Page 14 of A Most Unfortunate Gentleman

Netherfield

Elizabeth

That evening, the Bingley party returned to Netherfield just before dinner. Elizabeth had, not long before their arrival, dispatched a note to Longbourn, informing her family of Jane’s improving condition and the likelihood of their return home upon the morrow.

At the table, the gentlemen of the house appeared far more gratified by Jane’s presence than the ladies, whose discontent seemed rooted less in concern for her health than in the attention she so effortlessly commanded.

With characteristic grace, Jane expressed her gratitude for their hospitality and confessed that, had they not been absent when she awoke, she would have taken her leave that very evening, deeming it impolite to depart unannounced.

Mr. Bingley, visibly delighted to see her recovered, insisted she remain at least until Dr. Jones had examined her the next morning.

Miss Bingley declared Jane’s recovery “no short of a miracle,” claiming she had hovered by the bedside more than ten times and had assumed that Jane would be confined for a week.

Elizabeth wondered whether Caroline was pleased at Jane’s return or relieved at the prospect of the sisters soon leaving in any case.

That their concern existed at all—regardless of motivation—was something she could at least acknowledge.

Darcy said little beyond acknowledging how pleasant it was to see Jane well again, and he smiled at her and Elizabeth.

After dinner, the party moved to the drawing room, where Mr. Hurst soon proposed a game of whist. He and Mrs. Hurst swiftly declared themselves partners, as though by long-standing agreement.

When Mr. Darcy quietly withdrew to a corner with a book in hand, Miss Bingley declared her intention to partner with Jane.

Elizabeth felt no astonishment at the choice; the sidelong glances she had received throughout her arrival had left her in no doubt that she did not number among Miss Bingley’s favourites.

“Ah, lest I forget,” said Mr. Darcy to Bingley, who was seated on the sofa observing the game, “you may wish to summon your carpenter again.”

Bingley looked up, concern touching his features. “Has the bedpost given out once more?”

“No,” Darcy replied evenly, “the bookshelf behind the main reading table in the library. I was in the midst of reading this afternoon when it collapsed quite suddenly.”

“Good heavens, I hope you were not harmed,” Miss Bingley said, her tone all soft solicitude.

“I was not,” Darcy assured her. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet happened to be entering the room at the time to retrieve a book. She presumed I had gone out with the rest of you, yet she arrived just in time to assist me. Naturally, I rang for the maid to see to the disorder, but the shelf itself shall require repair before the books may be restored.”

Elizabeth felt a flicker of gratitude. Mr. Darcy had recounted the incident with such restraint and propriety that no hint of scandal or impropriety could attach to them. His discretion did not go unnoticed.

Bingley responded with cheerful ease, “Very well, I shall have the fellow attend before week’s end. Considering the matter with your bedpost, I daresay the furniture is beginning to show its age. He ought to inspect the lot of it, lest more should fail us.”

Elizabeth caught the quick glance Miss Bingley exchanged with her sister as Mr. Darcy concluded his account. It was not a look of concern for safety nor surprise at the tale—it was a glance edged with disdain.

“Miss Eliza,” said Miss Bingley, her voice honeyed and pointed, “I must confess, I had not taken you for one inclined toward books. Had you expressed an interest while we were about, I might have shown you my favourite collection of culinary volumes.”

Elizabeth recognised the insinuation at once.

The remark implied that she had waited for the others to depart so as to engineer time alone with Mr. Darcy.

It was as absurd as it was ill-mannered.

She and Mr. Darcy had scarcely exchanged more than civil greetings in company of anyone in the room.

Yet, what caught Elizabeth more than the remark itself was the unmistakable look in Miss Bingley’s eyes.

It was not a flicker of contempt, but of envy.

Did Miss Bingley harbour a tendre for Mr. Darcy? It was not so far-fetched. Many a young lady in her situation—well-bred and eager to secure a handsome gentleman of ten thousand a year—might form such hopes for her brother’s distinguished friend.

Elizabeth smiled serenely, unwilling to grant Miss Bingley the triumph she sought. “I am fond of reading, though I am hardly the scholar of the family. That honour falls to my sister Mary.”

Miss Bingley drew breath to reply, but Mr. Darcy spoke at once, as though he had awaited a pretext to engage Elizabeth further.

“And may I enquire whence this love of books arose?” he asked.

“Our father,” answered Jane from her seat at the card table. “He is rarely without a volume in hand.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth added, “and he is ever eager to share his library with any of his daughters who shows the least inclination to learn.”

Mr. Darcy continued the conversation by inquiring what subjects most engaged her interest. He appeared genuinely pleased upon learning that she favoured the sciences, poetry, and geography over cookery books and the latest gossip publications.

When he remarked that her literary accomplishments far exceeded those of many ladies of his acquaintance, Miss Bingley’s complexion deepened to a shade of red.

Whether from offence or embarrassment, Elizabeth could not tell.

“Well,” Miss Bingley said briskly, “there is rather more to a woman’s accomplishments than her literary tastes, do you not agree, Miss Eliza?”

Elizabeth recognised the trap. It was a question designed to oppose her to Mr. Darcy. She suspected he would take no offence, whatever her reply, yet caution was warranted.

“Women’s accomplishment is a matter of opinion,” she said. “If we measure it by society’s standards, then it must include a variety of skills beyond the appreciation of books.”

