Chapter Fifteen
After one of the most uncomfortable dinners she could recall, Elizabeth slipped upstairs to see whether Jane needed anything.
Jane was curled on her side fast asleep, a few blonde wisps of hair escaping her plait, and Elizabeth remembered when they were small.
Many nights, she had crept to Jane’s room after the house was quiet and burrowed under the covers with her sister.
She and Jane had talked and giggled until they could no longer remain awake.
She brushed her hand lightly against Jane’s forehead, relieved to find it cool to the touch.
The first genuine smile of the evening pulled her lips upward, only to be followed by the realization that as Jane clearly did not require her presence, she would be expected to return to the drawing room.
As much as she longed to send word that she was herself unwell, that would be a prevarication, and therefore beneath her.
Sometimes she wished Aunt Olivia had not been so exacting about one’s obligations, but there was nothing for it.
She blew out a breath and stood, then paused.
The drawing room. Her materials were scattered a bit in her chambers, but she could ask Molly to collect her paper and pencils and deliver them to her downstairs.
That way, she could engage in a little conversation for civility’s sake and then become otherwise engaged.
She might offer to sketch Mr. Fitzwilliam.
He seemed the type who would be happy to sit for her.
Or perhaps she might flatter Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst by asking if there seemed an opportunity.
She felt very keenly how much the women resented her presence, and she would be only too happy to oblige them with her absence once Jane was well.
Notwithstanding Jane’s excellent Mr. Bingley, she was eager to put a little distance between herself and the Netherfield party. For now, she could draw.
Feeling better with a plan in place, she left Jane’s room to seek her maid.
When Elizabeth arrived, Mr. Hurst, Mr. Bingley, and Mr. Fitzwilliam were playing a game of commerce.
Mrs. Hurst alternately watched them and played with her bracelets while reclining languidly on the settee, a feminine echo of her husband.
Mr. Darcy was writing a letter and Miss Bingley was seated nearly at his elbow, speaking close to his ear but at a normal volume.
Elizabeth felt a flash of pity for Mr. Darcy.
She herself disliked being interrupted when she was trying to write.
It took only a few exclamations from Miss Bingley before Elizabeth understood this was a letter to his sister.
Dear Georgiana. She longed to add a message of her own but refrained.
How she wished she had met Mr. Darcy in town, where they might have been properly introduced and avoided this uncomfortable situation altogether.
The longer she waited, the more difficult it was to begin.
Well, there was nothing for that now. She nodded silent greetings to the occupants of the room and picked up her book.
Miss Bingley’s honeyed tones broke into Elizabeth’s contemplations.
“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of the year!” she exclaimed. “Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!’
Elizabeth was becoming an expert at biting her tongue. Do not speak, Elizabeth, she warned herself. No good can come of it. She turned a page in her book with determination.
Mr. Darcy replied to his hostess without any hint of the annoyance Elizabeth presumed he must feel. “It is fortunate, then,” he said drily, “that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.’
Elizabeth heartily agreed. It can be tedious, she admitted to herself, but it need not be.
“Miss Elizabeth writes a great deal,” Mrs. Hurst offered, “but of course, they would not be letters of business.”
“Why would you assume such a thing, Mrs. Hurst?” Elizabeth inquired, irritated but also curious. “May a woman not have letters of business to write?”
“Not a gently born woman,” was the airy reply.
As if you would know. “On the contrary,” Elizabeth replied, her manner sweet, but her blood boiling, “the Countess of Jersey inherited her grandfather’s seat as senior partner in Childe’s Bank, and she is very active in its management.
Surely, as the daughter of an earl, she cannot be considered anything but gently bred. ”
“That cannot be the case,” Mrs. Hurst said with a wave of her arm. Her bracelets tinkled.
Elizabeth blinked in the face of this irrational dismissal. “I assure you that it is,” she replied. Aunt Olivia’s voice sounded in her mind, cautioning her to remain composed.
“I can support Miss Elizabeth’s statement,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said, tossing his cards down and stretching his arms above his head.
“My mother,” he glanced at Mrs. Hurst and cleared his throat.
“My mother, the Countess of Matlock, is a friend of Lady Jersey and has a great deal of admiration for her abilities. Lady Jersey has held that position for three years now, I believe.” He motioned for Hurst to deal the cards again. “Is that right, Darcy?”
