CHAPTER THREE
A Gentleman Misjudged
Jane's fever lingered for three days. Elizabeth therefore remained at Longbourn, inhabiting the house of her childhood as both intimate and guest.
She knew which stair complained beneath a hurried foot, which window in the west corridor admitted a winter draught, and where the morning sun first touched the breakfast-room wall.
Yet Bingley's books sat upon her father's old shelves.
Caroline's shawl lay across the sofa where Lady Bennet once sorted household accounts.
Mr Hurst slept after dinner in the chair Sir Thomas had favored before he learned that remaining awake sometimes improved family conversation.
The strangeness made Elizabeth tender toward Longbourn and impatient with anyone who treated it carelessly.
Bingley did not. He asked before opening rooms the lease had reserved for the Bennets' storage. He knew the names of two tenant families already. When a servant cracked a blue basin that had belonged to Lady Bennet's mother, he apologized as though he had wielded the poker himself.
His sisters behaved as if a furnished house had materialized for their convenience.
On the second morning, Elizabeth found Caroline directing a footman to remove a small portrait from the staircase.
"The frame is too dark," Caroline said. "It makes the landing positively gloomy."
The portrait showed Elizabeth's grandfather at twenty-five, unsmiling and square-shouldered in a brown coat.
"That picture is excluded from the household inventory," Elizabeth said.
Caroline turned. "Is it?"
"It belongs to my father. He left it because the wall was built around its hook, and because Grandpapa appears to disapprove of everyone who climbs the stairs. We were fond of the effect."
The footman froze with one hand near the frame.
"Leave it," Caroline said. "I had no notion it mattered."
"Now you have."
Elizabeth continued upstairs before temper could turn accuracy into rudeness. At the upper landing she found Darcy.
He had heard enough. His gaze went from the portrait to Caroline's retreating figure and then to Elizabeth.
"You were restrained."
"Were you expecting bloodshed?"
"I was expecting wit. It sometimes leaves deeper injuries."
"Then Miss Bingley is fortunate I am tired."
He almost smiled. "Your grandfather?"
Elizabeth looked at the portrait. "He died before Lydia was born. He was stern, generous, and incapable of telling a story in fewer than forty minutes. Papa says I inherited his eyebrows and none of his patience."
"Sir Thomas speaks of his family with unusual candor."
"You mean he makes jokes."
"Not only jokes. He listens."
The observation was so precise that Elizabeth forgot to defend her father from it.
"He did not always," she said.
Darcy waited.
"The King's accident changed him. We gained Netherfield in the public account. In ours, we gained Papa."
She had not intended to say so much. The hallway seemed suddenly private despite its open doors.
Darcy's expression lost its reserve. "That is a considerable gift."
"The greater one."
Their eyes met. For once neither reached for argument.
Jane improved enough to sit up that afternoon. Bingley read aloud to her from a newspaper and omitted every paragraph concerned with Parliament. Elizabeth occupied a chair near the window, mending a cuff badly. She had never acquired Jane's patience with a needle.
Darcy entered carrying a book.
"Bingley, your steward wishes to speak with you about the west boundary."
Bingley looked reluctant to abandon his post.
Jane smiled. "I shall not relapse in ten minutes."
"Fifteen at most," Elizabeth said. "After that I can promise nothing."
When Bingley departed, Darcy placed the book on the table beside Jane. "Your father mentioned you enjoy Cowper."
"Thank you."
He did not leave. Elizabeth became conscious of the poor seam beneath her fingers.
"Do you mend often, Miss Elizabeth?"
"Only when I wish to humble the garment."
Jane laughed and then coughed. Darcy poured water before Elizabeth could rise. He handed the glass to Jane without fuss and resumed his place.
"Your sister's devotion is evident," he said.
"Lizzy never does anything by halves," Jane answered.
"Jane means that I am exhausting."
"I mean that you walked through mud because I sneezed twice."
"Three times. I have standards."
Darcy's mouth curved. It transformed him. The severe lines around his eyes eased, and Elizabeth saw the handsome man beneath the guarded one so suddenly that her needle entered her finger.
She inhaled.
Darcy's smile vanished. "You are hurt."
"Mortally."
A bead of blood appeared. He reached for the handkerchief in his pocket at the same time Elizabeth lifted her own. Their hands met above the sewing basket.
The contact lasted no more than a second. His fingers were warm. Elizabeth withdrew first.
"I have survived," she said.
Darcy set his handkerchief beside her anyway. His initials were embroidered in one corner with severe neatness.
