Chapter 2
Supper at Netherfield Park was always elegantly served and cooked to a turn, but Fitzwilliam Darcy hardly saw the food that graced his plate.
Nor could he bring himself to enter into the conversation around the table with much attention.
His thoughts remained fixed with unwelcome persistence upon the events of the morning, resisting every attempt he made to direct them elsewhere.
Despite his best efforts, his mind remained in Meryton, fixed on a most unwelcome sight: Elizabeth Bennet, standing in open conversation with George Wickham. Then, worse still, his hand lingering on her arm, as though he had any right to touch her.
The image returned to him with mortifying clarity. Her manner had been animated, her expression open, her attention wholly engaged. Wickham had leaned in with the ease of long practice, his countenance arranged into an expression of attentive interest that Darcy knew all too well.
It was not only the ease of the exchange that troubled him, nor even the warmth of her manner, but his knowledge of the man who stood beside her.
Darcy had known George Wickham long enough to recognise the pattern.
Wickham never hurried his attentions. He did not press where restraint would better serve him.
He preferred to be invited, to be trusted, to appear chosen rather than choosing.
Admiration was at once his true object and his surest weapon, and he pursued it with a patience that many mistook for sincerity.
But those who believed that the excellence of his manners must indicate an equal excellence of character were doomed to disappointment.
Wickham possessed a talent for inspiring confidence that invariably led his victims to disappointment, debt, and even disgrace.
He spoke easily of plans he never meant to pursue, accepted kindness as his due, and resented correction as an injustice.
Those who challenged him were dismissed as unkind.
Those who indulged him were rewarded with gratitude that lasted precisely as long as it was useful.
Thinking of the scoundrel and the harm he might yet do, Darcy ground his teeth.
What made Wickham particularly dangerous was not merely that he acted without conscience, but that he appeared to possess one.
He understood precisely which sentiments were expected of him, and displayed them when it suited his purpose.
Regret, humility, affection, and injury were all equally at his command.
He did not deceive by invention so much as by arrangement, presenting each untruth in such a manner that it concealed the next.
Darcy had long borne the burden of this knowledge alone.
He had learned early on that attempting to expose Wickham accomplished very little.
People preferred the agreeable explanation to the accurate one, and Wickham’s account was always the more pleasing.
Though Darcy was not yet prepared to consider his own reserve a defect, he could not deny that it had proved an obstacle.
A quiet character could only triumph over a noisy one with those who were prepared to listen.
Few were. And among the society of Meryton, Darcy was not certain there were any. Certainly Wickham’s account of his misfortunes seemed to have been accepted readily enough, even by the young woman Darcy least wished to see deceived.
To see Elizabeth Bennet now receiving Wickham’s attentions with such evident enjoyment unsettled him more than he cared to admit. She was not foolish. Of that he was certain. Her intelligence was evident in every word she spoke, in every observation she made.
But though sensible and intelligent, she was not invulnerable. Far more experienced people, Darcy’s own father among them, had failed to see Wickham’s true character. He was only too skilled in inspiring an unmerited degree of trust.
And to all appearances, Wickham now intended to use that skill against Elizabeth Bennet.
The thought that she might trust where caution was required was deeply disturbing. It was one thing for Wickham to be indulged by those who knew no better. It was another for him to gain influence over a woman for whom Darcy felt a growing fascination.
Darcy told himself, sternly and not for the first time, that it must be only fascination, not the beginnings of love. He would control himself. He would not forget all he owed to his family in a pair of dark, sparkling eyes, animated with a quick wit.
Only, that was remarkably difficult to remember every time he met with Elizabeth Bennet.
Wickham did not converse with women lightly, nor did he form attachments without purpose. His civility was never without calculation; his attentions never without design. To see Miss Elizabeth welcoming his society stirred sensations he was reluctant to name, but could not deny.
Concern came first, sharp and immediate. Jealousy followed close behind, unwelcome and undignified, though no less real for being so.
He had long been accustomed to governing his feelings.
That discipline had served him well in circumstances far more trying than a single encounter in a country town.
He found now that discipline faltered when it came to her.
He had not expected this, nor had he prepared himself against it.
