Chapter 9 #3
Before he could say more, Mr. Wilson leaned forward with eager interest.
“The Netherfield party! Pray, tell me who these people are.”
Elizabeth felt something small and sharp tighten unexpectedly within her chest at the mention of Netherfield. She listened silently as Jane described their new neighbors and how their addition to the neighborhood was very welcome.
Mr. Darcy. The thought arrived so quickly and naturally now that it unsettled her afresh.
Ridiculous. Perfectly ridiculous. Mr. Darcy was merely a gentleman who had behaved badly, repented sincerely, and worked hard to repair the offense.
That did not signify anything beyond good character and proper conduct.
Certainly not the dangerous warmth
she now associated with the sound of his name.
“I am eager to meet them,” Mr. Wilson continued. “Especially this Mr. Bingley. Any man who acquires an estate at his age interests me greatly.”
“He is very amiable,” Jane offered.
“And his friend Mr. Darcy?” Mr. Wilson asked. “What sort of fellow is he?”
Elizabeth reached for her wineglass before realizing too late that the motion itself probably betrayed more attention than she intended.
Mr. Bennet answered. “Reserved.”
Elizabeth kept her eyes firmly upon her plate.
Mrs. Bennet’s mouth twitched.
Mr. Wilson cheered. “Excellent. Already the company you keep sounds entertaining.”
The conversation shifted again after that, though not permanently away from Elizabeth. Mr. Wilson repeatedly directed remarks toward her throughout the remainder of dinner, asking her opinions, inviting her responses, and leaning forward with visible attentiveness whenever she spoke.
By the time the ladies withdrew afterward, Elizabeth had become acutely aware of it.
So had everyone else.
In the drawing room, matters improved little. Mr. Wilson deliberately selected the chair beside hers and continued speaking with cheerful persistence regarding books, trade, travel, and the changes overtaking northern manufacturing towns.
Elizabeth answered politely while increasingly aware of how seldom he permitted silence to exist naturally.
Conversation with Mr. Darcy, she thought suddenly, required effort because one must draw him outward. Conversation with Mr. Wilson required effort because one could scarcely find room to enter it at all.
The comparison arose unbidden and remained at the fore of her thoughts. At last, the evening concluded.
Jane, still recovering, retired early. Elizabeth accompanied her upstairs under the perfectly reasonable pretense of ensuring her sister had everything she required for the night.
Once alone together, Jane leaned back against the pillows with visible relief.
“Our cousin possesses considerable energy.”
Elizabeth snorted. “That is a charitable description.”
Jane smiled. “You disagree?”
“I believe Mr. Wilson could successfully conduct a conversation utterly alone if given sufficient time.”
“He is enthusiastic.”
“He is exhausting.”
Jane’s amusement deepened slightly.
Elizabeth paused before speaking again.
“Did you notice,” she asked carefully, “the degree of attention he paid me specifically?”
Jane appeared unsurprised. “Yes.”
Elizabeth sat near the bed, smoothing unnecessary wrinkles from her skirt while trying unsuccessfully to sound indifferent.
“He moved beside me in the drawing room. At dinner he scarcely addressed anyone else for more than two minutes at a time.”
Jane considered this mildly. “Perhaps he feels a particular connection because you are related through your father.”
“Perhaps.”
The explanation failed to satisfy fully.
Elizabeth frowned slightly. “Even so, the familiarity seems excessive considering we only met today.”
Jane tilted her head thoughtfully. “Some people form attachments quickly.”
“Or intentions.”
Jane giggled just enough to trigger a brief cough.
“You suspect intentions already?”
“I suspect enthusiasm uncontrolled by restraint.”
“That may be equally true.”
Elizabeth leaned back slightly, her thoughtful expression still touched with mild amused.
Mr. Wilson had been perfectly civil. More than civil. Attentive and warm.
She felt no inclination whatsoever to encourage the particular preference he seemed increasingly eager to display.
And somewhere beneath that realization lingered another truth she preferred not to examine too closely.
She could still recall precisely how Mr. Darcy watched her through the window when she departed Netherfield.
That memory alone rendered every comparison unfair.
Jane snuggled lower beneath the blankets. “You are frowning.”
“I am thinking.”
“A dangerous pastime at this hour.”
Elizabeth smiled thinly. “You sound like Papa.”
“That should alarm us both.”
Jane’s eyes drifted closed shortly afterward, exhaustion reclaiming her fully at last.
Elizabeth extinguished the extra candles before retiring to her own chamber.
