10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Rain arrived before breakfast and settled over Pemberley with determination.
Darcy woke first to wind striking the windows.
He had slept later than usual. By the time he descended, the sky beyond the eastern hall had become the color of wet slate, and water streamed steadily down the glass in silver ribbons.
Somewhere abovestairs a shutter banged once before a servant hurried to secure it.
Mrs. Reynolds had already ordered fires lit throughout the principal rooms.
The house smelled faintly of damp wool, beeswax, and coffee.
Darcy paused near the breakfast room doorway and listened before entering.
Lydia’s voice carried clearly.
“I maintain storms improve houses. Everyone becomes trapped together and reveals their true character.”
“That is a deeply alarming theory,” Elizabeth replied.
“It is accurate nevertheless.”
Darcy stepped inside.
Georgiana sat beside Lydia at the table, both girls bent over a plate of toast while Horace occupied disgraceful territory beneath their chairs.
Mrs. Gardiner poured coffee. Mr. Gardiner examined the rain beyond the windows with the thoughtful interest of a man prevented from fishing.
Bingley appeared delighted by the weather for no defensible reason.
Miss Bingley was the only one who appeared to be negatively affected.
“An entire day indoors,” she murmured after Darcy greeted the party. “How unfortunate.”
Lydia brightened instantly. “Do you dislike indoor amusements, Miss Bingley?”
“I prefer variety.”
“That is fortunate. I myself provide a great deal of it.”
Georgiana nearly choked on tea.
Darcy sat beside Mr. Gardiner before Miss Bingley could arrange otherwise.
Elizabeth raised her head then. Something in him eased at the sight of her. That had become alarming in its familiarity.
Breakfast lingered longer than usual because no one could escape outdoors. Rain drummed steadily against the windows. Wind bent the trees below the south terrace until branches swept the gravel paths. Twice servants entered carrying additional coal for the fires.
Conversation drifted easily despite Miss Bingley’s attempts to refine it into smaller channels.
She tried first with Georgiana.
“My dear,” Miss Bingley said, arranging marmalade upon her toast with needless precision, “perhaps later you might favor us with Italian pieces in the music room. Rain always improves refined music.”
Lydia buttered another piece of toast. “Rain improves naps and hot chocolate. I am uncertain it improves Italy.”
Miss Bingley continued without acknowledging her brother, who was struggling to suppress open laughter. “Mr. Darcy particularly admires your Italian masters.”
Darcy set down his coffee cup. “I admire whatever Georgiana enjoys playing.”
Miss Bingley’s knife paused against the toast.
Lydia reached for more jam with open satisfaction.
By eleven o’clock, confinement had become impossible.
Bingley proposed charades.
Mrs. Hurst declined participation instantly and settled herself near the fire with embroidery. Miss Bingley objected to charades as noisy. Lydia declared noise essential to happiness and dragged Georgiana toward the drawing room before resistance could organize itself.
Darcy followed more slowly beside Elizabeth.
Outside the corridor windows, rain swept sideways across the lawns.
“We are to suffer greatly today,” Elizabeth murmured.
“I fear so.”
“Mr. Bingley appears prepared to enjoy himself heroically.”
“He approaches disaster with optimism.”
“That explains your friendship.”
Darcy peered down at her.
Elizabeth’s eyes brightened with the understanding of what she had said, but she did not retreat from it.
That too had changed between them.
In the drawing room, Lydia had already assigned parts.
“This is unfair,” Bingley protested while holding a shawl, a candlestick, and an orange simultaneously. “I cannot portray all three.”
“You must apply yourself.”
“I object to fruit.”
“You are deeply uncooperative.”
Georgiana openly expressed amusement from the sofa.
Darcy watched Miss Bingley hear it.
Miss Bingley’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly each time Georgiana forgot restraint in Lydia’s company. Not outrage. Something colder. Calculation adjusting itself.
The charades deteriorated rapidly.
Mr. Gardiner proved unexpectedly theatrical.
Mrs. Gardiner nearly collapsed laughing when Bingley attempted to portray “shipwreck” using a footstool and a blanket.
Lydia guessed incorrectly with extraordinary confidence.
Georgiana became flushed and breathless from laughing before the second round had ended.
Darcy himself was eventually coerced into participation by Lydia, who announced that Mr. Darcy’s dignity required correction.
“You cannot spend all day leaning against fireplaces looking intelligent,” she informed him.
“I assure you I can.”
“No. You must now portray ‘battle.’”
“I refuse.”
