Chapter Four
Elizabeth heard a heavy tread descending the stairs even before Mr. Darcy appeared in the open doorway to the sitting room.
Kitty and Lydia were giggling over a novel in one corner, and Mary was sorting through her music.
None of them so much as glanced up. Jane was working on a letter to their aunt, and had her back to the door, and Mamma was fussing over .
. . a magazine. Perhaps a fashion plate?
Poor Mr. Darcy, to be so ignored. She waited a moment as he stood uncomfortably, waiting to be noticed.
It was rather endearing, for his expression was uncertain, and his feet were half out of the house slippers Mr. Gardiner sometimes used when he visited.
She did not keep him waiting long before she offered him a greeting. “Good evening, Mr. Darcy.”
Mamma looked up and waved her handkerchief at him as she stood. “How do you find Mr. Bingley, sir? We are all very concerned for him. He is nearly a member of the family, you know.”
Jane’s shoulders tensed before she placed her pen down to greet Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth tried to fight back the blush that threatened to turn her as red as a summer sunset, but the heat in her cheeks warned her that she had failed. Fortunately, Mr. Darcy answered her mother with perfect civility.
“He is not himself, madam, but thanks to your daughters and the diligent care he has received, he will mend. Bingley is a hearty sort of fellow. I do not doubt his recovery will be swift.”
He actually sounded thankful. Not that Elizabeth should wonder at that, for she knew they were great friends.
“Oh yes, my Jane was ever so clever to find that wagon and bring him here,” Mrs. Bennet crowed.
Elizabeth would not roll her eyes at her mother, but she did wish to.
All day she had been alternately the target of her mother’s ire and utterly ignored by her whilst Jane’s heroic efforts on Mr. Bingley’s behalf were exclaimed to everyone who would listen.
It had been enough to propel her out into the cold again to make certain the residents at Netherfield knew that their friend and brother was safe.
It was for his benefit, of course, but for hers as well, for she had been developing a monstrous headache. “Will you not sit with us, sir?”
Mr. Darcy glanced about, probably hoping to find Papa nearby, but after a moment, found a chair and sat down.
“It is already so late, you must stay with us tonight, Mr. Darcy. I cannot think of you riding back to Netherfield with it being so cold. Even Mr. Collins has chosen to remain at Lucas Lodge for the night. They invited him to dine, you see.” She glared at Elizabeth.
Mr. Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. He appeared perplexed, but Mamma kept speaking.
“What if your horse were to slip on the ice as Mr. Bingley’s has? What should we do then?”
“Mamma,” Jane said softly, “Mr. Darcy is here to assist his friend. We must allow him to decide whether or not he wishes to remain.”
“I thank you, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy replied with a warmth he had not displayed before.
Elizabeth pressed her lips together. She did not want Mr. Darcy to be a good man, as Mr. Bingley had insisted he was.
She did not want him to be loyal. She wanted to believe he was rude and arrogant.
That way, she would not have to care about his insult to her looks and her negligible value in his eyes.
She had never believed herself either as pretty or as good as Jane.
That, in her opinion, was not possible for anyone.
But she was vain enough to believe herself rather prettier than the average young lady and it had been a blow to hear that her own assessment was not shared by a man she had at first thought very handsome.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said at last, glancing at her younger sisters who had not bothered to greet him, “would you prefer to remain here tonight?” They had assumed Mr. Bingley’s sisters would wish to spend the night here tending to him and had made preparations to receive them.
Mr. Darcy’s expression relaxed. “I should like that very much, Miss Elizabeth. Bingley is never out of sorts for long. Seeing him in such a condition . . . well, I should like to offer whatever help I am able.”
Whatever else he was, Mr. Darcy was a loyal friend, just as Mr. Bingley had said.
She wondered a bit about Mr. Wickham, whose story had conveniently supported her ill opinion of Mr. Darcy.
The lieutenant was very handsome too, and had praised her, but somehow, she had a difficult time seeing him visiting a friend in his sickroom. Why was that?
