Chapter 17 #2
Mary sat at the pianoforte, diligently practicing a new piece of music Elizabeth had brought from London.
Mary’s playing was still more technical than anything.
She lacked the feeling that truly proficient players possessed.
There were hints of mastery woven within the notes, and so Elizabeth was hopeful her cousin would eventually grasp it.
Mary, for all her seriousness, was improving steadily.
Elizabeth reached for her work basket. She needed something to do with her hands, and so she had begun embroidering her father’s crest into a piece of fabric.
She intended to frame it for her chambers when it was complete.
The familiarity of the design steadied her, the repetition of the stitches lending order to her thoughts.
There was the sound of carriage wheels on the drive, and the ladies paused. A few moments later, Mrs. Hill announced their visitors. Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy appeared in the doorway.
Mrs. Bennet greeted her guests politely, enquiring after their health before inviting them to sit. Mr. Bingley went directly to Jane’s side, sitting beside her and complimenting her work. His admiration was artless and sincere, and Jane’s answering smile was warm, though carefully composed.
Mr. Darcy came and sat beside Elizabeth, who immediately set her work back in the basket to pay attention to their guest.
Mr. Darcy had a peculiar look on his face, which melted into a mask of politeness. “Miss Elizabeth,” he greeted her. “I suppose I ought to address you as Miss Bennet as well—”
“No, no,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Miss Bennet is my cousin. I am quite happy to go by Miss Elizabeth whilst I am here.” Besides, Miss Bennet was not her true name.
He inclined his head, clearly filing the information away. She had the distinct impression that he catalogued people as carefully as properties.
“You enjoy embroidery?” He had that peculiar look on his face again—thoughtful, assessing, as though the question served some greater inquiry.
“As much as I can. Like all young ladies, it was deemed a necessary part of my instruction. I like having something to do with my hands, and I am proficient. But it is not a favorite pastime.”
“What do you prefer to do in your idle moments?” He seemed genuinely curious, and she obliged him with an honest answer.
“As you have seen, I enjoy riding. Books also bring pleasure, though I would not call myself a great reader. Walking is another pleasant occupation, though I cannot enjoy it as much in Town as in the country.”
Mr. Darcy nodded. “Yes, Town has its limits. Do you attend the theatre when in London?”
“Yes, I frequently go with my aunt. We also go to the museum and frequent Bond Street. I find there are many agreeable things to occupy one’s time in our capital city.” She did not mention how she preferred most to be among friends, where she could be herself.
There was a pause, not awkward, but weighted.
“Expectations,” Mr. Darcy said at last, as though continuing a thought begun elsewhere. “They shape so much of one’s life, do they not?”
Elizabeth considered him carefully. “They do,” she agreed. “Though I believe they are often imposed rather than chosen.”
He studied her face, and she suspected he was deciding how candid to be.
“I once had a friend,” he said slowly, “a boy raised alongside me from childhood. He was clever, ambitious, and convinced that proximity entitled him to advancement. When the world did not yield to those expectations, he grew resentful. Bitter. He left England entirely, convinced he had been wronged.”
Elizabeth listened intently, though she suspected she was meant to draw a particular conclusion.
“It taught me,” Darcy continued, “that distinctions exist for a reason. When they are ignored, disappointment follows. Preserving one’s proper sphere prevents much unhappiness.”
Elizabeth felt her temper stir, though she kept her tone measured. “Or it prevents growth. If one is taught humility alongside opportunity, expectation need not become entitlement.”
Darcy frowned slightly. “Humility is not easily taught.”
“No,” she agreed, “but it is more easily learned when one has truly known constraint.”
He does not like that. She could see it at once. He mistook her confidence for ignorance.
“You speak as though you have observed such things closely,” he said.
“I have,” Elizabeth replied evenly. She did not elaborate. She would not.
Darcy straightened, his expression returning to polite reserve. “Perhaps we differ in philosophy.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth said, smiling faintly.
He rose not long after, taking his leave with Mr. Bingley. When he was gone, Elizabeth let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.
Arrogant man, she thought. Convinced of his own understanding and blind to anything that did not conform to it.
If only he knew how carefully she had learned to move within expectations far more exacting than his own. If only he knew how small a corner of the world he truly inhabited.
She picked up her embroidery once more, her stitches precise and calm. Some distinctions, she decided, were indeed worth preserving. Others deserved to be challenged.
Darcy did not speak as they took their leave of Longbourn.
He inclined his head to Mrs. Bennet, offered the requisite civilities to Miss Bennet, Miss Mary, and Miss Elizabeth, and followed Bingley out to the carriage with a gravity that brooked no interruption.
Only once the door was shut and the horses set into motion did he allow his composure to ease—though not soften.
The countryside rolled past the window in familiar, orderly patterns, hedgerows giving way to fields and then hedgerows again. Ordinarily, the rhythm would have soothed him. Today, it did nothing of the sort.
