Chapter Eighteen #3
Darcy’s vision darkened. From anyone else this might be an innocent remark, but he instantly knew what this harpy was implying. How dare she.
“Do not all look at me like that,” Mrs. Hurst protested, her hands up, palms turned out. “I am simply making an observation. Perhaps Mr. Bennet prefers his blonde daughters to his dark-haired one.” She addressed her sister. “What do you say, Caroline?”
Darcy was shocked when Miss Bingley, her posture erect and her color high, replied, “I say you should retire, Louisa.” Her words were distinct, precise. Mrs. Hurst narrowed her eyes and frowned at her sister.
“I see I have returned at an inopportune moment,” someone said, and everyone turned towards the sound. Darcy forced himself to unclench his fists and breathe. Miss Elizabeth was standing in the entry. Even Mrs. Hurst had the grace to blush, though she refused to face the woman she had maligned.
Miss Elizabeth moved swiftly to retrieve a shawl draped over the settee.
“Jane left this here. I thought I would save Molly the trip.” She fingered the cashmere fringe, her brows pinched together.
She was deciding how to respond. Darcy hoped she would.
Otherwise he would feel compelled to do so in her place, and he was sure her response would be proper. His would not.
Bingley, whose face was redder than Darcy had ever seen it, broke the silence. “Miss Elizabeth, I cannot tell you…”
Miss Elizabeth stopped his apology. “Mr. Bingley,” she said gently, “You have been everything generous and solicitous. There is no need for you to apologize. I will leave with Jane tomorrow morning and your sisters will no longer be inconvenienced.” She glanced at Darcy, and though he attempted to regulate his features, she appeared somewhat alarmed at his appearance.
One eyebrow arched and she shook her head slightly.
His chest loosened, his breathing came easier. She was well.
He clasped his hands together. When she spoke, he wondered whether anyone else could detect the small tremor of deep emotion in her tone.
“Mrs. Hurst,” Miss Elizabeth said, “What you have insinuated is not only vulgar, it is grossly inaccurate. I have no need to explain anything to you but understand this.” She stepped forward, making certain she had Mrs. Hurst’s complete attention.
When Mrs. Hurst complied, she continued.
“There will come a time, not long from now, when you will regret you were not kinder.”
She turned smartly on her heel and left them all behind. Mr. Hurst, who was nearest the door, set down his wineglass to make her a very proper bow. “Good evening,” she said to him, and then she was gone.
After Miss Elizabeth left the room for the second time, Richard joined his cousin to lay a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. His own face bore traces of deep resentment. “Miss Elizabeth was marvelous,” he said in a voice only Darcy could hear. “She will have no trouble with the London cats.”
A strangled laugh escaped his throat; he felt as though he was choking on both bitterness and mirth. Her aunt and uncle were longtime friends of the Darcy family; Elizabeth would not speak idly, so he had no doubt they had other London connections as well.
“Richard,” he replied quietly, “You have no idea.” Actually, he thought, neither do I. He rubbed the back of his neck. Russell. Weymouth House. I know Father told me . . .
“Lizzy,” Jane said breathlessly, “she did not say that.”
Elizbeth knew that Jane was expressing dismay, not disbelief, so she only nodded. “I am afraid she did.”
“We cannot stay,” Jane said stoutly, tossing back the bedclothes. Her shoulders sagged. “But it is late.”
“We shall be gone in the morning, Jane,” Elizabeth replied, kissing her sister’s forehead and tucking her back in. “It is soon enough.”
“At least Miss Bingley did not approve of her sister’s slight, Lizzy.” Jane twirled a golden tress around one finger, her lips pressing themselves into a straight line.
“I believe that she disapproved the loss of control in company more than the message, dear.” Elizabeth blew out the candle, and laid down next to Jane, still in her gown.
Her stays pinched a little, but she pretended not to notice.
“I am not anticipating London with much pleasure, for there are certain to be dozens of Mrs. Hursts.”
“Please do not tell Aunt Olivia,” Jane begged abruptly. “She will tell our cousin, and then…”
“Yes, I know, and I shall say nothing.” Elizabeth’s eyes adjusted to the dark, and she focused on the shape of a tassel hanging from the bed’s canopy. “I have no wish to repeat such a nasty insinuation. Even Mr. Hurst was upset with his wife.”
