Chapter 19
Elizabeth endured the carriage ride home from church with outward composure and inward restlessness.
The familiar hedgerows of Hertfordshire rolled past, the lanes narrowing as they approached Longbourn, and she felt an odd tightening in her chest. Only a week ago she would have rejoiced at the sight of home.
Now, though she loved it still, there was something she had left behind in Derbyshire company—something tall, dark, and unexpectedly attentive.
Mrs. Bennet’s exclamations had begun before the carriage had even left the church.
“I cannot imagine what you girls were thinking, leaving Netherfield today,” she cried.
“To leave so soon—when Mr. Bingley was so attentive, and the house so much finer than Longbourn—really, Lizzy, I cannot comprehend it!”
Jane attempted a gentle explanation about propriety and convalescence, but Mrs. Bennet was not inclined to reason.
“Propriety!” she scoffed. “What propriety is there in quitting a grand house where you are cherished, only to return to your mother’s anxieties? I declare, I never heard of such a thing. You might at least have remained until Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or until Mr. Bingley begged you not to go!”
Elizabeth, who had endured church beneath her mother’s watchful eye and now found herself the subject of renewed scrutiny, felt her patience thinning.
“Mama, Jane is recovered. It would not have been proper to impose further.”
“To impose?” Mrs. Bennet threw up her hands. “My dear, when a gentleman has shown such devotion, it is not an imposition—it is encouragement!”
Elizabeth’s gaze flickered involuntarily toward the lane beyond the hedgerow, though Darcy was long gone from sight. The warmth of his presence at church still lingered with her, and the memory of his quiet promise to call sustained her composure.
Mrs. Bennet continued in mounting agitation. “And after all that poor Mr. Bingley did for you—sending for physicians, offering the carriage, calling this very morning to escort you to church—you choose to return home at once. I am certain Caroline Bingley would have preferred that you remain.”
Elizabeth doubted that very much.
Jane, ever gentle, laid a hand upon their mother’s arm. “We shall see them again soon, Mama.”
“I should hope so!” Mrs. Bennet declared. “How else will Mr. Bingley be able to fall in love with you and ask you to marry him?”
Elizabeth bore the harangue with as much patience as she could summon, answering dutifully when required and exchanging quiet glances with Jane when their mother’s concerns drifted into melodrama.
But once tea had been taken and her mother’s attention diverted toward recounting every look and bow bestowed upon Jane at church, Elizabeth slipped away.
Her father’s study door stood slightly ajar. She tapped lightly and entered.
Mr. Bennet sat at his desk, spectacles low upon his nose, a newspaper spread before him like a shield against the world.
He glanced up at the sound of her step. “Ah. Returned from grandeur, are you? You endured a week of superior company and fine dinners, and now you flee to my dusty shelves for comfort. I suppose Longbourn pales in comparison.”
Elizabeth managed a faint smile. “Netherfield had its advantages.”
The change in her tone did not escape him. He lowered the paper entirely and studied her more closely.
“You are not sparkling with triumph as I might have expected,” he observed. “Has something gone amiss? Or are you simply mourning the loss of grand dinners and elegant company?”
She crossed the room and took the chair opposite him.
“Papa,” she began carefully, “Mr. Darcy intends to call tomorrow. He asked permission—of me—to do so. I accepted. I believe… I believe he means to court me.”
Silence.
Utter, complete silence.
Mr. Bennet stared at her as though she had begun speaking in Latin. At length, he blinked. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Yes.”
“The very same gentleman who possesses ten thousand a year and a countenance permanently arranged in superiority?”
“The very same.”
He leaned back slowly in his chair, then let out a bark of laughter. “Ha! You are teasing your old father.”
“I am not.”
Another silence followed, heavier than the first. He searched her face as though expecting to find a telltale smirk. Finding none, his expression altered—not to amusement, but to something sterner.
“Elizabeth,” he said at last, “are you quite certain of what you are telling me?”
“I am.”
“And nothing—” he paused, the words clearly chosen with care, “—nothing improper occurred at Netherfield?”
Her spine stiffened.
“Papa!”
“I ask only because such declarations do not arise from nowhere,” he replied evenly. “I would not have my daughter compromised through ignorance or folly.”
Her cheeks flushed—not with guilt, but indignation. “There was nothing of the sort. Mr. Darcy behaved with perfect propriety. As did I.”
“I am glad to hear it.” He removed his spectacles and set them upon the desk, folding his hands before him.
