Page 16 of Expectations (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #7)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WHEN PRUDENCE BOUNDS OUR UTMOST VIEWS

D arcy was not sure what to expect upon arrival at Elizabeth’s cottage. Whatever he had thought, however, it was not to find her pacing the terraced area at its front, her face pale and inexplicable anguish in her dark, haunted eyes.

“I wonder if you would walk with me,” she said, almost before he could greet her.

“It is not raining. Lydia is inside with Bess, playing with the children, ensuring that I could speak with you privately for a few minutes. I feared if the children saw you were visiting, the temptation to interrupt us might be overpowering.”

He bowed. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, but he wondered…

had Cassandra proposed her preposterous idea for a marriage between them to her aunt?

Did Elizabeth believe that he had put the notion in her mind?

Was she about to broach the embarrassing topic?

Did she want him to disillusion the girl?

Or did she wish to try, again, to talk him out of taking Thomas?

He could delay, he had already decided that, but how long?

He wanted to spend enough time with the boy to develop a good, solid connexion before he started school.

They walked for several minutes, however, before she said anything at all. Finally, he could not stand his own conjecturing.

“You had a topic you wished to discuss?”

“Yes,” she said, but then she paused again for a long moment. “Um…Cassandra told me what happened at Netherfield last night, but I would like to hear it from you.”

Why do I believe that this is not what she wants to talk about?

As briefly as possible he explained the events of the evening before.

“Oh, my,” she said, at the finish. “Her tale was missing a number of pertinent details. Mr Darcy, if you had not come along at the very moment when you did, they might have burnt down the entire home, and themselves with it! And no one has explained why you were covered in blood!” She stopped in the middle of the path to face him.

“A slight exaggeration. Dark, smoky attic, I tripped—a minor collision with one of the trunks. Nothing noteworthy.” He made a vague gesture at his forehead.

To his surprise, she reached up and carefully moved away the locks that had fallen across his brow. With her thumb, she lightly brushed the thin red line of the injury. He felt her touch throughout his entire frame.

“I must replace your coat at the very least.”

“I have at least five of these,” he said, plucking at the greatcoat he now wore. “It is nothing.”

Her expression changed, growing determined, her jaw firming. “I asked for your time for a reason.”

“Yes?”

“You made an offer on the last occasion we discussed Tommy—you said that you were willing to take both children. Did you mean it? Would you…take her, too?”

This, that she would give away Cassandra, the little girl she obviously treasured, he found shocking in the extreme. “This is an about-face. But…why?”

She bit her lip and looked away. “My father—he has decided she must go to Mrs Plumpton. I believe you—that you would be a much better father than she would a mother. And Cassandra would have Tommy.”

Mrs Caroline Plumpton had at least one child, according to Cassandra, a boy, the dreaded and dreadful Walter. Elizabeth was probably correct, in that he doubted Mrs Plumpton was overly maternal.

“Cassandra would not care for living with her aunt Plumpton,” he said, with massive understatement.

“She would not. Do you…have you maintained your acquaintance with her? Mrs Plumpton, I mean.”

There was something unaccountably wary in her question.

“I have not seen her since Bingley’s wedding.” Was that relief in her eyes? She did not think…could not possibly believe that he had shared some kind of… connexion with the former Miss Bingley?

“Why would your father make this decision?” he asked, remembering that Cassandra had known of Mr Bennet’s feelings on the matter.

Yet, he had gone along with Elizabeth keeping the child all this time; to suddenly reverse himself would cause terrible upheaval, for both Elizabeth and little Cassandra.

The man had searched diligently for his grandchildren when they were missing; there was little doubt that he cared for them.

Elizabeth began to walk again, and he matched her pace. It was a few moments before she answered him.

“Jane’s marriage was often…troubled.”

He did not doubt that for a moment.

“Jane was absolutely devoted to her husband, no matter the difficulty. She was happiest when she was with him, but he much preferred town to country life. That meant that she stayed most often in town, usually in Mayfair with the Hursts. Louisa Hurst does not care for children at all—they are neither to be seen nor heard. The nursery at their home is cold and draughty, and she had no interest in improving it for her brother’s children. ”

He heard the resentment in her voice; had she wanted the children— both children—to live with Mr and Mrs Bingley at the Hursts?

But then, she had much reason for resentment, when it came to all of the Bingleys.

Had she not made it clear that she still blamed Darcy for bringing Bingley into their lives?

Yet he had tried to atone, to give her options; it was not his fault she had chosen otherwise.