“Cowardice.”
Elizabeth smothered a laugh quickly, shoulders shaking.
Darcy accepted defeat.
Half an hour later, even Miss Bingley had been forced into the game by Bingley’s persistence. She performed elegantly and without enthusiasm. Lydia applauded with enough vigor to border on insult.
Then came reading aloud.
Rain darkened the afternoon steadily until lamps were lit despite the hour. The party gathered in the smaller drawing room where the fire burned hotter and conversation carried more intimately through the space.
Mrs. Gardiner worked embroidery. Mr. Gardiner dozed intermittently. Bingley stretched across one sofa like an overgrown schoolboy. Georgiana sorted sheet music near the pianoforte. Lydia occupied the carpet beside Horace.
Elizabeth sat near the fire with a book open in her lap.
Darcy tried not to watch her.
He failed.
The firelight transformed her completely.
Her face was bathed in warmth and shadow.
Loose strands of hair escaped near her temple where the damp weather had defeated stricter arrangement.
Occasionally, she pressed one finger absently against the corner of the page while listening to the conversations around her.
Miss Bingley noticed his distraction, eventually.
That was inevitable.
“Miss Eliza,” she said smoothly, “you have scarcely spoken this half hour. The novel must be very compelling indeed.”
Elizabeth acknowledged her calmly. “It improves considerably when uninterrupted.”
Bingley barked laughter.
Miss Bingley’s fan snapped open.
Darcy lowered his head to hide amusement.
Lydia abandoned the carpet. “What is the novel? Is there murder?”
“There is inheritance.”
“That is much the same thing in novels.”
Mrs. Gardiner coughed delicately into her handkerchief.
Georgiana crossed toward Elizabeth then, sheet music in hand. “Would you turn pages for me later? Miss Lydia insists I must play the Scottish air.”
“It is because she butchered it yesterday,” Lydia added.
“I improved the ending.”
“You lost the melody halfway through.”
“I replaced it with confidence.”
Darcy watched Elizabeth accept the music pages from Georgiana.
Their hands brushed lightly.
Nothing remarkable.
Still, Georgiana lingered near Elizabeth with the unconscious ease she had once reserved for him.
Lydia sprawled across the arm of Georgiana’s chair moments later and disrupted Miss Bingley’s attempt to reclaim the conversation by demanding Bingley explain why gentlemen in novels always inherited gloomy estates and emotional suffering together.
“Economy,” Bingley replied.
“Cruel economy.”
Rain hammered harder against the windows.
Hours indoors at Pemberley slipped by swiftly during storms. The household settled into its new rhythms. Servants moved over carpets thick enough to swallow sound. Fires snapped steadily in distant rooms. Wind wandered through chimneys and corridors with mournful little voices.
Darcy spent much of the afternoon trying unsuccessfully to remain detached from Elizabeth’s presence.
Everywhere he went, she was there.
At the pianoforte turning Georgiana’s music pages. Near the fire laughing at Lydia’s outrageous theories on literature. Standing beside the shelves selecting books for Mrs. Gardiner. Crossing the room carrying tea while candlelight flickered along the edge of her gown.
Once, passing behind her chair, he caught the scent of rainwater lingering faintly in her hair from the morning.
It disturbed his composure absurdly.
Music occupied the evening after dinner.
Not formal performance, thank heavens.
Lydia insisted solemn concerts were fatal during storms. Georgiana therefore played whatever pleased her rather than what impressed company. Scottish airs appeared again. Bingley attempted singing and was forbidden to continue by universal agreement.
Darcy stood near the fireplace speaking with Mr. Gardiner while Elizabeth remained beside the pianoforte turning pages.
Every so often Georgiana glanced toward her brother.
Darcy understood why eventually.
Elizabeth smiled differently during music, ardently enough that the entire room warmed around it.
Miss Bingley saw that too.
Darcy caught her watching Elizabeth more than once throughout the evening. Not with simple jealousy anymore. With concern.
That realization unsettled him.
Miss Bingley had long assumed eventual triumph. Now she had begun recognizing genuine danger.
The storm worsened near ten.
Thunder rolled across the hills with enough force to rattle the windows.
Lydia demanded ghost stories afterward. Mrs. Hurst refused them.
Bingley supported them enthusiastically.
Georgiana admitted she disliked frightening stories but volunteered to remain if Lydia promised not to scream dramatically.
“I never scream dramatically.”
Everyone regarded her.
“Well,” Lydia amended, “not constantly.”
The stories became ridiculous within moments.