Page 6 of Disarmed

M r Hill had just returned from Meryton with the shoe roses that had been ordered for the following day’s ball when the sound of wheels drew the ladies to the window. Despite the continuing drizzle, it seemed that callers had arrived at Longbourn.

Elizabeth smiled at the light blush of pleasure that spread across Jane’s face as Mr Bingley descended from the carriage, but her spirits sank again at the stern face of Mr Darcy behind him.

The ladies hurried to take their places as the gentlemen were announced, and a smiling Mr Bingley entered the room, his eyes searching for Jane even as he greeted her mother.

Mr Darcy bowed solemnly; he was serious but polite in his addresses, yet she discerned a hint of nervousness in his manner.

Could he be embarrassed by his earlier treatment of her family? She highly doubted it!

Mr Bingley immediately crossed the room and took a seat next to Jane, but Mr Darcy looked unsure what to do until Lydia, of all people, spoke up. “Will you not sit here, Mr Darcy?” she asked, gesturing towards the armchair between Elizabeth and herself.

The gentleman looked wary and lowered himself into the chair tentatively.

Mrs Bennet began a speech on the inconvenience of the weather and everyone’s joyful anticipation of the ball the next day.

Then she turned to Mr Bingley and began peppering him with questions about the decorations, the number of guests, and the food that would be served.

Her mother’s nervous exuberance was not new to Elizabeth, but she could not help but steal glances at Mr Darcy throughout, imagining how the scene might lessen further his opinion of the Bennets and how he might influence Mr Bingley’s future plans based on his judgment.

Mr Darcy’s expression was inscrutable. The man was impossible to read! Interestingly, Elizabeth noticed Lydia was also peering at him from time to time, and she wondered what her sister was about. The girl was unusually quiet again, much as she had been after the officers had called on Saturday.

Mrs Bennet chose that moment to mention the militia and their expected attendance at the ball, and Mr Darcy stiffened slightly.

“Oh yes, some of the officers braved the rain and called on us on Saturday,” Lydia said. She directed her gaze at Mr Darcy. “I was a little concerned about Mr Wickham, though. He seemed to be scratching rather a lot.”

Mr Darcy started at her words. Lydia seemed determined to bait the gentleman with talk of someone who clearly irked him, just as she had done with Mr Wickham two days ago. Her sister had certainly not been herself since Friday.

At that moment, the door opened, and Mr Bennet and Mr Collins entered. From the look on her father’s face, he had endured quite enough of his cousin’s company for one morning, and the prospect of foisting him upon the callers instead had lured him from his sanctuary.

Mrs Bennet introduced the gentlemen to each other, and much to Elizabeth’s embarrassment, Mr Collins immediately approached Mr Darcy with a cry and a deep bow.

“Do I have the honour of addressing the esteemed nephew of my noble patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh?” Without waiting for an answer, the ridiculous man continued, “It is such a privilege to make your acquaintance, sir. Her ladyship speaks of you often, and with much benevolence. As of course does your incomparable betrothed, Miss Anne de Bourgh.”

Mr Darcy’s face had taken on a new level of hauteur, and Elizabeth shrank back into her chair, wishing she could be spirited away from the mortifying scene.

“Thank you, Mr Collins. Lady Catherine is indeed my aunt, but—”

“You are engaged to Miss de Bourgh?”

It was Lydia who had spoken, not only interrupting Mr Darcy but also asking such an impertinent question.

Jane and Mr Bingley looked frozen in shock, much like Elizabeth herself, she imagined, but Mr Bennet’s lips were curled up in amusement, and he sank into his favourite armchair, no doubt to watch the sordid show unfold.

Mr Darcy spoke firmly, addressing Mr Collins. “My cousin and I are not betrothed, sir. And I would thank you not to speak of it further.”

“But…but…” A stare that could melt ice bore into him from Mr Darcy, and the stammering clergyman staggered back and slunk into a seat next to Mrs Bennet, his protests thankfully quieting.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments, then sweet Jane asked about the health of Mr Bingley’s sisters, and the conversation resumed on lighter topics.

Mr Bennet clearly sensed there was no more sport to be had and excused himself, sending a glare towards Mr Collins when he showed signs of rising to join him.

After a few minutes, Mr Darcy picked up the book on the table next to Elizabeth and addressed her. “Shakespeare’s sonnets,” he said. “Are you reading this, Miss Elizabeth?”

“I am, sir. Though I should say rereading. It is a volume I peruse often.”

“As do I, madam. And may I ask which are your favourites?”

“’Tis a difficult question. There are many I enjoy. I should say that sonnet 116 has long been a favourite—”

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,” he recited, his voice low, resonant—and strangely soothing.

She raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. However, lately I find I have been returning more often to sonnet 8.”

He nodded, then a small smile crossed his face. Elizabeth marvelled at it. She was not sure she had truly seen him smile before. It suited him. He opened the book. “You have me at a disadvantage, madam. I admit that I am not familiar with that particular verse.”

He leafed through the pages, finding the one he sought and reading it silently before turning to her. “What about it engages your interest, Miss Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth felt heat in her cheeks. She should have told him 116 was her favourite and never mentioned sonnet 8. Its meaning was deeply personal to her. She kept her response deliberately simple. “I believe the metaphor of a family being like a finely tuned chord is beautifully put.”

He smiled again, and she said quickly, “And you, Mr Darcy? Which of Mr Shakespeare’s sonnets do you favour?”

“Ah, that is easy,” he replied. He turned the pages again, then handed the book to her.

They that have power to hurt and will do none, That do not do the thing they most do show, Who, moving others, are themselves as stone, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow, They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces And husband nature’s riches from expense; They are the lords and owners of their faces, Others but stewards of their excellence.

The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die; But if that flower with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity.

For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds; Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Elizabeth was unsure what to say. Did Mr Darcy see himself in the verse?

And if so, was he holding himself up as a paragon of virtue or gently mocking his own nature?

She dared to assume the latter. “I can see why it speaks to you, Mr Darcy,” she said, raising an eyebrow at him and offering a small smile.

It appeared she had chosen the correct response, for the gentleman smiled back. He really did look handsome when he smiled. “It was also a favourite of my father’s, but,” he said, turning to her youngest sister, “I believe Miss Lydia might enjoy sonnet 147 best.”

Lydia looked perplexed.

“Oh, Lydia does not read!” Kitty interjected from across the room with a small laugh.

“Well, neither do you!” Lydia retorted, and Elizabeth sighed. It was kind of Mr Darcy, though extremely surprising, to try to include her sister in their conversation. Unfortunately, he had chosen a topic that Lydia had no interest or knowledge in.

Mr Bingley prevented the quarrel from mounting by rising from his seat and announcing that the gentlemen must depart.

Everyone expressed their pleasure in the visit and their anticipation of the ball on the morrow, and the visitors left.

As he passed through the doorway, Mr Darcy turned and cast a look towards Elizabeth.

His expression was inscrutable, but as he held her gaze for a second longer than was comfortable, a pleasant warmth coursed through her. What did it mean?

Mrs Bennet declared a need to rest, and she went upstairs, closely followed by Lydia and Kitty, who no doubt wished to continue their bickering.

Elizabeth was left in the parlour with Jane, Mary, and Mr Collins.

Their cousin began to expound upon the great honour of meeting his patroness’s nephew, despite having spoken only a few words to the man and managing to displease him almost instantly, which naturally led to a soliloquy on the virtues of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

Elizabeth did not even pretend to listen.

She instead reached for her sonnets but found the volume absent from the table.

She looked under her chair and cast a glance about the room but could not see it.

Surely Mr Darcy had not stolen her book!