“And Mr. Darcy?” Jane asked lightly, giving her sister a small push with her hip.
Elizabeth recalled Mr. Darcy’s flushed face, so deeply red. His fists had been clenched tightly, his shoulders hunched nearly to his ears. She had been genuinely worried for him. Fortunately, he seemed to calm when she let him know that she was not hurt.
They were only words, after all. Though she was insulted—deeply offended—truth be told, she also felt well protected.
Perhaps a little too well protected. Never mind John.
Simply between Francis and Mr. Darcy, nobody would say a nasty word in her presence again.
The very thought of entering a ballroom, Mr. Darcy leading her and Aunt Olivia, Francis with Anna, His and Her Grace…
not to mention Mr. Bingley with Jane and Mr. Fitzwilliam, perhaps with his own family…
She chuckled softly at the image. What a parade.
It would be just the sort of company Uncle Phillip would have most enjoyed, from a man with roots in trade to the Duke and Duchess of Bedford.
Unbidden, some of his words came back to her.
Let them talk, he would say. Listen more than you speak, for people reveal more than they intend.
She could see his broad wink. It is an advantage. Use it.
“Lizzy,” Jane whispered in the dark. “Are you awake?”
“I am,” she replied. “I was just thinking about Uncle Phillip.”
“Oh,” her sister said, deflated. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Jane.” She patted her sister’s arm and sat up. “I am fine, truly. But we are leaving this house tomorrow. Early.”
Jane tossed an arm around her and squeezed tight before Elizabeth rose and returned to her own chambers. She undressed and almost instantly fell into a deep, sound sleep.
Darcy retired far later than the Bennets.
He was still trying to work out what his father had told him about his friend Phillip Russell.
He knew the connections of every one of his friends from Cambridge, and those who called in Derbyshire, but he had not spoken with the Russells in years.
The only contact had been a letter he had sent upon learning of Mr. Russell’s death while he had been on the Continent.
It had bothered him, learning that he had missed the funeral of such a long-time friend of the family, not to mention a man who had showed him a great deal of kindness when he was a boy.
But Richard had been ill and injured. It had taken time, negotiation, and money to pay the French for his release, find a doctor to care for him, and purchase passage back to England when he was well enough to travel.
It had consumed him for a season; his steward had been largely on his own to see to the planting.
”I will remember this,“ he grunted as his valet removed his boots.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Darcy?” Hanson asked.
He was a young man, Hanson. Darcy missed Euston, the valet who had been with him since he went to university.
The man had been his father’s valet and would have been able to rattle off every friend of the family and each of their connections.
He had been as much an advisor as a servant, but Euston had left service a year back. He was still getting used to Hanson.
“Nothing,” Darcy replied, and remained silent until he was dressed for bed and his man was gone to his own rest. He climbed into bed and lay there for a while, still thinking. It was hours before he fell into a fitful sleep.
Just after three in the morning, Darcy sat upright.
The night was dark, and it took him some time to grasp the thought which had shocked him to wakefulness.
He covered his face with his hands and fell back against the pillows.
“Good God,” he moaned. He had gone to school with Francis Russell, the Marquess of Tavistock. “Bedford. She is a Bedford Russell.”
One more meal, Elizabeth thought. One more meal and all arrears to propriety are paid. She stroked her skirt with damp palms and slowly released a deep breath. A quick glance in the glass and she was ready to move through the dressing room and into Jane’s chambers.
When they entered the hall together, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Fitzwilliam awaited them. Jane’s face fell a little, but she rallied, graciously accepting Mr. Fitzwilliam’s escort.
Having had a good night’s sleep and knowing her departure to be imminent, Elizabeth’s mood was bright. “Have you called in the troops for us, Mr. Darcy?” she asked as she laid her hand on his arm.
“Redundant, I am sure,” he told her. “You were quite able to handle things last night.”
He sounds proud of me. She was pleased by the thought of it. “Ah, but it is agreeable to have a knight in shining armor in reserve,” she replied. She studied his face and saw faint circles under his eyes.