Elizabeth Bennet had intruded upon his composure without his consent, and with an ease that both astonished and disturbed him.
“Mr Darcy,” said Miss Bingley, her voice cutting neatly through his thoughts, “you have scarcely spoken a word since we sat down.”
Darcy inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his expression remained grave. “I beg your pardon. I was not aware of it.”
“Indeed,” she replied with a smile that was meant to be playful, though it carried a trace of reproach. “We might almost suppose you found our company dull.”
“I assure you that is not the case,” Darcy said, unthinking and with automatic politeness.
Miss Bingley studied him for a moment, as though weighing whether further comment might be advantageous. “You appear fatigued,” she said at last. “Perhaps the country air does not agree with you after all.”
Darcy did not answer immediately. He was conscious that his distraction had been noted, and he disliked the necessity of explanation. “I am quite well,” he said. “I have merely been preoccupied.”
“With what, I wonder?” Miss Bingley inquired archly.
Darcy offered no reply, and Miss Bingley, finding her curiosity unsatisfied, turned her attention elsewhere. Bingley, who had been engaged in conversation with his elder sister, then turned from Mrs Hurst to address Darcy directly.
“You were in Meryton this morning, were you not?” he asked. “I believe we nearly crossed paths. When I was setting out, my groom informed me that you had just returned.”
“I was,” Darcy replied. “I thought it best to ride out early, in case the rains returned.”
“And right you were,” Bingley said cheerfully. “The last quarter hour of my ride home was quite damp. But no matter, it was a most pleasant day, and so lively! I believe half the town was out at once. One might have thought it a market day.”
Darcy hesitated. “It was well attended.”
Bingley laughed. “That is one way of putting it. I met several acquaintances myself, and was obliged to stop more often than I intended. One does not walk far in Meryton without encountering someone.”
“That is true,” Darcy said. The words came out rather more grimly than he had intended.
Miss Bingley glanced at him quickly. “Why, how intent you sound, Mr Darcy! Pray tell, whom did you meet?”
Darcy raised his eyes to hers and found her watching him with renewed interest. He was not ignorant of the reason for it. Caroline Bingley was quick to observe any alteration in his manner, and quicker still to assign it a cause favourable to herself.
“I beg your pardon, it was no one of any significance,” he said shortly.
Miss Bingley looked rather curious at this, but thankfully let her inquiries drop.
Conversation resumed, though Darcy remained conscious of its course only in fragments.
Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst soon returned to the subject of the Netherfield ball, and Darcy, though disinclined to revisit the evening, could not entirely avoid it.
“It was a most trying affair,” Mrs Hurst declared. “I have seldom known an assembly so ill regulated.”
“Indeed,” Miss Bingley agreed. “I cannot imagine how such behaviour is endured. One expects a certain standard, even in the country.”
Bingley looked uncomfortable. “I thought everyone enjoyed themselves,” he protested. “There was a great deal of dancing.”
“There was a great deal of everything,” Miss Bingley replied pointedly. “Noise, familiarity, and dreadful breaches in propriety.”
Darcy listened closely but said nothing. He had already reproached himself for allowing their earlier criticisms to influence his judgement. He would not repeat the mistake by encouraging them now.
Miss Bingley, however, was not easily deterred. “Miss Bennet’s family,” she continued, “seem quite incapable of restraint. One can scarcely blame her for it, poor thing, when she has been brought up with no proper example of genteel behaviour.”
Darcy felt a flicker of irritation, sharp and unexpected. “I believe Miss Bennet conducts herself with perfect propriety,” he said. “As does Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Miss Bingley stared at him in astonishment. “Of course, Mr Darcy. I should never say anything against Miss Bennet herself. Such a sweet country girl! Though one cannot deny that the younger sisters are sadly lacking in decorum.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Even so, I do not think it fair to hold Miss Bennet accountable for their conduct. Nor yet Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
Mrs Hurst laughed lightly. “You are generous to a fault, my dear Mr Darcy.”
Bingley seized upon the interruption with clear relief. “Jane Bennet,” he said, “is certainly one of the most agreeable women I have met. I cannot imagine anyone finding fault with her.”