Page 8 of More Than You Know (The Love Conquers Pride #3)

Chapter Seven

T he morning of the proposed dinner party brought with it a driving rain that kept everyone confined indoors for the duration of the day. Colonel Fitzwilliam was not particularly bothered by the weather—he had endured far worse in his time as a soldier—but the enforced idleness of the household set him on edge.

After a late breakfast, he followed the rest of the party into the morning room, considering how best to pass the time. Darcy, predictably, declared his intention to write letters and ensconced himself at a small secretaire in the corner. Bingley, all easy contentment, claimed one of the armchairs by the fire. As for himself, Fitzwilliam welcomed the opportunity to resume the chess match he and Walsh had abandoned the night before. With a nod to his opponent, he moved towards the board, already contemplating his next move.

Meanwhile, Miss Bingley drifted restlessly about the room, alternately peering over Darcy’s shoulder and glaring at the streams of water cascading down the front windows. Her sighs grew progressively louder as the morning wore on, marked by the measured ticking of the clock. At last, she turned to her brother with a sour expression.

“I really think we must cancel, Charles. This is hardly the sort of day to be hosting our first soirée!”

“Nonsense,” Bingley replied from behind his newspaper. “It is only a spot of rain. Besides, it may very well stop before this evening.”

“But think of how muddy the lanes will be! What if the Bennets’ carriage should get stuck on the way here? Assuming they even have a carriage,” she added under her breath, her disdain evident. With an exaggerated gasp, she pressed on. “Goodness! You do not think they intend to walk? They will arrive here drenched to the skin and dripping dirty water all over the carpets!”

At this, Bingley slowly lowered his paper, frowning thoughtfully. “I am quite certain they keep a carriage,” he replied evenly, “but you do raise a valid point. With the entire family attending, they will either need to make two trips, or they will be quite crowded indeed.”

He brightened suddenly, climbing to his feet. “I shall send one of my own carriages to ease the burden! This way, they may all travel to Netherfield in comfort and at the same time. Thank you for thinking of it, Sister!”

Miss Bingley’s glare was sharp enough to curdle milk, but before she could summon a protest, her brother had already made his way to the door, calling for a servant to deliver a note to Longbourn at once.

At this, the lady snapped her fan shut with a loud crack, muttering something unintelligible before taking up a chair as close to Darcy as propriety would allow. With her gaze fixed intently on his writing hand, she began to supervise the progress of his letter, at intervals calling off his attention with messages for his sister.

Fitzwilliam did his utmost to stifle his amusement at the lady’s perpetual effusions—lavishing praise on his cousin’s handwriting, the evenness of his lines, and the superior quality of his ink. To each, Darcy offered only the briefest of acknowledgements, his replies growing terser with every passing moment.

After more than a quarter of an hour of this one-sided dialogue, Darcy finally appeared to have reached the end of his patience. Pushing his chair back with a screech, he rose abruptly to his feet.

“If you will excuse me, madam,” his cousin intoned, “I am afraid my quill has broken. With your permission, I shall retrieve another from my writing box and finish this letter in my chambers.”

“Oh!” Miss Bingley exclaimed, springing from her chair with alarming rapidity. “But there is no need to leave! You must allow me to mend your pen. I mend pens remarkably well.”

It was all Fitzwilliam could do to school his expression as his cousin replied stiffly, “Of that, I have no doubt. However, I am afraid this one is beyond repair.”

With a curt bow, Darcy turned to Walsh. “Would you care to accompany me? I believe there were still some matters of business requiring our attention.”

Walsh, obviously sensing his cue, nodded and rose to his feet. “Of course,” he answered with measured civility, before both gentlemen excused themselves from their company.

Miss Bingley gaped after them as they strode briskly from the parlour, their departure swift enough to discourage any further attempts at detainment.

From his seat by the fire, Fitzwilliam chuckled to himself, watching his cousin’s retreating form as Darcy and Walsh made their way towards the stairs.

