Chapter 10 #3
Mr. Bennet turned toward Bingley. “Tell me, Bingley, how fare your own ventures these days?”
The silence that followed proved brief but deeply satisfying. Wilson’s expression altered. Understanding dawned visibly.
Bingley, unaware of the broader significance, answered cheerfully enough. “Quite well, thank you.”
Mr. Bennet nodded. “Excellent. Industry seems determined to conquer England thoroughly.”
Darcy reached for his glass again partly to conceal the sharp amusement threatening his composure. Wilson, meanwhile, appeared deeply irritated by the realization that the very family he had proposed as Darcy’s proper equals stood themselves only one generation removed from trade.
The irony clearly displeased him.
Shortly afterward the gentlemen rose. Darcy found himself unexpectedly impatient to return to the drawing room. The awareness embarrassed him sufficiently that he delayed just long enough to avoid appearing eager.
Wilson, however, displayed no such restraint. The man traversed the hall with obvious purpose, moving toward the door with the unmistakable determination of someone intending to reclaim a prior position beside Elizabeth.
Darcy followed at a slower pace. The drawing room came into view.
Elizabeth sat near the fire beside Miss Bennet, her head turned slightly while Miss Mary spoke from the pianoforte.
Candlelight softened the dark curls near her temples, and the moment she glanced up toward the entering gentlemen, Darcy felt the now-familiar and thoroughly dangerous shift beneath his ribs.
Wilson moved first. Or attempted to. The man angled forward as though intending to reach Elizabeth’s side before anyone else could intercept him.
Elizabeth saw him coming and evaded him with extraordinary skill. She quickly, turning toward Mrs. Bennet with graceful precision before Wilson could properly approach.
“Mama,” she said smoothly, “I have just remembered something I wished to show Mrs. Hurst. Pray excuse me for a moment.” Without waiting opportunity for protest, she slipped past them and disappeared through the adjoining doorway.
Wilson stopped short.
Darcy watched the frustration cross his face before the man mastered it again.
Amusement stirred unexpectedly strong within him.
Elizabeth, it seemed, had no greater desire to encourage Alfred Barnett Wilson than Darcy himself possessed to witness it. The realization pleased him absurdly.
Wilson glanced toward Darcy then, perhaps sensing competition now where previously he assumed superiority.
Darcy met the look calmly.
Something unspoken passed between them in that moment—not hostility precisely, though certainly challenge.
Very well, then. Darcy felt the sharp edge of determination settle fully into place. If Wilson intended pursuit, he would discover himself far from unopposed. Darcy found the prospect of competition not unpleasant but invigorating.
I shall not yield so easily.
May the best man win Miss Elizabeth’s hand.
Her pretense at retrieving something to show Mrs. Hurst would need to be maintained, and so after she retrieved a roll of new ribbon she had purchased in Meryton, she meant to return to the drawing room.
Still, she hesitated to go in. Elizabeth remained in the passage outside the drawing room longer than necessary.
She lingered there, steadying herself against an absurd and growing awareness that the atmosphere inside the drawing room had altered during her brief absence.
She knew the instant she returned that something had shifted between the gentlemen.
Not openly. Neither Mr. Darcy nor Mr. Wilson behaved with anything approaching impropriety.
No sharp remarks had been exchanged. No rivalry announced itself in words.
The tension existed all the same, subtle enough to escape casual notice and unmistakable once observed.
Mr. Wilson’s interest remained direct and persistent. Mr. Darcy’s, by contrast, revealed itself in smaller ways that somehow proved far more difficult to ignore.
One man pursued attention. The other watched for opportunities.
Elizabeth was not certain which disconcerted her more. She paused just beyond the doorway long enough to gather her composure before reentering the room.
Conversation continued smoothly within. Mary had abandoned the pianoforte in favor of discussing moral philosophy with Mr. Hurst, who appeared increasingly alarmed by the direction of the exchange.
Kitty and Lydia whispered together over a book of fashion plates Miss Bingley had produced with visible reluctance.
Jane sat near the fire with Mr. Bingley beside her, both wearing expressions so openly pleased that Elizabeth suspected neither retained the slightest awareness of anyone else in the room.
Mr. Wilson noticed her without delay. His entire expression brightened with such transparent eagerness that Elizabeth nearly retreated again on instinct alone.
“There you are, Miss Elizabeth. We feared you lost.”
“We?”
