Chapter 7 #2
“Not in the least,” Toby agreed.
A brief pause followed.
“But matters have worked out,” Toby said at last.
“Yes,” Thomas added. “They have.”
Darcy regarded them for another moment. “You have caused a considerable degree of concern.” The full danger of their scheme was only now settling upon him.
Had the damage been worse, Elizabeth and Jane might have been seriously injured.
Whatever amusement he felt at the boys’ ingenuity was tempered by a sober recognition that, on this occasion, their mischief had ventured perilously close to genuine harm.
“We never intended it,” Toby said.
“We only wished to help,” Thomas added.
Darcy considered this. “Your sister remains because she has chosen to remain,” he said. “Your efforts were not solely responsible for that result.”
Toby tilted his head. “But they were of some assistance.”
Darcy shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Thomas stepped back. “We must go.”
“Before anyone notices our absence,” Toby added.
They turned to leave.
“Gentlemen,” Darcy said.
They paused.
“If you offer such assistance again, you would do well to consider every possible outcome.”
Thomas nodded. “We shall.”
“We are still learning,” Toby added.
Darcy regarded them steadily.
They ran off soon thereafter.
Darcy remained where he was, his thoughts settling into a clarity that had eluded him for days. The situation, though altered by thoroughly unexpected means, had resolved into something undeniable.
Miss Elizabeth was here.
She would remain.
Time and opportunity had been placed before him.
And this time, he would make full use of both.
The sitting room at Netherfield had assumed that peculiar arrangement which often followed dinner, when the party was too small to divide with success and too little acquainted to be perfectly at ease.
Miss Bennet remained upstairs, her fever still too pronounced to admit company. Miss Elizabeth had spent the greater part of the day at her sister’s side, descending only after Bingley repeatedly assured her that Jane was sleeping and would be carefully attended by the maid.
She entered the room with more composure than color, and Darcy perceived the fatigue beneath that composure.
A few curls near her temple had loosened, almost certainly from long hours spent in the sickroom, and the gown she wore was unfamiliar.
Miss Bingley had supplied it, and though it suited Elizabeth less well than her own clothing would have done, she wore it with complete unconcern.
That alone recommended her.
Miss Bingley, who possessed the unfortunate talent of making generosity feel like condescension, had already remarked twice upon the inconvenience of unexpected guests and once upon the difficulty of fitting another lady from one’s own wardrobe.
Miss Elizabeth had answered each observation with civility and no gratitude beyond what was deserved.
Darcy admired her restraint.
Bingley, with genuine concern, rose when she entered. “Miss Elizabeth, I hope Miss Bennet is easier.”
“She sleeps,” Elizabeth replied. “Mr. Jones’s draught has done some good, I think, though I shall not claim too much too soon.”
“You must tell me if anything is wanted.” Bingley was in earnest; his expression was one that bespoke the desire to be useful.
“I shall. You have already been most kind.” Miss Elizabeth’s smile was warm and genuine.
Miss Bingley’s fan opened with a flick. “Charles is always kind. Sometimes to the point of imprudence.”
Bingley chuckled. “Then I hope never to be cured of it.”
Elizabeth smiled at him again, and Darcy found himself unreasonably aware that the expression was not directed at him.
She took a chair near the worktable, not close enough to invite conversation, but not so far as to appear rude.
Darcy had intended to speak to her before the evening ended, but the arrangement of the room opposed him.
Miss Bingley had chosen a place that allowed her to observe every exchange, Mrs. Hurst reclined with languid interest, and Bingley, though well-meaning, seemed incapable of leaving any silence unfilled.
Darcy remained by the mantel, waiting.
Miss Bingley set down her fan. “Miss Elizabeth, you must find the country fatiguing after London. Though I suppose one may become accustomed to anything.”
Elizabeth looked up from the edge of the handkerchief she had taken up, more to occupy her fingers than from any real commitment to needlework. “I found London confining. I was but a child when we lived there.”
“Confining?” Mrs. Hurst repeated.
“Yes. There are too many walls and too few paths.”
Bingley smiled. “That is well said.”
Miss Bingley’s expression made her disagreement perfectly clear. “I confess I should not have expected such a preference. Many young ladies would consider access to London society a considerable advantage.”
“Then many young ladies are welcome to my share of it,” Elizabeth returned. “I shall keep the hedgerows.”
