Chapter Twelve #2
“Character is only one aspect in finding a match, my friend. You may have fortune and connections aplenty, but they are of some importance when selecting a bride. Your family’s footing in society is very new and not entirely secure.
One misstep could render all progress moot.
” The words had burst forth seemingly of their own volition.
Darcy’s mouth snapped shut after his impromptu speech.
Though he agreed with much of what the sisters said, he did not want them to know that.
The moment the words left him, he regretted them—not because they were wholly untrue, but because of how they would be used.
Miss Bingley would seize on his statement as validation.
Mrs. Hurst would use it as a cudgel. And Bingley—sweet, impulsive Bingley—would look wounded that Darcy had, even briefly, joined the chorus.
“Well said, Mr. Darcy.” Miss Bingley smiled coyly at him, and he felt bile rise in his throat. “Best be careful, Charles. It would not do to connect ourselves to those so decidedly beneath us.” Miss Bingley’s eyes flashed. “You require prudence, Charles.”
“And taste,” Mrs. Hurst added, as if taste were a measurable commodity to be purchased with a London address.
Bingley opened his mouth to reply again, and Darcy felt the tension in the room sharpen. The servants moved even more quietly, as though trying to become invisible. It was the sort of domestic scene Darcy despised—discord wrapped in civility, affection pressed into service as a weapon.
He cringed inwardly. Had he not said something eerily similar the night before? Goodness, is that how I sound? If so, his arrogance needed to be tempered.
Darcy’s gaze dropped to his plate, appetite evaporating.
The scone before him looked suddenly unappealing, its golden crust too cheerful for his mood.
He thought of the Bennet sisters—of Jane’s gentle composure, of Mary’s quiet earnestness, and of Elizabeth…
He forced his mind away from her at once, irritated that she should intrude upon his thoughts again.
And yet, as he sat amidst the polished contempt of Netherfield’s breakfast table, he could not help comparing.
The Bennets had lacked London’s refinement, perhaps, and certainly its cruelty.
Their laughter had been genuine. Their manners, if less polished, had been warmer.
Even Mrs. Bennet’s fluttering excitement had been born of hope rather than malice.
Bingley, for his part, looked between his sisters and Darcy with an expression caught between resolve and hurt. He swallowed once, then spoke with measured care.
“I am not a child,” he said. “I will not be managed. I value your counsel, Darcy—and I value my sisters’…concerns. But I will choose my own acquaintances. And I will not hear Miss Bennet spoken of as though she were a creature to be weighed and dismissed.”
Miss Bingley’s nostrils flared, but she recovered quickly, smoothing her tone into sweetness. “We only wish to protect you.”
“Yes,” Bingley said with feeling, “from happiness.”
Darcy’s eyes flicked up at that, and for a moment he almost smiled. Almost.
Mr. Hurst, who had contributed nothing beyond complaint and consumption, drained his glass of port and reached for the decanter again. “If we are to have such earnest speeches,” he muttered, “someone ought to produce a deck of cards. It would improve the morning.”
No one acknowledged him.
Darcy set down his fork, the motion deliberate. He had spoken too freely and had given Miss Bingley ammunition. He had, worst of all, heard his own voice echoed back at him—his own severity made uglier by her smug approval.
Temper, Darcy, he thought. Not your judgment—your manner.
For if his principles were to remain intact, he must learn not to deliver them in a way that invited contempt rather than respect.
And if he were honest—painfully honest—he must admit that last night’s words, thrown carelessly in a moment of irritation, had been precisely the kind of cruelty he despised when he saw it in others.
He rose at last, pushing back his chair with restrained politeness. “If you will excuse me, Bingley,” he said, inclining his head. “I have letters to write.”
Bingley looked relieved by the escape and grateful for the reprieve from further argument. “Of course,” he murmured.
Miss Bingley’s gaze followed Darcy as he left, sharpened with intent. Darcy did not look back.
As he walked from the breakfast room, he found his thoughts returning—unbidden—to a young woman in a country assembly, laughing as though insult were of no consequence. The memory unsettled him more than any of his companions’ contempt.
If she can bear my disdain with amusement, he thought, what does that make me?
“The evening was exceptionally enjoyable, was it not?” Charlotte Lucas grinned as she seated herself next to Elizabeth, settling her skirts with a practiced motion that spoke of long familiarity with drawing-room calls.
Her eyes sparkled with amusement rather than na?veté.
“Our new neighbors will provide you with plenty of character study.”
“I fear the study will be short-lived,” Elizabeth replied, making a small face as she adjusted her position on the sofa. “The newcomers’ characters are readily discernible. I am certain that if they knew how very transparent they were, they would be mortified.”