Mr. Wilson boomed heartily. “Well—I feared it, certainly.”
Darcy, seated several feet away near Mrs. Bennet, lifted his glass to his lips, though not before Elizabeth caught what appeared suspiciously like amusement in his expression.
Elizabeth became suddenly determined not to sit beside either gentleman.
She crossed instead toward Mrs. Hurst and showed her the ribbon, asking her opinion on the length before telling her it would perfectly suit a bonnet she had seen the lady wearing.
Mrs. Hurst thanked her for the compliment and accepted the ribbon gracefully.
This saved her from Mr. Wilson for a few minutes.
Next, she moved to Mary’s side. She was engaged in conversation with Mr. Bennet.
“Are you discussing philosophy again?” Elizabeth asked.
Mary appeared mildly amused. “Not exclusively. Papa wishes to discuss poetry this evening as well.”
“Then I shall count myself fortunate.”
Mr. Hurst, seated nearby, muttered something under his breath that sounded remarkably like agreement.
Elizabeth seated herself beside her sister and father with considerable satisfaction. For perhaps three minutes, peace prevailed. Then Mary moved away to speak with Jane.
Then Mr. Wilson relocated. The movement itself remained perfectly acceptable. The drawing room arrangement encouraged shifting conversation, and no one could accuse him of impropriety in selecting a chair nearer the group by the fire.
Elizabeth nevertheless experienced a powerful urge to sigh as he claimed her sister’s seat.
“You were much missed during your absence,” he informed her.
How ridiculous. “I find that difficult to believe when so many others remained in the room.”
Mr. Wilson laughed again, apparently taking everything she said as encouragement regardless of content.
Darcy’s gaze lifted briefly toward her. He made no move to rescue her or to intrude. He simply observed. The restraint somehow affected her more than interference would have done.
Mr. Wilson resumed conversation, recounting some tale regarding a merchant in Leeds who had attempted to undercut wool prices and failed spectacularly in the effort.
Elizabeth listened politely while Mary asked occasional questions, though she became increasingly aware that Mr. Wilson directed every anecdote primarily toward herself.
The effect proved exhausting. Worse still, he had developed the unfortunate habit of invoking her father whenever conversation threatened to drift away from him.
“Your father once said nearly the same thing—”
“Your father possessed admirable instincts for business—”
“You have his expression precisely when you disagree with someone—”
Each remark carried the strange implication of shared intimacy, though Elizabeth scarcely remembered the man at all.
Mr. Barnett had rarely been at home, spending most of his time pursuing business connections and gain.
He had promised his wife that when their fortunes were met, he would hire a manager and be home more.
He had, in a word, worked himself into an early grave.
Across the room, Darcy spoke quietly with Mrs. Bennet. Every so often his attention drifted elsewhere—toward Bingley and Jane, toward the fire, toward Elizabeth herself.
Each time she caught the look unexpectedly, something inside her tightened in response.
This would never do. She was becoming entirely too aware of him.
Miss Bingley, meanwhile, had noticed enough to grow sharp around the edges.
Her gaze moved repeatedly between Darcy and Elizabeth with increasing dissatisfaction, particularly whenever Elizabeth expressed amusement at some dry observation from Mrs. Bennet or Mr. Bennet.
The fact that Darcy appeared to notice those moments too clearly aggravated matters further.
At one point during the evening, Elizabeth rose under the pretense of examining Lydia’s fashion plates merely to create distance between herself and Mr. Wilson.
The strategy failed instantly. He followed.
Darcy did not. That distinction lodged itself inconveniently in her thoughts.
Mr. Wilson launched into another conversation almost before she fully reached the table. “I confess,” he said warmly, “Longbourn exceeds every expectation I formed of it. You have all made a remarkable home here.”
“Mama deserves the credit for that.”
“Yes, yes, of course. A sensible woman.” He leaned slightly closer. “Though I suspect the house would feel lively anywhere you reside, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth wished very much for Mary. Or her father. Even Miss Bingley’s company was preferable. “You flatter beyond necessity, sir.”
“I merely speak plainly.”
Before she could answer, Darcy appeared at Mary’s opposite side.
“Miss Mary,” he said with grave seriousness, “you must settle a matter of debate for me.”
Mary glanced up, visibly pleased to be consulted. “What matter?”
“I have been informed that no gentleman of sense can distinguish half the colors currently fashionable among ladies’ ribbons.”