Chapter 9
Nine
TO THE BITTER END
Elizabeth could not understand his curiosity.
He should not care where she lived or who she lived with or even whether she lived at all.
He at least spoke of Neddy by his name, instead of ‘it’—as if her brother was some sort of demon—unlike the Philipses and their staunchest allies, Sir William and Lady Lucas, when Mama was not nearby to listen.
Besides, there were too many explanations for her living situation, most of which would not cast her family in a particularly good light.
On the other hand, her family, apart from Jane, did not mind casting those shadows upon her.
She settled on incomplete truth. “I am the one best suited to do it.” He raised a brow at this, but merely nodded in reply.
Mr Darcy was an impeccable dancer, she had to admit.
His evening clothes were exquisite, the material finely woven, his silk stockings revealing long, muscular limbs.
Now that his questions were answered, it was likely he would never again have anything to do with her.
Indeed, he had said not a word in the good ten minutes since her admissions.
It was almost surprising to her when he spoke again.
“It is your turn to say something now, Miss Elizabeth. I talked about Longbourn, your father and your brother. You ought to make some kind of enquiry about my relations and Pemberley. Then we may be silent.”
With some dismay, she realised that for all her appraisal of her partner’s silences, she had failed to take up her own part of the conversation, almost to the point of rudeness.
“I am accustomed to hearing a good deal of opinion on my decision to make my home at Fox Hollow. I suppose I was waiting to hear yours.”
He raised a brow. “Of course, where you make your home cannot matter to me.”
Elizabeth felt her cheeks flushing. “I did not mean that I wished to hear it, only that I expected to. It was most unconsciously done.”
“But since you broach the topic, I suppose that if you have a decent companion, and a manservant or two for protection, it cannot matter too much whether you live at Longbourn or, hm, Fox Hollow.”
She was grateful that the figures of the dance bore her away.
Was this the longest quadrille in the history of quadrilles?
Naturally, Mr Philips claimed they could not afford more than the daily girl Mrs Hill sent over with food and to perform light chores.
Her ‘companion’ was old, half-deaf Mrs Finch, who traded her dubious protection for room and board—a nod to propriety and no more.
Someday, Neddy would be big enough to deter the possible threat of a stranger…
that is, if he understood there was a threat.
His tendency was to avoid all adults who were not the Hills, Jane, or Elizabeth.
He is but three! There was yet much time for him to grow in wisdom and perception.
“Pemberley,” she said quickly upon rejoining him, before he could persist in his line of questioning. “In Derbyshire, I think Mr Bingley said? In the Peak District, perhaps? Mr Harrington’s family spent a holiday touring that country, and returned with tales of its utter magnificence.”
He acknowledged the subject change with another lift of his elegant brow.
“It is, yes. There are not many estates which are lovelier—I am not boasting, you see, for I am not responsible for its design, nor did any but God Himself create its setting. It has been the work of many generations to build, preserve, and even add to its beauty. I am only its conservator.”
“Such modesty,” she smiled. “As its owner, you must share in its reflected glory. At least a little.”
He held up his gloved hand, an inch separating his thumb and forefinger, his expression as solemn as ever and she had to laugh as she left his side to twirl with others in the circle.
But when he rejoined her, he was first to speak. “You do have a manservant?” he enquired, tenacious as ever.
She should have lied. Later, she wanted to kick herself as she rehearsed the conversation in her mind. “Mr Hill comes often,” she said instead.
The look on his face was alarming—a combination of incredulity, apprehension, and anger. Thank goodness the music was winding down, the dance soon ended. She prepared to give him a curtsey, to make her exit, perhaps to leave the assembly altogether.
He halted her, his hand upon her arm. “One thing,” he said with a low-voiced intensity she found almost disturbing. “Do not share your situation with Wickham. I saw he has made himself known to you.”
This was astonishing. “He was very friendly.”
“He makes friends easily. Whether he can keep them is another matter.”
