Chapter 3 #4
Elizabeth scoffed. “He is a disingenuous man. You have reason to think me susceptible to charm without substance, but I promise Sir John has no hold over me.”
Darcy held out a hand to stop her progress. She misunderstood him again. “I neither judge you nor resent you for trusting in Mr Wickham’s goodness. He has every charm of air and address.”
She pressed her lips together and looked away, and he hoped she was not fighting tears. “I do not know that anything can absolve me for being so blind, but I apologise for trusting that man.”
“You are too hard on yourself,” he said softly. “His success could not be wondered at, ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning him or me.”
Relief flooded his heart. She believed his letter. And she must not resent him for separating Bingley and her sister, or at least not since Bingley returned to Hertfordshire.
“I must thank you,” she insisted as they walked. “Your good information brought two positive changes to my neighbourhood.”
Of course she realised what he had done about Wickham, and he waved away her words.
His prideful behaviour was too painful a subject to be dwelt on.
She must have agreed, because she only gave him a knowing nod.
They walked toward the assembly rooms where they had danced last night.
It was also the town’s principal tavern, coffee house, billiard room, and gaming rooms, with shops adjacent.
They heard the rising cheers of a crowd near to them. “Do you suppose there is a bowling green?” she asked with a grin. “If you claim to be a sportsman, I shall challenge you. I must warn you, however, I am likely to win.”
He grinned at her arch manner, preferring this to the tension between them from before. “You are welcome to try.”
They walked around the assembly rooms to see a bowling green and cockpit as part of the complex behind the building.
Unfortunately, it was not bowls that drew a crowd but the cockpit.
The owners of both doomed animals urged their creatures forward, each with metal spurs tied to their legs and sharpened beaks, poised to attack.
Elizabeth gave a cry of dismay, but a roar went up amongst the men and no one heard her.
Darcy put an arm around her shoulder and hurried her away, although he heard crowing and saw feathers fluttering amid the cheers.
She had both hands over her mouth and appeared sick.
He guided her from the High Street, and they were out of Epsom when he realised he still had his arm around her.
How selfish was he for being mildly pleased she had not shrugged him off? Darcy dropped his hand and bent to look into her eyes. “Are you well? Shall I take you home?”
She shook her head. “I would rather walk,” she said once she collected herself. “You did not have to leave for my sake if you wished to watch.”
“I did not want to stay,” he insisted. Did she truly think he would leave her alone to watch a blood sport?
“It may be an ancient sport, but I think it a cruel one. The people act like madmen, and go on raising the odds to ten guineas and more per battle, with hundreds on the main until one poor creature is left.”
“And when it is all over, what remains in the mind but the dregs of brutality?” she said with a shudder. “Why do men do that?”
“In this case, they sponsor the cockfights because the profits from the entry fees go to the organisers of the races this week. But in general, I think the animals symbolise their owners’ and their backers’ identity, sexual and otherwise.”
It was a wry, unguarded comment, and one he ought not make to a lady.
She might not even understand him, and he would not explain it if she asked.
But he felt if Elizabeth asked his opinion, she preferred his honest answer.
After all they had said to one another, both true and misguided, it felt insincere to be reserved now.
It took her a moment, but she considered the animal’s name and the euphemisms she knew. “You think the cockfighting a vicarious self-validation?” she asked, amusement clear across her face.
He smiled back. “That, or a way to mask one’s insecurities.”
This was an inappropriate conversation between a gentleman and a lady, but Elizabeth laughed.
She was more at ease. She did not hate him.
It was gratifying to know that her anger over what happened at Hunsford had not made her think really ill of him.
He would do anything to be the one to always make her smile and laugh like that.
He cleared his throat. “If you do not wish to go home, why do we not walk Woodcote’s park?”
“I have no objection, but will the others wonder where we are?”
“Epsom is not large, and the others will assume we have gone home once Miss Metcalfe is finished. Mr Travers is more interested in the horses, and he will not seek us out either.”
“You rode with him this morning. Do you know him well?”
“Not at all, but he wanted to see the competitors, and I had no objection.” There was no need to mention Mr Travers had only wanted a gaming loan.
“He says very little not related to racing. He seems to be a bachelor who grew up with Lady Metcalfe. He knew the late Mr Tessier, but I think he—and Sir John Whitney—are here because Woodcote is near to the racecourse. Mr Travers’s father, the baron, controls everything, I understand.
Sanford Court in Sussex is his seat, but Mr Travers lives in town on an allowance from Lord Patten. ”
“It must be vexing to a man of his age to have little of one’s own.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “but at the same time, I would exchange my inheritance for a meagre allowance if it meant my father was still with me.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “My family is a trial at times, for varying reasons, but they are all dear to me.” Before he could say that he respected them, or at the least he knew now that he should and he would, she asked, “And what of Sir John Whitney? Did you know him?”
“We have similar circles in town,” he hedged. “He has two thousand a year. Clare Court in Nottinghamshire is said to be a fine house, although I have never seen it.”
“But what can you tell me about his character?”
Darcy blew out a breath. He was a flirt who made a spectacle of himself with women, single and married. “He is a popular man.”
“I found him trifling,” she muttered. “He may be harmless, but he is without substance.”
“Trifling” was a good word to describe him. “I hear he built a tennis court, though he never struck a ball. He maintains a fine pack of fox hounds, though he rarely follows a chase.”
Elizabeth gave him a long look. “Then may I ask you something? Why are you here? It cannot be for lodging near to Epsom Downs during the races. You dislike Sir John, you do not know Mr Travers, and Julia Metcalfe is on the hunt for a husband and has set her cap at you.”
He felt a surge of hope that Elizabeth was jealous, and then irritation that she thought he was recovered enough to pursue another woman so soon after losing her.
And then he was a little offended she thought Julia Metcalfe of all women could attract him.
Although, one could wonder given Julia’s attentions to him.
With her flaxen tresses and being a tall, majestic woman, the daughter of a baronet with five thousand pounds, Julia could capture many men willing to be caught.
“They are my aunt’s neighbours,” he insisted. “Mere bowing acquaintances. Did you befriend Miss Metcalfe whilst you stayed with Mrs Collins?” He could not keep a sceptical tone from his question.
“Oh no,” she said with a trembling laugh. “Lady Catherine arranged this all on her own.” He lifted his eyes, and she laughed again and then repeated, “Why are you here?”