Chapter Ten The Clergyman Raises the Alarm
THE KNOCK ON LONGBOURN’S front door had scarcely finished before Hill opened it.
Bingley entered first, surrendered his hat and gloves, and enquired after Miss Bennet before the door had closed behind Darcy and Hurst. Hill assured him that Miss Bennet was downstairs and much improved, which sent him to the drawing room at a pace just restrained enough to avoid running through another gentleman’s house.
Hurst watched him disappear through the doorway. “He endured a whole day without seeing his angel.”
“He complained for most of it.” Darcy handed his hat to Hill and moved away from the pale morning light entering the hall. “His suffering was extensively documented.”
“A man may complain and remain courageous.” Hurst shrugged and then smiled roguishly. “I have always maintained that the two conditions are compatible.”
They followed Bingley into the drawing room, where Mrs Bennet had risen from the central sofa to receive him as if he were a victorious soldier returning with a large inheritance and an urgent desire to distribute it among her daughters.
Miss Bennet occupied one of two matching chairs angled towards the fire, no longer wrapped in shawls, though one was folded over the back of her chair in case her mother detected an exposed inch of skin.
“My dear Mr Bingley, what a delightful surprise.” Mrs Bennet advanced on him with both hands extended.
“Jane was only this moment speaking of the ball, and I told her that you would certainly call today. A gentleman does not permit an invalid to select a date and then abandon her to the consequences.”
Bingley accepted the accusation without resistance. “I had no intention of abandoning anyone. I would have called yesterday evening, but Darcy objected that three visits to Longbourn in two days might attract comment.”
Mr Bennet sat at a writing table against the farther wall, trimming a quill as he surveyed the newcomers. “In Hertfordshire, three visits attract expectations. Four require a licence.”
Bingley’s colour altered, although he made no attempt to retreat. “Then I shall count more carefully.”
Miss Bennet lowered her eyes to her hands, but a quiet smile appeared. Bingley noticed and forgot every other person in the room until Mrs Bennet directed them to their places.
Bingley took the matching chair opposite Miss Bennet.
Darcy chose an armchair near the interior wall, beyond the stripe of sunlight crossing the carpet.
Hurst sat at the far end of Mrs Bennet’s sofa, examined the bright patch near his boots, and moved both feet several inches backwards.
Mr Bennet observed the adjustment but offered no remark, which concerned Darcy more than a question might have done.
Miss Mary was sitting at the pianoforte, arranging sheets of music, while Miss Lydia and Miss Kitty shared the sofa under the windows, whispering over a list of officers Miss Lydia had apparently begun compiling on the back of an invitation.
Mr Collins occupied a straight-backed chair between the entrance and the pianoforte, separated from the others and unusually silent.
Bingley rested his hands on his knees. “Caroline has begun planning in earnest. Louisa has reviewed the supper twice, the musicians have been engaged, and the ballroom floor is to be polished tomorrow. I believe the twenty-sixth was an excellent choice.”
Miss Bennet looked at him with uncertainty. “I have wondered whether it is too soon. Your sisters have so much to arrange, and I should not like my decision to inconvenience them.”
“My sisters consider inconvenience a condition suffered by other people.” Bingley leaned closer, though he maintained enough distance to keep Miss Bennet’s pulse from disturbing his control.
“Caroline has already revised the placement of every chair in the ballroom. If we delay, she may begin altering the walls.”
Hurst accepted the cup of tea Hill presented but placed it untouched on the table. “She mentioned removing the eastern doors yesterday.”
Miss Bennet’s concern deepened. “Because of the ball?”
“Because they open in the wrong direction.”
Mr Bennet turned the newly sharpened quill between his fingers. “A serious defect. One wonders how the house has remained standing.”
Mrs Bennet waved away the architectural danger.
“The twenty-sixth is perfect. Jane will be recovered, the officers are all invited, and everyone has sufficient time to prepare. Mrs Long has ordered new lace from London, but I am told it will not arrive before the twenty-eighth, which is another reason not to postpone.”
Miss Lydia lifted her list. “Colonel Forster will bring the entire regiment, will he not? Miss Bingley assured us that all the officers were included.”
Bingley turned to her. “Every officer Colonel Forster considers suitable.”
“That had better mean every officer I consider suitable,” Miss Lydia said with a chuckle.
