17. Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen
Miss Bingley did not appear at breakfast.
Her absence was announced by Mrs. Hurst, who entered with languid regret, accepted tea, and informed the table that Caroline had suffered through a wretched night and could not possibly come down.
“A headache,” Mrs. Hurst said, settling into her chair with the faint air of one who had endured the headache by proximity.
Mr. Hurst, already engaged with ham, made no comment.
Mr. Bingley appeared concerned for perhaps three seconds. “Poor Caroline. Shall I send up anything?”
“She has already sent for coffee, toast, chocolate, broth, and a screen to shield her from the light.”
Lydia nearly choked on her tea.
Georgiana pressed her lips together and applied herself to her plate with suspicious dedication.
Mr. Darcy sat at the head of the table, his expression grave enough for a funeral and his eyes betraying not the smallest surprise. “I trust she will recover soon.”
Elizabeth bent her head to hide her amusement. Soon might mean before dinner. Soon might mean after the Bennets had removed from Pemberley altogether. She was uncharitable enough, for one guilty instant, to prefer the latter.
That guilt did not last long.
The breakfast room felt less oppressive in Miss Bingley’s absence.
Air seemed to move more freely. No one corrected Georgiana’s preference for honey, no one remarked upon Lydia’s appetite, and no one attempted to arrange the conversation around Mr. Darcy like furniture positioned before a fireplace.
The servants moved with less stiff ceremony, no longer obliged out of duty to their master to show any deference to Miss Bingley.
Bingley spoke easily. Mrs. Gardiner laughed over something Lydia said about Horace’s moral deficiencies.
Mr. Darcy’s countenance suggested a diminished weight, although his seriousness surpassed that observed before the prior evening’s events.
Elizabeth had not missed that.
Very little concerning him escaped her now.
It was dreadful. Pleasing, but dreadful.
Her awareness had become an inconvenient companion.
She knew when he entered a room before she turned toward the door.
She knew the difference between his public civility and the warmer look he gave Georgiana.
Elizabeth noticed how his voice was affectionate when he spoke to Mrs. Reynolds and how his attention, when directed toward Elizabeth herself, could make a teacup feel suddenly heavy in her hand.
This morning, with Miss Bingley upstairs and the table wrapped in ordinary domestic ease, Elizabeth found him more difficult to ignore than ever.
He was speaking to Mr. Gardiner about a road beyond the western fields where recent rain had damaged one of the lower tracks.
Nothing could have been less romantic than drainage.
Even so, there he sat, discussing gravel, labor, and the movement of carts with such unshowy competence that Elizabeth had to look away before her interest became visible.
Lydia did not have the delicacy to permit anyone to remain comfortable for long.
“So, what shall we do today?” she demanded, leaning around Georgiana to address the table. “If Miss Bingley is confined above, we ought to use the hours wisely.”
Mrs. Gardiner gave her a warning glance. “Lydia.”
“What? I mean that headaches are tragic and must be respected from a distance.”
Georgiana made a small sound into her napkin.
Mr. Darcy’s eyes lowered to his plate.
Bingley brightened. “An excursion?”
“I cannot,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “Your uncle and I are to visit Mrs. Granger in Lambton. I promised yesterday, and she will expect us before noon.”
“And Louisa and I mean to drive into the village,” Mr. Hurst added, though it was unclear whether he meant to shop, sleep in another location, or merely escape his sister-in-law’s suffering.
“Yes. I require thread, and Mr. Hurst insists the inn has a particular cheese worth investigating.” Mrs. Hurst sounded resigned.
“An excellent cheese,” Mr. Hurst said with more animation than he had shown all morning.
Lydia swung her attention toward Georgiana. “Then we shall take Horace to the gardens.”
“Horace has already eaten one glove this morning,” Georgiana replied.
“All the more reason to provide him with fresh air and moral instruction.”
“He requires a tutor.”
“He has me.”
“Then he is lost.”
Lydia beamed.
Elizabeth watched them with fond astonishment.
Lydia had not become sensible. No miracle had occurred.
She was still loud, impulsive, vain about ribbons, and far too inclined to speak before considering whether anyone ought to hear her.
There was kindness now where carelessness had once ruled almost unchecked.
Or perhaps, the kindness had always been there, buried beneath too much noise and too little guidance.
Georgiana, for her part, had bloomed under the affection.