“Precisely,” declared Miss Bingley with renewed confidence. “Embroidery, the management of a household, performance upon an instrument—there is no end of things by which a lady may distinguish herself.”

Miss Bingley appeared satisfied with this triumph, but Darcy’s next words swiftly undermined her confidence.

“By such standards,” he asked Elizabeth, “would you consider yourself accomplished?”

Elizabeth paused a moment, measuring her response.

“I suppose society is best left to judge. But if I may speak for myself, I am fond of poetry and skilled at embroidery. I can manage a tune upon the pianoforte, though Mary is the mistress of that instrument. As to managing a household, I have learned much from our housekeeper and from my mother.”

Darcy nodded appreciatively. “Remarkable. I have seen the care you show your sister; I have no doubt you would excel in tending a family.”

Elizabeth offered a quiet smile, acknowledging the compliment. At that moment, Mrs. Hurst emitted a loud cough, the timing too precise to be accidental.

“I had no notion you played the pianoforte,” Bingley said to Elizabeth. “Jane, do you play as well?”

“I can manage a few songs from my lessons,” Jane replied, “but I favour the violin.”

“A most elegant instrument,” Darcy said. Then, turning to Elizabeth, he added, “My sister plays the pianoforte well, but until I hear you perform, I cannot say whose music I’d prefer.”

Miss Bingley, now visibly thoroughly vexed at being excluded from the conversation, stood abruptly and declared the game complete.

“The Hursts are victorious,” she announced with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “And we must allow Jane some rest. Mr. Darcy, surely you will play now?”

Elizabeth allowed her gaze to shift from Miss Bingley to Mr. Darcy.

Then she perceived it again—that peculiar shadow across his countenance, a pallor that had not been there but a moment before.

It was the very same she had observed at the assembly, just prior to his misstep upon Miss Pritchard’s gown.

That look, subtle yet unmistakable, seemed the harbinger of the apprehension he called his misfortune.

“I think I shall refrain this evening,” Darcy said quietly. His gaze flicked briefly to Bingley, then Elizabeth, then the others gathered around the table.

“Come now, Darcy,” said Mr. Hurst jovially. “Surely, you’ve moved past your defeat at piquet. You might have lacked the touch for that game, but whist is altogether another matter.”

Elizabeth observed Mr. Darcy as he released a quiet sigh.

The unease had not yet left him; she could still perceive it.

Though it was merely a game of cards, he appeared to brace himself as if for some looming misfortune.

Was he so unfamiliar with losing that even a hand of whist gave him pause?

She considered that what he might need was not assurance of victory, but rather a word of encouragement, a modest gesture to fortify his spirits.

She leaned slightly forward. “Perhaps we might partner for the next hand, sir,” she said softly.

He exhaled, then looked at her, as though weighing her words for strength. At last, as if drawing on a hidden resolve, he stood and crossed to the table.

Miss Bingley and Jane withdrew to a nearby settee.

“Bingley,” Darcy said, “deal the cards.”

Mr. Hurst chuckled. “I promise you, there is no way to manipulate the deck at whist,” he said as Bingley reached for the cards, his tone plainly intended in jest at Mr. Darcy’s expense.

Bingley smiled and began to deal, while Elizabeth, across the table from Darcy, felt a curious satisfaction that she had, in some small way, helped coax him into the light.

The game commenced. As play unfolded, Elizabeth could not help but observe Mr. Darcy’s manner at the table.

Though his movements were deliberate, there was a tension in the set of his shoulders and the way his fingers lingered a moment too long upon each card.

He studied the play with uncommon seriousness, his brow furrowed in concentration.

It was not the attitude of a gentleman at leisure, but of one acutely conscious of each turn.

Yet, despite his unease, their partnership proved formidable. With careful play and no small measure of luck, they secured the winning hand. Elizabeth saw the moment it struck him that they had won. His features, so often reserved, lit with a sudden expression of astonishment, or perhaps delight.

“I told you, Hurst,” cried Bingley with a grin, “Darcy is the most fortunate man of my acquaintance.”

“Pure chance,” Mr. Hurst replied with a scoff. “We must play another hand to confirm that they are better.”

Mrs. Hurst seconded the demand, and Miss Bingley soon followed. It was plain she did not share in the general cheer occasioned by their victory, her expression revealing more pique than pleasure.

The cards were gathered, rearranged, and dealt once more. To the surprise of all but perhaps Elizabeth, she and Mr. Darcy emerged victorious yet again. Darcy set down his final card with a composure that did little to mask the joy in his eyes.

“Wonderful,” he said, a single word spoken with quiet reverence, though happiness coloured every line of his countenance.

Elizabeth could not help but marvel. It was but a game, with no stakes beyond amusement, and yet he appeared as one whose fortunes had been restored.

His delight was too sincere, too profound, for so trivial a triumph.

She began to wonder if, for Mr. Darcy, this evening's success bore meaning far beyond the cards themselves.

Miss Bingley, whose smile had grown increasingly brittle, rose from her seat. “It has been a long day,” she declared, “and I believe I shall retire.”

Jane echoed the sentiment, and soon the rest followed suit, bidding one another goodnight.

Thus, Elizabeth and Jane departed for their shared chambers. She felt Mr. Darcy’s gaze lingering. She glanced back and found him smiling—truly smiling—at her. There was no mistaking it now. Whatever he had gained in their victory, it was not solely the satisfaction of winning.