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It had been Darcy's intention only to take a short stroll around the grounds before heading back to continue sifting through Netherfield's ledgers—a chore he had assumed to help his friend Charles Bingley with the management of his newly leased estate. His encounter with Miss Elizabeth Bennet had sufficiently discomposed him that he felt unable to immediately return to the study and, diverting to the stables instead, he set out on a bruising ride across the Hertfordshire countryside.
But far from cleansing his mind of its unquiet thoughts, more of them came crowding in on him as he galloped along. No doubt his recent troubles had brought that ancient Wickham incident to mind. Darcy knew his woes were continuing to severely test his normally sanguine temper—even the affable Bingley accused him of being grumpy. The trustworthy companion for his sister, so highly recommended by his aunt Catherine, had turned out to be one of Wickham's associates. It transpired that Mrs Younge had gone to great trouble to introduce herself to Lady Catherine via an acquaintance in Kent. Indeed, the amount of planning involved was way beyond the careless opportunism of Wickham's typical schemes and suggested that even if Mrs Younge was in thrall to the handsome but godless George, she had a head on her shoulders capable of significant cunning...
Darcy's mind shied away from the chasm of self-recrimination, and in trying to turn to a more pleasant topic, alighted inexplicably once more on Miss Elizabeth Bennet. The play of the sunlight in the red and gold tints of her hair seemed so far removed from the mousy brown colour he remembered from the recent assembly they had attended in the nearby market town of Meryton. Never one at ease in novel social settings, Darcy had been alternately dragged and cajoled there by Charles who was determined to plunge into the local social scene.
Unfortunately, Darcy had not been particularly cooperative—he had stood about for most of the night, dancing only with Charles' sisters. Darcy was very conscious that he must marry to suit his station in life, which meant choosing a bride from amongst the Ton, and equally aware that to pay attention to a gently bred damsel residing in a market town might cruelly raise her hopes. So Darcy had never intended to dance with any of the local ladies. But if that was all he had done he could be more sanguine now. Alas, no. Darcy winced as he recalled declaring Miss Elizabeth's sister, Jane Bennet, the only beautiful woman in the ballroom, and branding Miss Elizabeth herself "only tolerable". How different she seemed in the light of day!
Taking a hedge on the fly, Darcy flushed with mortification, remembering how he had heard Mrs Bennet repeat his impolite remark to another lady over the punchbowl. He wondered at the source of Mrs Bennet's information. He had thought he had spoken quietly to Charles. Where had he been standing in the room?
He could only remember Miss Elizabeth and her friend Charlotte Lucas being in his vicinity; had thought himself safe from being overheard due to the volume of the music. Lord, could she, herself, have heard my slighting remark? It was a moot point. He had quickly pegged Mrs Bennet as a resentful gossip—if she was privy to it, everyone would know. Certainly he had lowered his standing in the community, but what bothered him most now was that Miss Elizabeth likely knew of his words. Still, he hoped she had got it secondhand. Due to his foul mood, Darcy could not hope that he had delivered his words temperately.
Still finding it difficult to distract himself from his interminable mulling on Georgiana's recent brush with disaster, Darcy had felt the seed of a headache settle behind his brows as soon as he had walked into the stuffy assembly room. It was such a crush. He always had trouble discerning what everyone was saying in such a hubbub. His hearing was perfectly fine otherwise. He could hear the dogs crawling through the brush when they went out shooting, the flourish of feathers as the birds prepared to take flight. What was it about ballrooms, crowded ballrooms, that always defeated him? Oh, it is useless making excuses for myself!
Darcy finally became aware of the passage of time when he noticed the sun was appreciably lower in the Hertfordshire sky. Still disquieted, he admitted defeat and turned his horse back to Netherfield for dinner. Hopefully Miss Elizabeth had already returned to Longbourn, and he would be left to the solitude of his self-recriminations.
He quickly changed his garments before dinner—Charles' unmarried sister, Caroline, who was acting as mistress in his bachelor household, did not like the smell of the stable at her table. His valet, Finn, had everything at the ready. Off came his top-boots, buckskin breeches and other gear and he stood there naked in the cool air of his dressing room, sponging himself down before donning the dove grey pantaloons and black hessians his valet had prepared with a grey waistcoat of watered silk and black tailcoat of superfine wool—in short his standard toggery for dinner. Lastly Finn reined his shirt points in with a cravat, which he deftly coaxed into a Waterfall style.
