Chapter Three

More than once did Elizabeth in her rambles meet Mr Darcy.--Wishing to remain indifferent, she took care to inform him at first, that it was a favourite haunt of hers.--How it could occur a second time therefore was very odd!--Yet it did, and even a third. Only then did she realise how he had likely taken her information -- not as an invitation to avoid the park, but rather the reverse, a suggestion of a sort of rendezvous. She blushed again and again at the thought, but immediately following it came the understanding that if he had taken her remark this way, he did not seem to think any the worse of her for it. Quite the opposite; he talked more frequently and more cheerfully with her, although it was far from constant -- he veered from conversing with her with unaffected pleasure, to reverting to his usual stiff, cold, reserve, and then back again. He remained quiet -- she always talked far more than he did -- but Elizabeth concluded that it was not, as she had sometimes thought, solely a consequence of displeasure in his company, but rather an innate quality. He was lively enough with her, until he remembered himself again, but never easy.

In company, he was careful to avoid anything that might expose her to the suspicions of the impertinent, yet his preference was clear, at least to her. In general he seemed only to be enduring others' presence, but when he became aware of her own, the shuttered expression of his eyes became animated, his pale cheek flushed, and he often smiled when he looked at her; not the sort of smiles one might expect of him, but sudden warm ones that invariably took her aback, and sharply reminded her that beneath the layers of gravity, consequence, and reserve, he was simply a young man, no older than Charlotte. It was nothing so obvious as Bingley's ever more unwelcome admiration of Jane, but rather a dozen small things seen only by their two selves -- and Charlotte, whose frequent admonitions on how best to 'catch' him only pained her.

In an unguarded moment, Darcy had spoken briefly and vaguely of his family. There had been some idea of his marrying a cousin when they were children, since discarded by everyone but his aunt, the cousin's mother. "She is not the most sensible person," he said tactfully, and Elizabeth smiled to herself. There seemed to be a relation like that in every family. Hers was remarkable only for having them in such abundance.

"Mama," cried Lydia, interrupting Elizabeth's thoughts, "my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library."

Elizabeth sighed, and heartily wished the militia had never come to Hertfordshire, let alone Meryton. She would have been perfectly content to never hear of them again. Her wish was partially answered; Lydia's effusions were interrupted by the entrance of the footman with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer.

"It is from Miss Bingley," said Jane, smiling, and then read it aloud.

My dear friend,

If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a whole day's tête-à-tête between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers. Yours ever,

Caroline Bingley

Elizabeth frowned. Did Miss Bingley think that Jane existed only to be at her disposal? Undoubtedly, were the men not gone, she would never have invited her "dear friend" at all. Nevertheless, all the others, including Jane, took the invitation as a compliment rather than the reverse, and Jane was soon gone on horseback. Elizabeth was uneasy for her -- Jane did not have a strong constitution -- but her mother was delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission; Jane certainly could not come back.

"This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!" said Mrs Bennet, more than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield brought the following note for Elizabeth:

My dearest Lizzy,

I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr Jones -- therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me -- and excepting a sore-throat and headache there is not much the matter with me.

Yours, &tc.

"Well, my dear," said Mr Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note aloud, "if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness, if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr Bingley, and under your orders."

"Oh! I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long a she stays there, it is all very well. I would go and see her, if I could have the carriage."

Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman, walking was her only alternative. She declared her resolution.

"How can you be so silly," cried her mother, "as to think of such a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get there."

"I shall be very fit to see Jane -- which is all I want." Elizabeth turned sharply on her heel, only realising after she had fetched her cloak that the mannerism was more like Darcy than herself.

---

Elizabeth walked as far as Meryton with Kitty and Lydia, then the rest of the way alone. She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise. Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley, of course, would never have dreamed walking such a distance as three miles for each other -- not, at least, if it entailed dirtying the lace that had sent Mrs Bennet into such raptures. Both women's eyes were fixed on Elizabeth's hem; she cared nothing for their opinion, ill or otherwise, and acknowledged their hypocritical reception politely, and Mr Bingley's good-humoured one with more genuine warmth. Darcy only greeted her with his usual taciturn civility, while Mr Hurst said nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, appreciation of her affection for her sister, and doubt as to the occasion's justifying her coming so far. The latter was thinking only of his breakfast.

Elizabeth found that her sister was still very unwell, and could hardly speak. She only managed vague expressions of gratitude towards Miss Bingley, who accepted them as her due and sent for the apothecary. Once it was decided that Jane could not be moved, Miss Bingley reluctantly extended a longer invitation to Elizabeth, and sent for her clothes. At six o'clock, she was summoned to dinner.

