Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
During those hours in which he could not seek refuge in his rooms or out of doors, Darcy observed Elizabeth Bennet taking perverse pleasure in doing and saying the opposite of what was anticipated by her hosts.
She declined to dance and averred from joining them in cards and conversations.
She stated she did not ride, but her complexion was tanned—her nose even had a freckle or two—and rather than exhibit on the pianoforte, she dismissed her own talents.
It was not as if she lacked pride or intelligence; Darcy knew she enjoyed dancing and was certain she was more than capable of riding and playing well, and she was damnably clever in her conversation.
No, she preferred to frustrate her hosts, using her considerable wit to parry their slights and insults.
Even Miss Bingley’s insistence on directing the lady’s preferences at breakfast sparked mild mockery.
“Miss Eliza, sugar is not precious here, as it may be at Longbourn. Please do take what you wish, although, of course, our tea is freshly delivered from town, and needs no improvement from sugar or cream.”
“I find a sprinkle of sweetness improves everything, Miss Bingley, although admittedly some things are simply too sour to enjoy.”
Miss Elizabeth smiled pleasantly at her hostess, whose eyes narrowed as she tried to make out the broader meaning of such a reply. Darcy coughed, trying desperately to contain the laughter he feared might confirm for Miss Bingley that she had been keenly insulted.
That afternoon, all of them confined to the house by a heavy rain, he watched as Miss Elizabeth turned the page of her book, idly, he noticed, as if searching for a passage that might absorb her interest. Or perhaps to deflect Miss Bingley’s persistent jabs.
“Do you truly not wish to dance in a drawing room as a rule, Miss Eliza?”
“I dance with my sisters, most particularly when we have new music and wish to learn the steps, or simply express our appreciation for hearing it.”
“That sounds rather wild,” said Mrs Hurst.
“Men are known to do the same,” Darcy interjected. “They must learn the steps rather than embarrass themselves at a ball.”
“True,” Miss Bingley offered eagerly. “A young man cannot impress a lady without knowing the steps to a country dance.”
Miss Elizabeth glanced at him, her expression alight with mirth, her radiance sparkling. “Of course, some men care not to impress, being so impressive themselves.”
Feeling her barb, and determined to repel it from himself, Darcy gave her a keen look. “Mr Hurst won himself a wife despite not being keen on dancing.”
“A singular achievement,” Hurst snorted. His wife sighed.
Bingley sprang up from his chair, providing the others a respite from his incessant foot tapping, and paced back and forth.
“I am quite fond of dancing, but Darcy, though he does it much less than I, is far superior at it. I am certain he does not practise on his rugs and carpets, but simply has mastery of the patterns as he does with every other thing he puts his mind to—fencing or shooting, or writing letters with extremely long words in a very fine hand. Some men are superior in whatever they attempt,” Bingley grinned, “and we fortunate ones get to benefit from it. Has he told you of the investment he brought me into—”
“Bingley, please.”
Miss Elizabeth’s eyes sparked with amusement.
“Oh, but I assure you that I—and all my sisters agree—never imagined such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, united in one person before meeting him. Mr Darcy,” she said, mischief clear in her voice, “our admission to your company is but half deserved.”
Darcy raised a brow, and she nodded, all solemnity—except for the light shimmering not just in her eyes but all round her. It was dazzling. How on earth would she appear if he saw her through the quizzing glass?
Steady, man, he thought, willing his hand to remain at his side.
Much as he puzzled over Elizabeth Bennet—tossing in his bed the past two nights as he considered their every interaction, and her eyes, smile, and unrelenting glimmer—he could hardly bear the thought of gazing on her as he might a specimen.
But good lord, she is provoking.
Unfortunate as it was to enter a third day at Netherfield, for that day to have dawned as wet and raw as the weather that had felled Jane was truly disheartening.
My sister is nearly full well, Elizabeth consoled herself, and will join us for dinner.
And tomorrow, she hoped, they would return to Longbourn.
She glanced over her shoulder at the rain-spattered window, pleased to see the sun beginning to assert itself, before opening her book and burrowing more deeply into the oversized chair in the library.
“This cannot stand.” Then the voice, rough and in what sounded like misery, groaned.
Mr Darcy? Elizabeth looked up from her book, and clutching it in one hand, leant forwards, just past the bookcase concealing her seat. She could not see the man himself, but his reflection in the mirror hung in the corner gave her a detailed view of his countenance as he stared out of the window.
He was grim-faced, yet he wore his melancholy rather handsomely.
It may have been the shafts of sunlight now streaming into the room, emphasising a few unexpected silver strands in his jet-black hair and the fine details of his countenance—his firm brow, his dark eyelashes, and the shadows underneath them.
Those, especially, she had never before noticed.
