14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
November 15, 1811 Netherfield Park, Hertfordshire Darcy
H e was not infatuated. No, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley was above such nonsense. His future had been set before he was born. The heart did not have a voice when it came to choosing the next mistress of Pemberley. Like his father before him, he would marry for practical reasons.
The lady in question would need to be well born and accomplished. She could not be the daughter of a minor country gentleman and the uncouth child of a tradesman. No, Elizabeth Bennet was not at all suitable to the exalted position of Mrs. Darcy, despite her fine eyes, pert opinions, and incredible finesse combatting cats like Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst.
He shook his head. His thoughts felt jumbled. The longer Miss Elizabeth stayed at Netherfield Park, the more danger Darcy felt from her presence. It was as if Longbourn was too close, and the temptation to call upon her pressed upon him. Yes, paying her too much attention would raise her expectations. Already they had partaken in several delightful debates, and she had given him much to think about.
I need to clear my head, he told himself. Resolved, he went upstairs and changed into his riding attire, intent on driving his horse until they were both exhausted.
Two hours later, he returned to the house. His faithful valet, Brisby, had a bath ready, and Darcy sank into it gratefully. The warm water soothed his aching muscles, and he drifted to sleep.
When he awoke, the water had cooled significantly. Brisby waited with a towel and dried his master thoroughly before handing him a robe. Darcy donned it and scrubbed the towel over his wet hair as he drifted toward the window. Immediately, he was arrested by the sight of Elizabeth Bennet strolling across the lawn towards the gardens.
She looked carefree and relaxed; even from his window, he could see her smile. Her bonnet hung down around her neck, having come loose at some point. Dark curls kissed her cheeks, and suddenly all his efforts to clear his head were made futile.
I cannot love her, he thought. Love? Did he love her? Maybe not yet, but she definitely attracted him. Beyond her fine eyes, she had a light and pleasing figure. Yes, there was much to admire.
Shaking his head, he turned away and began to dress. Once suitably attired, he went down to the drawing room for tea.
He hated the drawing room. Miss Bingley had not redecorated entirely, but she had added ostentatious décor to the already tasteful decoration. Orange and yellow tapestries and drapes looked dreadful against the red and blue rug and cream trim. The wallpaper was blue and cream stripes, and though pretty enough on its own, clashed horribly with Miss Bingley’s additions. The overall effect made him sick to his stomach.
The lady sadly thought she had done very well and spent as much time in the room as possible. Were I less of a gentleman, I would not hesitate to voice my opinion.
The Hursts had not yet arrived, and Bingley, too, was absent. Darcy took a seat as far away from Miss Bingley as possible, but that did not stop her from addressing him immediately.
“Mr. Darcy! How are you today, sir? Eager as I am to have the house to ourselves again?” She smiled coyly and batted her eyelashes.
“The company has been enjoyable,” he replied stiffly. “Miss Elizabeth is a lively lady.”
“Yes, her opinions are rather decided, and she voices them with no thought.” Miss Bingley sniffed. “She would not last two minutes in a London drawing room.”
“Quite right,” Mrs. Hurst agreed.
Darcy pictured Elizabeth in the blue drawing room at Darcy House, and suddenly he could not breathe. She fit so perfectly there in his thoughts.
Bingley came in with Elizabeth on his arm. An irrational surge of jealousy shot through him, and he clenched his jaw and looked away.
“Miss Eliza! Pray, how is your dear sister today?” Miss Bingley’s interest did not seem genuine, and Darcy watched Elizabeth for her reaction.
“My sister is as well as expected,” she replied. The glint in her eyes spoke volumes; she did not think her hostess was sincere either.
The matter of Jane Bennet concerned Darcy greatly. Brisby brought word from the kitchens that the lady was not as ill as she pretended to be. He suspected she had contrived to remain at Netherfield to be closer to Bingley.
Darcy’s friend was already infatuated with the fair beauty, despite being cautioned to guard his heart. Miss Bennet seemed happy enough to be in Bingley’s company, but her smiles did not appear altogether genuine. It would not be the first time that a mercenary miss attempted to entrap Darcy’s na?ve friend.
“I had a letter from Lady Lavinia today,” Miss Bingley said to Mrs. Hurst, effectively dismissing Elizabeth now that polite inquiries had taken place. “She says the Earl of Elmwood is coming back to town for the season.”
