The instant Darcy exited his rooms the next morning, he found Bingley pacing the hallway anxiously.
"Darcy, there you are," he mumbled by way of greeting. "I wonder—that is, I've been trying to decide if… Well, do you think I ought to have a doctor tend to Miss Bennet?"
Darcy stared at him, worried for his friend's sanity.
Bingley had all the appearance of a man possessed. His hair was even untidier than usual and he had yet to dress properly; he wore only a shirt, breeches and boots. His eyes were overly bright from lack of sleep and his hands clenched together until the knuckles turned white.
"Charles, how long have you been awake? Have you eaten?" he asked suspiciously as the younger man resumed wringing his hands.
"Hmm? Oh… Yes, I'll... worry about that later. Right now, I'm concerned for Miss Bennet. Her maid tells me she's little improved this morning, though she was able to take some tea and bread. Mrs. Nichols tells me there's a physician in Meryton, a man called Green, who could likely see her today if I get word to him now…" He trailed off as a door down the hallway opened and a young maid approached them.
"Excuse me, um…. I-if you please, sir," the girl stuttered with a timid curtsey. She darted surreptitious glances at Darcy, clearly intimidated. He raised an eyebrow at her timidity. "Th-the lady, Miss Bennet… She asks if she could please trouble you to get this note to her family, sir." She held a folded piece of paper in a trembling hand.
"Oh, yes… Yes, certainly. Right away… Thank you, Susan." Bingley, thrilled at finally being allowed to help, took the letter gingerly as though it was apt to vanish in a puff of Jane-scented smoke. With a barely discernible 'excuse me', he left Darcy staring after him, wondering if he meant to deliver the letter to Longbourn himself on foot in his current state.
Quite honestly, Darcy couldn't understand behaving so foolishly for the sake of a woman, particularly not one of Miss Bennet's caliber. True, her beauty could not be denied, but Bingley's bumbling hardly seemed warranted. She had a trifling cold but was hardly at death's door. Rather than the daughter of a country gentleman, Bingley acted as though the health of a Duchess hung in the balance. (Darcy's own ridiculous antics employed in hiding behind foliage to avoid Elizabeth had, at present, slipped his mind.)
Nearly two hours later, Bingley was still absent from the breakfast room. Darcy took advantage of the extra space, spreading his newspaper out on the table, barely listening to a comment from Miss Bingley over a letter she was reading. (Something to do with someone redecorating a ballroom in some manner, though why she believed Darcy deigned to keep current on such matters remained a mystery.) The door opened, emitting Mr. Myles; Darcy spared him but a glance before continuing to read an article about more economic troubles in France.
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet," he announced with a bow. The name, of course, caught his attention and Darcy finally looked up, shock coursing through him. Somehow, the possibility of her coming here had not occurred to him. That she and Jane were close he had surmised but had obviously underestimated the strength of their bond. Now she was here, mostly likely to accept the inherent task of caring for her sister. *Her*. Elizabeth. Here. Here at Netherfield and about to walk in.
Oh, no…
He was completely unprepared to face her and she was here.
Before he could even begin bringing his thoughts in order, Elizabeth entered the room and he forgot to breathe. Her eyes were slightly wary as she walked slowly to the center of the wall between the room's two large columns. His mouth went dry as he took her in.
The length of her hair was mostly unbound. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a woman with her hair down other than his sister. Only the crown and sides of her hair were gathered back. The rest hung soft and wavy, well below the shoulders of an old, dark overcoat.
Her hair was nearly the same rich brown as her eyes, and he knew instinctively that, were he to bury his nose in it, he would smell fresh air and flowers. Rosy color bloomed delicately across her cheeks as a result of the exercise giving her skin an aching luminescence. She wore a subtle blue green dress that reminded him of morning fog. She looked like a child of nature itself, born of a beautifully fragile sunrise and the dusk of evening. He swallowed hard, noticing small white lace scalloping along the neckline of her dress and had a sudden urge to run his finger across the texture of it before taking in the supple skin beneath.
