Chapter 3 Miss Bingley is Displeased
CHAPTER THREE
MISS BINGLEY IS DISPLEASED
To her dismay, Miss Bingley found her guests in the library.
She was annoyed to discover them together, especially as, for once, they did not seem to be arguing.
After Mr Darcy confessed his admiration for the chit’s “fine eyes” over a fortnight ago, Miss Bingley continually watched the pair, looking for a hint of anything closer.
While she was astonished that a young woman of Eliza Bennet’s standing could have any cause to think ill of Mr Darcy of Pemberley, it was evident the country chit did.
At their earlier encounters—even as recently as the previous evening—Miss Eliza (Miss Bingley could never bring herself to use the name Elizabeth, deeming the diminutive more fitting for a penniless nobody) had shown herself almost openly antagonistic towards him.
Indeed, only last night the foolish girl had possessed the temerity to contradict and dispute with Mr Darcy, to Miss Bingley’s mingled incredulity and secret delight.
Yet the exchange now before her was of a far more amiable nature than any she had previously observed.
They were laughing together—Mr Darcy actually laughed aloud!
—and Miss Bingley was nearly scandalised by such a breach of decorum.
Everyone knew that laughing in such a manner was vulgar, one of the many reasons she held the Bennet family in contempt, and most especially that insufferable Miss Eliza.
“Mr Darcy,” Miss Bingley called, her voice sharp and overly sweet as she swept into the room, her nose tilted high in the air.
“You simply must join Louisa and me for tea. We are quite desperate for a touch of proper company, especially when there is so little in this provincial area to recommend itself to persons of discernment.”
To her frustration, her invitation did not meet with the response she had hoped for.
He stood, acknowledging her entry, but only replied cooly. “I have been enjoying a most engaging conversation with Miss Elizabeth for the past half hour. Perhaps you would care to join us instead.”
“Oh,” said she, moving to stand as close to Mr Darcy as she could without completely breaching propriety. If he leant away, she pretended not to notice and said in what she thought was an alluring tone, “What are you discussing?”
Mr Darcy offered her his arm and led her to a chair, a gesture Miss Bingley was quick to interpret as a mark of particular attention.
Her satisfaction, however, vanished the moment he withdrew and returned to his seat by the fire, positioning himself far nearer to Miss Eliza than propriety or Miss Bingley’s patience could comfortably allow.
“The book Lyrical Ballads, particularly ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ by Samuel Coleridge. Miss Elizabeth has re-read it recently, and we were exchanging our thoughts on it,” Darcy replied blandly.
Having never bothered to read the book before, Miss Bingley could add little, so she replied in a simpering fashion that she hoped would draw his attention back to her.
“I am sure your opinion of the work is correct, Mr Darcy. You attended Cambridge, after all, and my brother tells me you received all manner of honours there.”
“Nothing out of the common way,” Mr Darcy stated drily.
“It only seemed like many because Bingley received so few.” He turned back towards Elizabeth and said, “Miss Elizabeth, my friend is a good man, and not lacking in intelligence, but do you recall the conversation about his handwriting we had after dinner a day or two ago?”
At Miss Elizabeth’s slight nod, Mr Darcy continued, and to Miss Bingley’s astonishment, he chuckled softly as he spoke.
“We were not exaggerating when speaking of his inability to express himself coherently in writing. He writes so quickly that he usually leaves his correspondents more confused than anything else. It is good that he has a man of business to handle most of his correspondence, so only his friends and family are left trying to decipher his hieroglyphics.”
Before Miss Bingley could decide how best to insert herself into the conversation, her brother appeared in the doorway, his tone far too light for her liking. “If Darcy is speaking of hieroglyphics, he is likely speaking of me again. I am pleased to know I am so often on your mind, my friend.”
Mr Darcy laughed again—an easy, unguarded sound that made Miss Bingley’s stomach twist. “Indeed we were,” he replied, a teasing note creeping into his tone.
“Your sister mentioned to Miss Elizabeth that I earned several honours at Cambridge, and I told her they only seemed numerous because you received so few. Since no one could read half of what you wrote, they likely concluded you had learnt very little at university.”
Miss Bingley forced a brittle laugh, even as her cheeks burned in frustration and anger.