“You understand,” he continued, “that men of wealth—and women of wealth—are not always as we are. They have their own customs, their own expectations. You may amuse him. You may intrigue him. But intrigue is not permanence.”
Elizabeth’s hands tightened in her lap. “He is not trifling with me.”
“You believe that.”
“I know that.”
Mr. Bennet’s gaze softened only slightly. “I would not see you hurt, Lizzy. You are my most spirited child. A rich man may admire such spirit for a season. It does not always follow that he will cherish it for life.”
She rose abruptly.
“He is not like that.”
“Then we shall discover it,” her father replied calmly. “I will speak with him when he calls. If he is sincere, he will be able to withstand a few questions. If he is not—” he shrugged lightly “—then better you learn it now than later. Provided, of course, that he arrives at all.”
The implication struck like a slap.
“He will come,” she said tightly.
“I hope so.”
The faint doubt in his voice stung more than she cared to admit. Unable to endure another moment, she gave stiff nod of her head before turning and leaving the room.
Upstairs, in the quiet of her chamber, her indignation flared brighter. How could her father doubt him? How could he reduce something so earnest to mere diversion?
Yet beneath her anger lay a flicker of unease. Mr. Bennet was rarely earnest; when he was, it was not without cause.
She paced the length of her room, recalling Darcy’s steady gaze at on her that morning as he handed her into the carriage, the firmness in his voice when he asked to call on her, the warmth in his expression when she had accepted.
That had not been caprice. It had not been idle interest.
Still, her father’s final words echoed.
If he arrives at all.
Elizabeth halted by the window and drew a steadying breath. He will come.
And when he did, she would stand her ground with her father—no less firmly than she had at Netherfield with Miss Bingley.
∞∞∞
Darcy had never before found the rising of the sun so intolerably slow.
He had been awake long before dawn, staring up at the canopy above his bedchamber at Netherfield, rehearsing and revising words that refused to remain steady.
It was absurd. He had negotiated leases worth thousands, dismissed men twice his age, faced down a viscount twice his size—and yet the simple act of calling at Longbourn required more composure than all of it combined.
He dressed with unusual care. By the time he descended, Bingley was already pacing the breakfast room, gloves in hand and expression eager.
“You are early,” Darcy observed.
“So are you,” Bingley returned with a grin. “I suppose we are equally impatient.”
Darcy did not deny it.
They set out together in Bingley’s carriage, the wheels scarcely seeming to move swiftly enough along the lane. Darcy watched the hedgerows pass in a blur, his pulse uncharacteristically uneven.
If she has changed her mind…
He cut off the thought before it could fully form.
Longbourn came into view at last, warm and familiar against the late-morning light. A footman admitted them, and within moments they were shown into the drawing room.
Elizabeth was there.
He saw it at once—the flicker in her eyes, the quick intake of breath before she mastered herself. Relief.
Relief.
It struck him more deeply than he had expected.
Mrs. Bennet sprang to her feet with effusive delight.
“Mr. Bingley! How very attentive! And Mr. Darcy as well—how obliging! Jane, my dear, you must sit—no, here—closer to the window—yes, that is much better.”
Within seconds Bingley was installed beside Jane, their conversation already falling into low, earnest tones.
Darcy crossed the room to Elizabeth.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said quietly. “Are you well?”
“I am,” she replied. Then, after the briefest pause, “Yes.”
He studied her face. “You hesitate. Did you doubt my coming?” he asked softly.
Her composure wavered just enough to be honest. “Not at first.”
His chest tightened. “But?”
She met his gaze squarely. “My father suggested that gentlemen of fortune sometimes find diversion in country society. That attentions paid in such circumstances are not always… enduring.”
The words were measured, but he heard the sting beneath them.
For a moment, pride flared.
“I am not in the habit of diverting myself with the affections of young ladies,” he said, more sharply than intended.
Color rose faintly in her cheeks. “I did not say that you were.”
He exhaled slowly. “No. You did not. My apologies.”
And yet—was Mr. Bennet entirely mistaken? He knew enough of London to recognize the truth in it. Many men of his acquaintance treated admiration as pastime.
His tone softened. “Your father is correct that some do. I do not.”
She searched his expression, weighing him. “I am glad,” she said quietly.
“I would wish to speak with him,” he continued, steady once more. “If you remain of the same mind.”
“I do.” There was no hesitation now.
She rose. He did likewise.