All this was followed by the immediate realization that he ought to stand and bow in acknowledgement of the introduction. As he did, his chair scuffed loudly on the floor and his boots clicked together. He resisted the impulse to wince at his blunder for it drew the attention of both ladies.
"Good Lord, Miss Elizabeth, did you walk here?" Carole inquired in a superior tone, clearly as shocked as he for what she would perceive as the impropriety of Elizabeth's appearance.
"I did," Elizabeth stated unashamedly. She waited, looking at the two of them expectantly. "I'm so sorry, how is my sister?"
"She's upstairs." Darcy answered quickly, feeling an inexplicable need for her to be away from him. Elizabeth looked at him in surprise, though whether she reacted because he spoke or the manner of his speech, he could not know.
"Thank you." She paused again as though expecting further intelligence, then gave a curtsey and left.
"My goodness, did you see her hem? Six-inches deep in mud! She looked positively medieval," Caroline drawled in contempt.
Darcy, on the other hand, could offer no such concise opinion on what transpired before them. That he was torn between a craving to lap at the cream of her skin like a cat and disgust at the same desire was hardly information to be shared with anyone, least of all Miss Bingley. Instead, he stood blinking in confusion, foremost in his mind the notion that he had missed the mark indeed, referring to Elizabeth as only tolerable.
"—wouldn't want your sister traipsing about the countryside on such an errand, I'm sure." Caroline, unaware of his agitation, continued her diatribe.
"No. Certainly not," he agreed quietly. *Of course, Georgiana has no sisters and is only sixteen*, he reflected absently. If she had an ill sister to care for, he imagined she would undertake the errand most determinedly. *And I would walk any distance in her place for much less*.
"Why, it must be at least three miles from here to any other house. What could she have been thinking? She wasn't fit to be seen, with her hair windblown and unkempt, never mind the mud." Caroline shook her head and returned to her letter, thereby ending her commentary on the matter. Darcy resumed his seat, giving her a puzzled glance.
"I imagine she was thinking of her sister," Darcy said with alacrity. "Her concern does her credit." Caroline was incredulous, thoroughly taken aback, and could only gape at him; fortunately, she chose not to question his abrupt defense of their new guest, though the look on her face suggested she found grave error in his reasoning. (Nothing, it seemed, would draw Caroline out of doors for an extended period of time and most definitely not on foot across three miles, not even the health of a loved one. Unless, perhaps, that loved one was gravely ill, very rich, and in need of an heir.)
Darcy made a show of returning to his paper, making his face blank and ignoring Caroline's piercing looks. He forced himself to behave as though nothing was amiss, that his mind and body weren't churning with conflicting thoughts and urges.
As he stared at the printed words before him, images formed rapidly before his eyes, imprinting themselves on the paper as though he looked through a window into one of his dreams.
He saw himself approaching Elizabeth, talking her shoulders in his hands and kissing her until she trembled. Beginning slowly so as not to scare her, he would then deepen the kiss to delve the depths of her mouth with his tongue. She would moan at the unexpected sensation, participating hesitantly at first until she clung to him willingly, her elegant hands tangling in his hair and around his neck. When she was weak in his arms, he would finally, finally taste her skin, beginning with her exquisite neck and ending with the smooth expanse of her chest just above the scalloped lace. He would run his hands through her hair and dip his fingers below the lace, teasing her breast until she begged for a release she did not yet understand…
His head began to swim with disorientation and he swallowed the sudden pooling of saliva in his mouth. The dizziness passed as soon as he realized he'd been holding his breath.
I really must see a physician, he though frantically. Any physician… sooner rather than later. Blinking his eyes back into focus, he forced his mind back to the piece on France.
At length, Bingley entered the room, breaking the spell that seemed to have gripped him. Darcy breathed slowly, trying to acknowledge his friend's approach without betraying his state. For his part, Bingley looked far more cheerful than he had earlier that morning.
