Chapter 4 #2
Bingley laughed, and his sisters did not. Darcy, for his part, maintained his rigid posture, though I noted a telltale twitch at the corners of his mouth. Mr. Hurst appeared to have belched, from which end I could not ascertain, given his prone position on the sofa.
The swinging door shifted the already chilly atmosphere, darkening like the Hertfordshire thunderclouds rolling across the landscape, admitting a young woman who could only be my charge, Miss Darcy.
She entered, her gaze seeking her brother.
I had anticipated several things. Shy, because everyone said she was shy. Fragile, because Darcy’s protectiveness implied vulnerability needing shielding. I had even prepared for a younger, softer version of Darcy’s reserve—someone who would require gentle coaxing and patient management.
What I had not prepared for was her expression upon seeing me.
She was furious, but hid it the same way Lydia did when deciding whether to speak or sulk. From the set of her mouth, sulking held a commanding lead.
“Georgiana.” Darcy’s voice changed when he spoke to her—dropping half a register and losing its edges to become rather gentle. “Allow me to present Miss Bennet. Elizabeth. She will be staying with us.”
“Miss Darcy.” I curtsied with unfeigned warmth, because whatever resentment I harbored toward her brother had no place being aimed at a girl of seventeen who had not asked for any of this. “I am very pleased to meet you.”
“Do you.” She spoke to me as she would to a servant, with neither a greeting nor any of the social niceties upon meeting a new acquaintance.
Darcy frowned, but Caroline inserted herself, placing her hand on the girl’s shoulder.
“My dear Miss Darcy,” she cooed, her voice honeyed yet brittle, “your brother has seen fit to hire a companion for you.” As if he had bought a pet for her, and indeed, she was eyeing Cinnamon with more interest than she had displayed at my arrival.
“Whose kitty cat is that?” Georgiana crouched, fingers outstretched, her voice warming half a degree.
Cinnamon, who had summarily dismissed Bingley’s overtures without so much as a whisker’s twitch, wound once between my skirts, establishing ownership, before approaching Georgiana with the measured deliberation she reserved for those rare individuals she deigned to favor.
Which was a very short list, and one I had not given her permission to amend.
She butted her head against Georgiana’s fingers and purred.
Traitor.
“Her name is Cinnamon,” I offered. “She is contractually entitled to reside here, lest anyone wonder.”
“She is lovely,” Georgiana murmured, addressing the cat rather than its mistress—a choice I found myself respecting because cats deserved more conversation than people.
She lavished attention behind Cinnamon’s ears, and my faithless companion collapsed onto her side with the shamelessness of a creature who had never greeted me with such enthusiasm.
Georgiana almost smiled. Almost.
“Well!” Caroline interjected. “Perhaps the cat was worth the arrangement after all. Dear Georgiana does seem rather taken.” She turned, her warmth vanishing like winter’s chill.
“One hopes the companion proves equally agreeable. Tell me, Miss Eliza—since you are to instruct the granddaughter of an Earl, I confess myself interested. What, pray tell, are your qualifications?”
She let the word qualifications sit like an invoice on a desk.
“Beyond the cat, naturally,” Mrs. Hurst added, stirring from her repose. “Miss Darcy has had the finest masters in London. Pianoforte, French, dancing, watercolors. What unique offerings do you bring to this arrangement?”
Bingley looked as though he wished someone would change the subject to horses, while Mr. Hurst appeared to have expired. Darcy stood near the mantelpiece with his arms folded—neither intervening nor defending, but observing, which was worse.
Georgiana stopped petting Cinnamon and stared at me with the expression of a young lady who had been evaluated herself and was curious to see how another woman handled it.
“My qualifications, Miss Bingley, are as follows.” I ticked them off on my fingers.
“My reading habits are broad, encompassing not only expected literary works but also those that capture my attention. Before breakfast, I walk three miles, demonstrating my stamina and fortitude. I play pianoforte with enough feeling to move anyone without a heart of stone. And I possess a sharp tongue, which I gather is a common enough accomplishment in country society.”
Darcy’s head snapped toward me. He had heard the echo of his words from the assembly, served back like a shuttlecock with a nail in it.
“Perhaps you might favor us with a demonstration?” Caroline’s voice was sugar sprinkled on gravel.
“The pianoforte is available. I am certain Georgiana would benefit from hearing your interpretation. A brief piece—nothing elaborate—so we might all comprehend the nature of the cultural instruction Miss Eliza has to offer.”
“I should be happy to,” I said lightly. “Though I must warn you—I play for pleasure, not for scrutiny. If you are looking for someone to drill Georgiana through scales and études, you require a governess. I, most assuredly, am not that.”
“No indeed,” Caroline murmured. “You are something rather more… novel.”
Taking my place at the pianoforte, I adjusted the bench and selected a simple country air—one I could render tolerably well, though it would pale in comparison to anything Caroline or Georgiana might produce.
My fingers found the opening notes, and I played with the honest imperfection of a woman who had learned from a village music teacher and practiced when Mary was not commandeering the instrument for serious scale practice.
I had completed eight bars when Cinnamon jumped from the bench onto the keys with the full weight and conviction of a cat who had decided that this performance required her professional intervention.
