Mrs Bennet descended on her ailing daughter with heartfelt cries of repentance, concern, reproof and all that is expected and quite genteel from a sorrowing mother. Having dispatched this duty, she proceeded to bid farewell to their magnanimous hosts, and set herself upon the end of Jane's bed. Looking about the well-appointed guest room with some pleasure, she bid her youngest daughter to join her in feeling the softness of the silk sheets, and her middle daughter to stop blocking the light.
Mary might, it was suggested, explore the remainder of Netherfield, and acquaint herself with her sister's future domain. Reporting back her observations was, of course, the main point of this dispatch – but Mary felt rather that being out of earshot of her mother's profusions would undoubtedly be the greater reward.
Much of the house was still shut off, since the tenants had not yet made up their minds to settle, and as such the unused rooms were left to gather dust. Areas of little concern to the young ladies in possession of the great house included (Mary discovered) a second, smaller hall for intimate parties, a chain of smoking rooms which the men had apparently forsaken in favour of the billiards room, and the library.
Her heart, rather sullen in the presence of her sister's obviously growing vivacity, leapt into her mouth. It was a library – and such a room as she, or her father, would be proud to boast of to every visitor, had it been within their own home. But it was not, it was here, and under the careless eye of Miss Bingley it had been left with stifling shuttered windows, ancient waxy pools in the sconces, and footprints in the dust.
The girl walked slowly through the room, admiring its twists and turns as much as the many books which lined the walls. Raising a hand, she ran her fingertips along the spines. Soft leather turned to the hard emboss of gold, and she felt the ridges of leaf patterns and the whorls of letters as one, pleasurable moment.
"They removed the modern texts, I believe, to the drawing room at the front of the house." A man was suddenly there, his silhouette dark against the dimly lit room. He did not seem to notice Miss Bennet's gasp of surprise, but bowed politely. "If you are looking for a novel to pass the time, Miss Mary Bennet, then you would much better look there."
"Oh, no!" She cried, quite forgetting herself. "That is to say... I am not come looking for a b...book."
"Then you are in a strange room," He replied, with some humour. When she seemed unable to reply, he beckoned her a little closer. The motion was so like the gentle command of her father that Mary found her feet tripping forward, before she fully considered the propriety.
"I may be grateful for your intrusion, Miss Bennet," Darcy confided – for it was he - and he looked back at the shelves. "Unlike yourself, I am looking for a book. Perhaps you could advance your opinion as to which would be best?"
She looked at the hundreds of volumes and trembled. Taking note of that, he hastened to explain.
"I am looking for a gift for my sister, you see. When we began at this house I noted that this library, although somewhat smaller than my own, holds many volumes which I have not seen before. I thought to make a note and purchase them myself, upon my arrival in London, but my friend insisted that I take whichever book I desire from this collection. He has little inclination towards reading." His lips quirked then, and Mary could not tell if it was from laughter or distaste before he turned to look at her. "Well then, you are quite my sister's age, I think, and I believe I see hints of the same studious nature in your eye. I would welcome your opinion, Miss Bennet, but do let me know if I impose."
Mary blushed quite red, and was grateful for the dimly lit room. In the shadows it did not seem so terrible to have to speak. Mentioning the titles of a few popular novels, she was not discouraged by the wearied shake of his head, for she had been expecting such refinement. Venturing a few more titles, she was rewarded by a nod, and when she recommended a text which she considered quite daring, he even smiled.
"I do not think I will allow her to read that, Miss Bennet." He replied simply, and when she reddened in shame he shook her head. "No, I do not mean to insult your preference. It is only that she is yet more sheltered than yourself, and her experience with the world has not been instructive enough to give her a taste for such stories. For yourself, I think, it is a most fitting choice."
"How s...so?" She asked, comfortable enough with the man by now to challenge him.
He flushed. It was fascinating to see disconcertion on the face of a man, and Mary looked at him with awful wonder.
"Perhaps I said too much. I only meant that... I can see how such detailed worlds might provide a more tangible escape than those whimsical fancies most women seem to read. Your sister Elizabeth, I recall, chose a similar book last night. Perhaps she ultimately found the conversation of my companions a little distracting, but before their interruption she seemed most captivated by it. Perhaps I should let Miss Darcy read it."
"Escape?" Mary whispered, and he pretended that he had not heard the word.
"I thank you, Miss Bennet, for your sage advice. I will let my sister know to whom she is indebted." And with that declaration, he bowed and took his leave.
What an encounter!
Afterwards, sipping scalding Indian tea in the morning room, Mary found her eye drifting towards Mr. Darcy. Like herself, he had been summoned to pretend to be sociable over the bribery of a refreshment. Like herself, he was terrible at the artifice. She sat on the settle, he stood by the window, and the world revolved around each of them without taking much heed of their discofort.
But, she realised, the comparison was not quite fair. For as often as she cringed away from Mrs. Hurst's critical eye, or Miss Bingley's sharp-edged comments about her attire or demeanour, a compliment or affection was addressed towards the man. And yet he remained taciturn, scowling where Mary knew she would have smiled. Yes, even smiled, for she knew she was quite capable of it, if she had ever been given reason to do so. And when more hurtful comments did reach him – addressed, to Mary's shame, by her mother – he seemed to find some consolation in the repartee.
He was thriving on discord and dislike. The very things which made the girl shrink away made him advance, and he seemed to revel in the attention.
Elizabeth, though quick to defend Darcy from her mother's comments, would not guard her sharp tongue as much as she ought. When she professed opinions, the man's replies were quickly made, intelligent... and there was something else. Some challenge that was spoken through his eyes and in the way he stood, as if he were daring Elizabeth to be more, to say more, than even Lydia had ever dared to goad her. When the girl's temper finally flared and she made some impassioned denouement, he appeared torn between contempt and approval.
Mary attempted to warn her sister of this, taking her to one side as the others were tying their bonnets on with elaborate wide bows, but Elizabeth looked arrogantly at her and laughed, an oddly frustrated sound.
"I will not have you repeating mother's nonsense." She declared, then: "There is nothing to worry about. I will be unmoved by whatever he might say, and never think better of him, for I know how much he hates me."
"But..." Mary began, and then choked. How could she say, "But that is what he likes"? It made no sense, even to her, and as much as she wanted to warn her sister to be wary of the man's sharp-eyed attentions, she could not even explain to herself why she believed it to be so. She thought briefly of enlisting Jane's help, but she instinctively thought that her gentle sister's nature would make her even more blind than Lizzie.
"Be c...careful," she managed, and fled.