CHAPTER NINE
“I RAN INTO MISS BENNET today,” said Mr. Bingley cheerfully as he settled upon the settee, taking the cup of tea a servant had just poured for him. His face was animated with a smile that betrayed both delight and sentiment.
Around him, the drawing room at Netherfield held its usual composition: Mrs. Hurst reclining near the fire, her husband half-asleep behind a newspaper and a glass of wine, Caroline Bingley poised elegantly beside her embroidery frame, and Mr. Darcy seated at some distance, a volume of philosophy open upon his knee.
“Jane Bennet?” Miss Bingley repeated, arching a brow.
“The very same,” said Bingley, his tone warm. “Whether it is an assembly ball or a morning errand, she stands out in any crowd.”
Mrs. Hurst gave a delicate laugh. “Oh, Charles, you exaggerate dreadfully. She is a pretty girl, I grant you, but not of consequence enough to command such devotion.”
Bingley shook his head, smiling as though he scarcely heard her. “You may think me foolish, Louisa, but I find her company delightful. She is gentle, amiable, and sensible—and her manner so free from pretension. I could speak with her for hours and never tire.”
“Ah, the same old Charles,” said Mrs. Hurst lightly. “Quick to lose his heart to the first agreeable face—and to a scheming mama’s design, no doubt.”
“Scheming?” Bingley looked puzzled. “What can you mean?”
“Come now, Charles,” said Mrs. Hurst. “Surely you cannot suppose Mrs. Bennet has not been contriving to secure you for her daughter. She nearly pushed the poor girl into your path at the assembly.”
Caroline added with a faint, knowing smile, “It is not surprising. Half of Meryton was waiting to see the great Mr. Bingley the moment we entered. I heard more talk of your fortune than of the orchestra.”
Bingley frowned. “I think your memories of that evening differ from mine. Sir William introduced us to half the room, yes—but it was Miss Bennet I noticed first, and without anyone’s contrivance. She was, in every sense, the most graceful young lady there.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Hurst said, turning to him for support, “pray tell our brother that he is being foolish. You, at least, are not taken in by country airs and matchmaking mamas. You must have seen Miss Bennet’s designs as clearly as I.”
Darcy, who had been reading quietly, looked up. “Schemes?” he said coolly. “I saw no schemes. If Bingley finds Miss Bennet agreeable, I see no reason to doubt his judgment. He is capable of forming his own opinion.”
Caroline’s lips curved in a mock smile. “Ah, but perhaps you are not the best judge, Mr. Darcy. I hear you have been much in the company of Miss Eliza Bennet yourself. The servants are already whispering that you and she make a most charming pair. One even said the Bennet sisters have quite captured Netherfield between them.”
A flicker of irritation crossed Darcy’s face. He had heard no such rumor, though he could imagine how it began. The gossip at the green, the laughter of the townspeople, the old man’s jest about “young love”—it had all been fertile ground for idle talk.
“Who I am seen with is my concern, Miss Bingley,” he said evenly. “Idle tongues will always find occupation. I have little patience for those who mistake speculation for truth.”
Caroline raised a hand in affected apology. “Oh, dear me, I meant no offence. Only, I was surprised—considering your opinion of her at the assembly.”
Darcy’s expression hardened. “My opinion?”
“Yes,” she said airily. “You once called her ‘not handsome enough to tempt.’ I only wondered what had altered your view.”
For a moment, Darcy’s composure faltered.
He glanced sharply at Bingley, then back at Caroline.
How had she learned of that remark? He had spoken it in confidence, and quietly.
Had Bingley repeated it? Or had someone overheard more than he realised?
And if Miss Elizabeth Bennet herself had heard—what must she think of him now?
He straightened his posture, his tone measured. “Whatever I thought then, Miss Bingley, or think now, is of no consequence to anyone but myself. And I believe my friend would say the same regarding his own preferences.”
Caroline gave a small, dismissive gesture. “As you please.”
Mrs. Hurst took up the conversation. “For my part, I rather like Miss Bennet—the elder, I mean. She is gentle and well-mannered. As for her sister, I confess her manner is too free for my taste. That sort of vivacity borders upon impropriety.”
Bingley set down his cup. “You wrong her, Louisa. Miss Elizabeth has a lively wit, but she means no harm by it. She is as good-natured a creature as ever lived.”
Mrs. Hurst waved a hand. “Perhaps. I do not dislike her. To prove it, I shall invite both Miss Bennets for tea. It will be instructive, I think, to see what lies beneath such amiable appearances.”
Caroline smiled thinly. “Yes, Louisa, an excellent plan. Nothing like conversation to test one’s refinement.”
Darcy said nothing, though his gaze lingered on Caroline a moment longer than usual.
He could not shake the sense that his friend’s sisters were up to something.
Yet, in spite of the unease her words had stirred, he felt a curious flicker of anticipation at the thought of seeing Elizabeth Bennet again.
He turned a page of his book but found he could not read a word.
***
THE FIRE BURNED LOW in the grate, casting long flickers of amber light across the polished shelves and the dark green rug.
Mr. Darcy sat back in one of the deep armchairs, his expression unreadable but for the tension in his jaw.
A book lay open in his hand, though he had not turned a page in some time.
When the door opened, he looked up.
“Bingley,” he said evenly, “I should like a word.”
Bingley entered, cheerful as ever, though his expression softened at the tone. “Of course, Darcy. What is it?”
Darcy closed the book and placed it upon the table beside him. “How did your sister come to hear of a remark I made about Miss Elizabeth Bennet on the evening of the assembly?”
