Chapter 3
Elizabeth believed she would find Viscount Bramwell’s company rather entertaining.
To be sure, he was a flirt, and she did not take him seriously, but he was talkative and handsome, and it was always engaging to have new people about.
Glancing at Mr Darcy, she amended her thought; it was agreeable so long as the person was amiable.
It was a shame the gentleman was not. He was even more handsome than his cousin, and it would be no hardship to look at him while exchanging views on even inconsequential matters, but his expression was sour and his demeanour all but screamed that he would much rather be elsewhere.
Given what she had overheard earlier, she concluded that he was proud of his position in life and, no doubt, did not find her worthy of his time or the effort it would take to converse politely.
When the men had first entered the room, she had not known which man was which, only that they were the two she had seen in the park.
Once they spoke, she had recognised their voices.
“Tell us more about your impressions of the country and its people,” Lord Bramwell insisted. “I have my own, naturally, but you strike me as a keen observer, Miss Bennet, and I am interested in what you have found.”
“Oh,” Elizabeth said, taking a moment to order her thoughts. “The Irish are lovely. Extremely friendly and industrious. I must admit—and I say so hesitantly, but you did ask—I do sometimes think how they are treated by the English is unfair.”
“In what way?” Mr Darcy interjected.
She glanced at him before briefly lowering her eyes to the cup she held.
“Requiring the export of grain and meat, which often results in their diets being poor and insufficient. I see no reason why hard-working Irish people should suffer such conditions. Why should they—and farmers in our own country or Scotland, Wales, really anywhere in the world—not first be able to feed themselves? I do not mean to an excess, and I hate seeing people be wasteful, which is unconscionable wherever you are and whatever your station in life. But should they not be able to retain enough to provide a healthful diet for themselves and their families?”
The viscount nodded and made a light sound of agreement.
Mr Darcy fixed his eyes on her, saying dismissively, “That is a laudable but superficial view.”
“I would appreciate it if you explained your reason for saying so.” She spoke with as much politeness as she could muster, although even she could hear the challenge in her tone.
If she did not find his behaviour so offensive, there would be more truth to her words.
Her father would gladly discuss the issue with her, helping her to understand nuances her lack of education made it impossible for her to know.
Since he was far away, having someone else who was similarly intelligent and knowledgeable—as she suspected Mr Darcy was—would be welcome.
“Oh no, I beg you, please no,” Lord Bramwell said, laughing and holding up a hand as though warding off danger.
“If you must talk about it, do so while I am otherwise engaged. My cousin will drone on and on, ponderously searching for words of four or more syllables. I would fall asleep, and I have no wish for you to see me slobber or snore.” Turning to Mr Darcy, he added, “I know you find it diverting to debate such a serious subject—and I do not deny it is a worthy one—but we have only just met Miss Bennet. I do not want her to take a dislike to us.”
Mr Darcy rolled his eyes. His features appeared to soften slightly, and Elizabeth was tempted to decide he regarded the viscount indulgently, even affectionately.
But what would be remarkable about that?
she asked herself. After all, they were cousins and, since they undertook the voyage to Ireland together, they must be friends.
She felt her eyebrows pulling together and shook off her reverie of the dour gentleman.
It was easy to do, thanks to Lord Bramwell asking her what places she had visited in Dublin and which she would recommend.
The conversation continued for a while longer, Mr Darcy occasionally adding to it.
Before long, the gentlemen departed with promises to meet again soon.
Lord Halsley retreated to his study, leaving Elizabeth and Mrs Ryde to themselves.
“Well, my dear,” Mrs Ryde said, “what did you think of them?” Her smile and slightly widened eyes showed her enthusiasm and, if Elizabeth was not mistaken, anticipation of a favourable response.
Elizabeth was hesitant to criticise someone Mrs Ryde evidently thought well of, particularly a person she had known since he was a small child. Thus, she said, “They appear to be everything young gentlemen should be. Lord Bramwell appreciates society, I think.”
Mrs Ryde nodded. “Bramwell is charming, by which I mean he can charm anyone he wishes. You are too wise not to recognise what a flirt he is or that he considers it fun rather than serious. Darcy has never been as easy with new people. I am very pleased they happen to be here at the same time we are. They will add to our enjoyment. You just see if they do not!”
“I shall be glad to know them better, since both you and Lord Halsley have such high opinions of them.”
“Oh, we do!” The older woman took a sip of tea which must have gone cold long ago.
“Do you recall meeting another of your aunt’s friends, a lady she and I knew at school?
It must have been six or perhaps as much as eight years ago when you last saw her and her family, I believe.
You and your aunt were visiting me at my brother’s estate, and they were there at the same time. ”
After a brief moment searching her memory, Elizabeth said, “I do! The lady with a daughter my age named Rebecca?” The girls had met several times over the years.
Elizabeth had liked her, and they had passed a diverting week together at the earl’s estate in Norfolk.
It was a shame circumstance had not brought them together again.