He looks tired. Exhaustion with the company of Miss Bingley and these dull countryfolk, Elizabeth surmised, had led to his fleeing the drawing room the other afternoon.
Mr Darcy appeared more restless than weary now, running his hand through his hair, lifting a hand to his waistcoat pocket, clenching and unclenching that muscle in his jaw. ..
Blinking, she sat back in the cushions and returned her gaze, but not her mind, to her tome.
If it were not the sun which revealed and flattered his appearance, perhaps it was his discomposure.
Was she awful for appreciating the sight of his unease?
He seemed more natural, more real when agitated—as he often was when he looked at her.
His expression, usually so blank and unreadable, came to life whenever they conversed.
Was this why she enjoyed teasing him? To see whether she could prompt an alteration in his spirits?
Elizabeth set aside the question of why she should like to affect his spirits and twisted in her chair to look at him again.
Why is he so discomfited? He does not even know I am in the room!
Perhaps she should tell him of her presence. It would not do—it was impolite—to impose on his privacy.
“Ow!”
“Miss Elizabeth!”
Well, dropping the book on her foot certainly took care of that concern! She winced as Mr Darcy bent to retrieve her book and rose, looming over her. She accepted it and nodded her thanks before blurting, “Pardon me, sir. I did not realise you were in the room—”
“It is of no consequence. Clearly you were here when I entered, and I did not check the reading nooks and crannies before I...” Shrugging, he leant against the wall and folded his arms. “I hope I did not disturb your reading or cause lasting injury to your foot.”
She smiled up at him. “The blame for any injury would lie with me and with Mr Defoe’s heavy tome.”
After an acknowledging nod, Mr Darcy surprised her, saying, “We are both, I believe, readers who once caught up in a book, become immersed in the words of a poem or story. The sounds of others, their voices and clatters, fall away when so deep in a tale.”
“My father and I suffer from this ‘affliction’, and others in our household must suffer for it. I have been known to awaken Jane when I stay up to read and gasp at a turn in the story’s plot—or when I fall asleep and drop my book, as I did now,” Elizabeth laughingly confided.
Mr Darcy did the strangest thing. He smiled. Broadly. Oh my. If fatigue revealed him attractive, mirth turned his good looks into something strikingly handsome.
“As have I,” he replied, “although it is my valet or a footman more likely to find a fallen or forgotten book. Such I have been since childhood.”
Pleased by his unexpected confession, Elizabeth joined her smile to his.
“My mother has long warned me about reading with only the light of the moon or a mere candle. ‘You will get creases from squinting at the words on the pages’, or so she said, but they have not yet appeared, and my eyes are not bothered.”
His gaze shifted to her eyes. “No, indeed. They seem quite fine.”
She returned his stare for a long moment until each blinked and looked away. “And yours, sir? Have you read too often by moonlight as well?”
Mr Darcy stiffened, his smile replaced quickly by an almost fierce look.
“Please excuse me.”
The door closed quietly behind him.
I have become Miss Bingley, chasing him from the room.
Later that day, Darcy stood near the tall windows of Netherfield’s drawing room, the late afternoon sun casting gold along the polished floor, cursing Miss Bingley’s endless verbosity and his own stubbornness.
Just as he thought he was master of himself when speaking to Elizabeth, she had become his inquisitor.
Asking about his eyes, hinting about his quizzing glass!
He had thought he could easily use his own discernment here, that he could wean himself fully from his over-reliance upon it.
But for her.
Whether or not Elizabeth Bennet was in the same room, whether or not her voice or her glow drew his eye, Darcy could not resist looking for her—at her.
He could not stop thinking of her, could not sleep for his dreams of her, and had he his quizzing glass, he could confirm his feelings were just, that she was sincere and as good and worthy and wonderful as she appeared.
She is. I know she is.
And then, he realised with a start, there she was, nearly within reach, standing in the muddy garden.
Lively, clever, and luminous, even when dampened by rain, she was examining a tumbledown statue of some homely gentleman whose name was likely long forgot.
Her nose was delightfully wrinkled, her eyes dancing with mirth as she gazed at the monstrosity with unmistakable curiosity. How happy she is to be out of doors!
With deliberate calm, Darcy leant closer to the glass. And just then she, bold and mischievous, glanced towards the very windows where he stood before lifting her face to the grey sky. His heart lurched and he stepped back hastily, as if scorched.
For an instant, he had not only seen but fully felt Elizabeth’s presence—her light and pleasing figure and her fine eyes, the bright flicker of her laughter, the quicksilver intelligence that danced behind her gaze, and most astonishingly, the dangerous warmth she had awakened in him.
He closed his eyes as it thrummed through him, a feeling more urgent and powerful than any he had ever felt.
And this, through a pane of ordinary glass! A rain-streaked, slightly dirty window!
This is madness.