Chapter 17 #2
“One that does not relinquish its quarry once scented,” he replied. “You would be wise to flee while you may.”
She turned toward the house, then hesitated. “I ought to return to Jane in any case. She will be waking soon.”
He inclined his head, though his mouth curved with wry resignation. “So, you abandon me to the vultures.”
“I do no such thing,” Elizabeth said, laughing. “You are perfectly capable of fending for yourself.”
“An unproven theory,” he said. “If I do not survive, I trust you will ensure my memory is spoken of kindly.”
She laughed outright then, surprised and delighted by the humor in him, by the ease with which it surfaced when he was unguarded.
“I shall say you were brave,” she promised. “And exceedingly patient.”
“That is generosity beyond measure.”
Miss Bingley was nearly upon them now, her gaze already fixed on Darcy, her mouth set as though she had been rehearsing a speech for some time.
Elizabeth curtsied, her eyes still warm with laughter. Darcy bowed. Then she turned and went inside.
As she climbed the stairs toward Jane’s room, her thoughts were entirely elsewhere—on a quiet voice in a garden, on steady arms and earnest words, on the unexpected warmth of shared laughter.
It startled her, how thoroughly he occupied her mind.
And she did not try, in the least, to dislodge him.
∞∞∞
Darcy spent the greater part of the day sequestered first in Bingley’s study and then in his own chamber, pleading urgent correspondence and matters of business that did not, in truth, exist.
It was astonishing how adept Caroline Bingley was at defeating clarity.
He had spoken plainly. He had offered neither encouragement nor ambiguity.
He had agreed openly—publicly—with Elizabeth Bennet’s censure of Caroline’s conduct, and yet the woman persisted as though his words had been a foreign language imperfectly translated.
She hovered in doorways, lingered in corridors, found reasons to send messages and inquiries that required no answer at all.
She clung with the tenacity of burrs from an untended hedgerow, catching upon his sleeve no matter how carefully he tried to pass.
By mid-afternoon, Darcy was forced to concede that retreat was the wiser course.
In order to not be entirely dishonest in his seclusion, he wrote a few letters to Lady Anne, Georgiana, and his steward.
There were, after all, always matters of business for a gentleman who was responsible in his duties.
When the dinner bell finally rang, he set aside his quill with relief and rose, straightening his coat and schooling his expression.
He told himself that it was mere politeness that urged him downward.
Mere duty. And yet, beneath that sensible reasoning lay a far less restrained hope—that Elizabeth Bennet would be there, and that her presence might impose, by sheer force of character, a degree of civility upon the table.
The drawing room was already occupied when he entered.
Elizabeth stood near the window, one hand resting lightly upon the back of a chair, her posture relaxed but alert. Jane was beside her, wrapped in a shawl and pale but composed, her smile gentle as ever. Darcy felt an unreasoned tightening in his chest ease at once.
Bingley, catching sight of them as he entered behind Darcy, lit up as though the room had been brightened by additional candles. “You are both very welcome,” he said warmly. “We are delighted to see you down.”
The moment was, predictably, interrupted.
Caroline Bingley swept into the room with an expression already sharpened for offense, only to halt when she observed Jane and Elizabeth already present. She was closely followed by the Hursts and the butler announcing dinner, so there was no time for her to speak.
Bingley moved promptly to Jane’s side and offered his arm, his manner solicitous but confident. Darcy, without hesitation, turned to Elizabeth.
“If you will permit me, Miss Elizabeth.”
Her smile was small but genuine as she accepted, and he felt, absurdly, steadied by the simple contact.
Behind them, Mr. Hurst escorted his wife with more attention than usual, speaking to her in a low voice as though reminding her of something important. Only after they had taken several steps did he glance back, blink as if surprised to remember Caroline, and belatedly extend his arm.
She took it with visible reluctance.
