Page 22 of Look on the Heart (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #10)

Chapter Twelve

Darcy accompanied Bingley to Longbourn later that day.

Ominous clouds hung low in the sky, and the air threatened rain.

As such, they chose the carriage, for neither wished to return to Netherfield drenched.

Though his outward appearance remained composed, Darcy could scarcely contain his anticipation.

Ever a reserved man, he harbored a near-frantic eagerness within.

Elizabeth had agreed to receive him—it seemed nothing short of miraculous.

Her manner had been sincere; he believed her.

Surely, he had at last found a lady who might love him for himself.

Still, unwelcome doubts niggled in the corners of his mind.

Seeing her will dispel them, he told himself firmly, pushing the thoughts aside.

“I have the invitation to the ball at Netherfield,” Bingley announced, waving the envelope in his hand. “Do you suppose Miss Bennet will agree to stand up with me for the first?” His face glowed with anticipation and happiness, his delight almost boyish.

Darcy nodded. “She will. Miss Bennet expresses her feelings with proper delicacy, as any lady should; she is demure yet attentive. Even a fool could discern that she holds you in high regard.” He tapped his boot impatiently against the floor of the carriage, irritated by how slowly the journey to Longbourn seemed to pass.

“Thank you, Darcy. Caroline and Louisa insist they are better judges of Miss Bennet’s heart and claim she remains untouched by my attentions.

I almost believed them—I am not a lady, and their sentiments often elude me.

” Bingley gave a rueful shrug. “But your confidence encourages me. I shall ask her for the first set—and the supper set as well.”

“Seize your happiness, my friend.” Darcy allowed himself a rare grin, the movement pulling slightly at the scar along his cheek. May I soon enjoy such felicity, he silently hoped.

Bingley’s brow creased in concern. “You do not believe I act too soon?” he asked anxiously. “What if I am mistaken in her feelings?”

The man looked genuinely perplexed, which nearly prompted a laugh, but Darcy schooled his features. “Many happy marriages are founded on less than what you share with Miss Bennet,” he assured Bingley. “If you fear haste, propose an extended engagement, or request permission to court her openly.”

Bingley brightened at once. “An excellent notion! I shall do so!”

The carriage slowed as it turned on the Longbourn drive. Darcy leaned forward, peering through the window, his heart quickening. In a few moments, he would be in Elizabeth’s presence once more.

When the carriage halted, Bingley stepped out first, adjusting his coat as he waited. Together, they approached the door and rang the bell.

“I am most relieved Caroline and Louisa chose not to accompany us,” Bingley murmured as the door swung open.

Darcy offered no reply, though he silently agreed. The butler, Mr. Hill, ushered them inside. From down the hall, voices echoed—Mrs. Bennet’s unmistakable tones pierced the air of the manor. Darcy winced inwardly; the shrillness of her manner strained the ear.

They were announced, and as they entered the room, Darcy looked around for Elizabeth.

She sat upon a settee, her sister Miss Mary beside her.

On the latter’s left sat a gentleman he recognized from Meryton— Mr. Collins, Bingley said he was, who held the living at Hunsford, thanks to Lady Catherine’s patronage.

Mr. Collins turned as the newcomers entered, surveyed them both, then returned to his conversation.

“Mr. Bingley! Oh, we are so pleased to see you, are we not, Jane? Does my daughter not look well today, sir?” Mrs. Bennet beamed, then cast a disapproving look at Darcy and wrinkled her nose.

“And your friend is welcome, too, of course.” She barely looked at him as she spoke, and Darcy saw the slight shudder that followed.

“Your hospitality is appreciated, Mrs. Bennet,” Bingley replied kindly, sending Darcy an apologetic glance. Bless him, Bingley had never understood why others showed distaste for Darcy—or rather, for the mark he bore.

Mrs. Bennet quickly directed Bingley to Jane’s side, and Darcy crossed the room to take the chair beside Elizabeth on the settee. “Good afternoon, Miss Elizabeth, Miss Mary,” he said courteously. “Will you introduce me to your guest?”

The man frowned, clearly displeased at the request, yet remained silent.

Elizabeth smiled warmly, her eyes twinkling in that way that made his stomach lurch. “Certainly, sir. This is our cousin, Mr. William Collins of Hunsford, Kent. He is visiting and will return to his parish at the end of the week.”

“Indeed?” Darcy replied somewhat distractedly as he eyed the man more closely.

So, this was the toady to whom his aunt had granted the living.

