Page 12 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Hertfordshire

Elizabeth

Only once did Mr. Bingley arrive in the company of Mr. Hurst, whom Elizabeth found to be surprisingly amiable in conversation, particularly on the subject of novels he professed to enjoy.

But of Mr. Darcy, there was no sign. Elizabeth neither saw him on the roads nor heard mention of him beyond a single reply from Mr. Bingley, who, when asked, simply remarked that Darcy remained at Netherfield.

No explanation followed. If the gentleman had gone elsewhere or kept to his rooms, Bingley did not say.

Elizabeth did not press the matter. Still, she could not keep him from her thoughts, especially on those mornings when Mr. Bingley’s visits brought the sound of approaching hooves and the echo of his voice through the front hall.

What occupied Darcy so completely? Why did he not call, not even once, when his friend came so often and so cheerfully?

By the final week of October, the hedgerows turned gold and russet, and the mornings carried the crisp bite of coming frost. That Tuesday, as the family gathered for breakfast, a letter arrived addressed to Jane.

It was from Netherfield, and Mrs. Bennet, who had been stirring her tea without focus, immediately straightened when the name was read aloud.

Jane opened the letter and read it quietly, her eyes skimming the page with habitual calm. It was from Miss Bingley, inviting her to dine that evening with her and Mrs. Hurst. The gentlemen, she noted, had all gone to dine with Colonel Forster.

Mrs. Bennet was nearly beside herself with delight.

An invitation from Mr. Bingley’s sisters was, in her eyes, a clear precursor to an offer of marriage.

Elizabeth listened to her mother’s effusions with only half her attention.

Her eyes lingered on the mention of Darcy’s absence.

At last, he had left the house. She ought not feel relieved by so small a detail, yet something inside her relaxed.

For days she had imagined him as a man in retreat, lost to thought or burdened by something he would not name.

Whatever the case, it cheered her slightly to know he had ventured into society again.

But her thoughts were quickly recalled to the present by the stir of disagreement at the table. Mary, with her usual solemnity, objected to Jane riding out in such weather. The skies beyond the window had already turned to a heavy grey, and the breeze carried the scent of rain.

“I think it would be prudent to wait,” Mary said, though her tone was more sermon than suggestion.

Mrs. Bennet would hear none of it. “She must go. They expect her,” she insisted, waving her hand toward the letter as if it were a summons from royalty.

Elizabeth watched Jane closely. Her sister, ever dutiful, looked toward their father, who had remained silent throughout the debate.

But Mrs. Bennet’s insistence carried the moment, and within the hour, Jane was riding off toward Netherfield with the promise to return before the weather turned worse.

The rain came that night.

It began softly, a pattering against the glass, and then grew to a steady pour.

Elizabeth watched from the window, her fingers tight around the curtain.

Supper passed with uneasy conversation. When the hour grew late and no carriage returned, even Mrs. Bennet fell quiet, though she maintained that Miss Bingley would be too refined to let Jane ride home in the dark.

The next morning, a note arrived.

Elizabeth opened it with a sense of foreboding. The handwriting was Jane’s, though looser than usual, and the message was brief. She had taken a chill from the ride and was now feverish. Miss Bingley had offered her a room and care until she recovered, and Jane was too weak to return.

The room fell into quiet concern. Mrs. Bennet, though eager to declare how splendid it was that Jane must remain under the same roof as Mr. Bingley, grew worried. Mr. Bennet rose from his seat, already asking for the carriage to be prepared.

But Elizabeth spoke first.

“There is no need to trouble the carriage,” she said simply. “The horses are at work on the farm, are they not?”

Her father responded in the affirmative.

“I will go to her.”

Her father raised a brow. “Walk?”

“It is not two hours’ distance. I will be there before noon.”

Mrs. Bennet scolded her for conceiving such notion as to walk the distance just after it had rained the previous night, but Elizabeth would not be deterred.

Besides, she argued that the air would do her good.

It would settle her thoughts, clear the worry that had taken root in her chest the moment she read Jane’s letter.

Before Mrs. Bennet could mount a protest further, Elizabeth had already tied on her bonnet and stepped out into the misting morning.

Though her steps were quickened by concern for Jane, who with her gentle habit of underplaying any ailment might well be far worse than her letter suggested, Elizabeth could not help but hope for another reason to call.

She would not admit it aloud, even to herself with ease, but she hoped to see Mr. Darcy.

Even a mere glimpse would suffice. Perhaps his countenance had improved.

Perhaps they might speak, if briefly. Perhaps, even, she might accept his offer of a walk, though she told herself it was only curiosity that prompted the thought.

The roads, softened by the previous night's heavy rain, had turned to deep mud.

Elizabeth was forced to leap over puddles and navigate rutted paths, her skirts gathering damp in spite of her care.

By the time Netherfield's gates came into view, her cheeks were flushed from both exertion and the chill air.

A footman who introduced himself as Jennings admitted her without delay and conducted her to the breakfast room, where the household had gathered.

Elizabeth cast her eyes about the table.

Jane was absent, of course. Mr. Bingley rose at once and received her with warmth.

Mr. Hurst, still reclining at ease, offered a polite and rather amiable greeting.

But the Bingley sisters looked at her as though she had materialised from the mist in sodden boots and trailing brambles, their gazes assessing her from bonnet to hem.

Elizabeth offered them no more than a civil nod.