"Thank goodness for Miss Elizabeth," he said with relief. "Miss Bennet already seems in better spirits and the doctor says she will recover nicely. How fortunate that Longbourn is so close." He sat with a satisfied sigh and finally began partaking of the breakfast fare that was long past cold. Bingley didn't seem to mind, as he had at last been allowed to see Miss Bennet with her sister as chaperone.
"How fortunate too that Miss Elizabeth possesses such an… independent nature," Caroline added, lifting a teacup to hide a duplicitous smile.
"Yes," Bingley agreed firmly, conscious of her not so cleverly hidden cut. "Fortunate indeed. I think her obvious concern for her sister is delightful. It shows great strength of character and a strong familial sense. Don't you agree, Darcy?"
Darcy considered his response, conscious that Bingley's sister watched him closely. "I suppose it does, though she could have just as easily come by carriage. For that matter, Miss Bennet could have, as well." Caroline made a noise of agreement, tacitly pleased with his dismissal of the Bennet sisters' methods of travel.
"True, but from what I understand from Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth enjoys walking a great deal and does so nearly everyday when the weather is fine. And apparently sometimes when it is not. I confess to no great surprise that she walked here. She and her sister are very close, I believe," Bingley explained while filling his plate. By this time, he was properly dressed and far more at ease. "And I, for one, was grateful to see her."
Before either party could reply, Mr. Myles returned, this time bearing several letters on a silver tray.
"One for Mr. Darcy and two for you, sir," he addressed Bingley directly.
"Here you are, Darcy—from Georgiana I think." Bingley handed him the parchment sealed with the Darcy crest in colored wax.
He took it up eagerly, feeling relief on two fronts; first for brief deliverance from the usual anxiety he felt being away from his sister and the second for another diversion from thoughts of Elizabeth. It seemed well nigh impossible for him to find enough distraction lately and with the object of his distress in residence, he could forget about the maintenance of his peace of mind.
Excusing himself, he took the letter outside with him in the direction of Netherfield's flower garden. As he walked, he read of Georgiana's delight in a new piece of music and her satisfaction in the progress of a needlepoint piece she'd worked on for some time. She spoke of her happiness of being in London to see the trees burn with autumn color and long walks in the park with her companion, Mrs. Annesley. During these walks, she often stopped to sketch the ducks and swans in the lily ponds, reveling in sight of spring babies losing their fuzz to turn into the sleek adults of the fall. He smiled, knowing full well that his sister's love of animals also encompassed the tadpoles, frogs, dragonflies and fish of the ponds themselves.
Though she had clearly moved beyond childhood lessons, she still studied with a tutor for French and Italian, and excelled in drawing and music. He was conscious that his little sister as growing to become a fine young woman, and the knowledge gave him both grief and joy. Grief that she moved passed the innocence of the young and joy for the brightness of her future.
Despite the difference in their ages, Darcy and his sister had always been close. Though the gap between them meant they would forever be in different phases in life, there was a connection between them that never faltered. He would never truly supplant his father's position for her, though he knew the relationship was more in that vein than that of brother and sister. Their bond was one forged in the loss of their parents even though the experience had different repercussions for each. Georgiana had no chance to know their mother, and lost their father when she was still very young. Darcy was her most trusted confidant and friend, as well as guide and steward of her future. She shared her life with him readily, as he did with her, and never sought to keep him from knowing her most treasured secrets.
Except once.
Only once had circumstances unforeseen come between them in such a way that their bond was sorely tested. Only once had Georgiana conspired with another to keep something from him. Only once had he nearly lost her, but once was one time too many.
Love, he knew, could make fools of otherwise sensible men and women. Called the great equalizer, love was humbling and at the same time prideful, a source of both bliss and darkest sadness. From a young age, he understood there were different types of love from what he felt for his sister to what he knew of his father's love for both of them; rarely spoken of and sorely taken for granted, but certain just the same. His father's love for their mother was of another type, one that had developed over years of marriage but hadn't been present in more than a minor sense of fondness at their wedding.