Elizabeth glanced up as her mother stood and left the room. At the last moment, Mamma turned her head and glared back at her.
Apparently, her anger had not abated.
Mr. Darcy chose to sit in the chair closest to her.
“Bingley said that you discovered him on your walk this morning, and then I found you on your way out to Netherfield on your own. Have you not felt the consequences of being so much out of doors today? It is colder at Pemberley, of course, but we do try not to be outside in it.”
Was he truly criticising her now? “Perhaps if Miss Bingley had read my note, Mr. Darcy, I should not have been required to set out on a second trip.”
“Elizabeth,” Jane said quietly.
“I did think Mr. Bingley’s family would wish to be with him,” Elizabeth said.
Jane sat forward, appearing as though she wished to make an excuse for Miss Bingley, but Mr. Darcy shook his head at her. “Miss Elizabeth is quite right,” he said. “Miss Bingley did receive the note but chose not to open it.”
Elizabeth sat back in her seat, smug but also irritated.
Would it have taken anything from Miss Bingley to simply read what she had written?
If she wished to toss it away or even put it in the fire afterward, Elizabeth would not care a jot, but why would she send a note the very morning after a ball were it not something urgent?
She sighed. This day had been mortifying from beginning to end. She could only hope that tomorrow would be better.
It had to be better. Did it not?
“Are you feeling warmer, Miss Elizabeth?” Mr. Darcy asked.
Elizabeth gazed at him for a moment. “Quite,” she said. She could not understand him. She was not handsome enough to tempt him, had no accomplishments to speak of, and could not even remove her own scarf. Yet he was inquiring, quite solicitously, about her health?
Mr. Darcy was unfathomable. She sighed. And still handsome.
Poor Jane was blushing, but Elizabeth knew her sister well.
She was not blushing because of the insult of Miss Bingley’s behaviour.
Instead, she was blushing because she felt sorry for Mr. Bingley.
In Jane’s mind, poor Mr. Bingley would be made very unhappy by his sister’s actions.
They knew he was for London that very morning, and yet they had not troubled themselves to read an unexpected note from the neighbours who lived along the first part of his route.
Elizabeth was also quite certain that in the very next moment Jane would forgive them, for who could anticipate such an unlikely series of events?
“Bingley told me that you gave him your cloak.”
“I did,” she said directly. “His clothing was damp, and he was very cold.”
“As his friend, I can only be grateful for your solicitude, Miss Elizabeth. I am thankful that you and Miss Bennet discovered him before his exposure to the cold made him seriously ill.”
Elizabeth felt the corners of her mouth turn up. “You are welcome, Mr. Darcy, but really. Do you think us so deficient in all proper feeling that we would leave even a stranger to suffer were we to discover him in such a plight?”
He smiled. It was a small smile, but she was pleasantly surprised by it.
“No,” he said. “If anyone can be said to possess compassion and kindness, Miss Elizabeth, it is you and Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth did not know how to respond. A compliment from Mr. Darcy?
“Miss Elizabeth at a loss for words?” he asked, his smile growing just a bit wider. “I could never have imagined it.”
“Lizzy is merely overcome to hear you think well of her,” Lydia called over and then laughed.
That girl had the hearing of a bat.
Mr. Darcy frowned. “Is that true, Miss Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth attempted to think of something polite to say, but the aggravations of the day came crashing down upon her at last. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Perhaps it is because you have never offered me a compliment before, Mr. Darcy.”
She ignored Jane’s glare.
“Would you . . . might I . . .” Mr. Darcy said but stopped when he noted the silent communication in which she and Jane were participating.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said, and she meant it. She hoped it would be enough. “Would you like to write a note to Miss Bingley to explain that you are with us?”
Mr. Darcy shifted in his chair. “I have already sent a message to my valet,” he said haltingly. “I am sure he will inform all the pertinent parties.”
