Chapter Three #2
“Indeed.” His cousin, Viscount Edmund Ashton said, and peered at him over the rim of his glass tumbler, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Though I daresay his unmarried sister must be rather vexed to lose her monopoly on your attention.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed, creating a deep crease between his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“Come now,” the viscount said with a knowing smile playing across his aristocratic features.
“Surely, you are aware that she has dreams of donning a mob cap in your presence, and of presiding over your breakfast table every morning.” Upon witnessing Darcy’s mortified expression, he erupted in laughter.
“Good God, man! You were truly oblivious to her designs, that she saw herself as the next mistress of Pemberley?”
“Entirely so.” Darcy turned towards his sister, noting her quiet amusement betrayed only by a slight upward curve of her lips. “Georgiana, have you anything to add?”
“I do,” she replied. “Miss Bingley has, for quite some time, sought to cultivate my favour with fawning behaviour and saccharine compliments. Her method lacks subtlety. I have encountered too many ladies who have attempted the same stratagem to gather intelligence about you.”
“I perceived nothing in Miss Bingley’s behaviour to arouse suspicion.” His voice carried a note of bewilderment.
“I confess, I cannot abide Mr. Bingley’s youngest sister,” Lady Matlock said, her lips compressing into a thin line at the thought of the lady.
“She parades about as though she was the daughter of a peer, insulting most of our acquaintance with her affected manners. You will never see her tread the floors of Almack’s. Lady Jersey loathes Miss Bingley.”
“Why was I not informed how Bingley’s sister was viewed by our friends and colleagues?”
“Because Bingley is your friend, and he himself is well-liked, although he is more of a follower than a leader. Your sojourn in Hertfordshire is a prime example. If he loved this young woman, he ought to have stood firm like an oak against the storm and followed his heart regardless of her dubious connections.”
“His affections may have been genuine,” Darcy replied.
“But I observed that while this young lady welcomed his company with a sweet smile, she showed him no special regard. Meanwhile, at his ball, I heard the mother tell her cadre of chin waggers that her daughter would be mistress of Netherfield by the new year, and once married, the newly minted Mrs. Bingley would then throw her remaining sisters into the paths of other wealthy gentlemen. All this, and Bingley had not even called upon the young lady.”
“Hmm… mayhap it was fortunate you removed your friend from such an unscrupulous family,” his aunt murmured, her jewelled fingers tapping thoughtfully against the arm of her chair.
“Explain something.” Ashton, his attention caught by the mention of mercenary designs, roused himself to rejoin the conversation.
“If this mother is truly so grasping, why did she not set her sights on you? You are the greater prize — far wealthier and more consequential than Bingley with an annual income that would make any matchmaking mamma swoon with delight.”
Darcy paused, his gaze drifting to the dancing flames in the marble fireplace as he reflected on every moment spent in Meryton’s assembly rooms and country lanes.
He realised that never once had any parent pressed their daughter upon him as a match.
In fact, no one had initiated a conversation with him, apart from Sir William Lucas, who would chat up a log if he thought it might appreciate his stories about St. James’s Palace.
Perhaps his view of Meryton had been altogether askew, like a painting hung at an improper angle.
With Christmas celebrations concluded and Georgiana contentedly settled with her companion in their elegant Mayfair town house, Darcy found himself anticipating his dinner engagement at the Hurst residence on Curzon Street with unusual eagerness.
His friendship with Reginald Hurst stretched back to their first awkward days at Eton, where they had bonded over shared Latin exercises, and had weathered their years at Cambridge through countless debates and rowing expeditions.
Through Hurst’s marriage to Louisa Bingley, Darcy had been introduced to her relations, forming an instant camaraderie with the amiable Charles Bingley while merely enduring the company of his youngest sister, Caroline.
Perhaps it was the excellence of the meal, a sumptuous affair featuring roast pheasant and oyster sauce, or possibly the superior quality of Hurst’s brandy, warming Darcy’s chest with each sip, that emboldened him to broach a subject that he would hesitate to discuss with anyone else.
“What are your thoughts on Hertfordshire?” Darcy asked, contemplating the amber liquid swirling in his crystal glass, its facets catching the light from the fireplace.
