Page 11 of Dishonorable Gentlemen (Bennet Gang #1)

A Strange Request

It surprised Darcy not at all when Mrs. Oakwood and her eldest four offspring called at Netherfield Park the day following their somewhat odd visit. What did confound him, when he stood along with Bingley and Bingley’s sisters to greet them, was Miss Elizabeth’s attire. She’d made no special effort with her coif, and her gown was a pale yellow that complemented her delicate skin not at all.

The afternoon after the assembly she’d been especially lovely, having obviously taken extra care with her appearance. As he’d reflected on the call, Darcy had been flattered to believe that care might be on his behalf. But now, when she knew with a fair certainty that she would be in his presence, that effort was absent.

Had her preparations the previous day been for someone else? Surely not for Mr. Collins, whom she regarded with unconcealed loathing. Some other gentleman? Darcy did not care for that notion. He’d yet to meet anyone in the local populace worthy of her.

And even were there, what of the connection he felt with her? His suspicion that she was his mist-woman? That shock of recognition when they’d met on the street outside the magistrate’s office?

She did not even award him particular care as greetings were exchanged, though she was perfectly cordial. Darcy was accustomed to more than cordiality from unwed misses, however. It was almost as if Miss Elizabeth didn’t understand the life that would be hers if she could secure the master of Pemberley in marriage.

Perhaps, Darcy mused as seats were taken, Miss Kitty claiming the one nearest to him and Miss Elizabeth sharing a settee with her older sister, Miss Elizabeth had no knowledge of what such a life would entail? She did reside in a backwater. If she had never been to London, her only examples of living well came from her mother and the Collinses.

Not that he was seeking to marry. He was a bit young yet for that. His father hadn’t taken a wife until his fortieth year. George Darcy had waited, and planned, and kept a cool head, until he could secure the daughter of a peer and further elevate the Darcy name. As the current steward of their line and holdings, it behooved Darcy to do the same.

Still, it was aggravating to be ignored by a country miss. Especially one he couldn’t drive from his thoughts. The true cure, of course, would be to discover if Miss Elizabeth were his mist-woman. That mystery solved, he would be able to put her from his mind.

A goal which would likely be furthered by attending to the words being spoken around him.

“…lovely for this time of the year,” Mrs. Oakwood was saying as Darcy fought to focus on the conversation.

“Indeed, it seems that way to me,” Mrs. Hurst replied dutifully. “But I have never before visited this area, nor Hertfordshire in general.”

“It does tend to remain warmer for longer in London,” Darcy said, seizing his chance to discover if Miss Elizabeth was simply too rusticated to know the Darcy name. “But then, I am certain you will have observed as much on the occasions you have been in Town.”

“Town?” Mrs. Oakwood shook her head. “My poor, dear Arthur did not hold with going to Town, even though my brother Gardiner and his wife often requested our presence.”

“Then you never go to London?” Miss Bingley asked, appearing surprised. “The general did not seek society there?”

“Papa Arthur never went to Town,” Miss Kitty replied, though rather than address Miss Bingley, she batted her lashes at Darcy. “He said nothing good could come of socializing there.”

“Jane, Mary, and I have been,” Miss Elizabeth put in. She slanted a look at Miss Bingley. “We have visited our aunt and uncle quite a few times at their home on Gracechurch Street, near Cheapside.”

Miss Bingley’s eyes rounded. She exchanged an alarmed look with Mrs. Hurst, which Miss Elizabeth took in with wry humor. Darcy didn’t miss the twitch to Miss Mary’s lips either, but Miss Bennet appeared not to notice her sisters’ amusement, nor the consternation of Bingley’s relations. She carried on observing the room with a pleasant, calm demeanor.

“Elizabeth,” Mrs. Oakwood snapped. “You will have our new friends thinking ill of us. Do contain yourself.”

“Ill of us?” Miss Elizabeth turned an overly innocent visage to her mother.

“Are we not to mention Aunt and Uncle Phillips, then, either?” Miss Mary asked with an equal appearance of confusion.

They were rather skilled dissemblers, these Bennet sisters, Darcy decided.

