Chapter 12
TWELVE
Jane was ill, and Elizabeth found herself in the awkward position of relying on the ‘kindness’ of the Bingley sisters.
They were at least feigning concern while Jane recovered at Netherfield from the effects of the rainstorm Mrs Bennet had sent her off into, but it was likely more adherence to the duties of being proper hostesses than genuine care.
Any kindness to Jane came only from the influence of their brother’s admiration for her.
Elizabeth’s sister could barely speak his name without blushing; it was certain her estimation of Mr Bingley went beyond ‘all that a gentleman should be’.
Though he remains in the shadow of the illustrious and faultless Mr Darcy, of course.
If it was the weight of Mr Darcy’s opinion that ensured civility within Netherfield most of the time, he also inspired cloying compliments from one lady. On their second day in confinement, Miss Bingley did not cease from hovering at his elbow as he attempted to read a book.
“How do you bear it, sir?” she brayed for all to enjoy. “None here are as distinguished as you, as well-read and finely dressed.”
“Is your point truly that none are so rich?” Mr Hurst, sprawled on the largest sofa with yesterday’s newspaper, was likely all too familiar with his sister’s wishes.
It was a shame he would not push back more often on her officiousness, but Elizabeth appreciated this effort—even as it went unheeded by Miss Bingley, who now lay her hand on Mr Darcy’s arm.
“I am certain you have a delicious tale or two of insipid conversation to share from your time in Meryton’s ‘society’,” she continued rudely.
Her prey’s silence compelled her to coyness.
“Mr Darcy, where is your quizzing glass? I have told Charles that if he cannot own Pemberley then he must at least wear finer waistcoats and carry a quizzing glass.”
Mr Darcy remained silent, his eyes on his book, but Elizabeth’s interest was piqued. “Is that not the opinion of Mr Brummel as well? Being well-turned-out and affecting a sort of superiority of intellect and fashion?”
Miss Bingley nearly leapt to her feet in protest. “I can assure you, Miss Elizabeth, the pretensions of Beau Brummel and his like have no bearing on how my brother or Mr Darcy conduct themselves.”
Elizabeth affected a thoughtful expression to disguise the amusement she truly felt.
“Ah, well, my father has needed spectacles since he was at Oxford, and my sister Mary requires them as well. They are Longbourn’s greatest intellects, so I suppose a weakness of the eyes does not preclude a strong aptitude, though Mary would admit to being the least favoured of my sisters at drawing or dancing. ”
Miss Bingley’s sour expression showed her unconvinced by the argument; Mr Darcy, on the other hand, appeared engaged in the conversation, and delighted, Elizabeth turned to him.
“I have not seen you dance or draw, sir, but I am most impressed by how you adhere to reading books and writing letters, even without the aid of your vaunted quizzing glass.”
He blinked at her, but whatever he might reply was overridden by Mr Bingley, who said, chuckling, “There is nothing wrong with Darcy’s eyes, but I do not believe he has brought his glass to Netherfield.
He relies on it in town to ensure he speaks only to those he knows or has been introduced to, rather than to a stranger or a potted plant. ”
“Mr Darcy’s eyesight is perfect,” insisted Miss Bingley.
As Mr Hurst roared with laughter and Mr Darcy gave Mr Bingley an exasperated, if amused look, Elizabeth thought over what had been revealed.
If he did not suffer from poor eyesight, it appeared the quizzing glass truly was an affectation—one which Mr Darcy felt unnecessary in a place like Meryton.
After all, why would he wish to peer more closely at country rustics?
Or—she scolded herself, hearing Charlotte’s reasoning voice in her head—perhaps he felt no need for the sort of boastful adornment here that Miss Bingley did.
The cacophony Mrs Hurst made with her heavily jewelled bracelets certainly drew attention in church, and Elizabeth knew Mr Darcy would despise such notice.
Glancing up, she found herself under the man’s scrutiny. His expression was intent as he studied her, an improvement from his usual disgust, leading her to wonder whether she appeared differently now in this confined acquaintance.
“Are you fond of the Greek poets, Mr Darcy? My father’s library includes a fascinating volume on mythology—”
“As quaint as your father’s book-room may be, it is nothing to the library Mr Darcy enjoys at Pemberley.
” Miss Bingley’s sharp tone sweetened as she began a new round of encomiums to her illustrious and stubbornly silent guest. Mr Darcy appeared unmoved by the adoring praise but he was not unaware of it.
His dark gaze returned to his book, but there was something defiant in his reticence.
“One could be lost for days, even weeks, perusing its shelves, where so much variety and enjoyment can be found. Why, I believe—”
“Excuse me. I must finish a letter.”
Mr Darcy stood and strode from the room at a pace that prompted Elizabeth to wonder whether he was angry—or merely embarrassed at the attention he commanded.
“Caroline, do leave Darcy be,” drawled Mr Hurst from his supine position on the sofa. “He is not a man of leisure, nor does he wish to be fawned over in such a manner.”
“Hurst is right,” added Mr Bingley, looking disappointed by his friend’s exit.
“Darcy is occupied with assisting me and has no need to answer your incessant questions. And I do not need a quizzing glass or spectacles, nor is anything wrong with my waistcoats—Darcy even admired the blueish shade of lilac in the one I bought at Weston’s. ”
Whatever Miss Bingley’s feelings had been upon her abandonment by the object of her desire and chastisement by her brothers, she now turned her emotions towards Elizabeth.
