Chapter Thirteen #3
“I would not say anything had you not initiated the conversation,” Miss Bingley added, her cultured voice at odds with the message, “but it seems that Miss Elizabeth has nothing other than her adeptness at dancing a reel and muddy petticoats to recommend her.” She and her sister tittered.
“Not only does she appear a terrible hoyden, the Bennet family is entirely without wealth or connection.” Miss Bingley wrinkled her nose. “Poor Miss Bennet.”
Bingley coughed, set down his wineglass, and coughed again. He placed his napkin over his mouth as he tried to catch his breath.
Mr. Hurst broke into the conversation. “Bingley, are you all right?”
Bingley nodded and waved a hand. “Apologies.” He straightened. “Sisters,” he said forcefully. This commanded their attention; their brother was rarely so direct.
“Yes, Charles?” Miss Bingley inquired.
The young man gave each a pointed look. “You will cease with this display. Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth are our guests, and you will treat them with respect.”
“Well, of course we will treat them well, Charles,” Miss Bingley responded, “but really, did you not see Miss Elizabeth’s appearance at breakfast? Hems six inches deep in mud, hair blowsy, her countenance positively wild. You cannot deny it.”
“She was not here for a social call, Caroline,” Bingley said firmly. “She was here to see her ill sister.”
“And what of that, brother?” Mrs. Hurst asked. “Why did Miss Bennet come on horseback at all when it was clearly going to rain?”
“What say you, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley said, her voice cloyingly sweet. “You would not have allowed Miss Darcy to ride when rain was threatening.”
Darcy winced. He had hoped to avoid being drawn into what was ultimately a family matter.
Miss Bingley obviously anticipated that he would agree with her censure of Miss Elizabeth, but she would have no satisfaction from him.
The poor girl had been terrified. Anyone with eyes could see it.
Wild countenance indeed. He had likely not appeared any better upon his arrival in Ramsgate.
His lips quirked a bit. Perhaps not quite as muddy.
“Were you so concerned about Miss Bennet’s method of travel, Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst,” he said formally, in a low voice, “you might have sent the carriage.”
“I assumed,” Miss Bingley said impatiently, “that the Bennets would send her in their own.”
Hurst wiped his mouth with his napkin before tossing it to the table, then stood and exited the room. Darcy’s eyes followed him out. He would like to remove himself as well, but he would not use Hurst’s incivility as an excuse for any discourtesy of his own.
Bingley was next. “Miss Elizabeth’s dash across the fields this morning displays an affection for her sister than I can only dream of from my own,” he said with one shake of his head. He stood and motioned to the door. “Darcy?”
Darcy said nothing, simply stood, gave the women a bow, and retired with Bingley. Inside, he was applauding. Bingley had finally put his foot down. Miss Bennet might just be the making of his friend after all.
Because the men had been out all afternoon, the post was delivered to them in the study following dinner. Darcy glanced at his letters, surprised to see one from Richard. The two letters of business he set aside for the morning, but he opened the one from his cousin.
What was inside inspired a chuckle. When Bingley held out a glass of brandy, Darcy took it and set the letter down. “Bingley,” he said, “Fitzwilliam is begging for asylum.”
Hurst snorted from his spot across the room, where he was lighting a cigar. Bingley laughed. “Again?”
“He will be thirty soon,” Darcy said.
“The countess must be getting desperate,” Hurst replied, puffing out a great cloud of smoke.
“I believe that to be the case,” Darcy said wryly. He addressed his host. “I am afraid he is not waiting for an invitation, Bingley. He arrives tomorrow.” He handed the letter to his friend. “It is to my benefit should he remain unwed, for she has not the time to focus on me.”
Hurst laughed heartily. “I should have known you had an ulterior motive, Darcy.”
Darcy gave Bingley a grin, but said, “I shall tell him to be off if he is truly not welcome, Charles, what with the Miss Bennets in residence.”
“Do not be ludicrous, Darcy,” Bingley replied waving the hand that held the paper. “Fitzwilliam is always welcome—he is one of the few men I know who can prod you into a congenial mood. Besides,” he said with a grin, “he may find Miss Elizabeth to his liking.”
Darcy felt suddenly cold. “She has no dowry or connections, Bingley,” he said flatly. “The countess would never accept her.”
Bingley gave him a searching look before asking, “Is Fitzwilliam in need of funds, then?”
Darcy took a sip of the brandy. “Between my father and his own, he is well set up, if that is what you mean,” he said slowly.
George Darcy had always liked Richard, and once he had dealt with George Wickham, he had put more funds aside for his wife’s nephew.
“He has Briarwood and his fortune.” He stood and walked to the window.
“But to take on a bride with no dowry at all? I do not think he can afford that.”
“Who could?” grunted Hurst, blowing out a series of smoke rings.
I could, Darcy thought, before catching himself. No. I cannot.