And Miss Elizabeth had been to London, but not to circles where his name would be known, or where she could observe what it was to truly live well. Not that it mattered in the least, as a country miss with ties to trade would only sully the Darcy name, not add to it. Especially one who appeared quite willing to seek amusement at her mother’s expense.

“Next you will tell them that Uncle Phillips is an attorney,” Miss Kitty cried, bereaved.

“Mr. Phillips?” Bingley put in, a touch of strain to his smile as he took in his sisters’ closed expressions. “We’ve already met, when Mr. Morris and I were finalizing the lease. A fine fellow.”

“He is.” Miss Bennet smiled warmly at Bingley, erasing all unease from his features. “When our father died, Aunt and Uncle Phillips took us in. We would have been lost without them.”

“Yes, well, that was only until my dear, sweet Arthur saved us,” Mrs. Oakwood said quickly. “We were with the Phillips hardly a year before my Arthur rode into the village. I am certain my girls do not even recall living in such a place as the Phillips’ home. They have grown up well with my dear Arthur to guide them and provide the finer things in life.”

Curiosity easing the condemnation from her face, Miss Bingley asked, “How did you chance to meet the general, Mrs. Oakwood?”

“He nearly trampled my Kitty,” Mrs. Oakwood replied.

“But he did not,” Miss Kitty added.

“He avoided her.” Miss Mary’s words were spoken with much less emotion than her mother or sister evidenced. “He was thrown, and injured, and Mama nursed him back to health.”

“Just like in a novel,” Miss Kitty breathed, smiling at her mother.

“And you had not met him before?” Miss Bingley pressed. “He was not from this area?”

Miss Elizabeth and Miss Mary exchanged an unreadable look.

Mrs. Oakwood shook her head. “He was passing through. He had recently returned from the Continent.”

“Passing through to where?” Mrs. Hurst asked, caught up in her younger sister’s enthusiasm.

Mrs. Oakwood shook her head. “He never told me.”

“Never?” Miss Bingley pressed.

A glance showed Miss Elizabeth now wore a contemplative expression. Her gaze met his and she winged an eyebrow upward in question. Darcy quickly looked away. He wouldn’t want to give her the impression that he was interested.

As soon as she turned away, the movement observed from the corner of his eye, he resumed his study of her.

“Surely, you must have some notion of where General Oakwood was going when he was waylaid here,” Mrs. Hurst said.

“My dear sweet Arthur was so devoted to me and my girls that he cared not at all for anything that had come before meeting us,” Mrs. Oakwood replied.

“He was such a good papa,” Miss Kitty added. With a sniff, she pulled out a handkerchief.

“And he enjoyed warm autumns,” Miss Elizabeth said blandly.

That effectively returned the conversation to safer ground, where it remained throughout tea, which Miss Bingley served with deft competence. All about Darcy conversation flowed, talk of the roadways, the weather, what performances were likely to grace the London stage once the Season began. He took no part, preferring to mull over Miss Elizabeth’s apparent lack of regard for him.

As the call drew near its natural end, Miss Mary abruptly and somewhat loudly stated, “I have heard it said that Netherfield Park is in possession of an excellent pianoforte. May I be permitted to see it?”

A heartbeat of silence met that before Miss Bingley plastered on a smile and rose. “Certainly. I am happy to show you.”

The two departed the drawing room, leaving frowns in their wake. After a floundering moment, Mrs. Hurst began a monologue about an exhibit she’d viewed in London. Treasures brought back from far off lands.

“It seems so odd to me,” Miss Elizabeth said as Mrs. Hurst’s voice stilled.

“Odd?” Darcy asked. Was Miss Elizabeth so uncultured that she had never visited a museum?

She turned to him. “Yes. I recall the exhibit well. Household items. Clothing. Jewelry. Underthings. I remember wondering precisely how the items on display were obtained, and if the people they belonged to truly wished for us to have them, simply to gawk at.”

“Is it the same exhibit we saw with Aunt Gardiner two years ago?” Miss Bennet asked.

Miss Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. You and I thought it was, well, rather sad to see peoples’ lives put on display in such a manner.”

Mrs. Hurst sat straighter. “I am certain the savages from which the items came have no notion what a museum is, let alone a worthwhile opinion on the value of one.”

“Quite right,” Mrs. Oakwood agreed.