He came to know that men sought relief from the desires of physical love in the women of certain districts of London who sold their affection and favors for a price. From an early age, he was given to understand this kind of love was of a temporary and purely carnal variety, and should be sought only as a means of control over one's baser desires. Sometimes the same men also kept mistresses after they married because it was unbefitting for wives to inspire that kind of passion in them.
But there was yet another kind of love with which he had little experience. It was the kind usually seen in the men who did not keep mistresses, but married the woman who invoked their passion. These men looked at their wives with such slavering devotion that others would titter behind their hands, calling them 'hen pecked'. This kind of love he little understood and couldn't help but doubt. Why would anyone put himself so completely under another's power? It was illogical at best and humiliating at worst.
Nothing would have made him believe in it's true senselessness until his sister fell under the charm of George Wickham, as so many had before her.
Before his fall from grace, Georgiana and Wickham shared a connection much like hers with Darcy. Because Wickham was practically raised alongside them, she saw him as a brother figure and someone she respected and loved in that way. He remembered George devoting much time to entertaining her and both of them undertaking the task of making her laugh as often as possible. She was an adorable child and they would sometimes play in the nursery with her until they the vanity of adolescence made them seek more adult pursuits.
Though she was not especially in the habit of losing herself to flights of fancy like other girls her age, Georgiana was just as susceptible to the allure of flattery. And being far more familiar with her personality than other men, she was that much more susceptible to Wickham.
In the recounting of the tale of what transpired before Darcy arrived in Ramsgate, she told him tearfully that Wickham plied her with gifts and claimed to have seen her with new eyes, speaking of her beauty and grace. As it had been some years since Wickham left Pemberley, and he said he now looked upon her as a woman instead of a child and made her feel giddy with his attentions. She had let him kiss her hand as a lover and wanted to believe his love was genuine.
Caught up in the romance of it all, she agreed to elope with him and allowed him to persuade her that her brother would forgive their hurry after he saw the great love between them. The evening before they were to journey to Scotland with her current companion Mrs. Younge, Wickham came to her and began asking about the inheritance left to her by the elder Darcy, a sum of $30,000 pounds. Confused, but trusting him implicitly, Georgiana haltingly told him of the terms under which she would come into the money upon her twenty-fifth birthday or in the event of her marriage, whichever came first. She alluded to a strict stipulation insisted upon by her father, a condition that meant the fortune was to remain under her and Darcy's control no matter who else came into the family. Wickham drew her back to this point and made her reiterate it several times.
Upon getting his clarification, Wickham became very still and quiet with his back turned to her. Had she been able to see his face, she would have been frightened by the dark rage that could be seen on it then. For Wickham knew what Georgiana did not. The falling out that had occurred between Darcy and he upon his refusal of the living left to him at Kympton (and subsequent demand of more funds) meant that Darcy would never trust him again, even if he believed Georgiana loved him. Darcy might allow for their sham of a marriage to continue if he believed Georgiana to be happy, but he would never allow Wickham to access the fortune at will.
And the fortune was his true purpose.
It was a complication Wickham hadn't been expecting; he couldn't immediately determine how to make it work in his favor. And so, with a syrupy smile, he turned back to Georgiana and took his leave for the night, lingering over the tender goodbye with promises he would see her in the morning.
But morning came and George Wickham never returned.
Darcy had finished some business in London early and decided to surprise Georgiana in Ramsgate. Of course, he was under the impression that while she was there with Mrs. Younge, her company included only Mrs. Younge. When his carriage arrived, he was shocked to find Georgiana more distraught than he had ever seen her. For over an hour, he pleaded with her to reveal the source of her distress, even appealing to Mrs. Younge, who feigned ignorance. Finally, after many reassurances that he would not be angry, Georgiana let loose the entire story up to and including the conversation about the money that she now feared must have been the turning point in Wickham's courtship.
Despite his promise, he was furious upon hearing of the planned elopement, but made himself take her into his arms, letting her cry out her misfortune until she fell asleep. Though he was hurt by her inability to trust him, the brunt of his anger was for Wickham.