“Really?” Mrs. Hurst said in surprise. “I understand that the earl and his family have not partaken fully in the season in years. They say he prefers the country and only comes to town when absolutely necessary.”
Yes, that was what Darcy had been told, too. The Earl of Elmwood accepted just enough invitations to maintain his connections. He had a son just two or three years younger than Bingley, who had not yet begun to seek a wife. There was a daughter, too, but she was very young and not yet out.
I shall take a similar position once I have married, he told himself. I prefer the country to town anyhow. A little voice in his head said that if he married a country miss, she would agree with him without complaint. His eyes drifted to Elizabeth against his will.
She had a peculiar smile on her face, as if she held some great secret. He wondered what her thoughts were.
“The viscount is supposedly coming this year,” Miss Bingley continued. “He is very young, is he not? Not quite twenty years of age.”
“Old enough for a bride.” Mrs. Hurst shared a conspiratorial look with her sister. “You are barely twenty—not at all too old for him.”
Elizabeth coughed. She hastily pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and covered her mouth.
If I am not mistaken, she is laughing. Darcy did not blame her. The sisters’ posturing was tiresome. Besides that, he did not know a single earl who would countenance his heir marrying the daughter of a tradesman, no matter her fortune or his financial situation. There were plenty of well-dowered daughters of gentlemen to choose from.
“Have you ever spent the season in town, Miss Eliza?” Miss Bingley asked, directing her derision at her guest.
“I have not, though I will spend the spring with my uncle.” Elizabeth smiled that secret smile again, and Darcy wondered what she was hiding.
“Ah, yes, the one in Cheapside.” Miss Bingley’s lip curled in disgust. “Is Miss Bennet to join you? I believe you mentioned she would be in town as well.”
“Jane’s plans for the spring are uncertain.”
Elizabeth’s evasive answers were not lost to Darcy. She is being deliberately obtuse, he thought, amused. Without a doubt, the lady was winning the battle of wits that Miss Bingley insisted on waging.
The conversation over tea revolved around who would and would not be in London for the season. The Bingley sisters categorized every eligible gentleman, outlining his attributes and flaws ad nauseum . Every now and then, Miss Bingley would glance in his direction as if to gauge his reaction. Her frown grew more pronounced with each look, for he kept his face impassive and devoid of all feeling.
“Will you be in town for the season, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked.
He started and turned toward her. “I will,” he said. “I visit my aunt once a year, and my sister is to have the masters this spring.”
He did not know why he said all that. She had no business knowing his affairs.
“Dear Georgiana!” Miss Bingley clapped her hands in delight. “Has she grown since I last saw her? Is she as tall as me now?”
Darcy frowned. “I believe she is about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height now. Perhaps a little taller.”
Miss Bingley turned to Elizabeth. “Never have I met a more accomplished lady, Miss Eliza. Miss Darcy is perfect in every way. She plays and sings like an angel, and she knows at least three languages.”
“She sounds like a veritable paragon.” Elizabeth smiled kindly, not a hint of sarcasm or doubt in her tone.
What would she say if she knew how imperfect my sister could be? he wondered. Aloud, he said, “I do not believe you have ever had the privilege of hearing my sister play, Miss Bingley.”
The lady flushed and then paled, her mouth dropping open in shock for a moment as she gathered her thoughts. “But you have spoken so much of her, sir, it is as if I have,” she said coyly, her catlike smile taking the place of her gaping mouth.
“My sister is, indeed, accomplished, especially at her instrument.”
“What does she play, sir?” Elizabeth asked. She looked curious, and he wondered if she wanted the information innocently or if she sought a way to gain his favor. The lady did not seem mercenary, but there were many who were adept at hiding ulterior motives behind a pretty face.
“She plays the pianoforte, Miss Eliza.” Miss Bingley saved him the trouble of answering, eager to flaunt her superior knowledge.
I never should have told that creature that I think Elizabeth has fine eyes. His slip of self-control had made Miss Bingley see Elizabeth as a rival. Her perception was skewed, for never had Darcy considered the former anymore than the sister of his friend, and the latter was so beneath him that he could not offer for her even if he wished to.
Elizabeth did not seem at all affected by Miss Bingley’s pretensions. Indeed, she did not make any effort to seek his attention, either. He wished that she would. Then they might debate again, livening up the oppressive atmosphere in the room.
“Georgiana turned sixteen last month,” he offered, hoping to continue speaking with the enchanting lady from Longbourn.
