing reminiscences about a few amusing moments at Netherfield, my friend Bingley’s house,” Mr Darcy replied smoothly, conveying a hint of unexpected amity and unusual warmth.
This reference to their meeting at Netherfield, where they had found some pleasant moments despite their initial misunderstandings, added a touch of intrigue to the evening that she was beginning to consider as genuinely interesting.
“You must share them with us,” Lady Catherine declared. Still, she immediately abandoned the subject, finding it of no particular interest.
Instead, her gaze fell upon her daughter, who at last looked like an heiress but had done nothing to change her usual timid demeanour.
Rather than sitting beside Darcy, as her mother had repeatedly instructed, she had positioned herself in the middle of the table between her companion, Mrs Jenkinson, and Mrs Collins.
“I do not see why you are sitting so far away,” she said to Darcy with some irritation. When he did not reply, she pressed on in the same tone, “Engaged couples ought to sit together.”
A murmur rippled around the table, for no one had heard of any engagement. Miss de Bourgh blushed deeply and whispered in reproach, “Mother!” stirring a wave of confusion.
Even Elizabeth glanced at Mr Darcy in astonishment, fervently hoping that her bewilderment was not visible, for although she had come prepared as Artemis, she found herself—if only for this one evening—longing to be Aphrodite instead.
Then Colonel Fitzwilliam intervened, alleviating the situation with a touch of playfulness, “At present, neither Darcy nor I are engaged. But if any betrothed couples are separated at this table, we could always change seats.”
“Richard!” Lady Catherine exclaimed, though she did not seem truly angry, which was a surprise—that someone could defy her without incurring her divine wrath.
But she was quick to reassert her authority.
“Even if it has not been announced, Darcy and Anne have been destined for one another since birth.”
“To be cousins,” Colonel Fitzwilliam jested again, at which poor Mr Collins nearly choked even before placing a single morsel in his mouth.
“Arrangements between mothers are sacred,” Lady Catherine replied, her tone more agitated now as she looked imperiously at Darcy.
“Lady Catherine, this discussion is not suitable for the present moment. Shall we begin dinner?” he said, glancing towards the butler, who gave a signal, and the maids began serving the first course.
“One step away from disaster,” Elizabeth whispered, amused.
Mr Darcy turned to her, and for the first time that evening, their eyes did not leave each other for a long moment; then, he smiled and murmured only for her ears, “It is always like this here.”
A surge of mixed emotions overwhelmed her, a strange combination of amusement, frustration, and a hint of longing.
Her heart raced, admitting that she could not decipher the exact nature of her state of mind—or heart—yet she had to declare to herself that her feelings towards Mr Darcy continued to alter.
“Does that mean you are not engaged to Miss de Bourgh?” she asked yet regretted it the next moment because that manner she knew well—a little amused, a little sarcastic, and infinitely arrogant—took possession of him when he answered.
“Are you genuinely interested, or is this just a subject for conversation?”
“Why could it not be both?” she asked.
“Because there is a substantial difference between the two,” he replied. Elizabeth felt a ripple of pleasure course through her, for this was precisely what she desired—an intelligent and amusing conversation.
After all, she could accept that Mr Darcy had changed, that it was not merely the atmosphere or his aunt’s house that made him appear friendly and amiable.
She wished her father were there to witness the transformation—Mr Darcy beyond pride when smiling—and she passed prejudice when saying, “Genuinely interested.”
“Then, Miss Bennet, my answer is no. I am not engaged to Miss de Bourgh…” e hesitated, then continued, “Or any other young lady.”
“Oh!” Elizabeth exclaimed, wanting to sound amused. “You are giving me such details.”
“It seemed to me you asked for them.”
It was Elizabeth’s turn to hesitate, but then she decided the truth was the best weapon to startle someone. “Perhaps I did.”
She had been right. Darcy paused his eating and looked at her intently, so she turned to him, finding a gaze that showed surprise and something else she could not determine.
“You look surprised,” she said.
“Indeed, I am pleased to find you are more kind-hearted towards me.”
“Do not count on that, Mr Darcy. You escorted me to dinner and sat next to me. My reputation could be in danger if I accept this attention from an engaged gentleman,” she retorted with a smile that softened the apparent rigidity of her words.