Jane looked from one to the other and discovered renewed interest in Cowper.
That evening, Caroline's restraint failed.
Lady Bennet had come to sit with Jane and remained for dinner.
She spoke more loudly than Mrs Hurst considered fashionable, praised Bingley's kindness more than once, and expressed the hope that Jane would soon be well enough to return home—though her gaze suggested she would not object if recovery required a fortnight.
Caroline waited until the gentlemen joined them.
"How fortunate for Miss Bennet that her family is so near," she said. "Though I confess I would find it peculiar to be nursed in a house once my own."
Lady Bennet folded her embroidery. "Would you?"
"I suppose attachment to old rooms is stronger in some people than others. For my part, when one improves one's situation, it is best not to look backward too often."
Bingley said, "Caroline."
She ignored him. "Of course, Netherfield was so extraordinary a gift. One can hardly blame a family for preferring it."
The room stilled.
Elizabeth saw her mother understand every implication: that the Bennets had abandoned Longbourn for splendor, that royal favor rather than merit sustained them, that their presence in the old house was sentimental intrusion.
Ten years earlier Mrs Bennet would have answered with income, rank, and outrage. Lady Bennet placed one measured stitch into the linen.
"My husband spent six years improving Longbourn before he offered it to your brother," she said. "The cottages have new roofs, the south fields proper drainage, and the house new plumbing. We look backward sufficiently to care for what is behind us."
Caroline's color rose.
"I meant no criticism."
"Then we are fortunate, for I took none."
Sir Thomas, who had entered unnoticed at the final sentence, crossed the room and bent over his wife's hand.
"My dear, Jane is asking for you."
Lady Bennet rose. As she passed Elizabeth, their eyes met. Pride—not vanity, but earned pride—filled Elizabeth so strongly that it hurt.
Bingley followed his sister into the corridor a few minutes later. The door did not fully close.
"You will not speak so to Lady Bennet again," he said.
Caroline's answer came in a hiss. "I spoke no differently than I should to any country acquaintance."
"She is my landlord's wife and Miss Bennet's mother. More importantly, she has been kind to you."
"Kind? She has inspected every room since arriving."
"Her daughter is ill in the house where she raised five children. If she inspects the roof beams, I shall offer her a ladder."
Elizabeth looked down at her hands. She had not expected such steel in Bingley.
Darcy stood near the mantel. His expression suggested he had not expected it either.
"You admire your friend's courage," Elizabeth said quietly.
"I admire his justice."
"Are they different?"
"Justice knows the right action. Courage performs it when affection makes silence easier."
Elizabeth looked toward the corridor. "You speak as if from experience."
"Perhaps from failure."
Before she could ask, Bingley returned.
Jane was well enough to leave Longbourn the next morning. Bingley stood at the carriage step until the door closed, his concern unhidden. Caroline sent a polite farewell from the window. Darcy helped Elizabeth into the carriage.
His hand closed around hers through their gloves. The contact was proper, brief, and far more unsettling than the accidental touch above the sewing basket.
"Miss Elizabeth," he said, "I hope your opinion of Longbourn's present inhabitants has not suffered beyond repair."
She looked at Bingley, who was speaking earnestly to Jane through the open door. "Of one inhabitant, it has improved."
Darcy's eyes darkened with amusement and challenge. "Only one?"
"I have not completed my inspection."
He released her hand. "Then I must hope for another visit."
The carriage moved before Elizabeth found an answer.
* * *
The militia came to Meryton in scarlet coats, polished boots, and a cloud of expectations.
Lydia learned of their arrival before breakfast and announced it before grace.
"Colonel Forster has taken the house near the mill, and there are to be thirty officers—perhaps forty—and Aunt Phillips says two are very handsome and one has been to France."
Miss Harwood looked across the table. "How did Mrs Phillips convey this intelligence before eight o'clock?"
Lydia reached for bread. "Kitty told me."
Kitty nearly dropped the sugar tongs. "I did not."
"Then I dreamed it. How extraordinary that Aunt Phillips wore the same green cap in my dream as when she leaned from her carriage at the gate."
Sir Thomas laid down his fork. "Your aunt stopped at the gate?"
Lydia's eyes moved toward the window.
"For no more than a minute."
"And you were where?"
"Near the gate."
"Having been given leave to walk in the park with Kitty, not to conduct intelligence at the road."
"Papa, the militia will remain all winter. We cannot be expected not to know them."
"I expect you to know those to whom you are introduced. I expect you not to chase news through hedges. These are modest ambitions."