Chapter 8 #2
“My mother sold the business afterward. My uncle Gardiner, brother to the first Mrs. Bennet, eventually purchased it, and through that connection my mother became reacquainted with Mr. Bennet.”
She studied him then, her expression composed though searching.
“There,” she said lightly. “You possess the entire truth. Despise me if you dare, sir, for my low origins. I cannot claim to be the daughter of a gentleman and therefore am decidedly not your equal.”
Darcy stopped again, genuine surprise overtaking him. “I would have thought it obvious by now that I care very little for such distinctions.”
Her brows lifted. “Would you?”
“Yes. Consider the company I keep. Bingley himself is scarcely removed from trade. His father owned mills in the north, and I believe Charles still retains interest in several factories.”
“That makes you unusual among gentlemen of your consequence.”
“Perhaps,” Darcy admitted. “Though I suspect many gentlemen care less than they pretend, provided sufficient fortune accompanies the connection.”
Her lips twisted as though she suppressed a smile. “That is not an especially flattering assessment of your peers.”
“It is an honest one.”
Elizabeth laughed. The sound rested warmly somewhere beneath his ribs.
After a moment, he added more seriously, “For what it is worth, Miss Elizabeth, no one who knows you would mistake you for anything less than a lady.”
The compliment affected her more than she seemed prepared for.
Color rose gradually in her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said. This time the gratitude was genuine.
They continued on at an easier pace now, conversation drifting naturally from subject to subject.
Elizabeth spoke warmly of Longbourn and the changes her mother had brought after her marriage.
She described her step-sisters with affectionate honesty—Jane’s sweetness, Mary’s seriousness, Kitty’s improving sense, Lydia’s irrepressible energy.
When the twins arose in conversation, Darcy found himself smiling before he could prevent it.
“They are fortunate,” he observed, “to possess so devoted an advocate.” Did she know he had met them?
“They require one constantly.” Her voice colored with exasperated amusement.
Darcy smirked. “They also require supervision constantly, I am sure.”
“That too.” She reached out and tugged at a dead blossom on a rose bush.
“Though I suspect they rarely accept it.”
She laughed again. “Only when Mama is involved.” The fondness in her expression deepened.
Darcy watched her as she spoke and realized, with startling clarity, that every conversation with her revealed something new worth admiring.
Not merely wit and beauty. There was depth beneath both—warmth, intelligence, steadiness, generosity.
He wanted to know all of it. The realization arrived with unmistakable force.
They rounded the bend near the eastern hedge. Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst appeared ahead.
Darcy felt Elizabeth stiffen slightly beside him.
Miss Bingley stopped before them. “How very remiss of you both,” she said brightly, though the sharpness beneath her tone remained unmistakable, “not to inform us of your intention to walk. Louisa and I might have joined you.”
Mrs. Hurst cast a sidelong glance toward her sister but wisely remained silent.
Elizabeth recovered first. “I beg your pardon,” she replied smoothly. “The walk was wholly unplanned, and I fear I have already been absent from my sister too long.”
“Naturally,” Miss Bingley said.
Elizabeth turned toward Darcy. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for the stimulating conversation.”
The words affected him unequivocally. They did not hold forgiveness, but neither were they wholly indifferent.
He bowed slightly. “The pleasure was mine.”
She gave a polite nod to the sisters and moved toward the house.
Darcy watched her go until she disappeared around the bend.
Miss Bingley followed his gaze with narrowed eyes. “She bears her circumstances with remarkable confidence,” she observed.
Darcy turned slowly back toward her. “Her circumstances appear to bear her equally well.”
Miss Bingley tittered lightly. “You are determined to admire her.”
“I admire many things in Miss Elizabeth.”
“And her origins?” The question came too quickly to be accidental.
Darcy’s expression cooled. “I find,” he said evenly, “that a lady’s character is often of greater value than the pedigree of her grandfather.” Did I not make myself clear the other evening?
Miss Bingley’s lips tightened.
With that, Darcy turned toward the house.
Behind him, Mrs. Hurst’s dry voice floated through the morning air. “At least Miss Elizabeth was raised by a gentleman. That is more than may be said for ourselves.”
“Louisa,” Miss Bingley hissed, “be silent.”
Darcy’s mouth curved despite himself. The morning had accomplished more than he had dared hope. She listened and answered honestly, and he allowed himself to hope for more than grudging politeness from Miss Elizabeth.
Elizabeth returned to the house in a state she would have found difficult to describe with any accuracy had she been asked directly.
