6. Promises of Return #2
“That is not quite the same answer.”
“No.”
She waited. Mrs. Gardiner’s pen scratched lightly at the desk, then stopped, then began again with exaggerated purpose.
Darcy spoke after a short interval. “I had a childhood companion. We were educated, for a time, nearly as brothers. My father loved him, trusted him, advanced him whenever he could. I thought him amiable. Everyone did. He possessed that manner which wins affection quickly and makes suspicion appear ungenerous.”
Elizabeth’s confidence in her own discernment stirred, though she held her tongue.
“I was slow to see the alteration,” he continued. “Or perhaps it was not an alteration. Perhaps I disliked discovering what had long been there.”
“That is a painful distinction.”
“It has occupied me more than it ought.”
“And his conduct?”
Darcy’s face closed by degrees, not rudely, yet with such practiced restraint that Elizabeth knew she had reached the edge of what he would permit. “Less than honorable.”
She did not ask more.
He looked grateful, which made her glad she had spared him and curious about what she had spared him from.
After a moment, she said, “It must be very difficult to reconcile the memory of a boy one loved with the conduct of a man one cannot respect.”
Darcy’s eyes came back to hers. “Yes.”
The single word bore more weight than a longer answer could have done.
Elizabeth reached for one of the sugared almonds, rolled it between her fingers, and then forgot to eat it. “I have always prided myself upon being a remarkably good judge of character.”
“I believe you are.”
“That is because I have not yet judged you wrongly.”
His brows furrowed. “Have you judged me, then?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Should I be alarmed?”
“If you have behaved badly while under observation.”
“I hope I have not.”
“No. You have done very well.” Elizabeth ate the almond at last and took another to avoid the necessity of meeting his eyes too long. “But since you have confessed one fault, I suppose fairness demands that I provide one of mine.”
Darcy’s posture altered, interest overcoming whatever shadow his recollection had cast. “Just one?”
She pointed the almond at him. “That was unhandsome.”
“It was accurate.”
“It was provoking.”
“Also accurate.”
Mrs. Gardiner rose from the desk with her folded letter. “I must ask Mrs. Hill whether this packet may go with the afternoon post. Elizabeth, do not allow Mr. Darcy to become insufferable while I am gone.”
“I shall do my best, Aunt.”
Darcy stood as Mrs. Gardiner crossed the room. “I hope I have not been so already.”
“My dear Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Gardiner said, pausing at the door with affectionate mischief, “every gentleman with ten thousand a year has been insufferable at least once before breakfast. The wise ones recover by dinner.”
She left them with that, and Elizabeth, who had meant to maintain dignity, gave way to laughter the moment the door closed.
Darcy reseated himself slowly. “Mrs. Gardiner grows more alarming every week.”
“She grows more accurate every week.”
“I am defenseless.”
“You are never defenseless. You are merely unused to being outnumbered.”
“In this house, I am perpetually outnumbered.”
“And still you return.”
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
The room, which had been all amusement a moment before, became too aware of itself. Elizabeth reached for her mending again and stabbed the needle into the linen with excessive purpose.
“My fault,” she said briskly, “is vanity.”
Darcy’s eyes moved from her crooked stitch to her face. “Vanity?”
“Yes. Not in the ordinary way. I do not believe myself the handsomest woman in every room.”
“I should not call that vanity.”
She refused to reward him by blushing, though she felt the attempt gathering in her cheeks.
“No interruptions, sir. I mean a vanity of mind. I enjoy being correct. Worse, I expect it. I have so often found myself the most sensible person in a room that I have begun to rely upon it as a law of nature.”
Darcy considered her with an expression that suggested laughter had been delayed rather than denied. “That is a magnificent confession.”
“I feared it might be.”
“And do you often find yourself mistaken?”
“Seldom enough to make correction unpleasant.”
“Then your vanity has been encouraged by experience.”
“Exactly. You see my tragedy.”
“I see a lady who calls superiority a tragedy because she expects sympathy for it.”
Elizabeth placed a hand over her heart. “Cruel, Mr. Darcy.”
“Resentful, Miss Bennet. I warned you.”
That drew another laugh from her, though softer this time. “Then perhaps we are both in danger. You cannot forgive easily, and I am too convinced I shall know whom to forgive.”
“An alarming pair of faults.”
“Very alarming. We must hope they do not lead either of us into disaster.”
Darcy said nothing.
The light conversation ought to have carried them past that line. Instead, the words remained troublesome in the air, more troublesome because neither had meant them seriously. Elizabeth tugged at the knotted thread in her handkerchief until it snarled beyond rescue.