Molly finished speaking to someone at the door and then approached Elizabeth. “They are asking if you would like to come downstairs, Miss Elizabeth,” she said in hushed tones.
Elizabeth gazed at Jane, who was finally sleeping.
The ladies of the house had come to sit in the sickroom until they had been summoned to coffee.
They had invited Elizabeth to accompany them, but Jane was by no means better, and Elizabeth would not leave her.
Now that her sister was resting, Elizabeth would prefer to seek her own bed, but thought that she really ought to go down.
Not only was it the right thing to do, Mr. Bingley might fret unnecessarily should he believe Jane too ill to be left to the care of a maid for an hour or so.
Molly soon had Elizabeth’s hair in order and she followed a rather formal footman to the drawing room.
When she entered, the entire company was playing cards.
Though a fair player, Elizabeth declined to join them.
She absolutely despised losing money, even in an otherwise friendly game.
Uncle Phillip had said that quality made her a cautious investor; Aunt Olivia said it made her a poor guest. Instead, she mentioned that Jane might need her at any time and strolled to the bookshelf to select something to read.
She heard Mr. Hurst grumble about the oddity of preferring reading to playing cards and stifled a smile as she wondered whether he was forever grousing because of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley or whether they were continually sour because of him.
She slid a book from the shelf with one finger and tried to wipe the thin layer of dust from it without drawing too much notice.
The maids had apparently not bothered with the bookshelves in some time.
She glanced at the cover. It was a volume of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations. This will do, she thought happily.
As she was evaluating her treasure, Miss Bingley was saying something in a pinched voice about preferring books to anything else. At first, Elizabeth was amused, believing that Miss Bingley was ingratiating herself to Mr. Darcy. Soon, she realized that she was herself being misrepresented.
Elizabeth was feeling weary after tending to Jane much of the day.
Her temper was, frankly, a bit frayed. Miss Bingley was trying to paint her a bluestocking, and while Elizabeth had never understood what was so very wrong with a woman who enjoyed reading and learning, she did not take well to insults.
Veiled or direct, she seldom allowed them to simply pass.
Elizabeth made a valiant attempt to remain polite. “I do enjoy reading, Miss Bingley, but I take pleasure in many things.”
Mr. Bingley then added that he was certain she took pleasure in nursing her sister. Elizabeth answered him civilly but could not help thinking that it would be better had Jane not required nursing at all.
“Have you found a book, then, Miss Elizabeth?” Mr. Darcy asked, holding his cards close to his chest as Miss Bingley leaned rather far back from her position next to him and attempted to take a peek.
“I have, sir,” she replied, amused at the tableau, “and as it is not in the original Greek, I shall even be able to read it.”
“I should not be surprised if you could read it in Greek, Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley said enthusiastically. “There are many women who are thus accomplished.”
While many was overstating the matter, Mr. Bingley’s proclamation produced a warmth of feeling for him on Elizabeth’s part. From his sisters it resulted in shocked silence. Unfortunately, the shock did not last.
“Charles!” Miss Bingley gasped, “how could you say such a thing! Ladies study modern languages.” She tossed an arrogant look at Elizabeth. “French and Italian, and possibly German,” she said, listing them as if for Elizabeth’s benefit.
“I have never liked the sound of German,” Elizabeth mused. “I am sure it sounds lovely to Germans, but I am afraid I have never heard much music in it.”
“Perhaps it is too precise for an untrained ear,” Miss Bingley responded, her attention on her cards.
“Perhaps.” Elizabeth said agreeably. “Allerdings spreche ich es ein wenig, Fr?ulein Bingley.
“ However, I do speak it a little. Her accent was imperfect, but she was certain Miss Bingley’s ear was the one that was untrained.
Elizabeth had learned a bit of the language after Uncle Phillip‘s suggestion that neither of them spoke it well enough to invest in German concerns.
She had given it her best effort, but finally surrendered to inevitability.
She would never be fluent. Her French and Italian were much better.
Miss Bingley’s face reddened. Mr. Hurst snorted into his drink.
“Sie haben einen leichten Akzent, Fr?ulein Elizabeth,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice rich and his pronunciation without flaw.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Your accent is a little off, he had said.
She knew she should be mortified, but such a playful response from him was both unexpected and delightful.
Instead, she pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.
Mr. Darcy was clearly fluent, and therefore he knew she was not.
Fortunately, nobody else in the room seemed to understand the exchange.
“Dennoch habe ich mein Ziel erreicht, Herr Darcy,” she retorted pertly. Yet I have made my point. She felt a strange sort of thrill to see the corners of his mouth curl up slightly.
“Indeed,” was his only reply. Mr. Hurst called them all back to the game.
This show of good humor made Elizabeth feel that she and this Mr. Darcy might be able to become friends. The problem was, would he remain the clever, teasing man before her, or return to the taciturn, silent critic? She made herself comfortable and opened her book. Only time will tell.