Chapter Twenty #2
Elizabeth smiled weakly, though the effort cost her.
The sting of Mr. Collins’s words had not surprised her, but they had settled into her thoughts with disturbing familiarity.
“One question I have had for a long time is answered,” she said thoughtfully.
“Lady Catherine somehow holds me responsible for her husband’s death.
I knew from my aunt’s tales that she never approved of my mama. ”
The admission hung in the air, heavy with implication. Mrs. Bennet’s lips parted in protest, but Mr. Bennet spoke first.
“Yes,” he said, his brow furrowing. “It was made clear to me—long ago—that the de Bourghs had no interest in raising you.” His mouth tightened, and for a moment the habitual amusement that softened his features was wholly absent.
“I can see it is good we have enough funds to care for my girls should I pass on to my reward. You will get no charity from Mr. Collins.”
Mrs. Bennet drew herself up, determination replacing outrage. “Oh yes, that is very good. With Providence’s help, Jane will soon be married to Mr. Bingley. And the others have dowries.” She nodded to herself, as though ordering the future into place by sheer will. “We shall not want.”
“Do not forget that Netherfield Park belongs to me,” Elizabeth said gently, though there was steel beneath her calm. “You and my cousins will always have a home.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes filled, and she reached out impulsively, clasping Elizabeth’s hands. “You are very good, Elizabeth. Thank you.” The gratitude in her voice was unfeigned, touched with humility she did not often allow herself to display.
Mr. Bennet rose then, setting the folded letter aside as though dismissing it from consequence.
He crossed the room and laid a steady hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder.
“I wanted you to be aware of the contents of the letter to better protect yourself, my dear,” he said.
“It is always better to have more information than less.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, understanding far more than the words alone conveyed. This was not merely warning—it was trust.
With that, Mr. Bennet turned and left the room, citing a need to see to estate business. The door closed softly behind him, leaving Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet in the quiet aftermath of truths long suspected and now confirmed.
Elizabeth sat very still, her thoughts turning not to Mr. Collins, but to Lady Catherine—and to the curious way old resentments could stretch their fingers across generations, shaping lives with cold precision.
“Now, Lizzy, let us talk of other subjects. You have had a chance to see some of Netherfield’s public rooms. What do you think of the decor?”
Mrs. Bennet seemed eager to hear Elizabeth’s thoughts, and so she obliged her aunt.
Darcy and Bingley stepped through Longbourn’s door, having been admitted by Mr. Hill.
Their greatcoats were relieved of them with practiced efficiency, gloves and hats handed off to a waiting footman, and they followed the housekeeper down the familiar corridor toward the parlor.
Darcy could hear voices from within and, for reasons he could not have articulated, slowed his step.
His presence was for Bingley, or so he told himself, though he had thought to avoid Miss Elizabeth as much as possible.
“I agree—the drapes in the front parlor need to be replaced. That garish green has seen better days and is faded now from the sunlight. It is a shame that parlor faces full west. Lizzy, perhaps it can be used for something else. Netherfield has plenty of parlors.”
Darcy stopped outright.
Netherfield? Why would Miss Elizabeth be involved in choices about that estate? Perhaps she plotted for her sister. Darcy had believed Miss Elizabeth devoid of scheming characteristics. Perhaps I was incorrect.
The thought sat poorly with him. It was not jealousy that pricked him—at least, he would not name it so—but a sharp, unfamiliar irritation.
Miss Elizabeth did not strike him as a young woman who arranged futures by calculation.
Her manner lacked the studied artifice he had come to associate with ambition.
And yet, here she was, speaking as though Netherfield were a place within her purview.
The housekeeper announced them, and the gentlemen entered the room.
“Good day, Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bingley.” Mrs. Bennet greeted them graciously, as if they had not just been plotting her daughter’s future as mistress of Netherfield Park. “Hill has gone to fetch Jane and Mary.”
It is nothing other ladies have not done before.
His thoughts worked to justify Miss Elizabeth’s behavior.
It was presumptuous, but hardly extraordinary.
Of greater concern was the mystery surrounding Elizabeth’s circumstances.
There was an ease to her authority that did not align with her supposed position.
She spoke not as one grasping upward, but as one accustomed to being heard.
Miss Bennet and her sister joined them, and soon all were speaking amiably—except Darcy.
He took a chair slightly apart from the others and listened, saying nothing at all.
His gaze, despite his best efforts, continually drifted to Miss Elizabeth.
He admired the curve of her neck, the way her dark curls brushed her cheeks when she turned her head.
Her expression was animated, her eyes bright with good humor and intelligence.
At one point, she and Miss Mary began speaking French.
The latter’s accent was careful and correct, though a touch too deliberate, while Miss Elizabeth’s flowed with an ease that startled him.
It was not merely competence—it was fluency.
Darcy struggled not to eavesdrop but found it impossible to do otherwise.
They spoke of mundane things, and Elizabeth mentioned a letter Mr. Bennet had received.
Elizabeth said there was nothing worth repeating in the missive, and that she would tell her cousin more later.
At this point, she glanced at Darcy and raised her brows.
Darcy assumed she wished to convey the message that they ought to be attending to their guests.
