Chapter 11
ELEVEN
It was a few days after the card party before Elizabeth had opportunity to speak again with Charlotte.
Her friend had caught her younger brother’s cold and, now free of chest plasters and foul teas, was clearly pleased for Elizabeth’s visit.
After settling into the cosy morning room at Lucas Lodge and canvassing the events and conversations in their homes after the gathering, she asked Elizabeth whether her thoughts had changed on the Netherfield party.
Of course Elizabeth had thought of little else, but she was reluctant to speak of the stares and odd behaviour of one gentleman, so as was her wont, she made light of the question.
“How can I begin, Charlotte? Mr Bingley is all smiles, his sisters frown and are afflicted by brief but well-timed illnesses, and as for Mr Hurst, he enjoyed your mother’s punch and cakes nearly as much as Mr Robinson. ”
“Mr Robinson’s housekeeper is a terrible cook, and he is desperate for dinner invitations, as you know.”
“And my mother fears he will pay too much attention to Jane and take the hospitality at Longbourn as an invitation to court her.” Elizabeth immediately regretted her joke, realising too late that Lady Lucas’s invitations had not prompted the man to court Charlotte.
Not that either girl would want such attentions from an old man. ..
“And Mr Darcy?”
Elizabeth could not like the sly look Charlotte was giving her.
After taking a moment to admire the perfect crust on a piece of shortbread, she replied, “Mr Darcy is known—as Mr Bingley and his sisters never tire of telling us—as a man certain of himself, never wrong in his decisions or conclusions.”
“He was wrong about you when he said you were not tolerable enough to dance with.”
“Indeed.” Feeling her cheeks redden, Elizabeth occupied herself with a bite of the shortbread.
“Do you think Mr Darcy mistaken in his friendships with the Bingleys and Hursts?”
“Or that perhaps he enjoys their company because they praise him?” Elizabeth regretted her flippancy almost as soon as she said the words; Charlotte looked wounded on the gentleman’s behalf. “Truly, I am jesting. I am not that petty in my thinking.”
“And yet,” Charlotte said, “he is a guest of people you consider dreadful and seems uneasy with others we know could match him for wit and intelligent conversation. Such as you, Lizzy. He certainly gazes at you frequently enough.”
Such sentiments were not at odds with her own feelings, but she did not wish to discuss those with Charlotte, who was far too skilful in guessing Elizabeth’s thoughts.
While she did often find herself the object of Mr Darcy’s unsettling stares, she was certain the gentleman was too affected by himself to notice anyone beneath his station—a high one, atop an ivory tower or Mount Olympus.
“Perhaps I remind him of someone,” Elizabeth said in a lofty tone. “If only he would but impress us all with the magnificent quizzing glass he relies on in town, he would have no need to squeeze his eyes and stare.”
“A quizzing glass, like my father’s?” Charlotte frowned.
She loved her father, but Elizabeth knew she was mortified at times by his desire to impress others, be it by discussing his sole visit to St James’s Palace or wearing a quizzing glass because it was more fashionable within the gentry than spectacles.
“So Miss Bingley says, although I have not seen it on his person.”
Charlotte shot her a strange look before continuing her panegyrics to Mr Darcy.
“An inability to see well has not affected his ability to pay compliments, apparently. Has your mother not repeated his comments to my mother on the quality of her table, comparing the tarts served at Lucas Lodge to those he has had in town? It is all Mama and our cook speak of now.”
Of course Elizabeth had heard her mother bemoaning the praise, and asserting that she would host Mr Darcy to dinner and show him which lady set the finest table in Meryton.
His strange behaviour towards her was colouring how she spoke of him to others—others with whom he could evidently, if surprisingly, converse politely.
Lady Lucas was an excellent hostess. The extravagant compliment was unexpected, and quite generous—unless he said it as a provocation, knowing Miss Bingley would hear of it?
You are being unfair. No one else finds Mr Darcy disagreeable—though no one else is subject to his stares.
After leaving Charlotte, Elizabeth meandered towards Meryton, where Maria Lucas had walked with Kitty and Lydia.
