Chapter 10 #2
Elizabeth heard the slight intake of Jane’s breath beside her.
Mrs. Bennet turned to Miss Bingley with perfect civility. “How kind of you to be so understanding, Miss Bingley.”
Miss Bingley gaped, perhaps surprised to encounter no visible offense.
Mrs. Bennet continued, her tone smooth and entirely beyond reproach. “Family connections are indeed difficult to choose. We must accommodate them as best we can. My late husband was in trade, as is my daughters’ uncle, Mr. Gardiner, and both gentlemen conducted themselves with honor and industry.”
Miss Bingley’s smile wavered.
Mrs. Bennet tilted her head slightly. “Your own family, I believe, has prospered through similar industry. Northern trade can be exceedingly profitable when managed well.”
Mrs. Hurst’s lips twitched. Miss Bingley’s color rose.
Mrs. Bennet smiled. “How fortunate that respectable origins present no obstacle to improvements in manners, education, or consequence.”
The reproof was subtle and impossible to misunderstand.
Elizabeth discovered an urgent need to study the carpet.
Miss Bingley recovered with visible effort. “Of course.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Bennet said pleasantly. “It is one of society’s happier truths.”
The matter was closed.
Elizabeth fervently hoped it was closed beyond reopening.
Miss Bingley opened her fan and maintained a prudent silence.
Elizabeth had never loved her mother more.
Even so, the atmosphere in the drawing room remained brittle, and Elizabeth found herself listening for every indication of movement beyond the door.
She told herself that she wished only for the gentlemen to return, for the tension to ease, for conversation to recover, and for Miss Bingley to direct her attention elsewhere.
The truth was decidedly less comfortable.
She wished for Mr. Darcy.
And, more troubling still, she knew exactly why.
The withdrawal of the ladies left the dining room noticeably altered.
Darcy became aware of the change soon after Elizabeth disappeared through the doorway with the others.
Conversation continued, servants moved in practiced silence around the table replenishing wineglasses and removing dishes, and the room itself seemed diminished merely by her absence.
He disliked the realization on principle.
Bingley, meanwhile, appeared scarcely capable of concealing his satisfaction with the evening.
Whatever Miss Bennet’s illness had interrupted between them seemed already resumed with renewed warmth, and the man now leaned back in his chair with the expression of someone pleased with both society and supper.
Mr. Bennet poured another glass of port with philosophical composure while Mr. Wilson launched into further observations regarding northern manufacturing.
Mr. Hurst listened with intermittent interest whenever profit arose in the conversation, though otherwise devoted most of his attention toward walnuts and wine.
Darcy contributed little. His thoughts remained divided between irritation and amusement, both centered upon Elizabeth Bennet—Barnett. He had not expected the evening to alter him further.
Instead, dinner beside her had proven more dangerous than anything which came before it.
The ease between them had deepened. That was the difficulty.
Their conversation no longer carried the strain of apology or misunderstanding alone.
Wit came naturally now, as though they had long practiced speaking in precisely that manner together.
Better still, Elizabeth no longer regarded at him solely with suspicion.
Wariness remained, certainly, but something warmer flickered beneath it often enough to encourage hope.
Hope.
Darcy reached for his wineglass with slightly more force than necessary.
Across the table, Mr. Wilson continued speaking. “…and once machinery expands beyond a certain point,” he declared, “a man either grows with it or loses everything.”
Bingley nodded agreeably. “Very true.”
Darcy observed the exchange with mild curiosity.
Mr. Wilson’s interest in trade clearly exceeded his interest in nearly every other subject, and though his manners remained imperfectly polished, intelligence showed readily enough whenever business arose.
The man understood industry. That much seemed undeniable.
His understanding of social restraint proved considerably weaker.
Darcy’s gaze drifted toward the far end of the room—and paused.
Two small faces peered through the narrow opening of a servant’s entrance just beyond the sideboard.
Thomas and Toby. The twins crouched partially concealed behind the doorframe, both boys glaring at Mr. Wilson with astonishing concentration. Toby’s eyes had narrowed to slits. Thomas appeared moments away from declaring formal war.
Darcy nearly smiled outright.
Apparently, their exclusion from the evening had failed to prevent surveillance.
Mr. Wilson, blissfully unaware of his observers, leaned farther back in his chair while emphasizing some point about labor negotiations.
The movement proved unfortunate. Or perhaps not wholly accidental.