Still unaware of Mrs. Younge's complicity in this wretched turn of events, he left her with his sister to seek out the inn where Georgiana said Wickham had been staying. He found the man's room emptied of all belongings, (including some not previously in his possession) leaving no trace of his presence. The innkeeper said he'd been awaiting the earliest morning coach since shortly after midnight in the inn's public room, and had become more and more drunk as the night progressed. Then he began rambling about how he'd convinced a young lady of wealth to fall in love with him but had been misled by her caretaker into believing he would come into money if he married her. He boasted about the luck of his escape from being married to such a fool. (He had also told the innkeeper his bill had already been paid in full through the man's assistant and to confirm this in the morning. By the time the innkeeper realized this was a falsehood, Wickham was long gone.)
And thus, Darcy returned to his sister as fast as possible, having correctly surmised that Wickham had been referring to Mrs. Younge.
Though the woman first tried to deny her knowledge of Wickham's true intent and her role in the snaring of Georgiana's heart, the force of Darcy's fury impressed upon her the lengths to which he would go in getting the truth. Even after she admitted she was guilty, Darcy dismissed her without sympathy, berated her for having the audacity to lie to him, and made it clear he would make further employment amongst the gentry very difficult for her to find. He then loaded his exhausted sister into their private carriage and returned to Pemberley.
Later that year, he found Mrs. Annesley, a widow native to Lambton, to take up the position of Georgiana's companion. She was a sensible older woman who was already fond of Georgiana having met her several times in the village when she was a child. Her own children were grown and settled away from her and she was eager to take the recovering girl under her wing and nurture her back to confidence and self-forgiveness.
Georgiana's spirit was injured but not broken. Within a few months, Darcy was pleased to see a great resilience in her he feared would not be possible after the depth of her disappointment. Because she was still young enough to enjoy life and just old enough to appreciate that enjoyment, she soon returned to her former self, though perhaps more cautious and slightly more serious than before.
Darcy, too, forgave her imprudence knowing full well that Wickham was capable of making even the most skeptical believe he was good and entirely harmless. After all, Wickham had even been able to convince Darcy's ever cautious and propriety minded father that he intended to make the church his life. Once Wickham's true nature was revealed, Darcy couldn't imagine someone less suited to the role of making sermons and providing moral guidance; debauchery and making merry were far more his speed.
Since Ramsgate, however, Darcy found he disliked being away from Georgiana and hadn't been very far from her for very long until Bingley's invitation to Netherfield. Though he trusted Mrs. Annesley, having vetted her far more thoroughly than Mrs. Younge, he couldn't shake the sense that he could have prevented the entire calamity to begin with. Georgiana herself had convinced him that it would be best for him to go because he simply could not be always at her side. He remembered telling her it was his job to take care of her rather than she taking care of him. She had only smiled in a way that reminded him of their mother and told him to enjoy himself and not worry so much.
As such, it was with pride and a sense of nostalgia that he read her cheerful and well-written letter through a second time as he meandered the garden. As he reached the closing again, he smiled fondly and sat at one of the stone benches that were spaced throughout the hedges. The bench he chose, though he did so at random, happened to face the back of the house. He rested for a moment, piecing together in his mind the reply he would make to his sister the moment he had a chance to write. He gazed vaguely at the back face of the structure, tracing the line of the roof with his eyes until a small movement in one of the windows drew his eye.
It was Elizabeth.
She looked out over the distant landscape far behind him, unaware for the moment that his eyes were on her. He felt a forbidden thrill at once again observing her without her knowledge. He realized her hair was completely unbound now and the dark coat was gone. She looked just as ravishing as before and he felt a long, liquid pull in his stomach at the sight. He knew he should look away, pretend to read the letter again— do something, anything but continue to watch her like a lecher. But he could not tear his eyes away. She smiled faintly and began deftly braiding her hair, twisting it up into a neat bun. As he watched, she turned to say something to someone within he couldn't see, most likely her sister. As she turned back to the glass, her arms still raised, their eyes met and held.