He could hardly be anything else, given Lady Catherine’s tastes.

She had once sought his opinion when the post first became vacant, but he did not recall any mention of a William Collins among the candidates.

Naturally, she had selected someone other than whom I recommended, he thought. Such was ever her way.

“Do you know the parish, sir?” Mr. Collins asked.

“I am favored beyond my expectations. Lady Catherine de Bourgh is the most gracious benefactress! Why, just last week, she advised me on the state of my garden. ‘Mr. Collins,’ said she, ‘a parson’s garden ought to be both beautiful and functional. Yours is neither, and you must set it to rights at once.’ I promised, of course, to spend some time in it daily until it met her satisfaction. ”

Darcy exchanged a glance with Elizabeth. Who was this ridiculous man? Obviously, he adored his patroness and would comply with her every whim. Lady Catherine preferred such subservience. “I am familiar with the area,” he hedged. “My aunt is Lady Catherine—”

“Mr. Darcy of Pemberley!” Mr. Collins cried, his dull countenance lighting up in recognition. “I thought I recognized your name. Your most revered lady aunt has spoken often of your engagement to your fair cousin, Miss de Bourgh. Why, only the other day—”

Elizabeth drew a sharp breath, and Darcy felt his heart drop, a chill passing through him. “I am not engaged to my cousin, sir.” His tone was firm, intended to discourage further comment by the strange man.

“But sir!” Mr. Collins protested, “your noble aunt insists it is so. You are to unite two great estates. What will your cousin do if you fail to fulfill your duty to your family—and to her?”

Darcy offered a stiff smile. “My aunt has long cherished such a union, but the matter is settled only in her imagination. My cousin is an heiress and may marry where she chooses.”

“But—”

“Mr. Collins.” Darcy’s expression hardened. “My affairs are my own, and you will kindly cease assuming your involvement.”

The parson spluttered but offered no reply. Instead, he turned to Miss Mary and launched into a discourse on Fordyce’s sermons. The lady did not appear to welcome the conversation.

“Would you care for a stroll in the garden, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth asked with urgency. He rose at once. Miss Mary cast a look of alarm in her sister’s direction. A silent exchange passed between them, followed by a subtle nod. Whatever message had been conveyed, Darcy could not decipher it.

They gathered their things and left the house for the garden.

Most of the foliage had perished with the cold, save for an abundant patch of hellebore.

Darcy admired winter roses. They bloomed from December through March—a welcome burst of color when the weather was often cold and gray.

Elizabeth would appreciate that, he mused.

“I must apologize for my cousin, sir,” Elizabeth said desperately. “He has been in residence but a day, and already we tire of his presence.”

“He is your father’s heir?” Mr. Darcy asked, though the truth was plain. Why else would they receive someone so objectionable?

She nodded. “He comes with an olive branch,” she murmured. “My mother hopes to pair him with Mary.” Her cheeks reddened. “I cannot repeat her reasoning. ’Tis unkind.” Her eyes dropped, and she absently shifted the leaves beneath her boots.

“Mrs. Bennet’s opinions are her own,” Darcy assured her.

“I intend no disparagement upon your sister, but I believe I can surmise your mother’s logic.

” It appalled him. Mrs. Bennet clearly placed great weight on superficial traits, much as his father had once done.

Surely, she sought to secure a match for her plainest daughter with Longbourn’s heir.

“And how does your sister feel about the matter?”

“I hardly know. Mary’s reaction just now suggests she finds Mr. Collins’s company tedious. I have not shared my mother’s sentiments with her—I would not wound her so.” Elizabeth looked worn and troubled.

Darcy offered his arm, and they strolled the path. After a time, he said, “She deserves to know.” He added nothing more. Elizabeth, he trusted, would understand. His father had tried to hide his own distaste for the mark upon his son’s face. The effort had only compounded the hurt.

“Mary has been subject to my mother’s unkind remarks for years,” Elizabeth murmured after a moment of silence. “I believe she is immune to them now.”

“No one is ever immune. One may grow accustomed to horrid treatment—numb, even—but words still wound.” He knew he sounded bitter and made no attempt to conceal it.

Had he not already told Miss Elizabeth he was used to others behaving as though there were something wrong with him?

The wine stain had darkened with age, and with it, the distaste of others had only increased.

That anyone should scorn another for a defect entirely outside their control was beyond his understanding.

Thank heavens for gentlemen’s fashion—cravats and high collars concealed the largest patches of dark red skin along his neck.