Chapter 3
Three
RIGHT OF FIRST REFUSAL
“Is that so?” he replied to the enthusiastic child. “Can you translate?” he asked the woman.
She seemed to hesitate. “Not really,” she said at last. “Proper speech does not come easily to Neddy. But he is learning—he loves animals of every kind, and has learnt the names of many of them.”
“I apologise that you do not know mine, and that a proper introduction was not possible. I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, a guest at Netherfield.”
“Ah,” she said, after a pause. “I had supposed you to be Mr Bingley, to whom my—and Edward’s—sister has been introduced.”
“Your sister?” he asked casually, trying to recall other dark-haired, dark-eyed young ladies of equivalent beauty, and failing.
“Miss Jane Bennet, of Longbourn,” she said, eyeing him as if to judge his response.
It was all he could do not to give her one.
Jane Bennet, Bingley’s current infatuation!
But they were at least a mile from Longbourn, and heading farther away from it with every step!
He had met Miss Bennet’s mother, as well as the mother’s brother and sister.
While Miss Bennet comported herself admirably, her family was less well-behaved.
“I have been introduced to your sister. I now see Edward’s resemblance to her,” he managed.
The young lady’s expression softened as she looked at her brother. “Yes. Jane looked very like him as a child.”
She had not offered her own name, he noticed.
However, there was no rule that said she must; she was, plainly, cautious.
Instead, she had given him to know that she was of a respectable family in the community, not someone to be trifled with.
He approved of her discretion, he decided.
All in all, she was much more like Miss Bennet than the rest of her clan.
He could see a path through the wilderness now—a track that was obviously travelled regularly.
Between her home and Longbourn? But why would she live out here, instead of in her family home?
He had avoided visiting it thus far with Bingley, but he had ridden by it—a large manor house of some prosperity. Unless she was married after all.
Disappointment, bitter and unwanted, filled him.
It is for the best, he told himself. A young lady who flitted around the backwoods with her hair down was hardly the woman for him, for Georgiana, and for Pemberley.
He had fought lustful impulses before, his reason aiding and abetting him. Where was it now, when needed?
As if she had read his thoughts, she lifted the hood on her cloak to cover her head again, and foolish dissatisfaction was added to his disappointment.
A long, low, sandstone and timber building roofed in grey slate came into sight, fitting very well with its surround of forest—set in a clearing, rather than a lawn. There were windows, but they were shallow-paned and small, rather medieval in appearance. It was probably gloomy within.
She approached the timbered door and turned to face him, holding out her arms. There was nothing else to be done except hand the child back to her.
“Dig-gah-dig,” he babbled.
“Farewell to you, Mr Bennet,” he said to the boy. “Remember, do not hurt…” he paused, realising he could not supply a name. Neither did she provide it. “Do not hurt your sister,” he repeated firmly.
“Take your horse to Longbourn,” she directed. “It is much closer than Netherfield. Mr Hill, in the stables, is excellent, and he will help you treat him.”
The injury to her neck—four reddened nail marks raking down until they disappeared within her cloak—stood out in painful relief, blemishing her otherwise flawless skin.
Ever afterwards, he would not know why he had done it; he had never behaved thus in his entire life, not to any female, be she highborn lady or country lass. Reaching out, with the tips of his fingers, he touched her flesh—featherlight, the barest stroke with gloved fingers, tracing the scratches.
“No more hurting, Edward,” he ordered the lad in a tone of demand he could not prevent.
For brief seconds she only stared at him, boldly meeting his gaze. Without another word, she turned the handle and slipped inside with the child, shutting the door in his face with a soft click of the latch.
Elizabeth’s heart did not slow for several moments; she leant against the door for support. Neddy struggled to be let down, and she released him.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she said aloud, testing the name on her lips.
He was quite the handsomest man she had ever seen, although his looks were not evident in any frivolous manner.
He had dressed soberly, in dark colours.
But expensively too—he was rather exquisitely turned out for a mere gallop on country lanes and byways.
The wool of his coat sleeve was of the finest weave—had she truly laid her hands upon him so familiarly?
It was one of their habits, she and Neddy, to start the day with a brisk tramp in the morning air whenever the weather was clear.
Well, Neddy cared not at all about weather, and never seemed to feel the cold.
He would go, rain or shine; it was she who hated the damp and trying to dry out her clothing in the draughty confines of Fox Hollow.
They had come upon the man on the horse unexpectedly; he was on Longbourn land, although barely past the property line. She had heard from Jane all about the new occupant of Netherfield, but his name was Bingley, not Darcy.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she repeated, rather liking the sound of it; as well, there was no one else to hear. Mrs Finch, her supposed companion, slept late of a morning, and was half-deaf besides.
He had been brooding atop that horse, noticing nothing of his surroundings, the expression on his face unhappy.
She had halted, not wanting to go anywhere near him.
But Neddy had tugged on her hand, plainly excited by the fine animal’s appearance, and he was fearless with both man and beast. They had still been several yards away when Mr Darcy had been thrown.
She had lifted her brother, setting him in the deep vee of a nearby tree he was in the habit of climbing. It would take him some time to get down, the little monkey, and distract him besides. As she had hoped, he immediately began climbing upwards, forgetting the horse and its fallen rider.
Even as she had started forward, she could see Mr Darcy was scrambling to right himself; his efforts were strong enough that he was probably uninjured. Only then did she notice the clumps of stinging nettles surrounding the struggling man.
Recalling which, she must remember to soak her linen gloves, which no doubt carried traces of the nettles’ oils.
She smiled, remembering Mr Darcy’s disgust with his humiliating position—it was obvious that this was a man unaccustomed to inelegance, calamity, or disobedience.
She had rather enjoyed her small attempt at humbling him.
The whole incident would make a delightful story to tell Jane the next time she visited.
Except its ending, when she had ever so briefly been captured in his dark, overpowering gaze—when his gloved fingers had traced the sensitive skin of her neck, and she had seen herself reflected in his eyes.
She had somehow known he thought her beautiful… even despite the wounds.
No, she must do her best to forget the tale’s ending, for there was nothing of happily-ever-afters to be found in it.
Such men as he did not take women like her as a bride, and she had no father to protect her if he tried to take her regardless.
A prosperous redcoat, however unlikely, or a well-to-do land-steward might—she hoped—be thrilled to have a daughter of Longbourn as his wife.
She was not vain—how could she be, when she maintained her respectability on the thinnest of edges?
But the face looking back at her in the mirror was certainly not ugly, her figure was pleasing, and both physical and social graces came easily to her.
Mr Morris, on the other hand, though neat and sensible in appearance, could not claim any other attribute of beauty. She tried to imagine homely Mr Morris tenderly touching her face; the image would not come, and she shuddered instead.