Chapter Eleven
Darcy did not go immediately into the parlour, but stood for a moment in the passage with his hat still in his hand, as though he had forgotten the purpose of it.
From within came Bingley’s voice, already in full possession of the room, and Mrs Bennet’s, brighter than he had yet heard it, rising and falling with renewed animation.
There was another voice too, softer but no less constant.
Miss Bennet’s, speaking at some length with that gentle steadiness she always exhibited.
Elizabeth’s laugh followed, lighter, less frequent. He went in then.
The table was laid for tea, though Mrs Makepeace herself was not present, which did not prevent her authority from being evident in every detail.
Nothing was misplaced or neglected, and the cutlery and crockery was lined up with regimental precision.
Bingley, however, had taken it upon himself to improve the arrangement of the teacakes in a manner he clearly considered both rational and generous, pressing a second and then a third upon Miss Bennet, who was attempting, with great kindness and very little success, to persuade him that one was entirely sufficient.
"I assure you, Mr Bingley, it is not the quantity but the quality that recommends it, and in this case the quality is so very high that any increase would only diminish one’s ability to appreciate it properly, which would be a pity, as Mrs Makepeace has clearly taken a great deal of care—"
"But that is precisely my point," Bingley returned, delighted. "Such care ought to be properly acknowledged, and I do not see how it can be done with a single portion when the opportunity for a second presents itself so obligingly."
Darcy took his seat and allowed the exchange to continue without interference. It appeared to give both parties equal satisfaction.
Mrs Bennet sat opposite, observing with open interest, her attention moving freely from one daughter to the other and then, without disguise, to himself.
There was nothing in it that could be called subtle, but there was something steadier in it than he had expected. She was not agitated but attentive.
Georgiana sat beside Mrs Bennet, her hands folded neatly in her lap, listening with evident attention though she did not speak.
There was more colour in her than there had been on their arrival, and though she still kept her gaze lowered more often than not, Darcy thought there was less strain in it.
Mrs Bennet, for her part, appeared to have adopted her without ceremony, asking her small questions in a tone of easy interest and receiving her quieter answers with patience and encouraging smiles.
He had very nearly proposed.
The fact itself was alarming enough. He had not intended it.
Indeed, he had approached Elizabeth fully resolved to speak with caution and had somehow arrived within a few minutes of saying far more than he ought.
That she had stopped him was undoubtedly for the best. She was right to remind him of the conversation with Bingley.
Right to question a man who had spoken so confidently of the obstacles between them and then seemed determined to ignore them altogether.
Yet the difficulty was that those words now felt as though they had been spoken by another person.
He remembered saying them. He remembered believing them.
But whenever he attempted to view Elizabeth through the cold, sensible lens he had employed that morning in the breakfast room, the effort failed entirely.
What remained instead was the memory of her laughter upon the beach, of her patience with Georgiana, of the look in her eyes when she challenged him, and the increasingly dangerous desire to be wherever she happened to be.
The kiss had settled nothing. If anything, it had made matters worse.
For before it he had still been able to pretend that his interest in her was merely admiration, that his thoughts returned to her more frequently than was convenient but not more frequently than was reasonable.
Afterward, such deceptions had become impossible.
The impulse to seek her company, to hear her laugh, to draw from her one of those smiles she bestowed on him so sparingly, seemed to occupy a very considerable portion of his thoughts and showed no sign of relinquishing its hold.
He had seen the effect of his words. The quick rise of colour.
The tightening of her expression. He had known, even as he spoke, that he was wounding her pride.
He glanced across the table. Elizabeth was listening, though not closely.
Her attention appeared to rest on the conversation between Bingley and her sister, but there was a distance in it that suggested she was not attending in any real sense. She did not look at him.
"You are very quiet, Darcy," said Bingley at last, turning with cheerful abruptness. "You cannot mean to tell me you do not admire this splendid tea. Mrs Makepeace will have our heads if we do not admire it sufficiently."
"It is excellent," Darcy said.
"There, you see," Bingley returned, satisfied, before turning back again.
"And Miss Bennet, I was saying, if the land beyond the town is anything like what I have been told, there is a great deal to be learned from it.
Several farms a little way inland are said to be particularly well managed, and I cannot think why we should confine ourselves to the shore when there is so much of interest beyond it. "
"I am sure," said Miss Bennet, with her usual composed warmth, "that it would be very pleasant to see something of the country, especially if it is as well regarded as you describe, and I think a change from the sea air might be quite refreshing, though I should not like to lose it entirely, as it seems to agree with us all so well—"
"Exactly so," Bingley said. "A proper balance. That is precisely my view."
Darcy set down his cup. "I think we have done quite enough walking."
Bingley turned to him, entirely undeterred.
"Darcy, I have no intention of walking. That would defeat the object entirely.
We shall take my carriage, drive out at a very reasonable pace, stop where anything of interest presents itself, and, if we are wise, carry provisions enough to make a proper day of it. I cannot imagine a better arrangement."
"I can imagine several," Darcy said.
"I do not doubt it," Bingley returned cheerfully, "but I think you will find this one answers very well. Miss Bennet, you will come, I hope? I should be very glad of your opinion, though I cannot promise to deserve it."
Miss Bennet smiled. "If it is settled then of course. By which I mean that I, that we, should be very happy to join you."
"And Miss Elizabeth," he went on, with equal warmth, "you must come too. I rely upon you to tell me when I am talking nonsense, which I am assured is frequently the case."
Elizabeth’s mouth curved slightly, though she did not lift her eyes. "I should not like to deprive you of the exercise."
"Then you must come for that reason alone."
Mrs Bennet leaned forward at once. "A drive into the country would be exactly the thing. The air is so very fine at present, and I have always thought that a little variety is of the greatest benefit—"
She broke off, turning slightly. "Miss Darcy, my dear, you must come as well. It will do you a world of good."
Georgiana looked up, a little startled at being addressed so directly, and then, after the smallest hesitation, said, "Yes—thank you. I should like it very much."
"It is settled then," said Bingley, with satisfaction.
Darcy did not contradict him.
Across the table, Mrs Bennet’s attention returned to him, and this time he met it directly. There was speculation in her expression, certainly, but also a thoughtfulness that he did not readily associate with the matchmaking mamas of his experience.
"Darcy," said Bingley again, "you are not attending."
"I beg your pardon."
"I was only observing," Bingley continued, "that I may learn a thing about sheep farming if we head to the farms to the west."
"I have no doubt you will endure it very well," Darcy said.
"Endure it? My dear fellow, I fully expect to become an authority upon the subject before luncheon."