That was a rather odd way to phrase it, but Mr. Darcy, for all his apparent virtues, was still an enigma to Elizabeth. He glanced about the room at all her sisters who had returned to their former occupations.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, hesitating. His voice was low enough not to be overheard but not so low that a girl like Lydia would come closer to discover what he was saying. “I am sorry to hear you do not believe I think well of you. I assure you, that is not the case.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she said, but she did not believe it.
Mr. Darcy must have seen as much, for he frowned and changed the subject. “I am afraid I was rather taken aback at your mention of Mr. Wickham last night during our dance.”
“I am aware,” she replied, lifting one eyebrow.
“If you would allow me,” he continued, “I might explain why.”
Elizabeth was curious. “Very well.”
“Mr. Wickham’s father was my own father’s steward, and they were very good friends.
Old Mr. Wickham was well versed in property law and was an intelligent, honest, hard-working man.
Unfortunately, the son is nothing like the father.
Despite growing up together, Wickham and I have never been friends, for the way he behaves in my company has been callous, even cruel.
He runs up debts with merchants and has several children with different women, none of whom he has married. ”
Elizabeth’s head began to throb.
Mr. Darcy continued to speak with a kind of sincere gravity.
“After my father died he was paid both a bequest and an additional amount of money in lieu of a living he did not want. Yet a few years later he came back and asked for the living and was very angry when I denied him.” Mr. Darcy shook his head.
“There is a great deal of bitterness beneath his charm, Miss Elizabeth, and he does not care who he hurts so long as he is given even a moment’s pleasure.
I would beg you not to find yourself alone with him at any time.
” He glanced at Lydia and Kitty. “Perhaps I might speak with your father about it, for the same is true for all of your sisters.”
Elizabeth was not certain how to feel about this. Had she not had Mr. Bingley’s insistence from this morning to guide her, she might have dismissed it all out of hand, but as it was, she could only stare at Mr. Darcy. Her head was now pounding nearly as hard as a carpenter’s hammer.
Was twenty years’ worth of mortification to fall on her all on one day?
Mr. Darcy was not angry with her, but he was frustrated.
Anyone could see it. She wanted to deny it, to defend Mr. Wickham, but she could not.
It was wrong to be speaking about a man’s private business in such a way, and yet had not Mr. Wickham done that very thing practically the moment they had been introduced?
Mr. Darcy had not done so until she had confronted him.
Elizabeth touched her forehead. “I thank you for explaining this to me, Mr. Darcy. I fear I must beg you to excuse me. A sudden headache . . .”
The frustration fled in an instant, and he stood, all solicitousness. “May I get you anything for your present relief? You have been overtaxed today.”
“No, no,” she murmured. “I thank you, but rest and solitude are all I require. Jane, would you please see to Mr. Darcy until Mamma returns?”
Jane was all concern. “Of course, Lizzy.”
It was not Elizabeth’s proudest moment. She was fleeing from Mr. Darcy, and why? Because she had asked him a question, and he had answered it in exacting detail. She was a ridiculous creature.
She brushed past her mother on the stairs.
“Where do you think you are going, Miss Lizzy?” Mamma called out. “We have a guest in the drawing room.”
“He is with Jane, Mamma,” she called back without stopping. “I am for bed.”
“You lazy girl,” Mamma said with a sigh. “I do not know what I shall do with you, for I shall not be able to keep you when your father is dead.”
Elizabeth felt rather fortunate that her mother did not follow her to continue her complaints at length.
Mr. Darcy was in the drawing room and, though her mother did not care for the man, she would not insult any friend of Mr. Bingley’s.
Particularly not when Mr. Darcy had been so complimentary of their efforts on his behalf.
Elizabeth was grateful when Sarah was finished helping ready her for bed.
Her head was very bad, and she closed her eyes.
She had not suffered a megrim in several years and had hoped she had outgrown them.
Alas, her penchant for dramatic scenes seemed to have reawakened one.
Even thinking hurt. A dark, silent room was what she required.
She would have to go over Mr. Darcy’s words tomorrow when she was feeling better.
It bothered her to think that she had completely misunderstood the man, but it did appear to be the case.
It required another half an hour, but Elizabeth finally fell into a troubled sleep.