Chapter 3 #2
His responding smile caused her stomach to flutter.
“No, Bingley is far more inclined to visit with neighbors and attend parties than I; yet I have found I do not object to the four-and-twenty families in and around Meryton.” Elizabeth blinked.
Had he just echoed her mother’s own boast, spoken not so long ago in Netherfield’s drawing room?
Had he meant to reference it? To mock her?
Or was it merely said without thought? His gaze held some deeper meaning, though she could not discern it.
“Have you read anything new lately?” The abrupt change of topic took her by surprise. “We are not in a ballroom, and so there is no impediment to the conversation.”
Elizabeth gave a startled laugh, recalling her remark during their dance at the Netherfield ball. “I recently read some of Wordsworth’s poems, sir.”
“Yes, his words would certainly not qualify as poorly written; therefore, there is no danger of starving the first stirrings of love.” He smiled, his blue eyes alight with mirth.
I think I see why he smiles so seldom. His features, already fine, became altogether striking when he smiled, rendering him devastatingly handsome.
Ladies would swoon at his feet when faced with such charm.
She also wondered how many of her words he recalled, for in so brief a time, he had alluded to two separate conversations.
“Wordsworth is, I confess, a favorite,” Elizabeth replied. “His verses are soothing. I confess to some partiality for his poems on spring and nature. I recall one—Lines Written in Early Spring—”
“Yes, it is one of my sister’s favorites.” He drew a steady breath and began to recite:
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And is my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
“Yes, those lines are very pretty,” she replied, impressed by the ease of his recitation. His baritone was warm, and it washed over her like a summer breeze. “I myself adore To the Daisy.” She took her turn, recalling the lines from her reading earlier that day:
With little here to do or see
Of things that in the great world be,
Daisy! again I talk to thee,
For thou art worthy,
Thou unassuming
Common-place Of Nature, with that homely face…
“Do you also read Coleridge or Smith? My library’s poetry collection has grown considerably since Georgiana turned fourteen. She developed an avid interest, and, as a good brother should, I acquired as many volumes as I could so that we might study the differing styles together.”
“You are an attentive brother, then?” Her interest in the conversation no longer felt forced or feigned.
Mr. Wickham had claimed Miss Darcy to be proud—much like her brother.
Yet now Elizabeth beheld a different side of him.
Could she have also been misled about his sister?
Or was she, perhaps, deceived by his new behavior?
“My sister is exceedingly shy. We are all the other has, having lost both our parents. My mother died when Georgiana was five, and our father when she was eleven. I have had the raising of her since I inherited. My cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, shares the guardianship. I am, I suppose, what one would call an attentive brother, though I do so from affection, not obligation.” He paused, his gaze drifting toward Jane and Mr. Bingley.
“Your sister reminds me greatly of my own. I almost did not see it.”
She wondered at his meaning, but did not ask. Their conversation continued for some time until carriages were called to return guests to their homes.
Later, as she lay alone in her bed, Elizabeth reflected upon the evening and realized she had not enjoyed such agreeable discourse with a gentleman in quite some time.
Darcy
The journey back to Netherfield Park was not long.
Darcy allowed Bingley to speak of the evening, content to listen and contemplate his own experience.
Twice, he had overheard remarks made in reference to himself.
On both occasions, the subject had been his altered behavior, which was said to have changed overnight. In a sense, it had.
They speculated as to the cause, and, curiously enough, his altered demeanor was attributed, by both speakers, to the absence of Miss Bingley.
The supposition amused him, and he could not deny the logic.
Better still, it seemed the denizens of the neighborhood had resolved to give him a fair chance to prove himself. He did not intend to disappoint them.
He acknowledged that it was his own behavior that had most likely earned Elizabeth’s firm dislike.
If he could change—truly, and not superficially—then perhaps she might grow to like him.
Her manner already appeared somewhat gentled.
Their conversation that evening had been stimulating and agreeable.
The usual challenging look he often saw in her eyes had given way to one of interest. Their discussion of poetry had reminded him of similar ones with Georgiana, though Elizabeth’s insights were shaped by experience and perspective.
Still, something in her manner made him believe she did not yet fully trust him.
She held back; her speech and bearing were more open with her friends and other neighbors.
While she had moved around the room, she had appeared perfectly at ease, but by the window, when they conversed, he had observed a certain tenseness in her posture.
Was it discomfort, or something else? Whatever it was, he wished it gone.
Though his original motives had begun as an attempt to alter her opinion, Darcy now desired improvement for his own sake.
Men of his station were accustomed to looking down upon others.
Such had been his behavior for many years.
He now understood that he had long acted with selfish disdain for the feelings of those around him, and that the pride he had once considered justifiable had, in truth, been excessive. He would improve.
He had made every effort since his return to Hertfordshire. After a fortnight, the residents were only beginning to show him greater civility.
His last thought, as he drifted to sleep, brought him comfort. If I can win their good opinion, then I can also win hers.