Miss Elizabeth’s words lingered with an insistence he did not welcome.
She had spoken with remarkable confidence—too much confidence, perhaps, for a young woman whose circumstances were so modest. He replayed her tone in his mind, her calm certainty when she disagreed with him, the manner in which she had neither deferred nor provoked, but simply…stood her ground.
She speaks as though she knows the world, he thought, frowning faintly. And yet what world can she truly have known?
Country society was narrow by nature. Its expectations were limited, its consequences comparatively mild.
A misstep in Hertfordshire might provoke gossip; a misstep in London could destroy reputations, sever alliances, alter fortunes.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet—Elizabeth, as she insisted on being called—had been spared such hazards.
Her opinions, decisively delivered though they were, had never been tested by the weight of consequence.
Surely, it would require more than a few months in town per year to give her more.
Darcy’s fingers tightened briefly against the edge of the seat.
Still, she spoke as one who has observed closely, he conceded. As one who has learned caution rather than ignorance.
He did not like that thought. It complicated matters.
Across from him, Bingley sat uncharacteristically silent, his usual animation subdued. He gazed out the opposite window, though Darcy suspected he saw nothing of the landscape. The crease between his brows deepened as the carriage rattled on.
Darcy studied him more closely now, belatedly attentive.
“You are unusually quiet,” Darcy remarked at last.
Bingley startled, then smiled faintly. “Am I? I had not noticed.”
“You were attentive enough earlier,” Darcy said. “And markedly less so afterward.”
Bingley’s smile faded. “Miss Bennet was…polite.”
Darcy resisted the urge to sigh. “She is always polite.”
“Yes,” Bingley agreed, too quickly. “Precisely so.”
That confirmed it.
Darcy looked away, fixing his gaze on the passing countryside as his thoughts sharpened.
He had warned his friend—gently, perhaps too gently—but warned him nonetheless.
Miss Jane Bennet was agreeable, beautiful, and kind, but her manner revealed no particular preference.
She did not seek Bingley’s company; she merely received it with grace.
Exactly as I said, Darcy thought, and felt an unwelcome flicker of satisfaction.
The pleasure was small, fleeting—and followed immediately by guilt.
He did not wish to see his friend disappointed. Bingley’s affections, though quick to ignite, were sincere while they lasted. There was nothing calculating in his interest, nothing false. If he suffered now, it would be because he had hoped too freely.
Darcy shifted in his seat. “It is early still,” he said, repeating words he had used before. “You need not draw conclusions so soon.”
Bingley nodded, though without conviction. “Of course. I know that. Still…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “It is nothing. I shall think no more of it.”
Darcy doubted that.
Silence fell again, but Darcy’s thoughts had already returned to Miss Elizabeth.
Miss Elizabeth.
He saw her as she had sat beside him in the parlor—composed, attentive, her hands stilled once he engaged her in conversation. She had not fidgeted nor affected interest. She had listened, considered, responded. When she disagreed, she did so without sharpness, without apology.
Too ready with her opinions, he thought. Too certain of their correctness.
And yet he could not dismiss them as na?ve. She had spoken of humility not as an abstract virtue, but as something learned—acquired through experience. That, more than anything, unsettled him.
She has lived very little, he insisted to himself. She cannot have seen enough to justify such assurance.
But the argument rang hollow even as he formed it.
There was an intelligence in her that did not announce itself loudly but revealed itself in moments—an economy of expression, a precision of thought. She did not speak to impress, nor to provoke. She spoke because she had something to say.
And worse—She fascinated him. The realization settled upon him with distressing clarity.
It was not merely her eyes, though those were striking enough. It was the way she met his gaze without challenge or submission. And there was the liveliness of her mind, the quiet humor that edged her words, the independence that marked her as unlike any woman he had known.
This is dangerous, he thought grimly.
He could not offer for her. The match was impossible—her connections too modest, her position too uncertain, her place in society entirely unsuitable for the mistress of Pemberley. He knew this as surely as he knew his own name.
And yet knowledge did nothing to temper inclination.
Desire did not always bow to reason. Darcy had seen enough of the world to understand that truth.
He leaned back against the seat, exhaling slowly.
I must guard myself, he resolved. This is nothing but passing interest. Novelty. She will fade, as others have done.
But even as he made the vow, he knew it was a fragile one.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet—Miss Elizabeth—had already lodged herself too firmly in his thoughts. She had challenged him without seeking to, contradicted him without offense, intrigued him without effort.
That she was unattainable did not lessen the pull.
If anything, it sharpened it.
Darcy closed his eyes briefly, willing his mind elsewhere, toward duty, toward reason, toward the safe and familiar boundaries of his world.
But the image that rose unbidden was not Pemberley, nor London, nor any grand estate.
It was a young woman in a modest parlor, speaking her mind with quiet certainty, and looking at him as though she saw not his rank—but merely the man beneath it.
And that, he knew with a certainty that troubled him deeply, was the greatest danger of all.