But upon entering the dining room Darcy discovered to his dismay that Miss Elizabeth had, of course! been invited to stay for the meal. He glanced quickly away from her frank eyes but not before he saw her lips twist into a tiny amused smile.
"There you are, Mr Darcy!" tittered Caroline. "We thought that you had ridden back to London! Miss Eliza has decided to stay with us to tend Jane, so we have an even number of ladies and gentlemen for dinner."
Caroline had taken her place as hostess at one end of the table, with Bingley at the opposite end, near his married sister, Louisa. Caroline gestured for Darcy to sit beside her on her right. Thus, Darcy found himself with Miss Bingley on his left and Miss Elizabeth on his right. Bingley's brother-in-law, Hurst was directly across from him. When Miss Bingley raised her spoon, that gentleman fell upon his soup with such gusto that not a word passed his lips during the meal until the ladies got up to withdraw. Darcy could not think of a single sensible word to say to Miss Elizabeth, nor could he bring himself to even glance in her direction. He spent all his time conversing with Miss Bingley, an honour that lady was not insensible of.
Mr Darcy's behaviour did not particularly bother Miss Elizabeth, although it was a departure from common courtesy. She spent a pleasant time conversing with Mr Bingley, chiefly of her sister Jane. She could only wonder at the cold shoulder presented by Mr Darcy. From his words at the assembly, Lizzy knew Mr Darcy disdained her as a female beneath his notice, but she thought it impolite not to make at least some attempt at conversation with one's neighbours at dinner, both of them. So much for the manners of the Ton!
Once the ladies withdrew, Bingley got up, fetched the port, and took Caroline's place at the foot of the table between Hurst and Darcy. Hurst produced one of his ghastly cigars and proceeded to puff on it—a pastime Darcy sincerely wished he would pursue on the terrace.
"I am quite worried about Miss Bennet," said Bingley. "I am glad her sister has come to nurse her. Miss Elizabeth seems to know what she is doing."
"Wouldn't mind her nursing me," said Hurst as he rolled his tongue around the end of his cigar.
Darcy frowned, then selected a peach from the board, "These are not bad, Bingley. Where did you have them from?"
"Lady Lucas sent them, Darcy. She has a succession house."
"Yes... Miss Elizzza..." said Hurst, ejecting a long plume of smoke, "Plump set of peaches she's got there. Wouldn't mind a bite."
Darcy felt the tips of his ears turn red.
Bingley, who seemed not to have heard his brother-in-law, settled back in his chair and stared at the flickering lights of the chandelier. "Miss Bennet is such an angel. I have never encountered a more beautiful creature. Being in her presence—it is like I have died and gone to heaven!"
Darcy shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying to think of a conversational thread that would segue naturally from the current embarrassing and improper discussion of women.
"Did you notice her hair at the assembly?" mused Bingley, "It looked just like that Botticelli painting, you know, the one of the three graces."
"Now there's some scantily clad ladies," puffed Hurst. "..Would like to see Miss Eliza in such a getup."
"The music was tolerable. The fiddlers were better than I had expected to find at such a country assembly," said Darcy hopefully.
"They were, were they not?" agreed Bingley. "I have never seen anyone dance a reel more gracefully than Miss Bennet. Though Miss Elizabeth performed with sprightly elan."
"Good bounce," concurred Hurst. "Wouldn't mind doing some fiddling myself!"
Darcy sighed.
Thus the conversation continued: Bingley continued to wax lyrical about Jane's heavenly appearance at the assembly, Hurst made himself further obnoxious by interspersing completely unrelated comments about Miss Elizabeth's décolletage, which made Darcy blush and long to plant Bingley's brother-in-law a facer. And Darcy?—he desperately talked of fruit, the quality of the port and the billeting arrangements of the militia. Their words wound round each other like a plait but never formed a coherent conversation.
Darcy was only too glad when Hurst burnt his cigar down to a stub and they could proceed to the drawing room.
