Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
“Where have you been?” Bingley’s voice echoed cheerfully across the vestibule to where Darcy was handing his hat and coat to a footman.
“My horse was in desperate need of exercise. On my return, I paid a short visit at Longbourn to enquire after Miss Bennet’s health.”
“And how is she?” Bingley stepped from his book-room and into Darcy’s view, his eyes aglow with interest.
“Much improved.” Darcy racked his brain to recall anything pertinent about Miss Bennet; his attention had been entirely taken up by Miss Elizabeth. “She looked remarkably well.”
Mr Bingley’s chest swelled with pride at the mention of his beloved. “She is an uncommon beauty.”
Observing that Bingley was on the point of embarking upon his favourite topic of conversation, Darcy swiftly interjected, “You must excuse me. I have some urgent correspondence.”
“I shall not detain you. But once you are finished, I implore you to come to my aid. My sisters have summoned me to the drawing room. They wish to impart their wisdom regarding my first ball at Netherfield. I have been delaying the meeting this past hour.”
“Of course,” replied Darcy, privately resolving to avoid that part of the house for as long as possible. After the unpleasantness with Wickham, he had not the humour to spend the afternoon in the company of Bingley’s tiresome sisters.
Once in his room, he immediately sat at his writing desk, his mind disagreeably turning to the events of the morning.
His hatred of losing his self-composure was eclipsed only by his dislike of anyone beholding it.
And for that witness to be Miss Elizabeth!
He loosened his cravat, thinking of his visit to Longbourn.
Why he had felt compelled to call upon Miss Elizabeth, he could not say.
She had been perfectly well—embarrassed by her ludicrous mother, undoubtedly, but clearly bemused by his presence.
Perhaps his attention towards her had been excessive, but Darcy’s conscience could not have permitted her to walk off alone in the same direction as Wickham, knowing as he did the rogue’s predilection for virtuous maidens.
In one frustrated motion, he took up his pen and began to cut fiercely at it with his penknife.
The meeting with Wickham had been a mistake.
His request to meet Darcy to return a trinket of Georgiana’s had been a ruse; the scoundrel had preyed—as he always did—on Darcy’s protective instincts.
And his threat—that he had in his possession some private letters from Georgiana!
Darcy snorted angrily. As though he were to believe that his shy, sheltered younger sister would be capable of writing of love or passion!
Wickham was a known and practised liar. It must be another of his damnable falsehoods.
But what if Wickham is telling the truth?
A whisper of doubt entered Darcy’s mind.
It never occurred to him that Georgiana would consent to an elopement, and yet last summer he had nearly lost her.
He set his teeth. Precious Georgiana, who grew pale and silent at the merest mention of suitors and marriage, whose fragile confidence had been obliterated in the wake of Wickham’s seduction, she did not deserve this fresh pain.
What was he to do—simply write to his sister, more than ten years his junior, and enquire whether she had ever sent Wickham a lover’s note?
She would want to know the reason for his question and then what would he say?
The knife slipped in his hand, slicing the quill in two, and he gave a growl, flinging the pieces across the desk.
A knock at the door pulled his attention away. It was his valet, Robertson. “A message from Mr Bingley, sir, reminding you to find him in the drawing room.”
An afternoon in the company of Bingley’s vexatious sisters held no joy for Darcy, but he accepted for the sake of his friend.
“Am I to understand that you visited Longbourn today?” Miss Bingley addressed Darcy, who had been staring at his book for several minutes, his mind still disagreeably occupied with Wickham.
“Yes.” He glanced briefly at Miss Bingley, attempting not to sound too inviting.
“And how were the ladies within?” A sly look passed between Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst that spoke of a private joke.
“I trust Miss Bennet is well—and that Miss Eliza has no longer any need to traipse about the countryside to come to her sister’s rescue.
I am almost offended that she thought us incapable of providing adequate care. ”
Bingley called out, “I must protest! That cannot be true. I am sure Miss Elizabeth thought only of her sister’s health, which does her credit.” Darcy suppressed his amusement; his friend could always be relied upon to come to a Bennet’s defence.
“What do you think, Mr Darcy? Would you be content to have your sister present herself at a neighbour’s door, her petticoat six inches thick with mud. You would insist she take a carriage.”
Miss Bingley’s words brought forth the image of Miss Elizabeth, her cheeks flushed with beautiful colour, standing before him in the woods, her hair in disarray, her shoulders pushed back, a defiant sparkle in her dark eyes—as though she were a queen and he some impudent servant who had dared to interrupt her morning promenade.
He could not help smiling at the memory. “Miss Elizabeth is not a woman who will be told what to do—not least when it comes to those she cares for.”
“You admit she is obstinate then?” Miss Bingley seized upon his words and took their meaning for her own.
“No, only that she is guided by principles of duty and affection more so than by society’s expectations.” Miss Bingley’s critical tone bothered him, and Darcy had no wish to be drawn into a conversation in which he was required to find fault with Miss Elizabeth.
“And how fares Miss Bennet?” Mrs Hurst had the good sense to change the topic. Darcy relayed all that had occurred in his visit, ensuring that he spoke warmly of Miss Bennet’s recovery and did not spend overlong dwelling on Mrs Bennet’s silly behaviour.
“I am glad she is much better—she is a sweet girl.” A smile had returned to Miss Bingley’s face, but Darcy doubted its sincerity.
He wondered what Miss Elizabeth would say if she sat beside him.
She would most likely make some innocent remark, one that had all the trappings of a compliment, yet on closer inspection would reveal her true feelings.
Suddenly, he felt disappointed that he would not hear her witty response; it would have been a welcome balm to Miss Bingley’s affected manners.
“Charles, has Lady Lucas replied to your invitation?” Mrs Hurst consulted a list on the table in front of her. “There are so many family members, how am I to keep count of who is attending?”
“I am to pay Sir William a call later in the week,” Bingley replied. “I shall ask him then.”
“Do not put yourself to any trouble,” Miss Bingley interjected. “Their company will not be missed.”
Mention of the Lucas family reminded Darcy of his earlier encounters with its eldest son.
That abominable coxcomb was a fop if ever he saw one, entirely unsuited to a woman of Miss Elizabeth’s wit and charm.
It had been no small pleasure to inform Mr Lucas that she had returned home.
He had not seemed overly concerned when Darcy mentioned that Miss Elizabeth had fallen.
Frowning, he addressed Bingley, “What is known of the eldest Lucas son? Is he of steady character?”
“I know very little. His mother has a high opinion of him, although all mothers do of their sons. He is always ready to stop and talk, no matter what time of day.”
“If you like talking of hunts or waistcoats.” Mrs Hurst concealed a smile behind her hand.
“And is he well connected with the Bennet family?” Darcy persisted, thinking of Miss Elizabeth. She had said she meant to refuse Mr Lucas’s proposal, but he had not heard of any attachment between her and the gentleman.
Miss Bingley curled her top lip in derision. “I think they have little choice but to be acquainted with one another—for all its charms, Meryton does want for variety. Which may come as a surprise to some, given that there are four and twenty families with whom to dine.”
Sensing Miss Bingley’s continued desire to disparage the inhabitants of Meryton and having no wish within himself to join her, Darcy muttered an answer and removed himself from the conversation.
He took up his book once more in a valiant effort to absolve his mind of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s bewitching eyes.
If he were not careful, he would be in danger of thinking about them for the rest of the day.