Darcy’s attention settled more fully upon her. There was wit in the reply, but no trace of performance. She had spoken neither to attract notice nor to display her cleverness; she spoke because the truth of it amused her.
Miss Bingley turned to him. “Mr. Darcy, you ought not to encourage such sentiments. If every young lady preferred hedgerows to town, society would be greatly diminished.”
Darcy gave a slight shrug. “Society has survived greater losses.”
Elizabeth’s needle paused.
Bingley slapped his knee. “Darcy, that is uncommonly severe.”
“Only accurate.”
Miss Bingley’s smile grew thinner. “You astonish me. I had imagined you possessed more refined opinions.”
“I trust refinement and good sense are perfectly compatible.”
He answered with effortless composure, increasingly weary of her supercilious manner.
Elizabeth glanced toward him. Though her expression remained guarded, something in her eyes had changed.
Interest, perhaps.
Or suspicion.
Darcy would willingly accept either, provided it held her attention.
Mrs. Hurst yawned behind her hand. “Caroline, you must tell us what opinions Mr. Darcy is meant to hold. It will save him the trouble of forming them.”
Miss Bingley ignored the remark. “We were speaking of refinement, Louisa, which naturally brings one to the subject of accomplishments. I have always thought it remarkable how few young women may truly be called accomplished.”
Bingley settled into a chair. “I am sure I know a great many accomplished young women.”
His sister scoffed. “Charles, you are pleased with every lady who smiles at you.”
Bingley was unrepentant. “That is because smiles are pleasing.”
Elizabeth’s mouth curved.
Miss Bingley gave her brother a look of patient superiority.
“An accomplished woman must possess far more than a pleasant expression. She must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages. She must have a certain something in her air and manner of walking, in the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.”
“That is a formidable list,” Elizabeth observed. “I wonder any lady survives the attempt.”
“One must strive,” Miss Bingley replied. “Though naturally some are better situated for success than others.”
The direction of the remark was plain enough.
Darcy saw Elizabeth’s fingers tighten around the handkerchief. She did not lower her eyes.
“Advantages are useful,” she said. “They do not always produce excellence.”
Miss Bingley smiled. “No, but want of them often produces deficiency.”
Darcy moved before calculation could interfere. He crossed from the mantel to the chair nearest Elizabeth—not beside her, which might have been too pointed, but near enough that the shift altered the balance of the room.
“I would add something to your list, Miss Bingley.”
Her expression brightened, mistaking his entrance into the discussion for alliance. “Of course. You are the very person to refine it.”
“Reading,” Darcy said.
Miss Bingley appeared perturbed. “Reading?”
“Yes, a familiarity with the written word is essential to any claim of true accomplishment. A lady must read widely and with understanding—not merely to possess books, or to quote them when convenient, but to allow them to improve her judgment.”
Elizabeth lowered her gaze, though not before Darcy caught the quick flicker of amusement in her eyes.
Bingley leaned forward. “That excludes me altogether, I fear. I rarely possess the patience to finish a book, whether it be a novel or a weighty tome.”
“You were never under consideration,” Mrs. Hurst murmured, casting her younger brother an exasperated, affectionate look.
Bingley accepted the observation with perfect good humor. “Quite true.”
Darcy continued. “I would add steadiness of character—the habit of thinking before speaking, the ability to distinguish kindness from display, and the inclination to act rightly when admiration is unlikely to follow.”
The atmosphere in the room shifted.
Miss Bingley’s fan became perfectly still in her lap.
Elizabeth kept her eyes lowered.
Darcy was fully aware that he spoke with unusual directness.
He was equally aware that he did not regret it.
“Such qualities are certainly admirable,” Miss Bingley said after a moment, “but I am uncertain whether they may properly be called accomplishments.”
“Then perhaps accomplishments are of less consequence than we have been taught to suppose.”
Darcy answered with increasing satisfaction.
Elizabeth lifted her gaze.
This time, she met his directly.
Mirth danced in her fine eyes. A deeper color rose in her cheeks, though whether from surprise, discomfort, or something warmer, Darcy could not determine.
She broke eye contact first, though not before making it clear that she understood him perfectly.
Miss Bingley tittered.
The sound was distinctly hollow.
“Mr. Darcy, you cannot seriously mean that fortune and birth carry little consequence. Even you, surely, attach some importance to such matters.”
Darcy leaned back slightly, his attention remaining fixed upon Elizabeth rather than upon the woman who had addressed him.