Chapter 3
That evening, Jane was feeling poorly, so Lizzy took her own dinner on a tray in Jane’s room. Once her sister slept, Lizzy went downstairs. She carried a book of poetry that Jane had finished reading.
Lizzy stepped into the light and airy drawing room, the watered-silk wallpaper a sunny yellow. Tall sash windows were dressed in pale, diaphanous muslin with blue velvet drapes pulled back in elegant swags.
Upholstered in blue-and-cream striped satin, the sofas and chairs were grouped for conversation. Strategically placed gilt-framed mirrors amplified the light. By the far wall, a Broadwood pianoforte stood prominently, its keys seeming to await Miss Bingley’s expert touch.
Lizzy found Darcy writing a letter, whilst the others played at cards. They looked up upon her arrival.
“How is your sister?” Bingley asked. “I worried when you didn’t join us for dinner.”
“I confess, I did feel some anxiety for Jane. But she remains free of fever, and is sleeping peacefully now.”
“Ah.” Bingley smiled. “I suppose we must be thankful for that, at least. Did she enjoy the books I sent her?”
“Very much. They were exactly to her taste. She was reading the second volume of The Italian when exhaustion overtook her.”
“I’m glad.” Bingley’s beaming features reflected the sentiment. “If you don’t mind, please be sure to deliver the books directly into my hands once she’s done with them. That way I can return them to their proper place in the library.”
“Of course.” Lizzy intended to read the work by Byron that she carried in her hand. She would give it to Bingley once she’d finished.
“Would you like to join us in a game of loo?” Bingley asked. “We’re nearly done with this round.”
“Thank you, but I’d be poor company. It’s been a tiring day. I’ll be happy to sit by the fire and read, if you don’t mind.”
“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Caroline, “is a great reader who takes pleasure in nothing else.”
She spoke jovially, though Lizzy sensed some malice in the words.
Still, Lizzy had no desire to let a spiteful creature like Caroline Bingley disturb her mood.
“I’m afraid I deserve neither such praise nor such censure.
” Lizzy spoke in a light tone. “I’m not a great reader, and I take pleasure in many things. ”
Lizzy settled into a wing chair by the hearth and opened her book.
Absently, her gaze scanned the room. The gleaming mahogany furniture was inlaid with a paler satinwood, whilst slender, straight-legged tables held porcelain bowls of potpourri.
The classically designed pieces were arranged with a studied precision that suggested a footman came in with a ruler every morning to set them to rights.
The fashionable furnishings attested to wealth more than comfort. The room was handsome and elegant in its every detail, yet it lacked the easy warmth of a family home.
Or perhaps that had more to do with the company than the décor.
Lizzy returned her attention to the book she was supposed to be reading.
The satirical poem showed Byron’s mastery of form, but the tone sounded like a petulant child.
He seemed to aspire to the heights of Pope or Dryden—perhaps he would succeed, in time.
But Lizzy could take little pleasure in this lament of wounded pride. She wondered how Jane had endured it.
Skimming through the volume, Lizzy noticed that certain letters were circled in pencil. Idly, she scanned them and realised they formed words. The book seemed to contain a hidden message.
She deciphered the phrase “hope you will soon feel better” and closed the book tight. Surely Bingley had done this, to communicate with Jane. Lizzy had to stop herself from laughing aloud, so delighted was she at his plan.
Propriety didn’t allow an unmarried gentleman and an unmarried lady to correspond. Bingley had found a way to circumvent the stricture. Either the man was so besotted he had set good manners aside, or he had unseemly intentions towards Jane.
Lizzy suspected the former.
If one of her younger sisters were involved in such a scheme, Lizzy wouldn’t chance it. They were impressionable girls—an unscrupulous man could take advantage of them. But Jane, despite her romantic nature, was too sensible to fall into a clandestine liaison.
“Oh, Mr. Hurst!” Caroline cried across the room. “You’ve quite undone me.” She set down her cards and rose. Idly, she crossed to the desk where Darcy sat.
“To whom do you write, sir?”
“My sister.”
“Oh, Georgiana! It seems like an age since I’ve seen her. You must give her my regards.”
“Very well.” Darcy didn’t lift his gaze from the paper.
Undeterred, she observed, “What a strong, even hand you have. Charles writes in such a rush, he leaves out half the words and blots the rest. I’ve always thought careful handwriting to be a sign of good character.”
Lizzy choked and gave a little cough.
“Do you not agree, Miss Eliza?” Caroline asked.