He inhaled sharply but made no move to pretend he did not see her. Unthinkingly, he raised his chin with a narrowed, defensive gaze; the effect of this was an unintentionally cold glare across the distance that separated them. She displayed little surprise other than the slow lowering of her hands. Her head tipped slightly to the side as though considering him until, after what felt like an age, she turned away and walked out of his view. When she was gone, he exhaled a breath he hadn't known he was holding.
He got up irritably, pacing the same paths he had earlier traced in contentment, his mind full of her impertinence. At the very least, she should have somehow acknowledged his presence. Even a nod would do. (Caught up in the moment, the fact that he had not exactly acknowledged her slipped his mind.) She might have even been shocked or flattered that he looked at her. Instead, she behaved as though his attention was nothing to her, that he was too insignificant to be noticed. What nerve she has, he grumbled to himself. Most women would be pleased to have my gaze land on them. Why not Elizabeth? Why does she insist on being completely unpredictable?
Well, you did insult her.
The practical, honest voice was back again and he grimaced at its discernment. She must realize his words were not meant for her ears but an idle remark made in ill temper. Apparently, she could forgive her mother for calling her friend plain but not a man she'd just met. At least he had used the word tolerable rather than ugly or repulsive. Did she not know herself to be beautiful? Regardless of the sentiment expressed, he couldn't credit her need to behave as though he had wrong her so seriously.
Perhaps she was merely playing coy. Perhaps she believed if she acted as though she cared not for his opinion, he would eventually flatter her outrageously and beg her forgiveness before falling helplessly in love with her. Perhaps it was really a trap the likes of which he hadn't yet learned to expect.
Oh, stop, he told himself harshly. For goodness sake, stop this nonsense! She is nothing but another girl looking to marry well. You have nothing to fear from her. You are the Master of Pemberley and she is nothing to you. He repeated this quietly several times until he began to feel more like himself and less like he was going mad. Reestablishing his resolve to pay as little attention to her as possible, he made one more circuit of the garden before making his way back inside.
~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~
Later that afternoon, he sought out Joseph and asked him to ready his writing supplies and bring them to the drawing room. As he waited there, he took up an aged copy of a book of poetry by William Blake he had left on the table and turned to the marked page. He lost himself in the rhythmic verse allowing it to soothe his system, which had been in riotous turmoil throughout the day. But soon his concentration was broken.
With a frustrated sigh, he got up again and paced, wondering what was taking Joseph so long. After gazing out the window for some minutes in an attempt to clear his head, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Begging your pardon, sir." Joseph carried the writing podium to the table facing the window. "My apologies for the delay, sir. Mr. Bingley requested my assistance in bringing in a trunk for Miss Bennet. It seems Mr. Bingley has invited both Miss Bennet and her sister to stay until she is better…" Joseph realized he was rambling and dropped off the end of his sentence. His face flushed scarlet, and Darcy came to the suspicion that the pretty Miss Bennets had charmed the man. He had most likely offered his help rather than being enlisted.
With a roll of his eyes, he dismissed Joseph and took up his quill. No sooner had he scratched out a salutation, he heard more footsteps approaching, this time the soft patter of a lady's slippers. Though he knew it was likely not Elizabeth, he couldn't help the tensing of his body in anticipation. He turned his head toward the door, only to see that it was Caroline who entered the room, looking sullen and put out.
"Oh, Mr. Darcy." Her face underwent a drastic change, affecting the pleasant but aloof mask of superiority she usually wore. "How timely. I should warn you, sir, my brother is on his way here with Miss Elizabeth. You know, I assume, that he's invited them both to stay? Apparently, Miss Bennet has fallen asleep and rather than leaving her sister to read in silence, Charles invited Miss Elizabeth to join us with her book. So prepare yourself, my friend. I fear we are about to experience some of the country manners my brother so adores."
Darcy remained outwardly indifferent to this news, beginning his letter with a few comments about the weather and other matters that took little concentration. He was conscious of finally being afforded the opportunity to fortify himself before being in her presence again. He took a moment to trim the quill to his liking, repeating the earlier litany of reasons he need not pay her any mind.