“There,” she said, holding it up. “My mending has become a moral illustration. I was certain I knew what I was doing.”
Darcy leaned forward, examined the ruin, and took the handkerchief when she offered it. His fingers were large against the fine linen, far too elegant for the work and yet strangely competent in attempting it.
“I cannot promise success,” he said.
“You are attempting needlework?”
“I am attempting rescue.”
“Another fallen horse?”
“Worse. Wounded linen.”
He worked the knot loose with patience. Elizabeth watched his hands because she could not very well watch his face, and because hands suddenly seemed an acceptable subject for attention. When the thread came free, he handed her the handkerchief with solemn satisfaction.
“There. No disaster.”
“You are becoming practiced in preventing them.”
His gaze met hers. “I hope so.”
The door opened before Elizabeth could answer, and Mrs. Gardiner reentered with such excellent timing that Elizabeth wondered whether her aunt had been listening in the passage. Her expression betrayed nothing. That alone was suspicious.
“Mr. Gardiner has sent word that he is detained another hour,” she said. “Mr. Darcy, if you can endure our diminished company, you must stay for another cup.”
Darcy accepted.
Elizabeth bent over the mending again, but this time she made no stitches at all.
Mrs. Gardiner poured fresh tea and resumed her place with an air of complete innocence, though Elizabeth remained persuaded her aunt had contrived her absence with suspicious precision.
“You were speaking of Mr. Bingley,” Mrs. Gardiner said, passing the cream. “I interrupted the subject most shamefully.”
Darcy accepted the cup she offered. “There was little more to say. He is one of the best men I know.”
“Then I hope we shall meet him another season,” Elizabeth replied. “He sounds too agreeable to remain merely a name.”
“I think you would like him exceedingly.”
“And his sisters?”
Darcy hesitated just long enough for Elizabeth to notice.
“That answer has already been given,” she said.
“It has?”
“You delayed.”
He surrendered with good humor. “You would find Mrs. Hurst perfectly civil. Miss Bingley...is clever.”
“That is never a reassuring beginning.”
“No?”
“No gentleman ever says merely that a lady is clever unless he is searching for another compliment and failing to discover one.”
Mrs. Gardiner hid a smile behind her teacup.
Darcy accepted the correction. “Very well. Miss Bingley possesses wit when she chooses to employ it kindly. Unfortunately, she too often prefers it otherwise.”
Elizabeth rested her elbow upon the arm of the chair.
“And she hopes to marry you.”
The statement was so matter-of-fact that Darcy nearly laughed.
“I believe she hopes for many advantageous things.”
“That was not a denial.”
“No.”
“And what do you do when ambitious ladies pursue you?”
“I disappoint them.”
“How?”
“I continue existing exactly as I always have.”
Elizabeth shook her head.
“That cannot answer every circumstance.”
“It answers more than you suppose.”
“I think there must be another method.”
“There is.”
“And that is?”
Darcy regarded her gravely.
“I become Mr. Darcy.”
She blinked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The gentleman whose manners have acquired so unfortunate a reputation.”
Elizabeth set down her cup.
“You do it intentionally?”
“Often.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked from one to the other with evident interest.
Darcy folded his hands loosely before him. “A severe countenance discourages familiarity. Silence frequently prevents unwanted conversation. Reserve invites people to seek more entertaining company.”
Elizabeth studied him.
“I begin to suspect you have cultivated half your reputation.”
“Half.”
“That is astonishing.”
“It is convenient.”
She leaned a little nearer.
“I do not believe it.”
“I assure you it is true.”
“No.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“No?”
“You could not possibly appear so formidable by intention.”
“I fear I can.”
“Then I should like to see it.”
“My formidable appearance?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Gardiner reached for another biscuit.
Darcy regarded Elizabeth across the small distance between them.
“You are certain?”
“I am.”
He sat back.
The animation disappeared from his features with surprising completeness. Every trace of amusement withdrew. His mouth settled into a straight line. His eyes became unreadable, fixed steadily upon hers without the smallest encouragement. He neither frowned nor smiled.
He simply looked at her.
Elizabeth endured it for perhaps four seconds.
Then she burst into laughter.
“Oh, that is dreadful.”
Darcy maintained the expression.
“It truly is.”
Mrs. Gardiner gave up all pretense of indifference and laughed as well.
“You cannot mean to terrify people in that manner.”
“At times.”
Elizabeth dabbed at the corner of one eye.
“I might have been intimidated once.”
“Once?”
“When we first met.”
“And now?”
She waved one hand dismissively.
“I know far too much.”
“Too much?”