Beside her, Miss Kitty nodded.

“Not knowing their ways, I cannot speak to that,” Miss Elizabeth said. Just as her mother seemed to relax, Miss Elizabeth added, “But I can speak to how I would feel if someone came here, ransacked my home, and brought my chemise back to their country to hang on the wall for everyone to see.”

What Miss Elizabeth might look like in her chemise filled Darcy’s mind so fully that he hardly noted the way Mrs. Oakwood’s eyes narrowed at her second eldest.

Miss Elizabeth opened her mouth to say more.

“I preferred the paintings in the other wing of the museum,” Miss Bennet said in her usual dulcet tones, with no note of hurry or reprimand. She did not even glance at her sister, but Miss Elizabeth clamped her mouth closed. “Especially of vases of flowers, or fruit.”

“I do enjoy those,” Bingley said enthusiastically. “And the hunts. Some fine renditions of hunts. Give me a handsome hound to hang on the wall any day.”

Miss Bennet awarded him a smile, effectively derailing anything more Bingley might add.

“I paint,” Miss Kitty said brightly.

“My Kitty is ever so talented,” Mrs. Oakwood added, though she still glared at Miss Elizabeth. “Surely you noticed her skills when you called? Her work adorns the entrance hall.”

“Those were your paintings?” To her credit, Mrs. Hurst’s voice betrayed only a hint of her horror.

“Oh yes.” Mrs. Oakwood turned a doting look on her daughters. “They are so lovely, are they not? Kitty has been painting since she was fifteen.”

Darcy’s eyebrows shot up, for she looked hardly older than fifteen now.

“Truely?” Mrs. Hurst asked. “You are very prolific, Miss Catherine.”

“That is a testament to her skill,” Mrs. Oakwood replied before addressing her daughter with, “Tell them how many you can paint in an afternoon.”

Miss Kitty looked about, preening at all the attention aimed her way. “I can do at least a dozen.”

“Remarkable,” Mrs. Hurst murmured.

“I wish I had your dedication,” Bingley added.

“I believe you would excel at Miss Catherine’s style of painting,” Mrs. Hurst said blandly. “When you compose letters, they are nearly illegible with the speed at which you write.”

Bingley’s cheerful demeanor didn’t waver. “It is due to the speed of my thoughts, sister dear.”

“Precisely.” Miss Kitty leaned forward excitedly. “The ideas come to me so quickly when I paint, I hardly have time to finish one before starting the next.”

Miss Elizabeth’s eyes danced as she exchanged a look with her older sister but before anyone could speak, footfalls in the hallway signaled the return of Miss Bingley and Miss Mary.

That, in turn, signaled an end to the call. Farewells were made and the ladies escorted out. Servants gathered up the tea service, and silence fell.

“Miss Mary and I had an interesting conversation,” Miss Bingley said once the tray-laden staff departed.

“More interesting than their revelations as to their connections to trade?” Mrs. Hurst’s words sounded as sour as her face looked.

Bingley glared at his sister. “An attorney and an uncle in Cheapside do not detract from Miss Bennet’s loveliness.”

“Charles,” Mrs. Hurst said, the word a mingled reprimand and sigh.

“You have previously stated that you wish to marry where it will further remove your name from trade,” Darcy felt obliged to point out.

Bingley crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Darcy and his sisters. “Miss Bennet is the daughter and stepdaughter of a gentleman.”

“I said, Miss Mary and I had an interesting conversation,” Miss Bingley reiterated, louder.

Along with her siblings, Darcy turned to her.

Miss Bingley sat up straighter, folded her hands in her lap, and made no move to speak.

“Caroline,” Mrs. Hurst snapped.

“Yes, Louisa?”

Mrs. Hurst glared for a moment, then said haughtily, “If you do not wish to converse, I will go wake Mr. Hurst from his afternoon respite.”

“Spit it out,” Bingley demanded.

Miss Bingley smiled sublimely for a moment longer, then burst forth with, “She asked that we not call on Dovemark.”

Darcy sat back, startled.

“What?” Bingley demanded.

“They asked us not to call?” Mrs. Hurst radiated offense.

“Because of Mr. Collins,” Miss Bingley added .