"And what is it you do so secretly, sir?"
"It is no secret, Caroline. I am writing to my sister."
"Ah… Dear Georgiana. Such a lovely girl and so accomplished. Be sure to tell her my brother and I would be delighted to meet her again. Is she grown much since the spring? Is she as tall as me?"
"She has grown, but not quite so tall. She is rather about as tall as Miss Elizabeth, I think." Caroline blinked at him, the smile freezing on her face. She cleared her throat deliberately, and turned toward the window, seemingly displeased with his comparison.
He had just completed a paragraph in which he complimented Georgiana's previous communication, keeping it open beside him to refer directly to different passages. He moved on to make a feeble allusion to Caroline's desire to see her, leaving it open for Georgiana to decide whether or not to extend an invitation.
Soon, he again heard heard the echoing of footsteps down the hallway, this time accompanied with voices. Again he tensed in expectation, this time knowing Elizabeth would enter the room with Bingley.
"Here we are, Miss Elizabeth," Charles said, allowing her to precede him. "Do make yourself at home."
"Thank you, Mr. Bingley," he heard her say. Her voice was smiling and he imagined her glowing with delight at Bingley's attentions to her on behalf of her sister. He turned his head in her direction and caught her eye long enough to nod.
"Miss Elizabeth."
"Mr. Darcy." Now her speech was clipped and flat.
"Miss Elizabeth, how good of you to join us. Miss Bennet is resting comfortably, I trust?" Caroline was all sweetness.
"Yes. I believe she is a little better. The quiet does her good." Elizabeth opened her book and could be heard turning the pages until she found her place.
For a time, the room settled into quiet, only interrupted by the tiny scraping of his quill and the periodic rustle of turned pages.
"You write uncommonly fast, Mr. Darcy," Caroline then observed, coming to lean over him.
"You are mistaken, I write rather slowly."
"How many letters you must have occasion to write, Mr. Darcy. Letters of business, too; how odious I should think them."
"It is fortunate then that they fall to my lot instead of yours," he reassured without looking up.
"Do tell your sister that I long to see her."
"I have already told her once by your desire."
"I do dote on her. I was quite in raptures at her beautiful little design for a table." She circled the table to his other side, again lingering to looking over his shoulder.
"Perhaps you will give me leave to defer your raptures until I write again. At present, I have not length enough to do them justice," he said, allowing some of his irritation to show though he tempered the end of his request with a hushed volume. Caroline looked a bit cowed by his response.
"Well, I think it's amazing you ladies have the patience to be so accomplished," Bingley chimed in. Caroline turned her attention to him.
"What do you mean, Charles?"
"You all paint tables and play the piano and embroider cushions. I never heard of a young lady but people say she is accomplished," Charles claimed with a grin. Elizabeth smiled at him warmly over her book.
"The word is indeed applied too liberally," Darcy stated, bringing her eyes back to him. "I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen women in all my acquaintance that are truly accomplished."
"Nor I, to be sure." Caroline resumed her circling.
"Goodness, you must comprehend a great deal in the idea," Elizabeth put in with astonishment. He allowed himself to meet her gaze with sincerity, ignoring the same jump in his chest that she chose to address him directly.
"I do."
"Absolutely." Caroline took up his cause. "She must have thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing and the modern languages to deserve the word. And something in her air and manner of walking."
"And, of course, she must improve her mind by extensive reading." He glanced at the book Elizabeth held in her hands, hardly blinking when she then snapped it shut, as though denying she attempted to do just that.
"I'm no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women; I rather wonder now at your knowing any." She leveled a calm, knowing look at him. He regarded her with solemn surprise.
"Are you so severe on your own sex?"
"I never saw such a woman. She would certainly be a fearsome thing to behold." Charles laughed, treating her words as a jest though Darcy was unsure she meant them as one. He studied her for a moment with a frown, wondering why she would disparage the pursuit of feminine skills.
