Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
“I say, Darcy, what business does your cousin have in interfering with my courtship?” Bingley stalked into the breakfast room, an ugly scowl marring his usually happy countenance. “He would not leave off last night! Why, I could tell Miss Bennet was exceedingly uncomfortable with his presence.”
The breakfast room at Netherfield was bright with morning light, the tall windows admitting a pale autumn sun that glinted off polished silver and delicate porcelain.
A sideboard stood laden with covered dishes, the lingering scents of bacon, coffee, and toasted bread still warm in the air.
Normally, such a scene suited Bingley perfectly; he delighted in leisure and conviviality.
Today, however, he seemed wholly unmoved by it, his irritation sharp enough to cut through the gentle domestic calm.
Darcy, seated at the table with a folded newspaper and a cooling cup of tea, raised his eyes slowly.
He had witnessed Miss Bennet’s supposed discomfort, and it had been directed not at Richard, but at Bingley.
Richard had relayed the whole of it to him last night.
The snide comments the latter had directed at the former colonel had done nothing to ruffle Richard’s feathers, and the lack of reaction had spurred Bingley into more desperate attempts to draw Miss Bennet’s attention.
Darcy observed his friend with increasing unease. Bingley’s geniality, when thwarted, had somehow curdled into something petulant and grasping—a side of his friend Darcy had rarely been forced to acknowledge.
“Should I tell him that you have withdrawn your generous invitation?” Darcy’s sarcasm was lost on Bingley, who was already shaking his head.
“Heavens, no. Caroline would skewer me if I cast out the son of an earl.” He pitched his voice up to mimic his sister.
“‘The distinction of having such an exalted figure in our home cannot be ignored, Charles. Now everyone in this backwater will know how beneath us they are.’ She harped about it for over an hour last night. No, your cousin can stay but warn him away from my lady.”
Darcy set his cup down with deliberate care. The porcelain made a faint click against the saucer, a small sound that underscored the restraint he was exercising with effort.
“Miss Bennet is hardly your lady. She is free to bestow her affections on any gentleman she chooses.”
“But I was courting her first!” Bingley’s whinging made Darcy cringe inwardly.
Had his friend always been so…childish? Or was this a recent development?
He sincerely doubted that this behavior had only just begun.
Rather, he suspected Charles had hidden the worst of his manner from Darcy because it suited him to do so—because Darcy’s steady presence had acted as a kind of ballast, keeping Bingley from drifting too far into indulgence or self-importance.
“Were you? I was unaware you had called upon Mr. Bennet about the matter. Regardless, Miss Bennet is an intelligent young lady. She will turn to whichever gentleman proves himself worthy of her.” And Darcy sincerely believed it would not be Bingley.
“Then may the best man win!” Richard strode into the room, a broad grin on his face.
He wore a dark green coat with a brown waistcoat, the cut precise but unpretentious, and his linen immaculate.
His boots were polished until they gleamed—no doubt the work of his batman, who had left the army to be Richard’s valet when he sold his commission.
He brought with him an air of ease and confidence, giving the appearance that conflict amused him rather than alarmed him.
Bingley scoffed. “There is no competition. I have already formed a rapport with Miss Bennet. She will choose me.”
Richard chuckled but did not reply. He took a seat beside Darcy and began filling his plate with eggs and bacon, humming faintly as he did so, as though the tension in the room was nothing more than an entertaining undercurrent.
Darcy watched both men with keen interest, wondering if Bingley would tolerate Richard’s apparent lack of concern.
The former shifted in his seat, displeasure written plainly on his brow, a scowl directed at Darcy’s cousin that bordered on hostility.
Well, Darcy thought, things are now more interesting than ever before.
He folded his newspaper at last, his appetite entirely gone.
He longed to speak with Elizabeth and to ascertain her opinion on the matter.
Would her sister favor Bingley’s suit or Fitzwilliam’s?
And what of Elizabeth? Did she approve of either gentleman?
Darcy had a suspicion both sisters relied heavily on the other’s opinions and that neither would marry where the other did not approve.
The idea brought him no relief—only urgency.