“Explain.” Darcy surprised himself with the snap in his voice.

Miss Bingley’s eyes went wide at his tone, her siblings turning to him, startled.

He shrugged by way of apology. He had never, no Darcy he knew of had ever, been asked not to call somewhere.

“Miss Mary said that Mr. Collins has paid some of the local lads to watch for our carriage, or for you riding, Charles. Whenever they see us visiting Dovemark, he means to follow, to press his suit on Miss Bennet. She also said that Miss Lydia can turn only so many ankles.”

Bingley’s face went red, his eyes murderous. “The villain.”

Miss Bingley turned a curious look on him. “What did she tell you that has you so up in arms? On the carriage ride back yesterday, I thought you might throw the door open and rush the magistrate’s office when we passed.”

Darcy, too, wondered what details of the history between the two had filled Bingley and Miss Bennet’s whispered conversation in the walled garden. Knowing the long and short of it, he agreed with Bingley’s loathing for Collins, but the rage in his friend’s face went beyond simple anger.

But Bingley merely shook his head. “I will not betray the confidences of a lady. Suffice it to say that his suit is wholly unwelcome and he knows as much. He seeks only to torment.”

Miss Bingley watched her brother for a moment longer, then shrugged. “Be that as it may, Miss Mary asked us not to call, on behalf of Miss Bennet, and I believe we should respect her wishes.”

Bingley looked about.

Mrs. Hurst nodded. “Caroline is correct.”

Bingley slumped back in his seat, deflated.

“They may be watching the roadway, but they are unlikely to pay similar attention to the fields,” Darcy said before he could think better of encouraging Bingley.

Who immediately brightened. “True enough. We will simply ride over.”

“I am not riding over,” Mrs. Hurst stated.

“Darcy and I will,” Bingley replied with a shrug.

His sisters exchanged one of their looks. The ones that jointly condemned the suitability of Bennet women and the intelligence of their brother.

“The post,” Netherfield Park’s butler said, entering the room on nearly silent feet.

Miss Bingley waved him over. “Have I received a letter from Miss Grantley?”

“I do not believe so, miss,” the butler said, crossing to proffer the salver, no expression on his face.

A solid butler, especially for such a provincial backwater. Nothing compared to the two on Darcy’s staff, one in London and one at Pemberley, but competent enough.

Miss Bingley rifled through the letters, taking two but frowning. “I do wish Miss Grantley would reply.”

“You have hardly given her time to do so,” Mrs. Hurst said mildly as she plucked a letter from the tray.

Darcy claimed two missives, one from his sister Georgiana and one from Richard, and Bingley quite a few, as he was avid in his correspondence, laudable even if his handwriting was hardly legible. The butler retreated while they all opened their letters.

It pleased Darcy to read that his sister was well, especially after the incident the previous summer, even while it pained him that he could not help thinking on how near he’d come to losing her. Would word from his sister be forever tainted by how she had nearly eloped with their childhood companion, Mr. Wickham?

His gaze flicked up, but the others continued to read. Darcy folded Georgiana’s letter to finish later. He did not care to even think of his sister’s scandal in the presence of others, less they somehow sense his distress. He also did not care to think of George Wickham, his dearest friend turned greatest enemy. The man’s perfidy, his duplicity, distressed Darcy nearly as much as whatever Miss Bennet had whispered to Bingley troubled his friend.

The letter from Richard, among other things, informed Darcy that the militia to be stationed in Meryton would arrive soon, headed by a Colonel Forster. With surprise, Darcy realized that in his preoccupation with the Bennets and Oakwoods, he’d nearly forgotten about the pair of bandits who’d waylaid him and Bingley. Now that he was reminded, a touch of relief washed through him, along with a hint of embarrassment. He hoped Richard didn’t think him incapable of defending himself. Darcy hadn’t asked the favor simply for his safety, but for that of the whole community. No matter how handsome the ladies of Meryton found Azile and Enaj, Darcy wouldn’t countenance bandits rampaging about an English community.

The militia unit would deter them, and perhaps even capture them. Soon enough, Azile and Enaj would be in gaol where they belonged, and the citizens of Meryton, the Bennet sisters among them, could all rest easier.