“Five years,” Darcy said without glancing up from his letter.
Mrs. Hurst was silenced, though she made no effort to apologize.
Miss Bingley returned to praising Mr. Darcy’s sister. She was extolling Georgiana’s musical skills, when Mr. Bingley interrupted. “It is just as I was saying last night. I have no idea how young women have the patience to become so accomplished.”
Aunt Olivia would have had a good laugh at that, Elizabeth thought fondly. Still, I learned.
“What are you thinking, Miss Bennet, with that secretive smile?” asked Mr. Fitzwilliam.
Elizabeth was startled out of her reverie.
He had not even appeared to be looking at her.
“Oh,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Forgive me, sir, I was woolgathering.” She smiled, self-conscious at having been caught out.
“I must admit I was not very patient, Mr. Bingley. Even now I have no fondness for netting purses or painting tables, I am afraid. One can only cover so many screens. And my needlework is sadly lacking.”
“Well, we cannot all be so very accomplished,” Miss Bingley said smugly.
“Caroline,” warned her brother.
Before Miss Bingley could respond, Elizabeth mused, “I would only say that patience, while a virtue, is not entirely necessary for learning so long as one applies herself,” she looked at Mr. Bingley with a lifted eyebrow, “or himself, diligently.”
“Would exercising diligence to learn a difficult subject not be the essential meaning of patience?” Mr. Darcy asked, turning away from his work. Elizabeth could hear the interest in his voice. He enjoys a debate, even with a woman. How singular.
She turned her attention to him with relish. “Patience is the ability to suffer adversity or pain with submission, sir.” She gave him a knowing look, “Have you any reason to suspect learning such a trial for me? Or that if it were I should suffer submissively?”
The men all laughed at that, even Mr. Hurst.
“Touché, Miss Elizabeth,“ Darcy allowed, a small smile on his lips. “However, I cannot accept that you escaped suffering entirely while studying; not everything we are taught is easily learnt. For me, it was Greek. For you, German, perhaps?”
“How ungentlemanly to remind a lady of her failings, sir,” Elizabeth replied, stifling a laugh. “Indeed, there I must yield. Still, my aunt would never have allowed me to falter.”
Miss Bingley’s lips twitched upwards in a triumphant sneer, and Elizabeth thought over her last words. Oh dear.
“Your aunt taught you, Miss Elizabeth?” she asked with all the appearance of warmth.
“She did indeed, Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth replied. She would not deny Aunt Olivia.
“Was that before or after you were sent to live with them, dear?” Miss Bingley glanced knowingly at her sister, “I suspect it was a great honor to be the sister selected to leave Longbourn.”
The room fell silent. Elizabeth blinked.
How does she, of all people, know about Uncle Phillip and Aunt Olivia?
“I went to live with my aunt and uncle when I was ten, Miss Bingley. My aunt undertook much of my education. She and my uncle had always desired children but were not blessed in that way.”
“So you became their daughter, Miss Elizabeth?” Mr. Fitzwilliam asked kindly.
“I did, sir, and was then forced to acquire every accomplishment she had long waited to impart.” Not that my uncle did not add to the list.
Mrs. Hurst sniffed. Miss Bingley smiled. “I am certain Mrs. Phillips, as the wife of an attorney, had a great many accomplishments to pass on to her niece,” she said, her expression all that was kind. “It was benevolent of them to offer you a home when you were in need of one.”
Mrs. Phillips? Elizabeth wondered. Then she does not know.
“And so kind of your uncle in trade to provide you with the material for your gowns,” Mrs. Hurst added with barely a titter.
Well, that much is true, Elizabeth thought. I have no idea how Uncle Gardiner finds such superior suppliers, but he truly has a gift for it.
Mr. Bingley moved quickly to change the direction of the conversation. “I wonder why it is that men are not said to be accomplished. Only the ladies. Yet we spend as many years in study as they, I daresay.”
Bless you, Mr. Bingley. “Are you wishing to be reduced to a list of the things you can do, sir?” Elizabeth asked lightly, trying to master both the anger and the discomfort she was feeling. “Speaking French and Italian, singing, playing, drawing…”
“Extensive reading,” Mr. Darcy added drolly.
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. Is he making sport of me? She addressed Mr. Bingley. “I would rather have the notion of accomplishments dropped entirely. One should focus on improvement for one’s own edification, not to create a description on a bill of sale.”