Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Darcy was taken aback. She noticed the flowers!
Remarkable. So many women with whom he had become acquainted cared about jewels and fabrics and gowns, or blooms from hothouses, but not the simplicity of wildflowers that grew independently of man’s hands.
When Miss Elizabeth bent to pick one and offered it for his lapel, he felt his legs tingle—a new sensation—but he feared what accepting might imply.
Distractedly, she tucked the bud behind her ear and picked a handful for her “dear Mama.” Though he distanced himself from her under the guise of brushing dust from his shoe, he did note that the purple blossom was offset perfectly by her dark chestnut hair—hair he thought had just the right amount of shine to it.
As he rose, he heard Bingley say, “An assembly? Why we should be pleased to attend!”
Darcy shut his eyes tightly for a moment.
How could he have befriended the most affable young man in the country?
Even at Cambridge, Bingley could never refuse an invitation.
Darcy, on the other hand, was only too pleased to find excuses to decline balls and dinners and teas.
He found most people far worse entertainment than his chosen company or even a good book, of which he had many to select from.
Goulding said, “Unfortunately, I must return to town, so cannot be present.”
“Bingley,” Darcy hissed, “we were to return with him.”
“There is no hurry, Darcy.” Bingley’s face broke into the smile that won over strangers and often calmed Darcy. In this case, however, his fists tightened. What horrors awaited him at the upcoming gathering? He did not wish to know.
Miss Elizabeth smiled as they passed through the gates.
Darcy caught her serene pleasure and followed her gaze.
The estate was modest yet stately. It seemed to suit her.
Pemberley was grand, but it lacked warmth.
It was built to impress, and though he strove to fill the shoes of his father and those great men before him who built the legacy to which he was now custodian, he never felt he was enough, and that made him gloomy.
The housekeeper, who had been dear to him all through his childhood, had consoled him after the loss of his parents and assured him that confidence and comfort with power would come, but he feared it might not.
More importantly, he was not sure he desired to be all that his father was, as his forbidding nature set Darcy on edge and left him wondering what true love—unconditional love—might be like.
Miss Elizabeth interrupted his musings with, “Would you care to join us for tea? Mama does enjoy visitors.”
Miss Bennet locked eyes with Miss Elizabeth, who raised her eyebrows.
Miss Bennet then cocked her head almost imperceptibly and Miss Elizabeth offered the smallest of nods in response before turning to the gentlemen.
The sisters seemed to have a language that only they knew, or were so familiar with one another that words were not necessary.
His only living sibling was more than ten years his junior, and though he doted on her, the difference in their ages made it so they might never be as close as these sisters clearly were.
Miss Bennet said, “Indeed, our mother does enjoy callers.” Her voice was strained and Darcy was not certain if it was reluctance for the gentlemen to join them or a shyness that incapacitated her.
She continued, “Our cook had made a tart to console dear Kitty on this day of solemnity.”
Ah yes, the guinea pig’s funeral. Darcy did not know whether to respond earnestly or to laugh, for a pet’s funeral seemed absurd.
Then again, he was never allowed to keep a pet of his own.
His mother had had the most irritating spaniel, and he had rejoiced when the creature had passed.
Mercifully, she had declared herself too heartbroken to acquire a replacement, and then she herself had passed.
He tugged at his waistcoat, pushing that memory away.
“Mr Darcy,” Miss Elizabeth was saying, “Are you joining us?”
He realised the rest of the party had moved forward. He nodded and hurried on.
They entered the house with all the expected fanfare of servants taking hold of hats and gloves and hurrying to pass along messages. Darcy noted the staff was small, but they seemed efficient.
In the parlour, Mrs Bennet dropped into a curtsy so deep that her husband had to help her up, and Kitty giggled, producing a fearsome glare from Miss Elizabeth.
They all sat and Mr Bennet engaged the men in discourse of recent travels and the letting of Netherfield.
Darcy noted that Miss Bennet watched Bingley as closely as she might whilst remaining demure.
What a gift to be able to study the world while going unnoticed.
He suspected she was regarded for her beauty, but wondered what was in her mind.
Could she, in fact, find his friend pleasing, or did she simply see it as an advantageous match?