Miss Mary paused while arranging the final sheet of music. “Your standards and Colonel Forster’s may not be identical.”
“They should be. I have met more of them, I am sure.”
Miss Kitty nodded vigorously, lending numerical support where reason had failed.
The conversation moved to music, supper, and the number of dances required to judge an evening successful.
Bingley continued speaking chiefly to Miss Bennet, reassuring her whenever another complication arose.
Each concern she offered gave him an opportunity to remain near her, and Darcy suspected that the roof might collapse without persuading him to abandon the discussion.
Hill offered tea to Darcy. He declined it and allowed his gaze to settle on Collins.
The clergyman had not mentioned Lady Catherine once.
During their previous acquaintance, Collins had introduced his patroness into conversations concerning illness, dancing, shelves, marriage, and the proper dimensions of a sitting room.
This morning, he had neither contributed advice nor corrected anyone.
His hands were clasped tightly on his knees, and every unexpected movement in the hall drew his eyes to the door.
Hurst noticed the scrutiny. He followed Darcy’s eye, studied Collins, and lowered his voice. “He has been watching us since we entered.”
“He touched Louisa yesterday,” Darcy explained.
Collins heard him. His fingers tightened on his knees, and he pulled his chair farther to the door before realising he had done so. The retreat carried no pompous offence or injured dignity. He simply wanted more space between himself and the man whose wife had felt dead beneath his hand.
The front door opened again. Light steps sounded in the entrance hall, followed by Hill’s voice and the rustle of outdoor clothing as she relieved Miss Elizabeth of her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves.
A moment later, she entered the drawing room with her cheeks coloured by the cold, rubbing warmth into her bare fingers as she approached the company. The gentlemen rose.
The True Blood reached Darcy first, warm and living beneath her skin, but another scent travelled beneath it. Wickham. His residue clung to her right hand, faint yet unmistakable to the vampire who had created him.
Hurst’s eyes moved from Miss Elizabeth’s bare hand to Darcy, and the sudden stillness in his posture confirmed that he had detected it too.
Darcy’s hand closed into a fist. Wickham had approached her closely enough to leave a trace on her skin. He had dared to touch the True Blood.
Every question Darcy needed to put to her was impossible in a drawing room occupied by her parents, three sisters, and a clergyman whose discretion could not survive contact with information.
He could not demand an account of her movements without presuming an authority he did not have, nor could he enquire how Wickham had touched her without inviting Mr Bennet to conduct a far more searching interrogation of him.
The quill knife remained in Mr Bennet’s hand, and Darcy saw no reason to test whether its domestic purpose restricted its use.
Miss Elizabeth’s gaze travelled around the room, paused on Hurst, and settled on Darcy’s fist. She walked to the sofa occupied by her younger sisters but stopped before she reached it.
“Good morning, Mr Darcy.” She indicated his closed hand with a slight movement of her fingers. “Has my family offended you?”
“Not at all.” Darcy forced his fingers to open slowly. “An old grievance intruded on my thoughts.”
“Has the grievance lately acquired a red coat?” She kept her voice low near her sisters.
Darcy studied her. She had identified Wickham from a single guarded remark and referred to him without offering his name to a room where it would not have survived five seconds without public examination. “It has.”
“Then it called on my aunt yesterday and gave a most affecting account of its injuries.” Her left hand closed over her right, concealing the place where Wickham had touched her.
“I do not doubt the performance was affecting.” Some of the rigidity left Darcy’s shoulders, although Wickham’s scent lingered on her skin and prevented genuine relief.
“It was certainly practised.”
Darcy felt so proud of her at that moment.
She had heard Wickham’s tale, examined it, and declined to accept it merely because its teller had a handsome face, an officer’s coat, and a grievance polished through fifty years of repetition.
Darcy had not expected her trust, but the evidence of her scepticism struck deep.
She moved on towards her sisters, and the company resumed their seats.
Before Darcy could respond, Collins rose.
He walked behind the central sofa, giving Hurst a wide berth before stopping near Darcy. His complexion was ashen, and the cheerful self-importance which generally entered a room before the rest of him had disappeared.
“Mr Collins.” Darcy shifted so that he could observe both the clergyman and Miss Elizabeth. “Are you unwell?”