Rather than sit in the tense environment, Darcy excused himself. He had a few matters of business that he must attend to before he called upon Elizabeth’s father. Hopefully, by the day’s end he would have an official courtship with the entrancing Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
And, he reflected as he left the room behind him; it was high time he acted—not as a passive observer, but as a man who knew his own heart.
Elizabeth found she could not focus for long on any one thing.
Though there had been no discussion about it at Lucas Lodge the night previous, she knew Darcy would come to call that day.
The certainty of it sat in her chest like a held breath—unsettling and thrilling in equal measure.
He had promised, after all, and Mr. Darcy was not a man to make promises lightly.
And he will bring his cousin, she postulated, her thoughts darting restlessly from one possibility to the next.
Will Mr. Bingley also come? It would be interesting to see how the gentlemen would vie for her sister’s favor, though Elizabeth would not tolerate either of them making Jane uncomfortable.
Jane’s gentle nature invited confidence, not competition, and Elizabeth bristled at the thought of her sister being made the prize in some unspoken contest of male vanity.
And what of Mrs. Bennet? Elizabeth could see her mother’s reaction now with clarity.
The Bennet matriarch was ever exuberant when it came to prospects for her girls.
The good lady would enthusiastically welcome both men, mentally weigh their worth—monetary, of course, rather than their worthiness as gentlemen—and then direct her daughter toward he who had the greatest fortune.
Elizabeth felt certain that the only reason her mother had not turned Jane toward Mr. Darcy was because Mr. Bingley was already paying her court.
Why risk losing one fish already caught?
The image was uncharitable, but not inaccurate.
She fidgeted for some time, wandering aimlessly from window to chair and back again, before at last moving to the pianoforte.
Mary had left her music strewn across the top of the instrument, the pages marked with careful annotations and underlining.
Elizabeth leafed through it distractedly, scarcely reading the titles.
She selected a pretty piece by Mozart—something simple enough that she could play it without much concentration—and settled herself on the bench.
The familiar coolness of the keys steadied her somewhat.
After a few scales, she played the song, her unpracticed fingers stumbling over the more complex passages.
She winced slightly at her own errors, but forced herself to continue, letting the music fill the room and drown out her spiraling thoughts.
As she played the final chords and the music faded into the air, she heard the unmistakable sound of carriage wheels on the drive.
Joy permeated her being. Excitedly, she pushed away from the instrument and hurried toward the drawing room, where the family received callers. Her pulse beat faster with every step, and she smoothed her gown absently, hoping she did not look quite so eager as she felt.
Her mother and two of her sisters were already there, each engaged in individual activities amid their discourse.
Jane sat with her embroidery, her posture serene; Mary hovered near a chair with a book, appearing as if she was unsure whether she would be needed to perform.
Elizabeth sat across the room from Jane, deliberately leaving the seats near her sister empty.
She took a seat on a settee by the window in hopes that Mr. Darcy would join her there. The choice felt bold and inevitable.
“Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Mr. Bingley, ma’am,” Mrs. Hill announced from the doorway.
Elizabeth’s breath caught, just briefly.
The three gentlemen stepped into the room, and all the occupants exchanged appropriate greetings.
Mr. Darcy looked precisely as he had the day before—composed, handsome, and somehow more familiar than he had any right to be.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s expression was open and amiable, his eyes already seeking Jane.
Mr. Bingley wore his usual bright smile, though Elizabeth thought she detected an edge to it now.
Mrs. Bennet was quick to monopolize their attention.
“Good day, my dear sirs,” she gushed. “Please, take a seat. We were just about to call for tea.” Her eyes darted eagerly from one gentleman to the next, calculating and delighted all at once.
Mrs. Bennet seemed ready to direct Colonel Fitzwilliam to Mary, but the former had already claimed a seat next to Jane.
Mr. Bingley took the other vacant seat, staring daggers at Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, remained standing, his attention fixed not on Jane—but on Elizabeth.
“If I may, Mrs. Bennet, I hoped to have a quick word with your husband this morning. Is Mr. Bennet available?”