“She is almost a year older than Lydia, then,” Elizabeth mused. “My youngest sister turned fifteen in June.”
“She is out, is she not?” Mrs. Hurst asked.
“Yes, ma’am. All my sisters are out.”
Mrs. Hurst tittered, raising her hand to cover her mouth. “The country differs greatly from town,” she continued. “Ladies must wait their turn before being launched on society.”
Images of the youngest Miss Bennet and ships tumbled about Darcy’s thoughts, and he smothered a smile. Yes, Miss Lydia would be very like a ship if presented to London society. She would cut through the oceans of men with ease. His smile faded. That was just another reason that Miss Elizabeth was entirely unsuitable. Her relations were atrocious and would not fit in with Darcy’s circle in the slightest.
“Did Lady Lavinia say anything else about Viscount Mavery, Caroline?” Mrs. Hurst asked.
“Oh, yes,” Miss Bingley replied. “There are rumors that the earl and countess will be hosting relations this season. The servants talk, you know, and they say that there are several extra rooms being readied in the family wing. It is all conjecture, of course. Their daughter, Lady Susan, is seventeen. Perhaps they mean to present her this season.”
Darcy frowned. He doubted that Lady Susan would be presented so early. Most waited until eighteen. And he would have to investigate Debrett’s again. He had not realized that the earl had any other close relations. His wife’s family was very small, and not titled. They kept to their estate in Ireland and did not come to London more than once every few years. Tucking the information away in his mind for further examination, he tried to focus on the discussion.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Darcy attempted to control his errant thoughts, which tried to wander to a certain lady more often than not. The next day, after breaking his fast, he sought solace in the library.
To his dismay, she was there, too. When he entered, he saw her curled up in a chair, her knees to her chin and her finger wrapped around a curl that hung by the base of her neck.
Woodenly, his gaze fixed on the vision before him, he picked up a random book from a table and moved the chair directly across from her. She glanced up for but a moment before turning her attention back to her book. She did not even greet him properly.
Frowning, he opened his book, but soon found it impossible to concentrate. After five minutes of rereading the same page, he closed it with a snap.
“How is your sister, Miss Bennet?” he asked. Maybe if he spoke with her, she would say something to disgust him, and it would rid him of the dreadful fascination.
“Jane will dine with the rest of the party this evening,” she replied. It was an answer, but it also told him nothing. How very vexing. And she said it all without looking up from her book.
“I am pleased to hear it.” He cleared his throat. “Has she been very miserable?”
This caused her to look up at him and meet his gaze. Her brow furrowed. “You take an eager interest in her welfare,” she intoned. “One must wonder for what purpose.”
He bristled. “She is a guest in my friend’s house. It is only polite to inquire.”
“Then you have no interest beyond that of a concerned friend?” She blinked, her stare challenging.
“Of course not!” he scoffed, comprehending her meaning. “I could have no interest in Miss Bennet beyond that.” Why does she ask me such ridiculous questions? Is she concerned that I might favor her sister over her?
She raised an eyebrow. “Is Jane so objectionable?” Her innocent words made him feel guilty, though he did not understand why.
“Your sister is everything lovely,” he said slowly, worried that his words would offend her if he did not tread carefully. “But I have been born to privilege, and with that comes…specific obligations.”
She smirked. “Oh? Do tell. What can an untitled, though wealthy gentleman command? Your bride must needs be well dowered and well connected. What is the expected price? At least twenty thousand pounds, I imagine.”
And neither you nor your sister have that.
She was not finished. “Miss Bingley has but one of the two requirements. Poor dear, she will be very upset.”
“I have never shown any inclination toward that lady.” He had a desperate need for her to know that he did not care for Miss Bingley, though he did not understand why. “Bingley knows this and would never force my hand.”
“You are fortunate in your friends, then.” She closed her book. “I should check on Jane.”
“I hope you do not take offense, Miss Elizabeth,” he said.
“I may not agree with your reasoning, sir, but that is my prerogative. My parents married for love. I plan to follow in their footsteps. I do understand that many in the first circles think differently, and that is their prerogative. It is a shame, however, for I believe there would be more happy marriages if inclinations other than wealth and connection were involved. Good morning, sir.”
She bobbed a quick curtsey and departed, leaving Darcy feeling like he had been scolded. He could not fathom how anyone— let alone an intelligent man like Mr. Bennet—could marry Mrs. Bennet for love.