Chapter 6 #2
“Miss Bennet,” he said eagerly, turning toward Jane, “do you remember the elm walk near Netherfield? I was thinking only yesterday how pleasant it must be when the weather improves.”
Jane smiled, genuine warmth lighting her face. “Yes. I remember it very well.”
Elizabeth observed Miss Bingley’s expression tighten almost imperceptibly.
“Oh, Hertfordshire,” Miss Bingley said lightly. “How rustic it must seem now.”
“I find the countryside quite agreeable,” Jane replied, without retreat. “Particularly when one may visit an estate as elegant as Netherfield Park.”
Elizabeth felt a flicker of satisfaction.
Miss Bingley laughed, though there was little humour in it. “How pleasant it must be to be easily contented! One can then be happy wherever one goes.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, prepared to intervene if necessary, but Mrs Gardiner touched her arm gently.
“Patience,” her aunt murmured.
Elizabeth complied, though not without effort.
They walked on, the conversation fragmenting at last as Jane and Mr Bingley managed a few uninterrupted exchanges.
Elizabeth watched with cautious optimism as Mr Bingley’s attention settled more firmly upon her sister, his manner softening as though relieved of some long-standing constraint.
Encouraged by his warmth, Jane spoke with increasing ease.
Then Miss Bingley’s gaze shifted. She slowed slightly, her expression smoothing into calculated interest as she looked ahead along the path.
Elizabeth felt a familiar tightening in her chest, for she knew who she would see before she turned to look.
Mr Darcy approached them with an air of perfect naturalness, as though his appearance were entirely unplanned. He excused himself from the gentleman walking with him and fell easily into step beside their party.
For a moment, Miss Bingley’s composure faltered.
“Mr Darcy,” she exclaimed, genuine surprise breaking through her practiced ease. “How unexpected.”
Elizabeth noted the moment with some satisfaction. Miss Bingley, it seemed, was the only one unacquainted with this particular arrangement.
Mr Darcy greeted Mrs Gardiner and Jane with polite restraint before turning to Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr Darcy,” she replied coolly.
Miss Bingley recovered at once, redirecting her attention with renewed enthusiasm. She drifted toward Mr Darcy with unmistakable intent, her conversation pivoting as smoothly as a well-rehearsed turn.
Jane and Mr Bingley, freed at last, fell naturally a step behind. Elizabeth smiled to herself. Forced to choose between interfering with Jane and Mr Bingley and chasing Mr Darcy, Miss Bingley had chosen the latter. For once, Mr Darcy was being rather helpful.
Mr Darcy walked between them, his manner carefully neutral.
He spoke when addressed and remained silent otherwise, his tone courteous without warmth.
Elizabeth concealed a smile, admiring his care for the role.
Mr Darcy was no actor, but then, their plan did not require him to be.
He simply needed to show the ton that Elizabeth was a nonentity to him, and that, Elizabeth had no doubt that he could do with perfect sincerity.
Miss Bingley was proving most useful, for she was as intent that Elizabeth and Mr Darcy should not speak much together as either of them could have wished.
She spoke animatedly and almost without pause, remarking upon acquaintances, engagements, and the demands of the season.
Mr Darcy responded with unfailing civility, though without encouragement.
At one point, when Miss Bingley praised the park as the most agreeable place in London, he replied dryly, “Glad as I am to walk a little among green things, I must confess that I should prefer either more nature, or less muddy paths.”
Elizabeth turned her face away for a moment, pretending interest in a passing horse and rider, and swallowing down a laugh.
It would have been dangerously easy to mistake such restraint for intimacy, to imagine meaning where there was only careful politeness.
Mr Darcy was behaving exactly as their plan required.
He was attentive without being engaged, civil without being personal, and if there was humour in his replies, it was of the sort one might offer any agreeable acquaintance.
She told herself firmly that this was proof of indifference rather than disguise, and that the distinction mattered.
If he appeared composed, it was because he felt nothing that required concealment.
Elizabeth smiled at the thought.
She found herself watching him more closely than she intended. There was an ease in his restraint, a balance of humour and courtesy that she had not expected. She could, she thought with reluctant honesty, like him very much.
If it had not been for George Wickham and the things he had told her.
The thought intruded unbidden. Wickham’s accusations lingered like a shadow she could not quite dismiss. Mr Darcy had said he was innocent of the most serious charges. What had he meant by that? Could there be an explanation she had not yet heard?
Reluctantly, she dismissed the idea. Despite what Jane wished to believe, there were villains in the world. Mr Darcy had not become more likely to be innocent of wickedness simply because she had discovered he was a man of judgement and intelligence, with a sense of humour that appealed to her own.
As they walked, Elizabeth became aware of glances directed toward them, quick and curious. She smiled to herself. The first step of their plan was succeeding, for to be observed in the act of total indifference to each other, they must first be observed.
Elizabeth kept her manner composed, her tone polite but distant. Mr Darcy mirrored her perfectly. Miss Bingley, absorbed in her own efforts, appeared satisfied.
Now several paces away, Jane and Mr Bingley walked together, their conversation quiet but animated, their expressions open and unguarded. Mr Bingley leaned toward Jane as she spoke, his attention wholly fixed upon her.
The sight eased something tight within Elizabeth’s chest.
The walk concluded without further incident, and when they parted, it was with an air of politeness between some and warmth between others. Mr Darcy bowed, Miss Bingley offered gracious farewells, and Mr Bingley departed with a promise to call again.
At home, Elizabeth allowed herself to indulge in a moment of happy optimism.
She was amused by how little ground Caroline Bingley had gained with Mr Darcy, pleased by how well Jane and Mr Bingley were getting on, and confident that she and Mr Darcy had shown anyone watching that they did not care for each other at all.
What they had shown the world was surely nothing worth watching. For the first time since the rumours had begun, Elizabeth believed they might finally fade.
As she reviewed the morning in her mind, Elizabeth found no cause for alarm. Nothing had been said that could be misinterpreted, no moment allowed to linger too long. Mr Darcy’s manner had been precisely what it ought to have been, and her own, she believed, equally so.
How useful Caroline Bingley had been to them! Surely everyone observing them would have noticed that she spoke to Mr Darcy half a dozen times for every sentence Elizabeth gave him. Her indifference could be set to no greater contrast than Miss Bingley’s careful, marked attentions.
With no small satisfaction, Elizabeth decided that time would do the rest. Familiarity would dull curiosity, repetition would weaken invention, and London, always eager for novelty, would soon turn its attention elsewhere.