Chapter 5
FIVE
“You and that fool glass,” Fitzwilliam growled at him hours later, when they each had swallowed a glass or two of port and their cravats and tongues were loosened. “You say hardly a word all evening and then pull it out and gawp at Miss Lewiston. Why did you scowl? She was quite put out, you know.”
If that had been all it was, Darcy thought, regretting she had turned and caught him looking at her. But it had been the shock at seeing her true self that had stunned and sickened him. For the next hours, he had hidden his feelings, speaking little and avoiding his cousin’s eye.
What can I say? What should I say? No one, not even Fitzwilliam, knew the power of the quizzing glass; discretion and secrecy had guided its use for generations.
“My intention was not to gaze at Miss Lewiston but at the feathered creature in her mother’s coiffeur. I thought it my only chance to examine it—”
“Zooks, do you think yourself to be like Beau Brummel?” Fitzwilliam rocked forwards in his chair, slamming his glass on the table between them.
“I have spoken of you as my favourite relation, and she finds you staring at her with a quizzing glass and then remaining silent the rest of the evening. She likely thinks you are a supercilious nob.” He stood and stalked across the room. “As do I.”
Fitzwilliam’s charge was undeniable, and well-deserved; he had failed to develop his own judgment, and then, startled upon learning how little discernment he possessed, had sat like a lump for the rest of the evening, thus provoking his cousin’s anger.
Better I remained silent than reveal how wrong I was about the Lewiston family.
The father’s bloviation and the mother’s peculiar fashion sense concealed their inner decency.
By contrast, the appearance of Miss Lewiston’s cool beauty and coy affection for Fitzwilliam was a mask for her true self—as usual, Darcy could not faithfully define the sensation, but he had been struck by a powerful lack of moral decency.
What a miserable business—I see an unhappy mesalliance and have no sensible basis on which to caution Fitzwilliam.
“I am sorry for any distress I caused you,” he said slowly, trying to quell his need to warn his cousin.
Fitzwilliam’s expression, florid with anger and drink, softened. “Truly, you are a disaster. You spend too much time at Pemberley without the company of civilised young ladies.”
“You sound like your mother,” Darcy replied, relieved to have quashed some of the ire directed at him. Knowing that his cousin wished his opinion of the young lady he favoured, he forged on.
“Miss Lewiston is nothing like your mother, however, and nothing like the ladies you have admired previously. She is neither blonde nor soft-headed.” Darcy refrained from saying ‘black-hearted’; wishing to avoid his cousin’s eyes, he rose and returned his glass to the sideboard.
“I have not known you to ever consider a serious attachment. You have been acquainted only a brief time, yes?”
He heard Fitzwilliam clear his throat. “Yes, but in marriage as in war, timing is everything. She is beautiful, brings a fortune with her, my parents approve, hers are eager...”
“Is it that you are bewitched by the lady, or are the parents bewitched by the match?”
“You are hostile to the idea of my heart being won. Perhaps it is not my heart you worry for, but that she has caught your eye?”
“I assure you that is not the case.”
The firmness of Darcy’s reply did little to calm Fitzwilliam’s suspicions. “Because she, like every lady you meet, is not good enough? You could scarcely say a word to her, let alone look at her. What is it that you, a man whose heart has yet to be touched, wish to tell me?”
“Only to be cautious.”
“Your caution will turn you into a lonely old hermit.” Fitzwilliam rose; only the swift hand of the footman in the corridor kept the door from slamming behind him.
The chagrin Darcy felt over his cousin’s anger hung over him the following day, and then into the week.
Fitzwilliam had removed himself to Matlock House and was not there on either occasion Darcy called.
What he perceived as deliberate distance forced him to wonder at the reliability of the quizzing glass.
After all, Fitzwilliam was a sensible man, with a well-regarded military mind; it was true his cousin had more experience in matters of the flesh than of the heart, but had he ever before considered a lady as one he might marry?
Neither of them had; their shared reluctance to get too near an alliance had been one of the many things that kept close their brotherly bond.
Darcy knew he had relied on the trinket much more than his father ever had.
And then, there were those warnings. Could it be that with each use, his own perceptions grew weaker?
Perhaps I should learn to rely on what I know of my family and friends, as any gentleman should.
Charles Bingley tapped his fork against his plate. “Spots and freckles? How did we get onto this awful subject? Powder and cream cover every indelicacy on any lady who has so suffered, and it is a shame we fellows cannot do likewise without being called dandyish popinjays.”
Hurst snorted and began choking on the massive forkful of duck and peas he had just swallowed. Bingley swatted him on the back and prattled on.
“Let us cease disparaging Miss Fielding’s complexion and talk of something better,” he said brightly.
“I have found an estate in Hertfordshire which sounds delightful. Fertile fields, woods bursting with birds to shoot, and ponds swimming in fish.” He smiled, amused by his own words; his younger sister leapt in to protest.
“Charles, whose estate are you speaking of?”
“One that could be mine!” Confronted by doubtful, astonished expressions, he hurriedly added, “I have leased a place called Netherfield. Of course, it is not Pemberley, Caroline. I know how fond you are of Darcy’s estate, but it is quite singular, and it is Darcy’s.
” With a decisive nod, he said, “Netherfield may not be quite so magnificent, but it sounds charming. I have half a mind to write to the solicitor right now and put in an offer.”
“Are you mad?” cried Caroline.
Louisa was equally sharp. “It is unreasonable enough you have surprised us by leasing the place. You cannot put in an offer on a piece of property you have not even seen.”
“Mr Martin assures me Netherfield will suit my needs exceedingly well. He says there are several families of good standing in the neighbourhood, and many exceedingly handsome young ladies.”
“Father would not have approved of such an impetuous decision.” His elder sister’s voice softened. “You must apply to Mr Darcy for his opinion. You know you will have good advice from him. He has never been known to make a mistake.”
It was true, Darcy was a man without fault—perfect, truly.
He never made mistakes like confusing grouse and quail when shooting or dancing twice with the most notorious widow in London.
Darcy would know whether his thinking was wise, but Bingley wished that just this once, his family would trust his judgment.
Still, mindful of the weight of his father’s legacy, he nodded.
“Of course. I should have thought of it myself. Darcy has never, not once that I know of, made a poor decision.”
Caroline clapped her hands together. “Mr Darcy is the most intelligent and generous of men, with nary a misstep made in all his life. He will be eager to counsel you, his good friend, especially given the intimacy of our family parties.”
Bingley gave his sister a dubious look. It was true Darcy never erred and his insight was greater than that of any man he knew—and he also had been prodigiously shrewd in dodging Caroline’s attentions.
He may never be my brother, but he will never guide me wrong.