From the way Bingley sat—leaning at the edge of his seat just a bit towards her—Darcy knew his friend was smitten. While a beauty in the most classical sense, Darcy did not find her alluring. Instead, he felt the pull of the sparkling eyes and wry smile of Miss Elizabeth.
No. He did not want to entertain such feelings.
Young ladies simply desired his money and connexions, and their mothers, once they knew of his holdings, pursued him for their progeny with even more determination.
A young lady from this small town, with such an obviously restless spirit, would, no doubt, see him as a way out of her provincial life.
It would be easier to distance himself from her and extricate himself from Meryton as soon as Bingley no longer required his presence.
“And what,” asked Mrs Bennet, “have you men been pursuing in recent days?”
Or whom? Darcy knew she meant. All of these meddling mothers were the same.
Goulding said, “Riding, visiting acquaintances, hunting.”
“Have you enjoyed these pastimes, Mr Darcy?” asked Mrs Bennet.
Before Darcy could answer, Goulding winked at him and said, “Do you truly enjoy anything, Darcy?”
He knew he was reserved, but disliked the teasing of his peers.
His true friends, of which he counted Bingley and few others, knew him to have a lighter side.
He was serious, yes, something that had deepened with the passing of his parents and the responsibilities that had brought to him just as he was finishing university.
Even so, he enjoyed jokes and wit and travel and card games…
though he admitted he never seemed to find them quite as amusing as others.
He longed for lightness, but felt a tug away from it whenever he came near true joy.
“Lizzy loves walking in the countryside,” said Mrs Bennet. “Mr Darcy, do you enjoy walks?”
He nodded. “As well as hunting, fishing, reading—”
“Oh!” cried Mrs Bennet, “Lizzy loves to read as well.”
This woman was as exhausting as she was transparent.
Miss Elizabeth asked, “Have you a decent library at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy?” He noted that she had deftly turned the conversation away from herself.
Darcy nodded. “It ought to be good. It has been the work of many generations.”
Bingley said, “And then you have added so much to it yourself. You are always buying books.”
He noted Miss Elizabeth leaned in at this.
Darcy wished he was by the fire now in his own library, feet up, enjoying words set to a page to expand his mind rather than talking nonsense with strangers. Why was so much of his life spent in inane conversation?
He said, “I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these.” Though true, he knew it was a pompous thing to say. Did he care if he appeared pompous? Yes. He did not like the reputation he had, deserved though it might be.
Miss Elizabeth said, “Papa has a marvellous library.”
“Does he?” asked Darcy, intrigued.
“I would be happy to show you my collection,” said Mr Bennet, his gravelly voice somehow soothing. “Though I am sure Netherfield also has a fine library.”
Mr Bingley said, “I wish my collection were larger. I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever look into.”
This struck Darcy as an irritating admission. “You are no fool, Bingley, so do not present yourself as one.”
“Not a fool, but not a reader.”
Miss Bennet said quietly, “There are ways of acquiring knowledge beyond reading.” She and Mr Bingley exchanged furtive glances and smiles.
Darcy had never seen his friend so taken by a woman, and would be alert for signs that this Miss Bennet was, in fact, an unsuitable match.
Mr Bennet rose and, gesturing to the door, asked, “Shall we, Mr Darcy?”
Darcy stood.
“Mr Bennet!” whined his wife. “We are having tea.”
Mr Bennet said, “There is time enough for tea and a tour of the library.”
She pursed her lips like a petulant child, and Darcy was only too happy to depart before she continued with her ceaseless prattle or more reprimands. The woman was insufferable. He had encountered too many women of her ilk, and each was like citrus in an open wound.
In a few steps they had reached the library, and while it was smaller and less organized than the ones he kept at Pemberley and in town, at a quick glance, he noticed that the topics were varied and wide-ranging, and a reassuring combination of old and new tomes demonstrated that great care was taken with it.
He reached for a volume on windmills, and Mr Bennet laughed and said, “I had a thought of building a windmill on our property, but Mrs Bennet said it would not look well.”
Darcy flipped through the pages. “So you did not follow through with the project?”
“No use tilting at windmills.”
He smiled. “Don Quixote! Do you read much fiction?”
“Some. I prefer to learn about the world and ponder its improvements, though I admit to enjoying a good tale.”
“I quite agree.” Darcy slid the book back on the shelf. “I admit to having considered building a windmill myself. A romantic pursuit, I suppose.” He recalled his father scoffing and mocking him, and how he had let the project slip out of his mind. Both of those facts pained him still.