And he nodded, satisfied. He, too, was enjoying their game, now almost devoid of the animosity that had so often existed between them, even when he had wished to mend the situation, such as on the evening of the Netherfield ball.
“Darcy, what is your opinion?” Lady Catherine’s voice roused them both from the pleasant state that had settled between them, where, for a few moments, they had believed themselves alone at the table—or perhaps in the universe.
“I am sorry, Lady Catherine, I did not catch the question,” Mr Darcy replied. He suddenly seemed irritated, as though the courteous gentleman he had been just moments ago had vanished. The only possible reason, Elizabeth thought, was that he, too, had wished for their conversation to continue.
“Did you not understand, or did you not hear?” Lady Catherine pressed.
“I was rather absorbed in this excellent, succulent roast beef,” Mr Darcy replied.
“It is useless to praise my kitchen if you do not engage in our conversation. I asked how you entertained Anne in London.”
“I have only just returned from Pemberley,” said Mr Darcy, appearing as though he did not quite grasp the question.
“Even though I specifically asked you all to remain in London these past months and ensure Anne was well taken care of?” Lady Catherine’s face bore an expression of disappointment, which swiftly transformed into something closer to anger.
And, as she never concealed her inner feelings, the entire table fell silent, glancing between their hostess and Mr Darcy, who seemed wholly indifferent to his aunt’s concerns.
“Pemberley requires the same care and attention that you bestow upon Rosings. Since my father died, the estate comes first, and only then does amusement in London follow,” Mr Darcy replied rather curtly.
To Elizabeth’s astonishment, Lady Catherine flushed slightly, likely from mounting irritation, and the change in her complexion was visible even from a distance.
“I would never ask you to neglect your business affairs.”
“Lady Catherine, I assure you that Anne has been well looked after,” Colonel Fitzwilliam interjected smoothly, once again coming to the rescue.
“She has been a guest in our home, not Darcy’s.
And my mother has spent nearly all her time with Anne, not to mention Lady Oakham—my sister-in-law, for those unfamiliar with her.
Besides, this is a matter we can discuss amongst ourselves,” he concluded decisively.
The conversation soon resumed among the dinner guests; however, it was clear that Lady Catherine was not inclined to let them speak of just anything.
“Miss Bennet,” she said, “you must play for us after dinner.”
Elizabeth looked up in surprise at Lady Catherine, who had spoken in a commanding tone, entirely unsuited to an invitation extended to a guest. It was more akin to the way one might address a servant.
The entire table froze in stunned silence, while Charlotte gazed at her in such evident distress that Elizabeth felt a pang of pity for her friend.
She decided to accept without protest, even before Mr Darcy’s hand brushed hers beneath the table—a silent yet unmistakable plea for her to avoid any conflict.
“Yes,” she said, then felt herself blush.
If the others at the table appreciated her response for having prevented an uncomfortable moment, none suspected that she had not blushed from embarrassment or anger but rather because that fleeting touch had unsettled her in a way unlike anything she had ever felt before.
She tried not to look at him, but when she finally did, she saw him mouthing, without a sound, “Thank you.”
And when the gentlemen returned to the ladies after dinner, Mr Darcy once again offered her his arm to escort her to the music room on the upper floor, entirely unconcerned by Lady Catherine’s renewed attempts to steer him towards her daughter.
“I am sorry for this entire spectacle. Lady Catherine is taking her revenge on you because of me.”
“Is that why you thanked me? Because I held my tongue?” she asked with a smile, her right hand brushing lightly against his arm in a gesture as delicate as it was teasing.
“No, I thanked you for agreeing to play,” he replied.
She touched his arm again, whispering, “Liar.”
That evening, which had begun strangely and had been on the verge of ending poorly, saw Elizabeth play as she had rarely managed before—with both fine technique and deep feeling, filling the music room with such harmonious sounds that all present were enchanted.
When, at the end, Lady Catherine declared that she had played so beautifully only because of the exceptional quality of the instrument, Elizabeth smiled with quiet delight—for even their hostess’s words had held a note of admiration.
However, perhaps not as much admiration as she had glimpsed in Mr Darcy’s gaze.