“He has certainly lost your friendship.”
Mr Darcy’s brows lifted. “So, he has begun his campaign already.” He shook his head, as if dismissing the matter.
“It does not matter what he says of me. Of all things, never allow him to know you are often unprotected.” With that he escorted her the few steps to where Jane stood, bowed, turned, and left her staring after him.
“Lizzy!” Jane said, her tone rather wondering. “Mr Darcy has danced with no one else except Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst—Mr Bingley’s sisters. Everyone has been wondering about him. What did he say? It appeared you were having quite the conversation.”
Elizabeth did not know how to reply. She could hardly tell her that they had met once before, that he was curious regarding the personal details of her life, that his appearance had changed to one of utter sympathy when she spoke of their father and he of his, however briefly, and that he had almost—if not quite—named the handsome lieutenant, Mr Wickham, as the worst kind of scoundrel.
“Just, um, the usual things,” she managed. “Nothing in particular, really.” Jane’s next partner thankfully appeared, and Elizabeth walked slowly back to her former seat at the edge of the room, feeling bewildered.
Could Mr Wickham be so untrustworthy? It seemed impossible. But why? She did not know the man at all. Neither, she reminded herself, did she know much of Mr Darcy. He had the recommendation of Mr Bingley, who seemed an upright and responsible citizen. Or at least, a complimentary one.
There were rules governing civilised behaviour, and the strictest of them were designed to protect the daughters of gentlemen like her father; but by moving to Fox Hollow, she had moved not only beyond the criticism and discipline of her uncle, she had left her best protections.
In spite of this, in the six months she had resided there, she had never once felt unsafe.
She had never heard of any servant in their small valley being molested.
Her church attendance had been more sporadic as Neddy grew more active and less able to stay hushed, but she still tried to serve with all her neighbours, not simply the wealthy ones, on parish committees with women of varying classes.
All were respectable. None would stand for abuse in their homes.
She could not overlook, though, how things had changed.
The militia had moved in. Its leader, a colonel—had she heard his name was Forster?
—must be respectable. He had to maintain authority to govern, to discipline, to keep order.
Yet…discipline occurred after infractions. After a woman had been hurt.
As for the residents of Netherfield, she knew little of them, either. Now, thanks to her lack of discretion, one of them, at least, knew too much about her. She cursed herself.
After a short while, however, it occurred to her that her own lapse, although reckless, was hardly the sole source of this information.
Many of her neighbours, Mr and Mrs Philips at their head, loved to speak of her foolishness in leaving Longbourn.
Her unusual attendance tonight would bring it all up yet again, with her critics doubtless feeling obligated to render their opinions. Loudly.
And the fellow whom Mr Darcy had warned her against? Mr Wickham? Would he hear it as well?
Well, there was nothing to be done about it.
She had made a rather large mistake in coming tonight, but she desperately needed more options.
Would Mr Goulding render her some advice on how to protect Neddy’s fortune?
Might even he push for another, more diligent trustee to be appointed?
Mama had always respected his opinions. He had ever been sympathetic, and he scorned Henry Philips’s pretensions—even though he had never yet lifted a finger to curb them.
Could she convince him that it was time to do so?
She might even beg a ride home from him, using the opportunity to present her concerns.
He was dancing an energetic reel, she saw, and knew he would likely dance the night away.
Mr Morris, it appeared, had joined a group of men playing cards.
She no longer could summon any interest in attracting a member of the militia.
Mr Darcy had unswervingly landed upon the weakest part of that notion—she did not know them, nor their families.
The worst rogue could be clothed in patriotic red.
It was going to be a long evening; sighing internally, she prepared to find an unobtrusive corner to wait.
With any luck, most would forget she had ever been here.
At that very moment, as the dancers circled, old Mr Goulding dropped like a stone. With three dozen others, she screamed.
Her hopes for help plummeted with him, and terror took its place.