Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
The news of Mr Darcy’s abdication from Netherfield arrived two days after the ball, when Elizabeth was mired in the storm of rejecting her dreadful cousin’s proposal and her mother’s fury over her ‘stubbornness’.
Jane did her best to support her, but it was teasing her sister over the increasingly ardent affections of Mr Bingley that most lightened Elizabeth’s mood.
Then, only days after Mr Darcy’s departure and the shocking announcement of Charlotte’s engagement to Mr Collins, came word that the Bingley sisters had departed Netherfield.
The news was delivered first by Mrs Hill, through the whispers of her brother, the stablemaster at Netherfield Park.
His role there made him an invaluable informant for Mrs Bennet and added to her lustre as ‘Meryton’s queen of tit-bits, gossip, and drollery’, or so said Mr Bennet.
“Mr Hurst refused to go,” said Hill, “because he likes the shooting here far too much. So the sisters went off to his house in town, where his mother holds sway. They may not much like that either.”
“Miss Bingley is lovesick,” declared Mrs Bennet. “You have seen how she latches onto every word said by Mr Darcy. She has followed him to town, knowing absence does not make the heart fonder—especially a heart as cold as his.”
“Miss Bingley could not melt the heart of a puppy, who would sooner nip her chin than lick it,” mumbled Lydia.
“Will she not demand Mr Bingley come to town as well?” asked Mary.
“He will not! His prize is here, in Jane.” Whatever hateful thing her mother was tempted to add about the Bingley sisters, she managed to refrain from speaking it aloud; the fear that Mr Bingley could be lost after Mr Collins had been spurned, leaving Longbourn with five unwed and ageing daughters, chastened her.
She instead turned and squeezed Jane’s hand.
“Poor Mr Bingley can no longer entertain at Netherfield, so we must ensure he and Mr Hurst are well fed and in desirable company. We shall ask them to dine with us tonight, then Mr Bennet will invite them to go fishing tomorrow, and I shall speak to my sister about a card party.”
As Jane appeared cheerfully, if blushingly, engaged with the continued discussion of parties and dishes, Elizabeth took her cloak and went out of the door, desperate to be alone and think clearly.
First Mr Darcy, then Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst. None of them had much taken to Meryton, its families, or entertainments, although Miss Bingley had earned much praise for the ball and Mr Darcy had enjoyed the shooting.
His eyes do not betray him when shooting birds. There his aim is true.
Elizabeth kicked the leaves on the path leading to the stream which formed the eastern border of Longbourn.
Twice she had encountered Mr Darcy in these woods, out riding his great black horse; both times he had nodded and tipped his hat but made no further effort to speak.
Would she have welcomed it, welcomed knowing him beyond the few short conversations they had had?
If merely for the sake of entertaining herself, the answer was yes; he intrigued her.
Mr Darcy was prideful, accomplished, and rich, and all that his friends boasted of—but he appeared as mortified by their panegyrics as Jane was by the compliments she received for her beauty.
He seemed to recognise something in her as well, but she could not say he was similarly intrigued; no, at times, she thought him almost repulsed by her appearance and her conversation.
Despite her propensity for blunt honesty, she had not managed to determine why he was so affected by her. And now she never would.
“I liked him,” she told the crow sitting on the fencepost. “But I like onions as well, and they never agree with me.”
Elizabeth Bennet haunted him. No matter how he tried, Darcy could not drive her from his mind, stirring in him feelings of desire, hope, and fear in equal measure.
He had hoped that by returning to town, he would feel less.
He had been wrong. When he thought of her, remembering their conversations and her laugh, he felt a tingling warmth, as well as a desperate curiosity about why he felt it, why she looked as she did when no other had.
With the quizzing glass, he knew the power of altered perception, but what was this bewitchment she cast, seemingly only on him?
The first time he had seen her, on the evening of his arrival at that godforsaken assembly, she had given him a look unlike any he had ever received: raised eyebrows and a sceptical, measuring smile.
Measuring what, he had wondered then: The cut of his jacket, his unwillingness to engage in conversation?
Could it have been an unusual attempt at flirtation?
Now he knew better. The lady certainly was friendly towards him, but if she was aware of how he could truly see her and her allurements, she was artless in displaying them, making no attempt to use her charm to seduce him.
It was not simply allurements he saw but her true nature, as it had always been with his quizzing glass. But without the glass?
He fought his intention to hie back to Hertfordshire with the thing and look at her, truly look at her through it. Yes, by that means, he could ascertain whether the light round her was illusory or her true essence.
I would know whether I am sick in the head or in the heart.
As afraid of one answer as the other, he remained in town and struggled to confine thoughts of Elizabeth Bennet to his dreams. That was the proper, and sometimes improper, place for them.
After a week of visits to his club, his friends, and to Angelo’s—where his opponent was rather impressed with the newfound strength in his thrust—Darcy thought he was back to himself again.
His thoughts were as steady and reliable as his heart, which focused thankfully on the business of beating rather than leaping and bounding about in his chest.
Then a letter arrived from Bingley with all sorts of scrawled, nearly indecipherable lines, requiring Darcy to immediately pull out the quizzing glass. That Bingley was still in Meryton, only three miles from Elizabeth Bennet, had no bearing on his haste, he assured himself.
The inky disaster was full of questions regarding Netherfield—all concerning those estate issues which Darcy had attempted to address when staying at the damnable place—and then, on a second, otherwise blank page, Bingley announced he was engaged to his angel.
I should like you to stand up with me. Much to tell you of—here it was illegible—in town on the fifth with—again, illegible—Might we use your box at—illegible scratching—?
Engaged, mere days after the ball. Bingley was a fool in love. Lucky man.
“Jane, I am so pleased for you and Mr Bingley. Does he have the approval of the discerning Mr Darcy?”
Aunt Philips’s question, seemingly well-meaning, stirred up unease among the occupants of Longbourn’s morning room. Elizabeth, who had put her happiness for her sister ahead of any of her confused feeling towards Mr Darcy, waited for Jane’s reply, but Mrs Bennet spoke first.
“Mr Bingley is in the happy position of needing the approval of no one but Mr Bennet for his wish to marry our Jane,” said Mrs Bennet as she gave her sister a weighted look. “And his sisters are ever so fond of her.”
Elizabeth managed to maintain a stoic expression in spite of Lydia and Kitty’s snickering. She felt no desire to shield Miss Bingley or Mrs Hurst from her mother’s delusions of their kindness, but she would defend Mr Darcy before he could be impugned.
“Mr Darcy was solicitous of Jane’s health while she was ill at Netherfield. He can be neither shocked nor dismayed with his friend’s engagement to my sister.”
Jane, after glancing curiously at her youngest sisters and smiling at Elizabeth, assured her aunt, “Mr Bingley has asked his friend to stand up with him at the wedding, and feels certain he has Mr Darcy’s support.”
“You see, it is as it should be. Those scheming Lucases can have Mr Collins—Jane will have Netherfield and the nicest carriage in the county.”