The resulting sound was nothing short of extraordinary. A cascading dissonance of high notes and low notes, followed by a chromatic slide as she walked the length of the keyboard with the stately indifference of a diva exiting the stage.
“Good heavens!” Caroline recoiled, her hand flying to her nose as Cinnamon’s tail swept across the keys in a final flourish.
“Cat hair on the… The fur—” A sneeze, sharp and undignified, punctuated her distress, followed swiftly by another, more watery and spreading.
“The instrument will be ruined. Mr. Darcy, this is precisely why animals do not belong in—a-choo!”
Cinnamon sat down and began washing her paw with the disregard of a creature who considered human musical efforts a pale imitation of her artistry.
And Georgiana laughed.
Not a restrained titter of a well-bred girl performing amusement for company.
No, this was bright as a bell struck by accident—that she tried to suppress by pressing her lips together and averting her gaze.
But the sound had already taken flight, reaching every ear in the room, and the quality of the silence that followed spoke volumes about the rarity of such joyous outbursts in this household.
My gaze flicked to Darcy. His face had gone still in a way that differed from his usual reserve—not closed but arrested, as though he had encountered a long-forgotten melody and needed a moment to accommodate the memory. His hand on the mantelpiece tightened.
And he looked at his sister the way Mama looked at Jane—with a love so fierce it had worn itself transparent, so that anyone watching could see straight through the reserve to the raw thing underneath.
I turned away. The tenderness was too private, unguarded, and witnessing it felt like reading a letter not meant for my eyes.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy’s voice regained its customary composure, “is not in our employ to provide entertainment. She is here as Georgiana’s guest, and I will not have her subjected to impromptu auditions in my household.”
My household. In Bingley’s drawing room. Caroline registered the possessive pronoun with a flicker of her eyelids, darting a futile glance at her brother, who appeared blissfully oblivious to the nuance.
“How chivalrous,” I said before I could stop myself. “Though I assure you, Mr. Darcy, I am quite capable of defending my accomplishments, modest as they may be. The cat, however, clearly considers them insufficient. On that point, at least, Cinnamon and Miss Bingley are in perfect agreement.”
“The cat,” Caroline pronounced, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief, “is a menace.”
“The cat,” Darcy countered, “is specified in the contract. If the arrangement proves incompatible with your comfort, Miss Bingley, Georgiana and I can repair to Pemberley. Or London. Both offer excellent accommodations.”
Caroline’s expression performed a complicated series of calculations—the loss of Darcy’s company weighed against the indignity of dwelling with an orange tabby—and arrived at the only tenable conclusion.
“One might observe,” Caroline said, and her voice took on a different quality now—still honeyed, but with an undercurrent as sharp as a rapier’s edge, “that Netherfield has been remarkably… accommodating of late. Of all the households in England, Mr. Darcy, one does wonder why you chose this particular county to shelter your sister. Hertfordshire, I suppose, offered certain advantages—a quieter society, innocents ignorant of one’s history, and a location so provincial that your esteemed aunts could hardly concern themselves with, shall we say, a surprise visit? ”
She allowed her words to linger, and I watched Darcy’s composure, which had been impenetrable all morning, go perfectly and dangerously still.
“We are guests of Bingley,” he stated, flat as a rock. “The reasons are unremarkable.”
“Quite.” Caroline’s smile widened. “There has been talk, you know. In certain circles. Whispers of young ladies and unsuitable connections, of hasty retreats from seaside towns. But I’m certain it’s of no consequence.”
I did not know what any of this meant. Only that the landscape had shifted, and that Caroline possessed venomous knowledge she was not above wielding as a weapon.
Bingley, bless his unsuspecting heart, chose this interval to lean toward me, or it might have been the cat. “Miss Elizabeth, does the cat have a favorite treat? Most animals warm to me eventually if I have the right offering. I am quite popular with dogs.”
Cinnamon, still enthroned on the pianoforte, glanced at Bingley with the magnificent indifference of a creature who had categorized him as irrelevant and saw no reason to reconsider.
“She is rather particular,” I said. “But she respects persistence.”
“Capital! I shall win her over by week’s end. Mark my words.”
My attention drifted to Georgiana. Her face had assumed a blankness that spoke not of composure, but of a soul who had learned to empty her expression when struck, knowing that any display of pain would invite further assault.
I knew that look. I had worn it at the assembly, standing beside the punch bowl, while a man I had never met reduced me to a function.
“Miss Darcy,” I addressed her, surprised that my voice had softened. “Might I trouble you to show me to the library? Your brother mentioned there was a key, and I find that after traveling, I am in want of a book.”
Georgiana’s gaze met mine, and for the first time since she had entered the room, her expression flickered with something unguarded—perhaps surprise, or the cautious interest of one who had been offered an escape.
“Yes, I can show you.”
“Excellent.” I collected my cat, who left a scattering of orange hairs for her parting gift.
As we passed through the door, I cast a discreet glance over my shoulder.
Darcy remained at the window, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture betraying nothing.
Yet his eyes followed his sister, and in them I saw something I had not expected to see in a man I had classified as cold, calculating, and utterly devoid of human warmth.
Relief.
I turned away before I could examine it, because examining it would require revising my opinion of him, and I was not yet willing to concede that much ground. Perhaps not ever.