Chapter 14 A Prime Catch
A PRIME CATCH
As the carriage rolled towards Meryton, Darcy thought back to his cousins’ conversation on the notion of being a ‘prime catch’.
He knew he was not resorting to vain puffery to admit to himself that in London, he was indeed a prime catch.
Any man, in fact, who was still young, took care with his toilette, and was in possession of a good fortune was considered a ‘prime catch’ these days.
However, a prime catch in London did not mean he was a prime catch in Elizabeth’s eyes.
Indeed, he knew he was quite the opposite; to win her would require him to change that.
I said she was not handsome enough to tempt me, so I should compliment her appearance. Show her she does tempt me. Invite her to dance, flirt, single her out.
He stopped himself just as he was about to groan aloud at the impossibility of it all. He was not Fitzwilliam or Bingley…he was not even George Wickham. He needed to run when in fact he had no idea how even to walk.
He had forced himself to go to Almack’s before they quit town.
The Season was, if not at an end, nearing it, and uncommonly hot weather meant an increasing number of families had left already.
Anyone who had not made a match yet would likely not have a good opportunity for one until the autumn house parties.
Desperation, he presumed, would make the hunters more overt.
That assumption had not been incorrect. He had witnessed a wide variation in the styles of flirtation.
At one extreme there were the inveterate seducers, making love to whichever woman fell into their paths, flattering and delighting them.
Darcy knew that even if he wished to become like them, it would never do.
He would feel ridiculous even making the attempt.
Some played a friend to the ladies, being jovial and sweet—Fitzwilliam was one of these, he realised.
That might work, Darcy mused, though with a less jovial spin to it.
Saye, of course, had his own brand of flirtation, being mostly aloof if not vaguely insulting, but Saye was hardly seeking a bride.
In any case, Saye’s title preceded him and was of interest to nearly all.
I cannot be her friend either, Darcy mused, because she despises me. He rubbed a hand across his forehead. Compliments, he decided. Ease and friendliness. Anything else would seem far too absurd for a man of his disposition.
The neighbourhood was quick to welcome the Bingleys back to Netherfield Park. By their third day in the county, several of the principal families had called on Bingley—save for one. No Bennets had called.
Bingley flatly refused to be daunted. “We will call on them,” he informed his sister and Darcy at breakfast on the fourth morning. “Caroline, you will go along.”
Miss Bingley’s countenance had borne a sullen look since the moment they left London, but she had not, as yet, defied her brother.
Darcy believed it was likely some form of punishment for the role she had played in Bingley’s heartbreak.
Now, however, she was well-prepared to protest. “Call on them? When they have not called on us first? You may force me into the country, but you shall not force upon me an indifference to decorum.”
Bingley was the very picture of serenity save for the determined manner in which he buttered his toast. “They are our friends, and there is no need to stand on ceremony.”
“I disagree. If we lose our civility, then we become just like these…these country savages.”
Bingley laid his knife down and gave his sister a severe look. “If you find this neighbourhood so detestable, perhaps Scarborough would be more to your liking? Our aunt Bingley has so been longing for some company.”
Miss Bingley’s only response to this was to glare hatefully at her brother before saying, through gritted teeth, “Very well, then. Shall I just scamper across the fields alone to get there?”
“Excuse me.” Darcy rose and placed his napkin on the table. “What time should I be ready?”
Bingley named the hour, and Darcy bowed and quit the room.
It was tiresome to hear the Bingleys’ squabbles, but that was not what had driven him out.
It was the understanding that in only two hours he would see her.
He would be, again, in her presence. How would she meet him?
Would he face cool disdain or civility? To see her was why he had come into Hertfordshire, but it did not mean this first time could be greeted with equanimity.
Three hours later—thanks to Miss Bingley—the carriage drew them agonisingly slowly towards Longbourn.
For most of it, Bingley beat a fast staccato on his thighs with his hands.
Miss Bingley would endure it silently for a time, then shriek at him to cease.
He would—temporarily—and then slowly but surely it would begin again, gathering momentum as they rolled along.
Darcy was no less anxious but far better able to conceal it, even if he did need to stop his foot dancing a jig occasionally.
At last, they arrived and were invited into the house. As they walked towards the drawing room, he reminded himself, No need to dash immediately to her side. Be kind to her family.