Elizabeth could scarcely reconcile the girl before her with the trembling young lady she had expected to meet.
Miss Darcy still blushed easily. She still sometimes paused before speaking.
With Lydia she laughed, protested, teased, and permitted herself to be ridiculous.
It was perhaps the most unexpected pleasure Derbyshire had given Elizabeth, and Derbyshire had been generous.
The breakfast party broke apart soon afterward.
Mrs. Gardiner went to gather her bonnet and reticule.
Mr. Gardiner requested a few minutes with Mr. Darcy before departing.
The Hursts retired to prepare for their drive.
Lydia and Georgiana vanished from the breakfast room with Horace following at a trot, carrying what appeared to be a napkin in his mouth.
Elizabeth stood near the window a moment, watching the lawn beyond the terrace. Sunlight lay bright over the grass. The day promised heat later, but now the morning remained fresh, fragrant with roses from the beds near the south walk.
“Miss Bennet.”
She paused.
Mr. Darcy stood a few paces away, gloves in hand, his hat beneath one arm.
The sight of him so prepared for the outdoors disturbed her far more than it ought.
His dark coat fit with severe excellence across his shoulders, and the plainness of his dress somehow drew attention to the strength beneath it. She lowered her eyes too late.
“Yes, Mr. Darcy?”
His hand closed once upon his gloves, then relaxed. “If you are not otherwise engaged, I wondered whether you would care to see more of the western side of the estate. There is a view beyond the second ridge that visitors seldom trouble themselves to find.”
“You make it sound neglected.”
“It is not neglected. Merely underestimated.”
“By visitors.”
“And occasionally by its owner.”
There was a note in his voice that made her look back.
He was watching her with an expression she could not easily name. Hopeful, perhaps. Wary of presuming. Determined not to demand.
Elizabeth’s heart gave a foolish little leap, which she instantly refused to acknowledge.
“A hidden view sounds far too tempting to decline.”
His face changed. Not much. Enough.
“I will have the gig brought round.”
“The gig?”
“My sister and her companion use it for nearby tenant calls. The road is too narrow in places for a larger carriage, but completely safe. If you would prefer to walk—”
“No,” Elizabeth said, rather too quickly.
He raised his brows at her, and she felt color rise.
“No,” she repeated, more steadily. “The gig will do very well.”
Within a quarter hour, they stood near the stable yard while a groom brought out a neat little gig with high wheels and a dappled gray mare already harnessed.
Mr. Darcy inspected the traces himself, not out of distrust, Elizabeth thought, but habit.
His hand moved along the leather with practiced certainty.
He spoke to the groom by name and adjusted one buckle before accepting the reins.
Elizabeth watched despite every effort not to.
It was becoming a serious defect in her character.
He then offered his hand to assist her.
The gig seat was narrow.
She had not fully considered that fact.
Climbing up required placing her gloved hand in his, gathering her skirts, and trusting him to steady her weight.
His grip was firm and warm through the leather.
Once seated, she became painfully conscious that he must sit beside her, not across from her, not at a decorous drawing-room distance, but close enough that the edge of his coat brushed her sleeve when he climbed in.
Mr. Darcy settled beside her, took up the reins, and gave the mare a light command. The gig moved forward with a gentle jolt.
Elizabeth placed both hands in her lap.
That lasted almost one minute.
The drive began along the main road, then followed a narrower path that curved past the kitchen gardens and out toward the rolling pasture beyond. Darcy pointed out the orchard, the rebuilt stone wall near the lower meadow, and a line of cottages half hidden by trees.
Elizabeth heard perhaps half of it.
The other half of her attention behaved disgracefully.
His hat shadowed part of his face, but the morning light touched the hair at his temple where a few dark strands escaped beneath the brim.
His coat stretched across his shoulders whenever he shifted the reins.
One hand held the leather loosely, the other guided with small, controlled movements that spoke of competence rather than display.
His hands were large, well formed, and very capable.
Elizabeth had noticed them before in the library, when he had handed her a volume from the upper shelf.
She had noticed them in Lambton when their fingers met over a book.
Now she was trapped beside those hands, watching them manage horse and road with calm assurance.
She forced her attention to the scenery.
There were fields.
Likely beautiful fields.
She could not have described them upon pain of death.
“And beyond that rise,” Darcy said, “the stream joins the larger branch that feeds the mill.”
“Indeed?”