“If your statement were true, then one might logically presume the reverse—that careless handwriting is a sign of bad character. You’ve said that your brother doesn’t possess Mr. Darcy’s fine hand. It almost sounds as if you’re impugning his good name.”
“How clever you are.” Caroline spoke with a feline look in her eyes. “Of course I’d do no such thing.”
“Surely you wouldn’t,” Lizzy conceded. “I believe neat handwriting conveys an exacting nature—whilst imprecision shows a more eager disposition. One isn’t better than the other. They’re merely different.”
“Oh, brava, Miss Bennet,” Bingley replied. “Thank you for arguing so successfully that my sloppiness isn’t a character defect.”
“Of course you would take his side,” Darcy said. Those were the first words he’d spoken to her since their quarrel earlier in the day. “You yourself have a more eager disposition.”
“Yes, and Jane a more exacting one,” she agreed. “We complement each other, as you and Mr. Bingley do.”
Darcy gave her an assessing look, then went back to his letter. None of Miss Bingley’s protests, it seemed, could distract him from his brotherly duty.
Lizzy headed upstairs to check on Jane a short time later. She determined she would return the book of poetry to Bingley the next morning. She didn’t wish him to realise she’d been reading a volume he’d intended for Jane.
Her sister was still asleep, with a maid sewing and watching over her. Lizzy went to bed, tired from the eventful day.
Bingley had been as delightful as ever. Darcy was…perhaps less disagreeable than he’d first seemed, but still arrogant. Caroline would have put Macbeth’s witches to shame.
Lizzy thought about Darcy’s earlier assertion about feeling like a fox amongst the hounds. That was certainly an accurate description of Caroline’s behaviour that evening. Heavens, the woman was utterly transparent. Her display was embarrassing for everyone involved.
Yet during Darcy’s conversation with Caroline earlier in the day, he’d seemed comfortable. Even conspiratorial. Lizzy couldn’t make him out.
If Darcy intended his sister to marry a peer, then certainly he himself was hoping to marry a woman of noble birth. Not one whose fortune came from trade.
Was he trifling with Caroline? Or merely enduring her for her brother’s sake? No other options seemed to fit.
Lizzy put the two of them out of her mind. She needed sleep so she could be her best for Jane on the morrow. Darcy and Caroline were nothing to her.
∞∞∞
The next morning, Darcy woke with the sun. His mind churned with memories of his quarrel with Elizabeth. They’d maintained a civil distance after dinner—yet his conscience still pricked him. Unable to return to sleep, he performed his morning ablutions and dressed to ride.
As he left the house, he spotted Elizabeth heading towards a copse of trees. Apparently she was fond of morning walks. The pink ribbons of her bonnet trailed behind her in the breeze.
He strode towards her quickly so he could catch up. What is right to be done cannot be done too soon. He owed her an apology and wouldn’t put it off.
She skipped along, stopping to smell the flowers or admire the landscape. He was a few yards away when she turned and spotted him.
The joyous look on her face stopped his breath. She was exquisite, as if she were one with nature. A deep sense of satisfaction radiated from her.
This was a woman content with her place in the world. Content in a way he’d never known, at least not since losing his mother.
That loss had been followed by the death of his father five years later. Inheriting Pemberley at twenty-three had been an enormous burden. Darcy had never been carefree the way other young pups of his station were. The responsibility of a large estate had forced him to become a man.
“Miss Bennet,” he said with a bow.
She curtseyed. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Forgive my intrusion during your exercise,” he said. “I don’t wish to discomfort you.”
“Not at all.”
He hesitated, then forced himself to continue. “Yesterday, I lost my temper. That’s not like me. I’m embarrassed by both my words and my manner of speaking. Please accept my deepest apology.”
“Oh!” she cried, looking surprised. “I didn’t think an apology necessary. But since you’ve offered one, I happily accept.”
They walked in step for a while. She added, “I suppose I’m equally at fault for goading you. My friends know I love to tease, and they take no offence. I forget, sometimes, that my words can sound harsh to those not well acquainted with me.”
His cheeks warmed. “I confess, I’m not used to ridicule.”
She stopped short. “Mr. Darcy, please forgive me. I wouldn’t dare ridicule you. There’s a difference between laughing at someone and laughing with them.”
He was silent a long time. He wanted to point out that he had not, in fact, been laughing—but decided that would be unkind. “I’ve been told that I take myself too seriously. Personally, I can’t see it—”