Flustered, certainly.
Unsettled beyond reason, perhaps.
Beneath both lay something warmer and far more dangerous than either.
Mr. Darcy had apologized.
Not carelessly, not from obligation, and not with the stiff civility of a man merely repairing a social error.
He had spoken plainly, earnestly, and with a degree of humility she would once have declared impossible in him.
Worse still, he had listened in return. There had been no impatience when she spoke of wounded vanity, no dismissal of feelings he might easily have considered trivial.
He had accepted the injury he caused and seemed genuinely troubled by it.
The realization lingered unpleasantly—and pleasantly—in equal measure.
Elizabeth walked the upper hall more slowly than usual, conscious of the glow still lingering in her cheeks whenever she recalled particular moments of the stroll.
His expression when he spoke of her family.
The ease with which he dismissed distinctions of birth.
The steady certainty in his voice when he assured her no one who knew her would mistake her for anything less than a lady.
And then there had been the look in his eyes while he said it.
That memory alone threatened fresh embarrassment.
She paused briefly outside Jane’s chamber before composing herself sufficiently to enter.
The room had grown warmer since morning.
A fresh fire burned in the grate, and the curtains had been drawn back to admit what little autumn light the weather permitted.
Jane lay propped against the pillows, her complexion still pale but no longer fever-bright.
Relief touched Elizabeth upon seeing her sister’s clearer eyes.
“You are improved,” she said.
Jane smiled. “I feel improved.”
Elizabeth crossed to the bedside and rested her hand lightly against Jane’s brow.
Cool.
Not wholly free from warmth, perhaps, but vastly better than the previous night.
“You have no fever.”
“Only exhaustion,” Jane replied before dissolving into a fit of coughing that seemed determined to contradict her optimism.
Elizabeth poured fresh water from the pitcher beside the bed and handed it to her. Jane drank obediently before settling back once more.
“You should still remain abed,” Elizabeth said.
“I assure you I have no wish to rise.”
“That is fortunate, for I should force you back into bed if necessary.”
Jane’s lips curved weakly. “You would make a very tyrannical nurse.”
“I have had excellent instruction from Mama.”
The mention of Mrs. Bennet eased the tension between them.
Whatever else might once have been uncertain in their family arrangement, no uncertainty had survived the years. Grace Bennet governed Longbourn with intelligence, good sense, and an affection so constant that Elizabeth sometimes forgot they did not share blood.
A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
One of Netherfield’s maids appeared in the doorway.
“Miss Elizabeth? Mrs. Bennet has arrived, and Mr. Jones has come with her.”
Elizabeth straightened sharply. “Mama is here?”
“Yes, miss.”
Relief swept through her with unexpected force.
“I shall come directly.”
The maid withdrew.
Jane spoke from the bed. “You sound pleased.”
“I am pleased. Mama always knows precisely what ought to be done.”
“That is true.”
Elizabeth left the chamber and hurried downstairs with considerably less composure than propriety recommended. She found her mother already in the front hall, divesting herself of gloves while speaking to a servant about the carriage.
Grace Bennet turned at the sound of Elizabeth’s approach.
“There you are, darling.”
Elizabeth crossed the remaining distance quickly and embraced her.
Mrs. Bennet’s expression was reproving. “Now then, none of that frightened look. Mr. Jones says your sister is already much improved.”
“You have seen him?”
“He rode with me.” Mrs. Bennet glanced toward the stairs. “Take me to Jane without delay.”
Mr. Jones, removing his gloves near the doorway, inclined his head politely. “Miss Elizabeth.”
“Mr. Jones.”
Together they went upstairs.
Jane attempted to sit straighter when they entered, though Mrs. Bennet rapidly crossed to the bed and pressed her gently back against the pillows.
“You shall do no such thing,” she said. “You are ill, not receiving callers.”
Jane smiled. “I am glad to see you, Mama.”
“And I you. You have given us all a dreadful fright.”
Mr. Jones stepped forward then, opening his case with efficient familiarity.
“Let us see how our patient progresses today.”
Mrs. Bennet and Elizabeth remained nearby while he conducted his examination. Jane endured it patiently, though another bout of coughing interrupted his questions more than once.
At length, the apothecary stepped back.
“The fever has broken cleanly,” he said. “That is the greatest danger passed. Miss Bennet remains weak, however, and must continue to rest for several days.”
Mrs. Bennet clasped her hands together. “May she return home?”