Suspecting she would find them at the baker’s shop, for it was Thursday and Mr Culton always made his chocolate tarts on Thursdays, she walked towards the west corner of the high street, amusing herself by wondering whether she might hear Lydia’s giggles before she could smell the aroma of pastries.
As she passed the book-seller, the door opened and she found herself moving quickly aside as a dark-coated man stepped onto the pavement.
“Miss Elizabeth?”
Mr Darcy? Turning, she found the man himself gazing at her, almost warmly.
His expression changed abruptly when something over her shoulder caught his attention. Scowling, he touched his hat and moved towards his horse.
“Lizzy,” called a voice behind her. Turning, she saw her younger sisters walking towards her with a soldier, a handsome man in a red coat, who was staring past her at Mr Darcy.
Although Darcy could dismiss the sight of Wickham in Meryton—the man had to earn a living somehow, and after espying him and his friends carousing in town, it seemed joining the militia was what he was reduced to—he felt slightly mortified at how he had behaved with Miss Elizabeth.
She had seen the rapid change in his manner, his shock, upon seeing Wickham.
She must be curious about such an alteration in his mood.
He wondered what she thought of him, for he certainly was thinking of her.
Especially now, as he sat at Sunday services, watching her as Mr Bellows orated on the importance of loving one’s neighbour.
Miss Bingley, seated beside him, lightly tittered, and Mrs Hurst’s jewellery jangled, but their rude behaviours were masked by the loud sneeze that erupted in the pew behind them.
A well-timed sneeze, he thought, before the man—he soon determined it to be the elder Mr Goulding—mumbled a cheery ‘pardon, pardon, do go on’ to the startled vicar.
It was of a set piece, listening to the advice of an elderly clergyman telling the twenty-some families of Meryton to be amicable and kind in their judgment of others.
Mr Bellows had known them all their lives; likely baptised, married, and buried those of every household.
Only the Netherfield party was new to these pews.
Was the man reminding them of civility and benevolence to their neighbours?
He would like to think better of the kindly-eyed vicar, but he had learnt that words and smiles were less reliable as measures of character.
He glanced again at the Bennets, seven of them filling a front pew.
He had to lean forwards a bit to see past Mr Bennet and the two youngest girls, one looking distracted as if in a day-dream, the other looking bored.
Miss Elizabeth’s eyes were on the pulpit clearly listening; if she had no deep interest in the topic, it did not show, but she was giving the vicar the respect due him.
Which was more than he was doing. Chagrined, he returned his gaze to the lectern, where he found Mr Bellows watching him. Darcy did not need a quizzing glass to see the amusement in the man’s expression.
Bah, he could not be faulted for his curiosity.
Not only did she radiate a mysterious lustre, dimming and brightening as she listened to the sermon, Elizabeth Bennet did not behave as other ladies of his acquaintance.
Her behaviour continued to puzzle him the more he was in her company and continued to note her odd responses—a smirk, a laugh, an arched eyebrow.
It was not an affectation—or even an effect of the glow no one else appeared to notice—but a vibrancy that compelled her to show her feelings.
He could not even call it rude; she was all politeness, within measure.
Yet it did seem as if she often looked at him, perhaps to see whether he was as capable as Bingley had proclaimed.
That his friend’s younger sister took pleasure in trumpeting their connexion was irksome, but again, Miss Bingley’s character had been evident to him for nearly all their acquaintance.
Fully aware of her vanity and the grasping traits she could not hide beneath her considerable wit, he had had no need to peer at her through the quizzing glass until one afternoon at Gunter’s three years prior, when he overheard a voice lamenting her lack of invitation to his cousin’s house party.
Pulling out the glass, he turned, face hidden, to discover Miss Bingley, her resentment and envy sharply, almost painfully, apparent in rippling currents surrounding her.
Oddly enough, the sight created more pity in him than repulsion, and compelled his effort to find the best in those whose company was unavoidable.
Hurst, he knew, was careless of his wife’s sensibilities, but ensured his mother and sister were cared for.
Lady Catherine was disapproving and overbearing, but she was fond of babies and demanded every child born among her tenants was presented to her so she could bestow a five-pound note and blankets on them.
Eccentricities were part of every man or woman’s character.
Certainly, they were a large part of Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s. The ethereal light about her person was only the start, as he discovered a few days later.