As it was, such admonishments were unneeded.
The drawing room contained only three ladies when they entered: Mrs Bennet, Miss Bennet, and Miss Mary Bennet.
Darcy’s eyes darted around the room twice, then again, as if he might have somehow missed her, but no, she was not there.
With resignation, he took a seat and hoped she might arrive soon.
Likely she was in another room. Or perhaps out on one of her walks.
Surreptitiously, he moved his eyes to the window, hoping he might see her.
“Mr Bingley, you have come back after all,” Mrs Bennet said, a trifle coolly. “I had understood you meant to quit the place entirely, but of course we are glad you did not.”
“N-no,” said Bingley, who had scarcely taken his eyes from Miss Bennet. “I, um, I daresay there was some misunderstanding about my intentions last autumn. I am very glad to be here and very glad to see all of you.”
Miss Bennet had gone pale when their party entered, but on the word ‘misunderstanding’ she flushed a bright pink colour and dared to raise her eyes to his friend.
Bingley was staring directly at her, and as Darcy watched, she gave Bingley a tremulous, small smile.
Bingley beamed in reply, looking relieved.
Mrs Bennet must have observed it as well, for her pique abated.
The conversation flowed more readily then; the happenings of the neighbourhood were reported to them and questions about relations and Christmas and goings-on in town canvassed.
Elizabeth did not appear, nor was any explanation proffered for her absence.
Her family would have no reason to believe I was interested in her whereabouts.
Mr Bennet entered, looking very grave. They all rose to greet him, and he nodded and said he was glad to see them all, though in truth it did not seem that he much cared. He took a seat nearest Darcy and made himself comfortable.
The conversation resumed around them. Darcy angled himself towards Mr Bennet, thinking it was an excellent opportunity to learn more about Elizabeth. “I trust Miss Elizabeth’s journey home from Kent was uneventful? My aunt, Lady Catherine, sends her regards.”
Unfortunately, this sentence brought all other conversation to a halt as Mrs Bennet turned in her seat to stare at him.
Mr Bennet looked bewildered, and he, too, stared at Darcy a long moment. “You saw Elizabeth in Kent?”
“I did, yes. My cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and I were making our annual visit to Lady Catherine while Miss Elizabeth was staying at the parsonage with Mr and Mrs Collins.”
Mr Bennet studied Darcy, almost suspiciously. “She said nothing of that to us.”
Darcy did not know how to reply; he had some vague sense that perhaps he had said something wrong. There was, also, some devilish voice within him that said he was so unimportant to her that she had not even mentioned seeing him after more than a fortnight in his company!
“We saw her only a few times,” he said. “Lady Catherine often invites her parson to dine or take tea. It was my pleasure to renew my acquaintance with her.”
“Hm,” was Mr Bennet’s only response to this, and the conversation thus languished for long, painful minutes.
Too late, Darcy thought of another gambit and said, “I hope she is well?”
Mr Bennet did not so much turn to him as roll his eyes in his direction. “I have a great many persons in this house who fall under the designation of ‘she’, Mr Darcy. To which of them do you refer?”
“Miss Elizabeth.”
“She is well.”
Darcy suddenly understood quite well why people disliked his taciturn nature so much. Persons who would not bestir themselves to carry a civil conversation were a blight on the entire gathering. “I had hoped I might see her this morning.”
Mr Bennet offered a slight nod.
“But it seems she is…not at home?”
“As you see,” Mr Bennet replied, making a lazy circle of his hand that seemed to indicate the room.
“Out on one of her walks, I suppose?”
Miss Mary Bennet, who had not felt the need to put down her book when the company entered now did so with an exaggerated thud.
“Lizzy has gone to see her friends at Ashworth,” she informed him.
“Miss Mary King lives there now, and she and Lizzy have become intimates. Jane customarily goes with her, but Mama insisted that she should remain back today.”
She rose then and excused herself, and Darcy fell into disappointed silence for the remainder of the call.
The only bright spot came when an assembly, to be held at the hall in Meryton, was spoken of, it being planned for three days hence.
Bingley greeted the news with elation and shot a glance towards Darcy; Darcy, too, expressed his enthusiasm for the event, which was truly felt.
It seemed his greatest hope for the fulfilment of his dearest wishes.
He could only hope that Elizabeth would agree to dance with him, perhaps even twice.