All of a sudden, Caroline stopped her tread in front of Elizabeth. "Miss Elizabeth, let us take a turn about the room." Elizabeth looked up at her in amused uncertainty, wondering at Caroline's odd request and unexpected desire for a partner. She stood, and would have begun their 'turn' had not Caroline stopped to take her arm as though they were the closest of friends. Several moments of silence commenced.
"It is refreshing, is it not? After sitting so long in one attitude?" Caroline drawled, glancing back at Darcy.
"And it is a small kind of accomplishment, I suppose," was Elizabeth's reply, teasing her lightly.
"Will you not join us, Mr. Darcy?" He waited a beat, conscious that Caroline was again drawing him into conversation with a purpose he could not guess.
"You can only have two motives, Caroline, and I would interfere with either."
"What can he mean?" she asked Elizabeth conspiratorially.
"Our surest way of disappointing him would be to ask him nothing about it," she replied. She was as reluctant to speak to him as he was to her, apparently.
"Oh, do tell us, Mr. Darcy," Caroline wheedled. Again, he waited, weighing his counter carefully.
"Either you are in each others' confidence and you have secret affairs to discuss," he began, thinking it doubtful, "or you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage by walking." He turned slightly in he seat as they traveled, following them briefly with his eyes. "If the first, I should get in your way. If the second, I can admire you much better from here." Charles chuckled at this.
"Shocking. How can we punish him for such a speech?" Caroline gave a coy look.
"We could always laugh at him," Elizabeth offered, slowing in front of his table. He met her eyes, his brows drawing together.
"Oh, no. Mr. Darcy is not to be teased," Caroline admonished. Elizabeth approached the table, looking at him shrewdly.
"Are you too proud, Mr. Darcy? And would you consider pride a fault or a virtue?" she wanted to know.
"That, I couldn't say."
"Because we are trying to find a fault in you."
"Perhaps it's that I find it hard to forgive the follies and vices of others. My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever," he said, wondering why he revealed so much of himself. She measured this for a moment before smiling sympathetically.
"Oh dear, I cannot tease you about that. What a shame, for I dearly love to laugh."
"A family trait, I think," Caroline quipped from where she'd drifted. Before him, Elizabeth turned her head, discomfiture plain on her face. But she only smiled good-naturedly. His brows drew together, aware of Elizabeth with every fiber of his being as she made her way back to her seat.
He made an effort to return to his letter, but found himself going over the entire episode in his mind. To his disquiet, he discovered he was displeased with Caroline's behavior much more so than Elizabeth's. For all her polish and elegance, Caroline's contempt was nothing more than a refined version of the behavior she was forever disparaging. He tried not to dwell too closely on this, or the fact that sparing verbally with Elizabeth had made his heart pound in earnest.
Another quarter hour passed agreeably before Elizabeth cleared her throat and rose. "I believe I must be getting back to my sister, Mr. Bingley," said she. "I have been away long enough."
"Will you not join us for dinner, Miss Elizabeth?" Bingley offered. Darcy closed his eyes, praying she would decline.
"No, thank you. You are very kind, Mr. Bingley."
"Very well. I'll have Susan bring two plates up to your room, shall I?" Bingley stood with the intention of making such arrangements.
"That would be wonderful, thank you," Elizabeth said again, delighted with his diligence. "Good night, Miss Bingley. Mr. Darcy." Her voice this time was more kindly toward him and he stood as she prepared to leave the room. Meeting her eyes with a nod, he was again conscious of the duality of his reaction to her.
~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~ : ~
Some hours later, he returned to the drawing room in search of the book of poetry. He returned with it to his room, reading the same poems he'd examined earlier on the four seasons. Each one he applied in his mind to Pemberley, seeing its familiar vistas and scenery in his mind's eye. He continued reading until he came to the realization that the voice reciting the words in his head was not his own, but that of Elizabeth. Thoroughly appalled at himself, he clapped the book shut and set it down vehemently on the bedside table.