Even had she no cause to worry over Jane, Elizabeth would not have enjoyed the occasion. She disliked being the focus of the ladies' attention even more than she disliked being pointedly ignored by them. Their lamentations over "poor Jane's" illness quickly turned onto themselves, and shortly afterwards, they seemed to have forgotten her existence altogether. Darcy limited himself to a polite inquiry; she did not blame him for his disinterest, for he was accosted by Mr Bingley's sisters almost from the moment he entered the room. Miss Bingley was engrossed by him, Mrs Hurst scarcely less so. As she talked with Mr Bingley, somewhat uncomfortable by his excessive anxiety for Jane, but pleased by his attentions to herself, she entertained herself by watching the changes in Darcy's expression, from his usual reserve, to forbidding, and finally to thorough detachment. Mr Hurst, apparently, lived only to eat, drink, and play cards, and when he found her to prefer a plain dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her. Elizabeth had no more patience for him than he for her; of some pleasures, a little goes a very long way.

---

"Well, I cannot like her," Miss Bingley began decidedly. "Her manners are remarkably bad, do not you think, Louisa?" Before Mrs Hurst could reply, her sister continued, "They are a most abominable mixture of pride and impertinence. She has no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. To think that she is our dear Jane's sister!"

To think that you are Bingley's sisters! Darcy thought. He disliked both of them heartily, Miss Bingley only slightly less than Mrs Hurst, as she could at least think for herself, however unpleasant those thoughts might be. That Bingley, the least ill-natured human being Darcy had ever known, who never looked except to admire, so easily led and influenced by his steadfast belief in others' goodness, should have such relations never ceased to astonish him. His own family, despite some differences, were far more akin. Even Lady Catherine reminded him uncomfortably of his mother and uncle, and even himself in some of her lesser qualities.

He had paid no attention to the sisters' ramblings until he heard his name. "You observed it, Mr Darcy, I am sure," said Miss Bingley; "and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition."

His mind went blank for a moment, as he had only the vaguest idea of what they were talking about. Of course, he would not wish Georgiana to wander about the countryside if he were taken slightly ill -- but she was five years Miss Elizabeth's junior, sheltered, shy, and as the previous summer showed, far more vulnerable. He said shortly, "Certainly not."

Darcy smiled faintly at Bingley's response to his sister's renewed attacks. He should know the futility of it by now, surely. They derided his stupidity, and Miss Bingley turned to Darcy, lowering her voice. "I am afraid, Mr Darcy, that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes."

"Not at all," he said vindictively, his patience thoroughly exhausted. "They were brightened by the exercise."

She blinked, apparently unable to think of any reply to this. Darcy idly noticed that her eyes were the same colour and shape as Elizabeth's, and yet not remotely similar. Expression, he supposed, went a long way, and he returned his wandering attention to the conversation just in time to catch Bingley's latest defence of the Bennets.

"If they had uncles enough to fill all Cheapside, it would not make them one jot less agreeable!"

Darcy's eyes narrowed slightly. It seemed more than Bingley's native good temper was speaking. He had, of course, seen his friend's partiality for Jane Bennet, but it was perfectly unremarkable -- she was the prettiest girl in the country and that was usually enough to win Bingley's affections, for awhile. Nevertheless some caution might be called for.

"But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world."

Unfortunately, this encouraged Bingley's sisters to further mockery of their dear friend's vulgar relations. Darcy turned away in contempt and said nothing until Hurst suggested a game of loo.

Shortly thereafter, Elizabeth returned downstairs, and declined an invitation to join them. Darcy bit back a smile at his companion's astonishment that anyone could prefer reading to cards.

"Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley spitefully (and, in Darcy's opinion, rather vulgarly herself), "despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else."

As if she knows anything about Elizabeth's preferences, he thought, then started, so slightly that no one noticed. He had been careful to maintain a proper distance, even in his thoughts, guarding against anything more than the awkward, formal friendship between them. When had he started thinking of her as simply Elizabeth?

He snapped back to attention as Miss Bingley addressed him. "What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr Darcy!"

Now that Miss Elizabeth is here, he decided, I should not at least try to keep my mind on the conversation. His mother had lamented his absent-mindedness since he was a small child -- unless something particularly caught his notice, he rarely bothered to keep his mind fixed on it, instead wandering to more interesting areas.

"I ought to be good," he replied carelessly, "it has been the work of many generations." Not that she would know anything about it, beyond the size of the room and colours of the books' spines.

"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books."