“Thus, the children stayed with you, at Netherfield.” She had demonstrated remarkable charity in the act. She did not mention the reasons her sister would have had for a likewise resentment, but she hardly could admit those.

“Yes. Papa was not…pleased with the situation, but I did not mind, not really.”

“He had expected her to take you to town, to increase your prospects, not to limit them.” It really was the least that Bingley could have done to expiate his errors.

He saw her small shrug. “I was hardly a recluse. I know you do not think much of our little country society, but we do have assemblies, parties, holiday celebrations, and dinners—Netherfield always did its fair share of entertaining. I like to entertain.”

He could see that about her; she was a social creature. “If I gave the impression that I did not care for the country, it was a most inaccurate one. I actually prefer the country to town life. I spend most of my time at Pemberley now.”

She nodded. “I do not suppose endless rounds of town parties and balls would have been much to my liking. My sister made some friends, but she complained of a general…anonymity within the London scene. It was all about whom one knew or could claim to know, which invitations one might expect, the cost of one’s gown, the gossip one could pass along.

How is it, I ask you, that so many could try so intently to be seen, and yet never truly see each other? ”

“An excellent question.”

“I did visit a few times, very briefly. Mrs Hurst does not much care for me, though, and the feeling is mutual. I could not wait to return to the children.”

No, Mrs Hurst would not have liked having her there, not at all—assuming she was aware of all that had happened—and it did seem unlikely that she would have been uninformed.

As Hurst was a relation, Darcy had not utterly cut the connexion; he was polite.

But he had been happy to find excuses to never again accept an invitation.

“I have not found her to be a particularly scintillating hostess. Truthfully, I am not sure she genuinely likes anyone, except perhaps her younger sister. Cassandra told me that they were— are —angry with Bingley.”

Elizabeth’s brows raised at this revelation, and she gave him a quick, sidelong glance. “I am unsure as to how Cassandra learnt it, but yes. They did not approve of the marriage that cost him his friendship with you, nor of his handling of his financial affairs afterwards.”

It was his turn to stop walking and face her. “Surely you do not believe that it was Bingley’s marriage to your sister that caused our rift.”

Her chin lifted defiantly. “The timing of the ‘rift’ points to just that.”

For a moment, he was flabbergasted…but then sense reasserted itself.

She does not know that you know , he realised.

Her uncle had acted on her behalf and never said a word.

Possibly she had given up the money, allowing Bingley to waste it.

He had put no conditions on its use, only on its recipient; an oversight on his part, borne of his own grief and guilt.

He also realised that if this was the case, she might not know just how involved he had been in forcing her sister’s marriage to Bingley.

He was tempted that she should never know, but it seemed cowardly to fail to admit it.

“Did you not know that I was the one who brought Bingley to the point? I told him he had better propose to your sister, or I would never speak to him again.”

Her expression turned to bewilderment—but not anger. “But then…then you never spoke to him again after that, regardless!”

It was confirmed; she knew nothing of the interference of her uncle.

It must have been so far outside of what she expected of him, it had never even occurred to her that the two events might be related.

It was…comforting, in a way. He was even glad she did not know.

Neither did she appear to resent his own interference, in prodding Bingley to marry her own sister.

“My falling-out with Bingley had nothing to do with his marriage to Jane Bennet.” It did , in a way, but not at all in the way she understood it, and he decided that made the declaration true enough.

Her expression changed to one of a sad acceptance. “He was blessed with happy manners ensuring his success in making friends; he was not nearly so capable of retaining them.”

Darcy looked at her in astonishment. He remembered, only too well, this very conversation with her, no matter how brief and long ago. She had just repeated, almost verbatim, his words to her regarding George Wickham. Was it unconsciously done? He found he must know.

“I once said nearly the same thing, to you, but concerning Mr Wickham.”

She regarded him thoughtfully. “So you did. I am surprised you remember. I was trying—with a complete lack of success—to provide subtle ironic commentary upon our views of villains and their villainy.”

He found a smile at that. “Your comment is only ironic if you believe my views on Wickham’s, er, villainy.”

“Oh, I do now. Lydia provided me with new insight upon that precise villain, of which I had been completely unaware until after our conversation. I have tried, since, to recall any evidence of particular goodness in him, and failed utterly. Mr Bingley was certain of your innocence in any wrongdoing of which you were accused, always vigorously defending you. I am happy that in this he was correct, and owe you an apology for any defence of the man—probably several apologies.”

A certain warmth bloomed in his chest at her confession. Probably that was why he made one of his own. “Wickham attempted an elopement with my sister—who was but fifteen at the time. He was not to be trusted near young ladies—or any female at all, really.”