Mr. Fitzwilliam cleared his throat from behind them. “I have never understood that expression.” He grinned when Elizabeth glanced back at him. “If his armor is still shiny, how much rescuing experience can he really have?”
Jane laughed a little. Mr. Fitzwilliam began to spin a tale, explaining that a knight with clean armor had obviously not met with any obstacles, and could not truly be termed a hero.
As he rambled on, Elizabeth looked up at Mr. Darcy. “That is a pertinent question. Perhaps his armor should be just a bit dented?”
Mr. Fitzwilliam interrupted the flow of his narrative to say, rather seriously, “Then my cousin is your man, Miss Elizabeth. He has fought many dragons in support of his family and friends.”
She gave Mr. Darcy an impertinent look. “Is that true, Mr. Darcy?” He frowned, and she realized he was unsure which statement she was questioning. A sign of his modesty, she thought. “Are you my man?”
Her teasing came to a sudden halt as he fixed a darkening gaze on her. “I shall be, Miss Elizabeth. Just as soon as you say the word.”
There was no more conversation as they descended the stairs and reached the first floor.
Elizabeth felt her mouth go dry as they rounded a corner to see servants carrying several trunks out the door.
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley were dressed immaculately as always; they were in the process of donning heavy pelisses.
Two fur-lined muffs were held by the maids, and Mr. Bingley was standing nearby.
She understood at once that he was present to be certain his sisters left the house.
His house. She felt a pang of guilt that he was removing his own sisters from his home on her behalf, but reason quickly asserted itself.
What else could he do? She could not have been the cause of Mrs. Hurst’s outburst, as she had not even been in the room at the time.
As for Miss Bingley, with the Hursts gone, she could not remain.
This would now be a bachelor’s residence.
That will not endear me to Miss Bingley, though perhaps she will be fair enough to blame her sister.
She sent a concerned glance back at Jane, but her sister was curiously smug.
Well done, Jane. I did not know you had it in you.
How fortunate she had been in her own sisters.
Not even Lydia would have been so lost to good behavior as Mrs. Hurst had been last evening, and she would not be sixteen until after Christmas.
Before she could wonder at his absence, Mr. Hurst strode inside, bundled in a thick coat and long muffler, his hat perched precariously to one side of his head.
He was clapping his gloved hands together; he had evidently been supervising the loading of the trunks, which Elizabeth suspected were numerous.
Mr. Darcy left her for a moment to say something to Mr. Hurst. He spoke softly so that no one else would hear, but whatever it was, Mr. Hurst grinned and then guffawed.
“I will tell my wife when we return home,” he said, tossing the end of his muffler over a shoulder, then glanced at an angry Mrs. Hurst. “No. Perhaps I will not. I thank you, Darcy. Watching her read this in the paper should prove entertaining.”
Then Mr. Hurst beckoned to the ladies, indicating that his wife and sister should precede him out of doors, when his eyes managed to catch hers. He lowered his arm.
“Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth,” he said politely, giving them a perfectly executed bow.
Elizabeth gave him a shallow curtsey. She had only known him a short time, but Mr. Hurst appeared different.
He was cleanly shaven, for one, and his hair was carefully combed.
His greatcoat did not stretch tightly across his burgeoning middle the way his waistcoats had.
More than that, he was entirely without food or drink, and seemed content to be so.
He exuded purpose. Before her was a man she could grow to like, were he not married to the former Louisa Bingley.
Mrs. Hurst, as though reading Elizabeth’s thoughts, only turned her nose up and left the hall. Miss Bingley, however, approached and in her typically grand manner, requested a private audience.
“Of course, Miss Bingley,” she said evenly. “Shall we meet in the library?” Miss Bingley nodded and led the way, entering the library first.
Mr. Darcy left Elizabeth at the door. As he bowed, he said, “I shall wait for you here.”
She had assumed he would continue to the breakfast room. Certainly this conversation would be of short duration. “Whatever for, Mr. Darcy?” she asked.
His eyes twinkled. “Reserve, madam.”
Oh, dear, she thought, giving him a tight nod. However am I attend to Caroline Bingley when he is so . . . With some difficulty, she entered the library.