“She is aware of everything,” he thought with some surprise. “And she manages it without making anyone feel managed.”
“How is your stay at Netherfield, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Elizabeth asked, turning fully towards him.
The directness of the question left him momentarily off balance.
“It is typical of a country stay, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied after a pause. “There are shooting, riding, and other amusements. Though the society is more confined and unvarying than I would find around Pemberley, there seems to be a plethora of social events.”
“Confined and unvarying?” Mrs. Bennet sounded somewhat put out. “I will admit that our society is not so large as one might find in Town, but we dine with four-and-twenty families. That is hardly a lack of variety.”
Darcy nodded in acknowledgement but kept his disagreement to himself. Numbers did not equate to breadth of mind, and he suspected Mrs. Bennet would not welcome the distinction.
“Broader society does not necessarily mean better quality companionship.”
Miss Elizabeth’s words returned his full attention to her.
“I find I am much happier spending my time amongst a small group of intimate friends rather than having a large group of acquaintances.”
Her tone was mild, but the conviction beneath it was unmistakable.
“Would the company of a small group not grow wearisome?” he asked, unable to restrain the question. “Routine has a way of dulling even the sharpest minds.”
“There is always something to be discussed amongst true friends, Mr. Darcy. Some topics can always be reexamined. True friends show interest even in the most mundane parts of another’s life. So, you see, it is quite impossible that it would ever become wearisome.”
She spoke as though stating a simple truth, one learned by experience rather than theory.
He had the impression—again—that she was drawing from a life he did not fully understand. How could she know, though, if she had never moved in London’s society? I would have met her long ago if she had.
“Friendship is about quality rather than quantity, then?” he said. “Many love to boast about their connections—the more friends, the more value a person has to others.”
“Friendship and connections are not the same thing.” Elizabeth toyed idly with a bit of lace on her gown.
“If one seeks only for connections to raise their status, their focus may be on superficial qualifications. When I call someone a friend, I look more at their character than what they can do for my standing.”
Darcy frowned. “Then you put no stock in connections?”
“What use have I for those? No, it is much better to be sure of those with whom I associate. They will not abandon me when someone better connected—someone with more to offer socially—comes along.”
She smiled cheekily, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Darcy felt, once more, that disquieting sense of recognition, as though she were brushing against truths he preferred not to examine too closely.
“You speak as though abandonment is a familiar concern,” he said carefully.
Her smile softened, though it did not fade. “Life teaches us all something of constancy and its absence, does it not? Some learn early which bonds endure and which are conditional.”
He studied her then, really studied her. There was nothing defensive in her manner, no trace of bitterness—only assurance. It unsettled him far more than wounded pride ever could.
“You believe affection should exist independent of advantage,” he said.
“I believe,” she replied, “that affection which depends upon advantage is not affection at all.”
The words struck him with unexpected force.
“You would have the world governed by ideals,” he said, half in challenge.
“I would have people govern themselves with integrity,” she returned lightly. “The world may do as it pleases.”
For a moment, Darcy could think of no response.
He was keenly aware of Bingley and Miss Bennet conversing nearby, of Mrs. Bennet watching them with all the attentiveness of a proper chaperone, of the quiet domestic harmony of the room.
And yet, all of it receded beneath the singular clarity of Elizabeth’s presence.
She speaks as though she stands apart from consequence, he thought. Either she is na?ve beyond measure…or she knows far more than she allows.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said at last, “you surprise me.”
Her smile this time was gentler. “I am told that is not uncommon.”
Darcy leaned back in his chair, unsettled, intrigued, and no closer to understanding her than when he had entered the room. One thing, however, had become painfully clear.
Miss Elizabeth was not at all the sort of young woman he could easily dismiss. And that, he suspected, was precisely the danger.
“Bingley, I must tell you, it was deeply unsettling to overhear a discussion of changes to Netherfield when we entered Longbourn.” Darcy frowned from his seat across from his friend.
The carriage pulled away from Longbourn, and Bingley turned to stare at Darcy. “Yes, I heard it. What did you make of it?”
Darcy had expected Bingley to brush it off. Perhaps his friend was wiser than he had imagined. “I suppose Miss Elizabeth merely seeks to aid her sister. But it is clear that the expectation of an offer of marriage is in place. You must decide if you mean to pursue this folly or step back.”
“I hardly know. My discussions with Miss Bennet are warm and amiable. I feel as though she cares for me, but your words—and Caroline’s—have put me on my guard. I do not trust myself.”
“Then let me help. You know you could do better than Miss Bennet. Your fortune can command more than a modest dowry.” Darcy thought it possible that his friend could marry the daughter of a baronet if he waited patiently.
“Even Caroline has not ferreted out the precise nature of the Bennets’ circumstances beyond the entailment and modest dowries. Not everyone flaunts their wealth as you do, Darcy.”
“That is hardly fair.” Darcy did not flaunt his wealth. He enjoyed the luxuries his fortune provided—that was all.
“Forgive me. I am merely…Forgive me.” Bingley fell silent, gazing out the carriage window.
The rest of the ride back to Netherfield was spent in quiet contemplation. Darcy knew he was in great danger. His fascination with Miss Elizabeth could not be left unchecked.
I shall conquer this. I shall.