Darcy could not afterward have said precisely what occurred. One moment Mr. Wilson balanced comfortably upon the rear legs of the chair, and the next those same legs slid abruptly against the polished floor with startling violence.
The chair tipped backward completely. Mr. Wilson disappeared with a loud crash.
Bingley jerked upright. Mr. Hurst blinked heavily. From the corner of his eye, Darcy caught sight of two small heads vanishing straightaway behind the servant’s door.
Mr. Bennet lowered his gaze to the sprawled figure of his cousin with admirable composure.
“Good heavens,” he remarked mildly. “Are you well?”
Mr. Wilson surfaced from the wreckage red-faced and embarrassed. “Perfectly. Quite perfectly.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Bennet sipped his port. “I confess I was more concerned for the chair. My wife grows very attached to her furniture.”
Bingley choked visibly into his glass.
Darcy turned away before amusement betrayed him openly.
Mr. Wilson righted himself with what dignity remained available under the circumstances and resumed his seat more cautiously this time. His embarrassment lingered plainly despite attempts to recover conversational ease.
Darcy suspected the twins, wherever they now lurked, considered the incident a tremendous success.
The conversation eventually regained momentum, though Mr. Wilson’s confidence seemed slightly shaken. Mr. Bennet drew Bingley into discussion regarding estate improvements while Mr. Hurst offered occasional remarks about hunting. Gradually the table divided into smaller exchanges.
It was during one such lull that Mr. Wilson turned toward Darcy more directly.
“You and Miss Elizabeth appear well acquainted already.”
The observation emerged casually enough, though something beneath it sharpened Darcy’s attention. “We have spent some time in company.”
Mr. Wilson swirled his wine slowly. “She is a charming girl.”
Darcy said nothing.
Wilson continued after a moment. “Sensitive, too, I think.”
The implication beneath the words grew clearer.
Darcy regarded him steadily. “You appear concerned for her.”
“I am.” Wilson met his gaze openly enough now. “Miss Barnett is nearly my closest relation remaining from that side of the family. Naturally I take interest in her welfare.”
Darcy’s expression remained composed. “Mr. Bennet acts as her guardian in all meaningful respects.”
“Of course. Still, family remains family.” His smile appeared more condescending than friendly and something in the man’s tone irritated Darcy immediately.
Wilson leaned slightly closer. “Forgive my directness, Mr. Darcy, but I hope you do not object to plain speaking.”
“I generally prefer it.”
“Then plainly spoken—I trust Miss Elizabeth understands your attentions correctly.” He raised a brow.
Darcy stilled. “My attentions.” What could the man mean?
“You are a gentleman of consequence,” Wilson said carefully. “A man in your position must know how easily a young woman may misunderstand admiration.”
Darcy’s voice cooled. “You presume a good deal.”
“Do I?” Wilson studied him with surprising steadiness now, much of his earlier awkwardness gone completely. The man might lack polish, but he was neither foolish nor blind. “You are attentive to her,” Wilson continued. “Others notice it. I notice it.”
Darcy set down his glass deliberately. “And why precisely does that trouble you?”
Wilson faltered only briefly. “Because men of your standing do not marry daughters of tradesmen.” The words settled heavily between them.
Darcy’s jaw hardened almost imperceptibly.
Wilson pressed onward, perhaps mistaking silence for uncertainty.
“Miss Elizabeth is a lovely girl, but society is what it is. A gentleman such as yourself may admire her greatly without ever intending serious consequence. I merely dislike seeing young women injured by expectations which cannot properly be fulfilled.”
Darcy held his cousin's gaze for several long seconds before speaking. “And you assume my intentions cannot be serious because her father engaged in trade.”
Wilson spread his hands slightly. “Can you truly deny the distinction matters?”
Darcy almost chuckled then—not from amusement, but from sheer disbelief. “You advise me,” he said slowly, “to seek women of my own sphere.”
“Surely that is simplest for everyone involved.”
“Such as Miss Bingley, perhaps?”
Wilson grinned, apparently believing himself understood at last. “Exactly so. A very suitable connection.”
Darcy laughed outright. The sound drew immediate attention from farther down the table.
Mr. Bennet turned in his chair with interest. “Darcy, if you possess something entertaining, I insist upon my share.”
Darcy regained composure with effort. “Nothing of consequence. Mr. Wilson and I were merely discussing trade and its many nuances.”
“Ah yes,” Mr. Bennet replied dryly. “My cousin has spoken at admirable length regarding his mills.”
Wilson flushed.