“Pleasant countryside. Fine shooting,” Hurst replied, his heavy-lidded eyes studying Darcy carefully over the rim of his own glass. “Why this sudden interest?”
“During Miss Bennet’s convalescence, when her sister came to nurse her, I observed you were not quite as insensible as you pretended. Your mouth twitched repeatedly during Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bingley’s verbal exchanges, all while you were supposedly slumbering.”
“Indeed, I nearly betrayed myself with laughter when Miss Elizabeth cleverly manoeuvred Caroline into contradicting her own assertions about accomplished women.”
“True.” Darcy smiled at the recollection, a rare softening of his usually stern countenance. “Your sister-in-law never realised how thoroughly Miss Elizabeth outmatched her with nothing but wit and intelligence.”
“Miss Elizabeth also did not spare your vanity. There were arrows slung in your direction as well, sharp and precise as any marksman’s.”
“Arrows? I interpreted those exchanges rather as skillful flirtation, a battle of minds between equals.”
“Flirtation?” Hurst straightened abruptly in his leather chair, eyes wide in disbelief. “You believe she flirted with you?”
“Certainly. I maintained my reserve precisely to avoid encouraging expectations.” He paused as Hurst erupted in laughter, the sound echoing off the book-lined walls. “What amuses you so?”
“Your insufferable conceit,” Hurst managed to gurgle out between chuckles.
“My conceit? Explain yourself!” Darcy demanded.
Hurst, by now, had composed himself sufficiently to dab moisture from his eyes with his handkerchief.
“My dear friend,” he said with a sympathetic smile that belied his earlier mirth. “I regret having to inform you, but Miss Elizabeth harbours no affection for you. She finds you proud and disagreeable.”
Darcy’s jaw went slack, and he quickly snapped it shut, his teeth clicking audibly. After smoothing his expression into a one of indifference, he asked, “What makes you believe she harbours ill feelings towards me?”
“Ill feelings? No, my friend. The lady holds you in complete contempt. She does not think you are worth her time.”
“Impossible,” Darcy scoffed. “She engaged me in flirtatious conversation at every opportunity.”
“She held her temper with remarkable restraint when faced with both you and my rude sister-in-law,” Hurst countered, leaning forward in his chair.
“What you perceived as flirtation was merely civility from a well-bred lady. Her antipathy began the very moment our party was presented to Meryton society.”
“I presume you are referring to the assembly. How could she form such a damning opinion without a proper introduction?”
“Excellent question. Shall we investigate further as to why you were not introduced?” Hurst’s lip curved into a sardonic smile.
“All of our party, save you, greeted those to whom we were presented. You stalked off like a wounded lion and became intimately acquainted with a thick column of wood at the far end of the room, glowering at the dancers.”
“It was difficult to mingle and converse with people so far below my station.”
“Yet you befriend Bingley,” Hurst observed dryly, “whose father made his fortune in trade. And what of myself? I am of the minor gentry, like those you scorned with such disdain. Am I also unworthy of your exalted regard?”
“You misunderstand,” Darcy muttered, running a hand through his dark curls. “You are a valued friend. Those people were... uncouth, with provincial manners and rustic attire.”
“Perhaps,” Hurst suggested with a knowing smile, “you found them barely tolerable, not worthy of your consideration, and would not give them consequence by acknowledging them with your divine presence?”
The familiar phrasing struck Darcy like a physical blow, understanding slowly dawning across his handsome features, his dark eyes widening in horror.
“Ahh…” Hurst nodded in satisfaction. “Now you recall your assessment of the lovely Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“How would you know what I said in confidence to Bingley?” Darcy’s voice had dropped to a whisper.
“Because the lady herself overheard and shared your cutting remarks with her friends and neighbours.” Hurst set down his empty glass with a decisive thump.
“I heard about it in the card room, and the gentlemen therein were most displeased. She and her sister, Jane, are considered the jewels of the county, treasured for both beauty and character.”
When Darcy remained silent, his gaze fixed on the Persian rug beneath his chair, Hurst leaned forward in his chair, the firelight casting deep shadows across his usually jovial face.
“Another thing which bothered me about your behaviour in Hertfordshire. Your participation in Caroline’s cruel mockery of Miss Elizabeth.”