Chapter 17 #3
Wilson took a seat near Elizabeth. Not too near. That showed discipline. He spoke to her only after addressing Mary about the book in her hands and asking Jane after her health.
He was becoming polished.
Damn him.
Elizabeth answered him pleasantly. No flush. No eagerness. No discomfort either. That last part gave Darcy no comfort.
The twins saw it too.
Thomas and Toby stood by the hearth, shoulder to shoulder, identical expressions of displeasure fixed upon Wilson. Darcy caught their reflection in the glass above the mantel and nearly laughed despite himself.
Then Toby turned his attention to Darcy.
The boy widened his eyes meaningfully.
Darcy ignored him.
Thomas jerked his chin toward Elizabeth.
Darcy continued ignoring him.
Toby mouthed something that appeared suspiciously like, Do something.
Darcy directed his attention to Mary’s book.
A small wooden soldier struck his boot.
His gaze dropped to the floor.
Then to the twins.
Thomas gave an infinitesimal shrug, as though soldiers often flung themselves across rooms by accident.
Elizabeth saw the soldier too. Her mouth twitched.
“Are you under attack, Mr. Darcy?” she asked.
“Apparently so.”
“You must take care. Longbourn has a history of sudden campaigns.”
“I am learning.”
Toby muttered, “Slowly.”
Darcy met his gaze.
The boy met it without a trace of repentance.
Mrs. Bennet, fortunately or unfortunately, missed the exchange. She was speaking with Bingley regarding wedding arrangements, while Jane sat beside him looking both happy and overwhelmed. Wilson used that moment to ask Elizabeth whether she still possessed the invoices he had brought.
“I gave them to Mama for safekeeping,” Elizabeth replied.
“I am glad. There may be others among my papers. If I find them, I shall send them.”
“That is thoughtful of you.”
Darcy hated the word thoughtful more than it deserved.
Wilson smiled. “Your father deserves remembrance.”
Elizabeth’s expression tightened.
Darcy stood abruptly—too abruptly.
Mary lifted her head.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “The fire is rather warm.”
Lydia glanced at the hearth, then at him, and seemed delighted by whatever conclusion she reached.
Darcy crossed toward the window.
Outside, the garden lay damp from thawing snow. The shrubs were bare. The path where he had once walked with Elizabeth at Netherfield came back to him in fragments, though they were not at Netherfield now. That was the trouble.
Longbourn had taken root in him.
Not the house alone. The people. The disorder.
Mrs. Bennet’s capable hands arranging comfort before anyone asked.
Mr. Bennet’s dry voice from behind a book.
Miss Mary’s earnestness. Miss Lydia’s ridiculous boldness and Miss Kitty following along.
The twins hurling judgment and wooden soldiers in equal measure.
And Elizabeth at the center of it.
When she left the room a short while later to fetch a shawl for Miss Bennet, Longbourn changed.
The change was absurd. Nothing visible altered. Bingley still spoke to Jane. Mrs. Bennet still managed the tea table. The twins still whispered near the fire. Wilson remained in his chair.
But Darcy no longer wanted to stand there.
He stared out the window and waited for her return with an impatience he could neither justify nor conceal from himself.
Thomas appeared at his elbow.
“You are being very slow.”
Darcy did not look down. “Good afternoon to you as well.”
Toby joined them on his other side. “Mr. Wilson spoke to Mama.”
“I gathered.”
Thomas scowled toward the room. “He wants permission.”
Darcy’s fingers tightened behind his back.
“For what?”
The boys gave him a look of disgust.
“You know for what,” Toby said.
Darcy’s voice came out lower than intended. “Has he asked Miss Elizabeth?”
“Not yet,” Thomas said. “But he will.”
“Soon,” Toby added, with the grim satisfaction of a physician delivering a terminal diagnosis.
Darcy glanced toward Mrs. Bennet. She was speaking calmly with Jane. Nothing in her demeanor betrayed concern.
“What did your mother say?”
“We do not know,” Thomas admitted.
“We tried to listen,” Toby said. “But Lydia sneezed.”
“On purpose?”
“No,” Thomas said bitterly. “She had pepper.”
Darcy closed his eyes briefly.
The conversation had become insane.
It also mattered.
Elizabeth returned then with the shawl. She crossed to Jane, draped it about her shoulders, and bent to say something that made Jane smile. Wilson watched her with open admiration. Not the loud, awkward admiration of his first days at Longbourn. Something more composed.
Darcy felt the floor tilt beneath him in a way no one else could see.
Thomas sighed beside him. “You really must hurry.”
For once Darcy had no answer.
A proposal from Wilson was no longer a possibility to be dismissed as comic interference. It had taken shape in the room before him, dressed in proper manners and sensible prospects and papers bearing the signature of Elizabeth’s father.
Elizabeth might refuse.
She might not.
Darcy looked at her again and found that hope, so pleasant in private, became a wretched companion when another man stood ready to act.
Wilson had moved.
Darcy had waited.
The difference disturbed him more than any rivalry had done so far.