Her attention, unbidden yet unmoved, shifted to Mr. Darcy.

His eyes, which had widened at her entrance, now held a gleam that she thought might be gladness.

His smile was slight, but it steadied something inside her.

He made an effort to stand, but seemed to stop himself before nodding at her.

Mr. Bingley explained that Jane remained upstairs. Dr. Jones had visited that morning and, after administering a mild draught, advised strict rest for the remainder of the day. She was not to rise until her strength was fully returned.

At once, Bingley called for a maid to take Elizabeth to her sister. Elizabeth offered her thanks for their kindness and hospitality and followed the maid from the room. Yet, even as she walked away, Elizabeth could feel Darcy’s gaze linger, not bold, but present nonetheless.

***

Netherfield

Darcy

Two weeks of avoiding nearly everyone had left Darcy near his wits’ end.

Only Bingley's occasional visits to his chambers and the quiet solace of solitary walks about Netherfield had kept him from outright madness.

He had avoided cards, conversation, and even the drawing room for fear of what his misfortune might next disturb.

He had not spoken a word to Bingley about his encounter with Elizabeth on the path, though the temptation to do so had lingered.

When Bingley invited him to Longbourn that same evening, Darcy nearly accepted.

But fear restrained him. Not only did he dread what further misfortune might ensue should he appear, but he also feared the consequences such a visit might have upon Bingley—and by extension, Miss Bennet, with whom Bingley had now confessed himself in love.

He could not, in good conscience, risk his friend’s happiness.

Moreover, the opinion of Miss Bennet’s sister, Elizabeth, held no little weight with him.

Were he to disgrace himself again before her and her family, he doubted he could ever forgive himself.

The house had begun to notice something off about him.

Miss Bingley made little attempt to disguise her disdain for his silence.

Mr. Hurst called him a poor sport when he declined cards yet again.

Even the servants grew quieter in his presence, uncertain whether to address him at all. Darcy could not fault them.

The only outing he had dared take in days was to the colonel’s dinner.

It had required the full extent of Bingley’s persuasion, and his acquaintance with Colonel Forster—having heard his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam speak of him, to convince Darcy to attend the dinner the previous evening.

Darcy had conducted himself with the utmost reserve, determined to avoid any circumstance in so public a setting that might lend itself to further misfortune.

When they came home to find Miss Bennet pale and shivering, Darcy’s concern matched Bingley’s, though he said little. Dr. Jones’ visit in the morning had reassured them.

And so, believing it would seem rude to remain in his rooms again, Darcy joined the household at breakfast that morning. He said little, but made the effort. His presence, he hoped, would satisfy Bingley and temper his sisters' whispers.

But when Jennings entered the breakfast room with someone behind him, Darcy heard the shift in the air before he turned. Then he looked.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet stood in the doorway.

She was damp from walking, her cheeks coloured from exertion, her eyes bright and steady. She did not shrink from the gazes that turned upon her, though the Bingley sisters made no effort to hide their surprise. Darcy did not miss their glances. Nor did he care for them.

He rose without thinking, only to stop himself halfway. He remained still, watching her. Their eyes met. Something passed between them—he could not say what—but it settled something in him.

The morning had begun grey and dull. With her entrance, it sharpened. He did not smile, but something in his chest lifted.

Miss Bennet had come to Netherfield.

And Darcy, for the first time in days, felt something close to peace.

***

Elizabeth

True to Mr. Bingley’s assurances, Jane was not as ill as Elizabeth had feared.

Though pale and still weak, she woke some hours into Elizabeth’s visit and quietly asked that her sister remain with her.

The effects of the draught left her unsettled when she stirred, and she confessed a particular dislike for waking in an empty room.

Miss Bingley was present when this appeal was made.

Whether from a sense of duty, pity, or a desire to remain in her brother’s good graces, she consented to Elizabeth staying.

Elizabeth offered to leave nonetheless, sensing she was not wholly welcome.

But Miss Bingley, with a tight smile, insisted she remain.

A note was quickly penned to Longbourn, and a maid dispatched in Mr. Bingley’s carriage to fetch clothing for both girls.

The maid returned that evening with Mrs. Bennet’s enthusiastic approval and a note urging them not to hurry home.

It was plain that their mother’s real interest lay in keeping Jane under the same roof as Mr. Bingley, not in any pressing concern for her daughter’s recovery.

Jane had fallen asleep once more by the time the maid returned. Elizabeth unpacked the clothing and settled at her sister’s side, prepared to remain through the night. The fever had lessened, and Jane had gained some strength, though her voice remained soft and her limbs still weary.

Elizabeth dined in the room that evening, preferring the quiet over the company downstairs. The solitude allowed her to tend to her sister undisturbed, and she welcomed the respite from forced civility.

She received two visits from the Bingley sisters, one of which included Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy.

Mr. Darcy inquired after Jane’s health and offered a brief, polite remark, but it was his silent glance at Elizabeth, warm and fleeting, that lingered most. Twice, he smiled—and though nothing was spoken beyond the expected courtesies, it left her strangely unsettled.

Later, when the house had quieted and Jane rested peacefully beside her, Elizabeth leaned back in the chair, her thoughts drifting.

Gratitude filled her for her sister’s improving condition, but more confusing still was the memory of Mr. Darcy’s expression.

His silence said little, yet his gaze had spoken more than words.

And though she knew it was foolish to dwell on a smile, she could not quite forget the way it had made her feel.