They processed into the dining room, where Bingley seated Jane at his right hand, casting a final, protective glance her way before moving to his own place. Darcy drew out Elizabeth’s chair, and she inclined her head in thanks before settling herself with composed ease.
At the foot of the table, Mr. Hurst guided his wife into the hostess’s chair.
The moment Mrs. Hurst sat, Miss Bingley stiffened. She opened her mouth, and Darcy braced himself for her protests.
“Caroline,” Bingley said, not loudly, but with unmistakable warning.
The single word landed with unmistakable warning.
She drew herself up, emitted a small, aggrieved huff, and took her seat without further protest, though the glare she cast toward Mrs. Hurst suggested the matter was far from settled in her mind.
Dinner began with all the careful civility of a household attempting to pretend it had not recently survived a small domestic war.
Soup was served. Spoons moved. Chairs were adjusted. For several moments, only the muted sounds of cutlery and the faint crackle of the fire disturbed the room.
Bingley, determined as ever to restore cheer, smiled around the table. “I am very glad to see you below again this evening, Miss Bennet,” he said warmly to Jane. “You look quite yourself.”
Jane returned the smile, serene and gracious. “Thank you, Mr. Bingley. I feel much improved.”
Darcy observed the exchange with a touch of awe. Jane’s manner was unchanged by illness or insult; if anything, it was softened, as though she believed kindness might smooth over any roughness left behind.
“I told you she would recover quickly,” Elizabeth said lightly. “Rest, warmth, and broth perform miracles that physicians are sometimes inclined to overlook.”
Mrs. Hurst inclined her head. “I am relieved to hear it. Illness is such a dreadful interruption to the comfort of a household.”
“Particularly when one is unprepared for guests,” Miss Bingley added, her tone smooth, her eyes fixed on her plate.
Darcy felt the shift immediately. It was subtle, but unmistakable—the way Elizabeth’s posture straightened, the way Bingley’s smile faltered for the briefest moment.
Elizabeth met Miss Bingley’s gaze calmly. “Indeed. Though I have always thought that a household’s comfort is best measured by how it treats those who are least at ease within it.”
Miss Bingley blinked once, clearly uncertain whether she had just been challenged.
Jane said gently, “Mrs. Hurst, the soup is excellent. Please convey my compliments to the cook.”
Mrs. Hurst seemed grateful for the reprieve. “I shall,” she said quickly. “She will be pleased.”
Mr. Hurst, oblivious or unconcerned—Darcy knew not which—chewed thoughtfully and then said, “This beef is excellent, Louisa. Much improved upon what we were served when we first arrived.”
The remark earned him a brief smile from his wife and a visible flush from Miss Bingley, whose own culinary preferences had been loudly asserted upon their arrival. The hue clashed violently with her copper hair and orange gown, rendering her expression almost theatrical.
She tried again, to Darcy’s amazement. “Pray, tell me Miss Eliza—what is the fare like at Longbourn? With so many sisters, I imagine there are ample hands to assist in the kitchens.”
Elizabeth looked up slowly, as though considering the question with care.
“On the contrary,” she replied, her tone mild, “we find it far more efficient to leave the kitchens to those who are actually skilled in them.”
Miss Bingley blinked. “Oh? I had assumed—”
“That assumption,” Elizabeth continued pleasantly, “is rather common among those who were not raised in a gentleman’s house.”
Darcy pressed his lips together.
“Our cook,” Elizabeth went on, “has been with us for twenty years. She prefers not to be supervised by amateurs, and we prefer not to interfere. It creates a harmony most agreeable at table.”
Jane added gently, “We are quite spoiled by her talents.”
Miss Bingley’s smile tightened. “Still, it must be… lively. All those young ladies in one household.”
“It is,” Elizabeth agreed. “Lively conversation, varied opinions, and the great benefit of learning restraint when one is tempted to speak unkindly.”
There was a fractional pause.
Mrs. Hurst’s eyes flicked to Elizabeth with something very like admiration.
