Chapter Seven #2
“Do you see what you have done?” she exclaimed, gesturing at the empty doorway through which Mr. Darcy had just fled.
“Do not blame us,” Lydia replied. “It was you that refused to kiss him. Mr. Darcy plucked a berry.”
Kitty nodded sagely. “I would never have thought it, Lizzy, but Mr. Darcy was more pleasant about it than you were.”
“I think you did just right, Lizzy,” Mary proclaimed. “Such games are tolerable when they are confined to the few days closest to Christmas, but extending them so far is only foolishness.”
Mary agreed with her. Elizabeth began to feel a creeping sense that she had done the wrong thing.
“Jane?” Elizabeth asked as she took a seat near her eldest sister. “I only thought that Mr. Darcy would feel obligated to kiss me, and I did not wish to make him uncomfortable.”
“I do not think he was,” Jane replied hesitantly. “Until you stepped away.”
Elizabeth dropped her head into her hands. “I cannot get anything right with him. Why is that, Jane?”
Jane smiled at her. She gazed back at Lydia and Kitty, who were no longer paying them any mind, and whispered, “Lizzy, I believe you like Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said as the great man arrived for dinner. He was always early, always perfectly turned out. His valet must earn every pence of his wages, for she could not ever recall Mr. Darcy having a hair out of place.
“Yes, Miss Elizabeth?” His manner was very formal, and she prayed that her sisters were wrong and that she had not hurt his feelings earlier.
“I have two things to say to you, and I must be quick about it for we shall not be alone for long.”
“Of course,” he said, but he did not approach the drawing room where the mistletoe still hung.
“First, I must apologise yet again to you. I did not believe you would like to be caught in my sisters’ trap. I meant to spare you, not embarrass you.”
Mr. Darcy did not reply, only nodded, but his expression did soften a bit. “And the second?”
Elizabeth worried her bottom lip but slipped a note out from where she had tucked it up into her sleeve.
He frowned. “Miss Bennet, I cannot . . .”
“Oh, no Mr. Darcy,” she said hurriedly. “It is not from me. It is a note Miss Bingley wrote to my sister Jane. It mentions you.” She glanced around them, and said in a hushed voice, “It also makes a claim about Mr. Bingley and your sister.”
“What?” he asked, his voice low but angry.
She held out the note and he took it, opened it, and read it very quickly. A muscle near his eye twitched.
“May I keep this until tomorrow, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked sombrely.
“Yes, but I shall have to return it to Jane eventually,” she told him.
“Thank her for me, if you would,” he said. “I am grateful to have this intelligence, and Bingley ought to see it as well.”
Elizabeth nodded. “You are very welcome, sir. I know Jane wishes you to be fully informed.”
He narrowed his eyes but did not ask the obvious question about whether Jane had actually offered her permission.
Elizabeth thought it spoke well of his cleverness that he did not.
“I do not know what Lydia and Kitty were thinking,” Elizabeth confided to Jane that evening. “Only Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy are here, and it is not as though they would wish to be caught under the mistletoe with either man.”
“They probably still have hopes of being visited by some of the officers they danced with at the ball. And you know, Mamma might appreciate catching Papa,” Jane replied teasingly. “Despite how they bicker, Mamma is still a handsome woman.”
“And Papa still notices,” Elizabeth added. “Very well for them. But Mr. Bingley is not even out of his sickbed yet.”
Jane blushed. She had been blushing very frequently in the past few days. “Mr. Bingley shall venture downstairs tomorrow, with some assistance.”
“I wonder how long it will be before his family realises that Mr. Bingley never arrived in town,” Elizabeth asked, lying back on Jane’s pillows and staring up at the yellow and white embroidery on her canopy.
Jane turned on her side and propped up her head on one hand. “Certainly it will only be a day or two,” she said. “They will send him a note and invite him to stay with them.”
“When he does not reply to that note, do you think they will investigate? Or will they surmise that he is angry with them and avoid the confrontation?”
“It is all too much for me, I confess,” Jane admitted. “I cannot like such subterfuge.”
“Then you will not like what I have done,” Elizabeth said nervously.
“What is that?”
“I showed your letter to Mr. Darcy.”
Jane was silent.
Elizabeth touched her sister's hand. “Do not be angry with me, Jane, I beg you. Mr. Darcy’s sister was mentioned in such a way that he ought to be made aware. Miss Bingley should not be making claims about Miss Darcy and Mr. Bingley, not even in a letter, for she has no idea whom we might know in town.”
“She knows we do not belong to the same circles, Lizzy.” Jane sighed. “You need not distress yourself. I must confess that I was sure you would show Mr. Darcy the letter.”
“How could you know that?” Elizabeth asked, rolling herself onto her side so that her nose and Jane’s were only inches apart.
“Because I know you, sister. You can never allow an injustice to go unanswered, and you see this letter as not only a slight against me but also a potential problem for Miss Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. “Jane Bennet, you left that letter with me intentionally. You cannot like such subterfuge, indeed. How did you know I would give it to Mr. Darcy?”
Jane smiled. “How did he respond?”
“I am not certain I should tell you, now.”
“Do you think he shall show it to Mr. Bingley?”
Elizabeth just lifted her eyebrows.
“Lizzy,” Jane cajoled. “Please?”
“Mr. Darcy was displeased.” He had been incensed.
Poor Miss Bingley would not like it when he had his say.
“He would not confess whether he had ever considered Mr. Bingley for Miss Darcy, which I believe indicates that he had. Still, once he had seen Mr. Bingley and you together, he could not fail to understand that any vague notions he had in that direction were bound to be disappointed.”
“He said all this to you?” Jane asked sceptically.
“He said it with his looks,” Elizabeth replied, and Jane laughed.
“Lizzy,” she said, most probably meaning to scold but succeeding only in sounding affectionate. “You really are too much.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth replied. “Those shall be the words on my headstone one day. ‘Elizabeth Bennet, one hundred and fifty years of age. She really was too much.’”