“We are fortunate in our close acquaintance with Mr Darcy. He is the most discerning gentleman in all of London. He makes no errors in his investments or in how he advises his friends. Am I not right, Charles?” Miss Bingley did not bother glancing at her brother, who nodded warily and looked as if he wished to say something.
Elizabeth wished he would; his warm, jovial voice was far more pleasing than that of his sister. But she continued speaking.
“Mr Darcy chooses his invitations wisely, and no ball can be considered a success without his attendance.”
“Even if he does not dance?” Elizabeth said, earning a loud guffaw from the sofa.
“Miss Eliza, you have lived in the country all of your life and what did your mother say, you dine with twenty-four families?” A mean, triumphant smile emerged on the lady’s face.
“You have never met anyone of Mr Darcy’s consequence—and yet you mock him!
Is it ignorance or incivility? I cannot pretend to understand. ”
A slow churning began in Elizabeth’s gut, an anger at herself and mortification that a woman she did not much like was correct in criticising her behaviour.
She had been discourteous, and her teasing nature, appreciated at Longbourn and amongst her neighbours, was unsuitable here, with those who considered themselves above her.
Why did she poke at Mr Darcy? It was baffling how much he provoked her, even when he said not a word!
Rising, she smiled grimly at Miss Bingley. “It is I who did not understand. I meant no harm. Excuse me, I must peek in on Jane.”
She did her best not to leave as quickly as Mr Darcy had only five minutes earlier, and in focusing on a graceful departure, almost neglected to notice the man himself standing in the corridor.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, as the doors closed behind her. “Were you returning? Or simply listening as your friends defended your character?”
Mr Darcy blinked. Had a man ever blinked more often? Or looked at her so intently?
Have I ever noticed anyone’s eyes as I do his?
After a moment of mutual unease, his eyes softened and he smiled. “I forgot my letter, the one to my sister. It is, as you might imagine, elegantly worded and written in a fine hand.”
If his smile had rendered Mr Darcy uncommonly handsome, his teasing explanation left Elizabeth nearly speechless before she rallied.
“Of course, it is the greatest of all letters, bested only by those written by—” Failing to think of any famous letters which she could compare to that of a brother to his sister, she ceded to his superior wit and shrugged.
“I am certain your letter is a thing of rare beauty. Um, would you like me to fetch it for you, and save you the sympathies and accolades that will undoubtedly greet you upon your return to the drawing room?”
“I thank you, Miss Elizabeth, but I have courage enough.”
Darcy tossed his letters on the writing table in his chambers.
Roiled by unfamiliar feelings, he was disappointed that the thrumming pleasure he had felt in speaking to Miss Elizabeth calmly, without apparently revealing his fascination with her otherworldly glow, had been dulled by the rapturous greeting he had received upon his return to the drawing room to retrieve his letter.
Had he conquered Rome or discovered a new country?
One might have thought so based on the exclamations of welcome and concern that had come his way.
Perhaps I should have assured them I remain a paragon but am made impetuous and forgetful by the mere presence of Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Hurst would have laughed, but he grimaced to think on how such a comment would be met by Bingley and his sisters.
After some effort to remove his jacket, Darcy eased into the room’s most comfortable chair, moving his thoughts decidedly away from his hosts and onto Miss Elizabeth.
She had been startled to find him lurking in the hall, but her surprise seemed to grow when he matched her teasing words.
Devil take it, he surprised himself by speaking to her in an even tone and parrying her clever wit, without being overwhelmed by her outsized presence.
She does not think me a paragon, nor does she appear intent on impressing me. And yet she had, in the most unsettling way.
The lady did not need to say a word to capture his attention; her light and the vibrancy that transcended it drew his eye, his ears—awakened every sense merely by sitting in a chair, slicing a serving of pheasant, or teasing him about his supposed aversion to dancing.
Teasing? Had he ever seen two women more different in how they flirted? Miss Bingley begs for morsels of cruel gossip and slights her brother in order to flatter me. Miss Elizabeth mocks Miss Bingley on my behalf as she teases me.
It was difficult enough, whiling away weeks in a county where intelligent conversation was rare, and in a house where inanity and insults reigned.
Except—and yet especially—when Miss Elizabeth was in the room.
She was extraordinary. His eyes had adjusted to the luminous lustre surrounding her; no longer did it startle him, although he certainly remained as unsettled by it as he did by her wit and lively disposition.
Even here, in a house where her presence was clearly unwelcomed, she was undimmed.
I have seen her essence without need of the quizzing glass. What can it mean that she, and no one else before her, appears to me in such manner?
If he had not known the peculiar power of the quizzing glass, he might have thought Miss Elizabeth was wrapped in a spell, one meant solely for him.
No one else saw her as he did; certainly no one at Netherfield made mention of anything unusual in her appearance, and Miss Bingley was incapable of forgoing the chance to insult or besmirch her.
Had he ever met another lady who sparred with such wit or alluded to Greek myths?
No, and certainly he had never spent time in company with one for such a duration without appraising her character with his quizzing glass.
Truly, with her, he felt no need to, despite his curiosity for how she might thus appear.
It was dangerous, but she fascinated him.