Miss Bingley gave a short, incredulous laugh. “How very… philosophical.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “One must cultivate something, Miss Bingley. I find philosophy less taxing than malice. Then again, I am usually more occupied with the typical duties that come from being a gentleman’s daughter.”
“But not all your family is of the gentry, if I am not mistaken.” The hateful woman’s voice was tinged with desperation. “After all, dear Jane told us that your family lives in Cheapside, do they not?”
Elizabeth’s response was immediate and deceptively gentle.
“That is quite true. However, a gentleman’s daughter, after all, is raised to understand the value of labor, no matter where some members of her family originate from.
I do not believe you will have had any such lessons, however. What a pity.”
Bingley cleared his throat and reached for his napkin. Jane took a sip of water, serene as a painted Madonna, and Darcy did not know how she was able to keep such composure.
Caroline opened her mouth, closed it, then frowned, uncertain whether she had been insulted or enlightened. She finally recovered herself with visible effort. “It is admirable, I suppose, to cultivate contentment with one’s circumstances.”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “It is essential. Otherwise, one risks mistaking discontent for discernment.”
Miss Bingley’s fork paused halfway to her plate.
“And of course,” Caroline continued, pressing on, “country habits can be quite… rustic. One cannot expect the same refinements everywhere.”
Darcy nearly gaped at this comment. How is she able to behave as if nothing has changed?
He watched as Elizabeth looked towards Bingley and Jane, who were engrossed in their own conversation, oblivious to the tension at the table. It became clear that they would not intercede, and Elizabeth took a sip of wine before responding.
“No,” she agreed at last. “One finds different refinements in different places. In the country, for instance, people are often judged less by who their relations are, and more by how they behave.”
Miss Bingley forced a laugh. “How very charitable.”
“Charity,” Elizabeth replied serenely, “is generally considered a virtue.”
Caroline tried once more, her tone sharpening. “Still, I cannot imagine being satisfied with so… limited a circle.”
Elizabeth looked genuinely puzzled. “Limited? We dine with neighbors, care for tenants, host visitors, and manage an estate. I should think it rather full. Perhaps it only seems limited when one is accustomed to rooms crowded with people who do not like one another.”
The silence that followed was exquisite.
Caroline flushed scarlet.
Darcy pressed his mouth together and stared intently at his plate.
Mrs. Hurst bit her lip.
Mr. Hurst reached for more potatoes.
Miss Bingley straightened. “I see you value frankness, Miss Eliza.”
“Very much,” Elizabeth replied. “Especially when it spares everyone the discomfort of pretending.”
Darcy had to take a deliberate sip of wine to hide his smile.
There was a long pause.
At last, Caroline looked down at her plate and did not raise her eyes again.
For the remainder of the meal, she confined herself to cutting her food into very small pieces, as though it had personally offended her.
Throughout it all, Bingley sat visibly strained, his usual ease replaced by a nervous attentiveness that never quite resolved into action. Darcy felt a familiar irritation stir. His friend had shown real courage before. He had stood firm when it mattered most.
But it seemed that the effort of placing Caroline in a different chair had exhausted his reserves for the day.
Darcy watched Elizabeth instead. When he finally allowed himself a glance at Elizabeth—and found her calmly buttering a roll, as though she had done nothing more remarkable than comment on the weather.
She met each barb with composure and precision, never raising her voice, never descending into overt rudeness, yet leaving Caroline perpetually off-balance. It was not cruelty. It was not even retaliation.
It was mastery.
He could not remember ever admiring such restraint more.
When at last the final course was cleared and the ladies rose, Darcy found himself breathing more easily than he had in an hour.
As Elizabeth passed him on her way out, her eyes met his for a fleeting instant.
There was humor there. And intelligence. And something quietly resolute.
Darcy remained seated for a moment longer, acutely aware of two truths that were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
First: Caroline Bingley was not done.
And second: he found himself very much hoping that Elizabeth Bennet would not be either.