"I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these." He caught Elizabeth's -- Miss Elizabeth's -- half-speculative, half-amused glance, and coloured slightly. What he had said was true, of course, but it was not the entire truth. In fact his frugality and austerity in nearly every other regard was entirely abandoned in his passion for collecting. They had already spoken of books on several occasions, usually joined by her father; undoubtedly she guessed that his enthusiasm was not entirely due to the plethora of works being published.

"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place!" cried Miss Bingley. "Charles, when you build your house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley." Darcy winced and saw Elizabeth bite back a sympathetic smile. In any other circumstance he would have detested being the object of pity, but in this, he was in complete agreement with the sentiment. Miss Bingley saw nothing at Pemberley beyond wealth and grandeur. Idly, he wondered what Elizabeth would think of it.

Miss Elizabeth. And, of course, she will never see it. Unless Georgiana invites her, of course -- as a gentleman's daughter, she would be an acceptable friend, and -- he shut down that line of thought harshly.

"I wish it may," Bingley said tactfully.

"But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire."

Except Middlesex, perhaps. Darcy was quite comfortable in his knowledge that Pemberley was utterly inimitable. Over seven hundred years of history could not be replicated, even if the architecture could. Miss Bingley was deluding herself in any case, if she believed Bingley's one hundred thousand pounds would stretch to such an endeavour.

"With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it," Bingley replied.

Never, thought Darcy fiercely; not were it mortgaged to the hilt and nothing left but ruins falling about my feet.

"I was talking of possibilities, Charles," Miss Bingley said, and her brother, with a smile at Darcy that showed how easily his thoughts were read, replied,

"Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation."

She was effectively silenced, but the respite was cut short by Elizabeth, who closed her book and wandered over to the table to pay closer attention. Darcy smiled to himself; her behaviour, although she probably did not realise it, was strikingly like his own near the beginning of their acquaintance, although undoubtedly she would be less shy of joining the conversation. His limited ability to focus on his cards was abruptly rendered still less. Although she stood between Bingley and Mrs Hurst, not next to him, he could sense her presence nearly as acutely as if she were right there. Her dark eyes wide and dancing with amused interest, her cheeks flushed, several brown curls loose about her neck. He felt suddenly quite chilly, and his eye was caught by her hand. Her hands were always warm, somehow, just as his were always cold -- he was seized by an impulse to snatch it up and press his lips against her wrist. For a moment he was entertained by the idea of what everyone would think, and could barely respond to Miss Bingley's query about his sister -- yes, of course Georgiana was Elizabeth's height, except taller. What would she think?

He frowned and shook his head slightly. I must be going mad, he thought.

---

Late that evening, an express rider arrived at Netherfield. Darcy snatched on a robe and went out to meet him, knowing all three Bingleys could and would sleep through so trifling an interruption to their slumber, while Hurst was undoubtedly lost in drunken nightmares.

"Mr Darcy?"

Darcy glanced up from the letter, which was addressed to him in his uncle's hand, and froze. Elizabeth stood at the top of the staircase. He could not have thought of her as Miss Elizabeth Bennet for anything, at that moment, with her hair in a fat braid over her shoulder and wearing only a robe over a shift.

"Miss Bennet," he said thickly, "do not be alarmed, it is for me."

"Oh, I see." She did not, however, move, and he tried to think of something else to reassure her. Was she ill? Her colour was quite high and she must have run there, for she seemed to be breathing heavily. Miss Bennet's illness was not contagious -- was it? "I . . . I will leave you to your letter, then," she said, with a peculiar awkwardness he had never seen in her before. Darcy only nodded, then stared in bewilderment as she remained fixed where she was. She seemed to realise the discrepancy between her words and her behaviour then, and blushed even more fiercely before turning and hurrying away with a mumbled, "Oh!--forgi . . . good night, Mr Darcy."

How very strange. He managed to force his attention back to the letter, which was written in an uncharacteristically messy scrawl. Then, as he read, nearly all thought of Elizabeth Bennet vanished from his mind.

"Has everyone except me gone mad?" he demanded to the black silence, colour draining from his face. Very early the following morning, as soon as his servants could be made ready, he left a quick note of explanation for his friend, in a hand nearly as lamentably bad as Bingley's own, and departed for town.

It was not very far, and he arrived at his house in time for breakfast. The servants looked either confused or distressed, and almost the only sound he could hear was the click of his boots against the polished floor.

"Fitzwilliam!"

A tall woman hurried towards him, disturbing the silence. With a smile lighting up his face -- one that Elizabeth would have recognised -- he clasped her extended hands and kissed her.

"My love," she said, "I am so glad you are here, we are all at odds and ends."

Darcy laughed. "So I hear."