Bingley blinked. “A remark?”
“I said,” Darcy replied, his voice measured, “that she was tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me.”
Recognition dawned upon Bingley’s face. “Ah. Yes, I remember now.”
Darcy’s gaze did not waver. “I said that to you privately, yet your sister repeated it this evening as though it were common knowledge.”
Bingley coloured. "Darcy, I beg your pardon. I must have mentioned it—without thinking—when we spoke of the assembly the following morning. Caroline was teasing me about my admiration for Miss Bennet, and I fear the conversation wandered to... other subjects."
Darcy exhaled, long and slow. “I thought as much.”
“I assure you,” Bingley said earnestly, “no harm was intended.”
“I know,” Darcy replied. “But Miss Bingley has a talent for turning idle words into weapons. And I would prefer she did not use mine.”
Bingley, looking contrite, sat opposite him. After a short silence, he ventured, “You did say that, though—and forgive me if I am as curious as Caroline—what has changed?”
Darcy hesitated, his eyes fixed on the dying fire. “I was not in the best of humour that night,” he said at last. “The crowd was noisy, the room stifling. I had been urged to dance when I had no inclination. It was easier to appear indifferent than to be pressed into civility.”
Bingley smiled faintly. “You mean you were sulking.”
Darcy’s mouth twitched. “Perhaps.” He leaned forward slightly. “But I will not deny that Miss Elizabeth Bennet has spirit—and intelligence—and eyes that see more than they should. If I spoke unkindly, it was out of arrogance, not conviction.”
Bingley studied him curiously. “Then you find her handsome now?”
Darcy’s gaze shifted to the window, where the night beyond was black as ink. “I find her... striking,” he said slowly. “Not for beauty alone, but for expression. There is liveliness in her manner that is—” He stopped, as though the word itself were dangerous. “Unusual.”
Bingley grinned. “You admire her.”
“I do not,” Darcy said too quickly, then sighed. “At least, I should not.”
Bingley laughed softly. “You have my word I shall not tell Caroline.”
“I would prefer you told no one,” Darcy returned, though his tone had softened.
After a pause, he added more quietly, “You know, Bingley, I dislike artifice in all its forms. I have seen how vanity and greed can corrupt even the best of families. Scheming women, ambitious men—what they destroy in pursuit of their own comfort. I would sooner appear proud than be deceived again.”
Bingley looked puzzled. “You speak as if from experience.”
Darcy’s eyes darkened briefly. “I do. But it is an old matter, and one I prefer not to revisit.”
They were silent for a moment. The fire popped gently, the only sound in the room.
At last, Bingley said, “And what do you think of Miss Elizabeth now, truly?”
Darcy’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. “I think Apollo likes her dog, and that is quite enough to justify civility. It would be rude to deny him the company of a creature he favours.”
Bingley laughed aloud. “Then Apollo shall continue to be your excuse, and I shall take it as a sign that Netherfield is making you sociable.”
Darcy did not answer. He turned back to the fire, his expression thoughtful.
In truth, he knew he lied. For each time he thought of Miss Elizabeth Bennet—her laughter on the green, the quickness of her wit, the warmth in her eyes, those fine eyes—his composure slipped a little further.
Apollo, he thought ruefully, had placed him in an impossible position, and he could not bring himself to regret it.
***
LATER THAT NIGHT, sleep would not come easily. The house had long grown still; even the faintest echo of servants’ steps had faded into silence. Darcy lay upon his back, the fire reduced to an amber glow that threw restless shadows across the ceiling.
His mind, however, refused to quiet.
He thought first of the conversation in the library, of his careless words at the assembly, and of Caroline’s smug recital of them that very evening. He could still hear her voice—light, taunting, precise.
But it was not Caroline he saw now. It was Elizabeth Bennet.
Her face rose before him as it had done more than once these past days: bright, lively, always a little too knowing.
He recalled her look that evening on the green, when her dog had leapt upon Apollo and she had laughed so freely.
There had been no resentment then, only warmth.
Yet he could not shake the doubt that she might have heard that not-so-long-ago slight.
"Not handsome enough to tempt me."
The words, repeated in his own mind, tasted bitter now.
Surely she could not have heard? She had been only a few paces away, sipping her punch. And yet, her civility since then seemed almost too effortless, too even. No trace of wounded pride. No hint of disdain, except for one moment.
He frowned at the memory. The assembly again. He had spoken carelessly about her dog—some dismissive remark about pets and overindulgence. Her reply had been swift, almost sharp, her eyes alight with mischief and something fiercer still.
…you would find my dog far more forgiving than I.
At the time he had dismissed it. But now, lying awake in the dim light, the words returned with new weight.
Had she heard him then?
He turned upon his side, staring into the faint shimmer of dying embers. If she had heard him, if she had truly understood, then he had wronged her more deeply than he wished to admit. And civility from a woman so spirited would only mean one thing: she pitied him enough to disguise her contempt.
That thought stung.
Perhaps he would find a way to discover the truth. And if she had indeed overheard, then he must make amends. An apology—not merely out of propriety, but from something quieter, less definable, that unsettled him whenever he thought of her.
He closed his eyes, meaning to dismiss the image at last, but his mind betrayed him again.
Her laughter returned, her voice soft in recollection, and behind them, the eyes he could never quite meet for long.
They were not the prettiest eyes in England, nor the most striking, but they held something that disarmed him entirely.
Fine eyes, he thought unwillingly but honestly. Far too fine.
And with that reluctant admission, sleep finally came—light, uneasy, and filled with dreams he would never confess.