Chapter 8 #3
“My sister is not quickly familiar,” Darcy said.
“True,” Bingley agreed. “But she may become so in time.”
Darcy did not encourage the thought further. It was not a topic on which it was possible to be frank — not without being unpardonably insulting to his friend’s sister.
Instead, he turned slightly toward the fire and said, with the air of someone determined to pursue a different subject altogether, “You mentioned that your sisters have been planning the remainder of the season with considerable energy. I imagine they have not yet exhausted the list of houses you are expected to visit.”
Bingley laughed and leaned forward, shaking his head ruefully.
“Darcy, if I were to list the full account of those engagements, you would quickly find yourself regretting the question. At any rate, I have resolved to escape for one evening at least.” As he spoke, he set his glass aside and leaned forward with renewed animation. “Which brings me to a proposal.”
Darcy regarded him with quiet curiosity. “I am listening.”
“I have secured a box at the theatre for next Thursday,” Bingley said. “It seemed the easiest way to arrange an engagement which Caroline cannot easily transform into a matrimonial campaign.”
“A prudent precaution,” Darcy replied wryly.
“I thought so,” Bingley continued with satisfaction. “And I hoped you might join us. It is a comedy, and said to be very good.”
Darcy inclined his head readily. “I should be happy to.”
“Excellent,” Bingley said, rising as he spoke and reaching for his gloves from the table. “You must bring your sister as well. Miss Darcy enjoys the theatre, does she not?”
“She does,” Darcy replied, standing as well and setting his glass aside. “Though my sister is still a little ill at ease among a crowd. As you will recall, she is not yet out, and it is not easy for a young woman without a mother or sister to support her courage.”
“That may easily be arranged,” Bingley said as he drew on his gloves. “Mrs Annesley must accompany her, of course. The box will accommodate us all very comfortably.”
“In that case,” Darcy said, “I will inform Georgiana tomorrow. I have no doubt she will be pleased by the invitation.”
“I am glad of it,” Bingley answered warmly. “It will be a far more agreeable evening than the engagements my sisters would have arranged for me.”
Darcy accompanied him toward the door. “You are leaving already?”
“I must,” Bingley replied with a cheerful shrug. “If I remain much longer, Caroline will suspect that I have deserted half the families of London.”
“I should regret being responsible for such an offence,” Darcy said lightly.
“And I should regret the lecture that would follow it,” Bingley returned with a laugh as he reached the door. He paused only long enough to shake Darcy’s hand before adding, “Thursday, then. I shall look forward to it.”
“Thursday,” Darcy agreed.
A moment later the door closed behind Bingley, and the sound of his departing carriage faded gradually into the quiet of the street.
Darcy returned slowly to the chair beside the fire, the warmth of the room feeling more noticeable in the absence of conversation.
For several minutes he remained where he was, his glass untouched on the table, while his thoughts drifted with unwelcome ease toward the subject he had been attempting to avoid all evening.
Elizabeth Bennet.
Bingley’s careless remark had recalled her so vividly that the memory seemed almost present again before him.
He had imagined that a week’s distance from Hertfordshire might restore a more reasonable perspective on his feelings.
Instead, he found that the impression she had made on him had lost none of its force.
He leaned back in his chair and gazed into the fire.
The misunderstanding at Longbourn returned to him with uncomfortable clarity.
He could still see the composed intelligence with which Elizabeth had rescued him from the awkwardness created by her mother’s expectations, and he remembered equally well the seriousness with which she had listened to his account of Wickham.
Few women, he suspected, would have received such a confidence with equal steadiness.
Her judgement had been quick but not rash. Her sympathy had been sincere without the smallest trace of sentimentality.
Darcy rose at last and crossed slowly toward the window, though the dark street beyond offered little to distract him from his reflections.
The fire behind him burned low, casting a warm but restless light across the room, yet his thoughts refused the comfort it offered.
He had imagined that distance from Hertfordshire would restore him to a proper indifference.
Instead, he found that Elizabeth Bennet occupied his mind with a steadiness that neither reason nor resolution seemed able to dismiss.
Whether this was a circumstance to be regretted or merely endured, he could not yet determine.
But he was forced to acknowledge one truth with increasing clarity.
He had not thought of her for the last time.