That Darcy should jest so freely with her brother—and in that awful Miss Eliza’s presence, no less—was an affront she could scarcely endure.
She began to sense the threat to her hopes for Mr Darcy as she listened to the pair speak.
Their voices rose and fell in playful debate, and once or twice she was almost certain they had changed positions entirely.
She tried valiantly to keep pace, aligning herself with Darcy’s stance at every turn, but each time she did, their glances towards one another made her feel unaccountably mocked.
Bingley laughed aloud, unable to contain his amusement at his friend’s unexpected barb.
Yet beneath the sound, surprise stirred.
It was a rare thing indeed to see Darcy so at ease, so unguarded—and in company, no less, with Caroline hovering nearby like a hawk, clearly displeased by what she saw.
He had half a mind to tease his friend about it, but something in Darcy’s manner stayed him.
This was not the stiff, cautious man Bingley knew from their days in town—or indeed, from any other time.
There was a brightness in him, a quiet warmth that Bingley had never before witnessed.
His gaze followed Darcy’s, fixed intently upon Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
There it was—the spark. She seemed to draw it from him as naturally as breathing, her laughter answering his with a liveliness that seemed to fill the room.
The easy rhythm between them struck Bingley at once; he recognised the rare look of two minds meeting as equals—and, more than that, the unmistakable expression of a man who genuinely enjoyed a lady’s company.
Amused and more than a little intrigued, Bingley took a seat and allowed the moment to unfold.
Darcy spoke animatedly, quoting lines from Lyrical Ballads, while Miss Elizabeth replied with quick wit and an infectious laugh.
Within moments, Bingley realised he could scarcely keep pace with their exchange; it was plain the pair had studied the text far more recently—and far more thoughtfully—than he.
Almost more entertaining was watching Caroline attempt to join the discussion, nodding at the wrong intervals or echoing sentiments she clearly did not grasp.
Darcy’s polite acknowledgments only made her interruptions appear more strained.
Bingley hid a smile behind his hand. His sister prided herself on refinement and ease in company, yet here she was, floundering in a conversation about poets she had likely never read.
Darcy, meanwhile, seemed wholly unaware of her discomfort, his attention fixed on Miss Elizabeth as though no one else in the room existed.
It was all so unexpected—so entirely unlike Darcy—that Bingley could only sit back and watch in quiet wonder.
Whatever influence Miss Elizabeth Bennet held over him, it was a kind one.
His friend appeared happy—there was no other word for it—and it was such a strange emotion to see on Darcy’s face that Bingley could not help but stare.
Darcy leant slightly forwards, his tone taking on exaggerated solemnity. “Surely no one could deny that Coleridge’s verse tends towards obscurity, whatever its merit. The man made little effort to make his verses understandable to any but a select few.”
Miss Elizabeth tilted her head, her eyes alight with good humour. “On the contrary, I find his works as clear as they are profound—though perhaps not everyone has patience for them.”
Before Darcy could reply, Caroline interjected hastily, her gaze fixed upon him. “Oh, but surely, Miss Eliza, it is as Mr Darcy says. Coleridge is intolerably tedious—I have always declared it so.”
Darcy leant back in his chair, the faintest twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Then perhaps Wordsworth’s simplicity must be the safer ground? At least his verses may be understood by all, even if they aspire to be about little more than the common daisy.”
Miss Elizabeth laughed softly, the sound light and warm. “Yet it is Wordsworth who is called dull by many; still I admire him for speaking to the common heart.”
Ever eager to oppose Miss Elizabeth, Caroline nodded vigorously. “Yes, precisely! Wordsworth is intolerably plain. How much nobler Coleridge is, with his depth and mystery.”
Bingley could not help the quiet chuckle that escaped him.
Darcy and Miss Elizabeth exchanged another of those fleeting glances—so subtle that anyone else might have missed it, yet so full of shared amusement that it left Caroline looking unsettled.
His poor sister did not seem to realise she had just contradicted her own earlier opinion, deftly led into doing so by the pair’s easy, good-humoured manoeuvring.
Bingley leant back in his chair, shaking his head in silent delight. His friend, so often rigid and reserved, had found himself bested by a country miss, and Bingley thought it might do him a great deal of good.