Mrs Ryde nodded and smiled, just as she had earlier. “She is called Mrs Julia Darcy.” Elizabeth started at the name. “She married Frederick Darcy, who is the uncle of the gentleman you met today, his late father’s younger brother.”
As astonished by this connexion as one would expect, Elizabeth gaped. “Is he? I do not recall hearing any mention of Derbyshire when I knew them.” Viscount Bramwell had mentioned his and his cousin’s home counties.
“I suppose it never came up. Pemberley—the Darcy estate—is a wonderful place! You would love the county, and Mr Darcy—the present one, I mean—is doing a splendid job managing it, despite having been so young when his father died. Hugh Darcy was the most excellent gentleman, whether it was as a husband, father, master, or friend. It gladdens my heart to see that his son is just like him.” She laughed lightly.
“Although he is not yet a husband or a father.”
Elizabeth found it hard to believe the praise, but she understood why Mrs Ryde would want to think only the best of Mr Darcy. And, she admitted, he very well might be a good sort of master and friend; it did not mean he could not also be arrogant and unpleasant.
When the matron rose and indicated she had letters to write, Elizabeth said she would fetch her book and return to the drawing room to read in her favourite seat by the window.
The following afternoon, Darcy and Bramwell went to one of the city’s porter-houses to try the brews, which were reputed to be wholesome as well as appetising. The interior was as dark as the beverage, and while Darcy did not particularly appreciate the setting, he did find the beer savoury.
“The Irish do know what they are doing when it comes to this!” Bramwell said, holding his glass aloft in a salute before taking a hearty drink.
Darcy took a more modest mouthful and nodded. “Agreed.”
Loud laughter drew their attention. Half a dozen men sat about a table, two others standing nearby, each holding a glass.
Darcy could not hear what they were saying, but their accents were clear and marked them as locals.
It amused him to dissect differences in dialects, whether they were from various parts of England or other countries.
Though I suppose Ireland is no longer its own country.
For some reason, the thought reminded him of Elizabeth Bennet.
He could picture her eyes—indeed he could hardly stop thinking of them and her—and heat crept up the back of his neck.
Why had he responded to her as he had when she had remarked on how farmers were treated?
It was especially puzzling because he happened to agree with her, at least in general terms. He suspected his understanding of how the system had developed was superior to hers, which must be his excuse for calling her view superficial.
To be sure, he took better care of his tenants and other dependents than many gentlemen he knew, and believed it was important to find ways to influence landowners to be more caring.
If for no other reason, healthy people were more capable of completing their work efficiently.
“Darcy!” his cousin said, pulling him from his reflections of politics and, most of all, a certain young woman. “Where have you gone? You have been disregarding me for an excessively long time—”
“Thirty, forty seconds?” Darcy interjected. He took another drink.
“Hardly,” Bramwell said. “I asked you at least a handful of questions. Usually, you are only too quick to share your opinion. Nothing is worrying you, is it? No upsetting news from home?”
“Not at all. Georgiana’s letter contained little beyond an explanation of what she and her companion have done lately, and what she hopes they do in the coming weeks.” The missive had arrived that morning.
“You are not worried about her, are you? Not only does she have Mrs Younge—who you said has excellent references—my mother and father are nearby, should she require any assistance.”
“As are my aunt and uncle Darcy,” he murmured, again sipping from his glass of porter. “And, no, I am not anxious on my sister’s account. I apologise for my inattention.”
Bramwell gave him a quick smile. “One of my brilliant observations was that we shall have a very pleasant sojourn in Dublin. Mrs Ryde has always been a sociable lady. Thus her presence will help ensure we receive many invitations, and Miss Bennet is a charming young woman. I shall not object to spending more time in her company.”
Darcy fixed him with a hard expression, his brow high and lips pressed together.
Bramwell’s eyes flickered upwards, and he said, “You need not warn me to be careful. You cannot deny she is very pretty, and she strikes me as quick witted. That means speaking to her will be interesting, even for you, I dare say. If you permit yourself to have fun.”
“Bramwell, she is Mrs Ryde’s companion,” he said sternly. “I can hardly view her as a friend when her position in life is so inferior to my—our—own.”
His cousin made a noise of frustration. “You are such a stickler. Her father is a gentleman—”
“Is he?” Darcy asked. “I was not certain, given she mentioned her uncle in the city.”
“He has an estate in Hertfordshire. Her mother is from trade.”
“Evidently his estate is exceedingly small or poor, likely both, if his daughter—who is only twenty, I believe—must seek employment.”
With a shrug, Bramwell said, “Is she Mrs Ryde’s companion in that sense, like Mrs Younge is, I mean?”
“It is what Lord Halsley called her,” Darcy insisted.
“I do not see why Mrs Ryde would bring her otherwise. They are not relations. And, as a paid companion, it would be inappropriate for you to pay her too much attention. She ought to be attending to her mistress, not spending her time talking to you or anyone else.” It was what he expected of his sister’s companion.
Looking at Darcy over the rim of his almost empty glass, Bramwell said, “I am not so sure you have the right of Miss Bennet’s position.”
“I am, and I intend to treat her accordingly.”