There, alone at last, she brushed out her hair slowly while replaying the evening in her mind. Mr. Wilson’s arrival would undoubtedly alter the household atmosphere for the duration of his stay. Whether for better or worse remained uncertain.
As for Mr. Darcy—
Elizabeth pressed her lips together firmly at the direction of her thoughts.
This would not do.
She was allowing herself to become entirely too aware of one gentleman’s opinions, expressions, and apologies.
Even so, when she finally extinguished the last candle and settled beneath the blankets, it was not Alfred Barnett Wilson who occupied her thoughts as sleep slowly claimed her.
Darcy escaped Netherfield shortly after noon beneath the perfectly reasonable pretense of exercise, though honesty compelled him to admit—even if only privately—that physical movement had very little to do with the ride.
Restlessness drove him out.
The previous evening had passed tolerably enough on the surface.
Mr. Bingley maintained a cheerful disposition despite Miss Bingley's incessant grievances about Hertfordshire society.
Mrs. Hurst seemed satisfied as long as cards and supper were consistently provided, and the household resumed its normal rhythm after Miss Bennet's departure.
Darcy’s thoughts, however, had not calmed.
Quite the reverse.
He found himself increasingly conscious of Longbourn’s absence from his immediate surroundings.
The realization was absurd enough to irritate him thoroughly.
A few days earlier, he would have welcomed quieter company and fewer emotional complications.
Now the house seemed emptier merely because Miss Elizabeth Bennet no longer occupied the breakfast room, the gardens, or the sitting room chair nearest the fire.
That awareness followed him onto horseback.
The late autumn air carried enough chill now to redden the edges of the hedgerows, though the afternoon itself remained mild.
Darcy guided his horse along the familiar rise overlooking Netherfield’s eastern fields, allowing the animal an easier pace while his thoughts drifted once more toward Longbourn.
Toward Elizabeth.
And, increasingly, toward the alarming realization that his interest no longer resembled simple admiration.
He had crossed well beyond admiration several days ago.
The knowledge ought to have unsettled him more than it did.
A sudden crashing noise from somewhere beyond the hedgerow interrupted his thoughts.
Darcy reined in and glanced around.
The sound came again—branches snapping, followed by hurried whispering and what appeared to be a muffled argument.
Then two familiar heads emerged from behind the hedge.
“Mr. Darcy!”
“There he is!”
Thomas and Toby scrambled through the gap almost simultaneously, both flushed from exertion and speaking before they had properly reached the road.
“You must help—”
“Because this man—”
“He talks constantly—”
“And Lizzy cannot even—”
Darcy raised one gloved hand.
“Gentlemen.”
The twins stopped only because they had exhausted sufficient breath to require another.
Darcy regarded them with measured patience. “I must beg you to speak one at a time, or I shall understand nothing at all.”
The boys exchanged looks.
“You first,” Thomas said.
“No, you.”
“You are older by six minutes.”
“That means you ought to lead.”
Darcy waited.
At last Toby sighed dramatically. “Mr. Wilson is awful.”
Thomas nodded with fierce agreement. “Sincerely awful.”
Darcy dismounted more from instinct than conscious choice. Conversations with the twins rarely concluded quickly, and experience suggested they communicated best with listeners brought physically to their level.
He looped the reins loosely over one arm.
“Mr. Wilson,” he repeated. “Your cousin from Lancashire.”
“Our cousin,” Thomas corrected darkly. “Unfortunately.”
Darcy hid a smile with some effort. “What offense has the gentleman committed?”
The twins began speaking together again.
“He follows Lizzy everywhere—”
“And talks and talks and talks—”
“And he sat beside her at dinner—”
“And breakfast—”
“And he tried to walk alone with her—”
Darcy felt himself bristling in irritation. “Did he?”
“Yes,” Toby said with visible indignation. “But we stopped him.”
Darcy’s gaze darted between them. “You stopped him.”
Thomas crossed his arms. “Someone had to.”
The statement, delivered with perfect seriousness, nearly undid Darcy’s composure.
“And how precisely,” he asked carefully, “did you accomplish this noble intervention?”
“We told him Lizzy promised to walk with us.”
Darcy’s brows lifted slightly. “Had she?”
“No,” Toby admitted cheerfully. “But she understood.”
Thomas nodded. “She played along directly.”
Darcy found it difficult to conceal his amusement at this juncture.
The twins watched him closely.
“We do not like Mr. Wilson,” Toby declared.
“Not at all,” Thomas added.
“He wants to take Lizzy away.”
Darcy stilled.
The words should not have affected him.
They did.
“He has known her scarcely two days.”
“That is enough,” Toby insisted darkly.