“I did not peg you for a romantic, Mr Darcy.”
“Not anymore.” He shoved his hands in his pockets.
Why had he answered that way? Had he ever been a romantic?
In his youth, yes. Was he not still? No, he was not.
He was not idealistic. The world had already shown him its ugliness.
Even so, he did not wish to continue to view life with such deep cynicism.
There had to be goodness and beauty. Bingley saw it everywhere, even in places that did not deserve it.
Perhaps he might find something in between his current worldview and Bingley’s.
Best to turn attention away from himself. “Mr Bennet, what is your favourite book?”
“That is like being asked to choose one’s favourite child.”
Darcy narrowed his eyes. “You do not have one?”
Mr Bennet fought back a smile. “I am not at liberty to say.”
If Darcy had to choose, it would be Miss Elizabeth. Of course it would be. She was the perfect balance of liveliness and decorum, of knowledge and curiosity. She was pretty but not so much that that fact consumed her. And she was not silly, a trait he could not abide.
He and Mr Bennet talked about books until Mrs Bennet sent a servant saying it was imperative that they return.
Mr Bennet reached for a relatively thin volume, the leather cover brown with hints of fiery red and orange like embers. He handed it to Darcy, who read the cover aloud. “Candide.”
“Have you ever read it?” asked Mr Bennet, and when Darcy shook his head, Mr Bennet said, “It is a tale of wandering and the search for contentment. Take it. Enjoy and ponder.”
Darcy thanked him and as they returned to the parlour, he considered the choice.
Could Mr Bennet read his inner soul? No, Candide had been popular for decades, and most young men longed for adventure.
It was a coincidence, not witchcraft. Or perhaps the gentleman was more insightful than Darcy initially suspected.
This was a perfect example of why he needed to change: he assumed the worst about everyone.
“Mr Darcy,” Mrs Bennet said as they two men entered, “we were just speaking of assemblies! Meryton’s assembly is but three days off. Of course you shall attend.”
Darcy shot a glare at Bingley.
She continued, “What is your favourite dance, Mr Darcy? You simply must dance with my girls. Lizzy might not be as pretty as Jane, but Jane has, shall we say, other interests at present.”
Assuming the worst of people was fair. He might not like it, but that did not make it any less true.
“Bingley,” Darcy said, choosing not to answer Mrs Bennet, “we must be returning to Netherfield.”
Bingley held his gaze an extra moment, perhaps in an attempt to communicate some argument against leaving, but Darcy was impervious.
“Goulding, shall we?” Darcy asked.
Goulding rose. “Indeed. My mother has complained that I have been far too absent these weeks since Bingley arrived.”
Everyone rose.
“So we shall see you all at the assembly?” asked Mrs Bennet.
Heavens she was persistent.
Bingley said, “We would not miss it.”
“Neither would Jane,” said Lydia in a sing-song teasing voice.
Miss Elizabeth reached out for Miss Lydia’s upper arm and pinched it. Miss Lydia leapt away, holding the spot Miss Elizabeth had attacked, and pouted. At least she stayed quiet.
Darcy fought back a laugh. Though he would never pinch his sister, Georgiana, he thought Miss Lydia deserved it.
And he would never need to pinch Georgiana as she never behaved in such a fashion.
At least not that he had witnessed. He had left her alone for too long, and visited too infrequently, a fact about which she complained bitterly.
That ought to be remedied, but he found there were always too many demands on his time, so even when her school had not been in session, he did not often see her.
He ought to visit her more. No, he ought to take her from school.
He should send her to London. Yes, he would write to his cousin, with whom he shared her guardianship, though the illustrious Colonel Fitzwilliam knew even less about what was best for a young woman than he did.
“Darcy?” asked Bingley, who was looking at him as if awaiting an answer. Clearly, he had missed a question.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Would you not say the apple tart was one of the best?”
Ah Bingley. So effusive. So ready with a compliment.
It had been good, and he would say something kind. “It was—”
“Thank you, Mr Darcy,” cried Mrs Bennet. “I shall send along your compliments to our cook.”
He had had rather enough of this company, and so made for the door. He did, however, look back for one more glance at Miss Elizabeth. She was a lovely creature.