Charlotte laughed softly. “You are merciless, Lizzy—but I cannot say you are wrong.”
“Oh, to be sure,” Mrs. Bennet clucked her tongue in disappointment, folding her hands in her lap as though bracing herself against remembered affronts. “I fear that only Mr. Bingley had any good manners. It is a shame—I so looked forward to having more amiable companionship in the area.”
Lady Lucas, seated opposite with her posture admirably erect, nodded with measured approval.
“We must remember that the others are guests of Mr. Bingley. It is that gentleman who will remain among us until his lease expires. As long as his manner is not lacking, I believe we may be satisfied.” She glanced slyly at Mrs. Bennet, her expression brightening.
“You must be pleased—he danced with Jane twice!”
“It is flattering that he noted my daughter’s worthiness,” Mrs. Bennet said, unable to keep a trace of satisfaction from her voice.
“Jane was pleased with the attention.” Jane’s cheeks turned a becoming shade of pink, and she lowered her gaze to her hands, twisting her fingers together.
Mrs. Bennet went on, with an effort at moderation, “But they have only just formed the acquaintance. We must not assume anything.”
“Oh, indeed,” Lady Lucas agreed with vigor. “There are so many worthless young men who play with unsuspecting ladies’ hearts. If he proves such a scoundrel, we shall never acknowledge him again!” Her righteous indignation made the carefully arranged ringlets about her temples quiver.
“As Mrs. Bennet has said, it is far too soon to form a proper opinion,” Elizabeth interposed calmly. “Though Mr. Bingley’s companions showed disdain for our little gathering, we might perhaps see it as Jane does—that they were merely uneasy among strangers, unused to such company.”
“And no one can be introduced in a ballroom?” Mrs. Bennet rolled her eyes, her patience clearly exhausted on that score.
“It is very good of Jane to wish to see the best in everyone, but one must acknowledge when behavior passes from bordering on uncivil to downright rude. And I do not approve of Mr. Darcy’s snub.
Yes, Lady Lucas, he snubbed our dear Lizzy.
How can a man be called a gentleman when he is so careless with his words? ”
Elizabeth felt a small warmth at her aunt’s defense.
Truly, Mr. Darcy’s remarks had stung for no more than a moment; pride and curiosity had swiftly overtaken hurt.
The gentleman thought more of himself than was warranted, and he would likely die of mortification if he ever understood how publicly—and foolishly—he had erred.
It will be an amusing story to tell Aunt Caroline, she mused. Though in truth, the princess would be furious on my behalf. Elizabeth suppressed a smile. Perhaps it is best saved for when we meet again—tempered with humor, lest it provoke a lecture.
Her thoughts returned to Jane. Mr. Bingley’s attention was promising, and not at all surprising.
Jane was the handsomest woman he had likely ever encountered—her natural grace, quiet reserve, and unwavering inclination to see the good in others rendered her exceptional.
Any gentleman would be a fool not to wish her acquaintance.
“You must promise me never to dance with Mr. Darcy, Lizzy,” Mrs. Bennet said suddenly, fixing Elizabeth with a firm look. “He does not deserve your notice.”
“I can safely say that unless forced by circumstance or cruel design, I shall refrain from standing up with him,” Elizabeth replied with an easy smile. “I am certain he will find yet more to dislike about our society before his stay concludes.”
That assurance appeared to satisfy her aunt, and the conversation turned once more to the general proceedings of the evening. Lady Lucas, clearly relishing her role as purveyor of intelligence, leaned forward conspiratorially.
“I have plans for a small gathering at Lucas Lodge next month,” she announced, her eyes shining. “And I bring news besides—the militia will soon be stationed in Meryton.”
Mrs. Bennet drew in a breath of keen interest. “The militia?”
“It is not generally known,” Lady Lucas continued, her tone lowering just enough to heighten its importance.
“My husband, being the magistrate, received a letter of introduction from the colonel of the regiment. It is essential for soldiers to enjoy the goodwill of the local populace.” She beamed.
“The colonel himself, along with several officers, will attend our gathering.”
“We shall certainly attend,” Mrs. Bennet replied graciously, already envisioning the possibilities such an influx of scarlet coats might present.
The call extended far longer than usual, sustained by the abundance of subjects that demanded discussion, analysis, and speculation.
When at last the Lucas ladies departed, Elizabeth found herself unexpectedly sorry to see them go.
The room felt quieter in their absence—less animated, though no less comfortable.
As she rose to ring for tea at Mrs. Bennet’s request, Elizabeth reflected that if the arrival of new neighbors promised anything, it was this: life in Hertfordshire would not lack for interest.