Coward , he thought with an amused smirk, turning his attention back to his hostess. Miss Bingley, now bereft of her primary target, had taken herself to the pianoforte in the corner of the room, where she sat on the rosewood bench, plucking out a melancholy tune with one hand.

Settling deeper into his chair, Fitzwilliam stretched his legs and watched the lady’s restless performance. After a moment, he let out a deliberate cough, breaking the awkward silence.

“You are wasting your time, you know.”

At the sound of his voice, Miss Bingley startled, her fingers stilling on the keys. She turned to face him, her forehead creased in evident confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

“With Darcy,” he replied, his lips curling into a sardonic smile.

Her eyes widened, and a mottled flush suffused her countenance before she eventually looked away, feigning indifference. “Indeed, sir, I do not have the pleasure of understanding you.”

“Oh, come now, Miss Bingley. Disguise does not suit a woman of your obvious intelligence.”

She turned back to him then, one brow arched in challenge. “Perhaps you give me more credit than I deserve. I am afraid I must plead ignorance in this matter.”

“Very well,” Fitzwilliam said with a shrug. “Then I shall speak plainly. I refer to your obvious attempts at flirtation with my cousin. If you are hoping Darcy will make you an offer of marriage, I am afraid you are bound to be disappointed.”

Miss Bingley’s cheeks flushed crimson, and she began to sputter a denial, but Fitzwilliam waved her protestations aside with an easy gesture.

“Now, now, there is no need for all that. If I may be honest, I am not entirely insensible to your plight. It has long been my opinion that ladies face an unfair disadvantage when it comes to courtship and marriage. You are not granted the authority to choose your life’s partner—only the right of refusal. So how are you to have any influence over your destiny but to use your God-given feminine wiles to ensnare the object of your affection?”

Miss Bingley gasped lightly, her hand flying to her throat, and Fitzwilliam chuckled in response.

“I beg your pardon if I have offended your feminine sensibilities, madam. That was not my intention. I only meant to warn you that, in the particular case of my cousin, your efforts will come to nought. Darcy, you see, is a confirmed bachelor. He has told me on many occasions that he is not inclined to marry, now or in the future. And even if you were to contrive some way to force his hand, I guarantee the two of you would make each other miserable.”

Miss Bingley drew herself up with a diffident tilt of her chin. “But you must be mistaken, sir! How can a man of Mr Darcy’s consequence refuse to take a wife? Surely a gentleman with an estate like Pemberley must be in want of an heir.”

Fitzwilliam shrugged lightly. “Pemberley is not entailed. If Darcy does not produce an heir, the estate will pass to his sister, then to her children if she is so fortunate as to have any.”

“Even so!” Miss Bingley exclaimed, her indignation plain. “I cannot comprehend why Mr Darcy should have such an aversion to marriage. It is most unusual.”

After a moment of silence, she rose from the pianoforte and crossed the carpet to perch on a nearby settee, her demeanour more composed. “Certainly you do not hold the same views as your cousin?” she asked coyly. “A wife with a generous dowry would be a valuable asset to a gentleman in your position.”

Fitzwilliam barked out a laugh, clearly startling the lady. “Oh no! Do not set your sights on me. While it is true that I cannot afford to marry without some attention to money, I would like to think I am not so mercenary as all that. Moreover, I should never risk making any woman a soldier’s widow—and I am very happy in my work. I have no intention of resigning my commission for many years to come.”

Miss Bingley frowned, her gaze shifting to the window and the rain pelting the glass. “Why are you telling me all this?” she finally asked, her voice quiet.

Fitzwilliam relaxed into his chair, turning the conversation over in his mind. “I do not rightly know. I suppose I simply cannot countenance anyone expending so much effort with no hope of the desired result.”

The lady turned her face away, her jaw tight, but Fitzwilliam pressed on. “Miss Bingley, I know you have not asked, but might I give you some advice?”

When she did not answer, he continued, gentling his tone, “You are a handsome, capable lady of some means, but no gentleman wishes to feel that he is being hunted like prey. You would do much better to apply your natural intelligence than to resort to these manufactured arts and allurements. After all, one is far more likely to accomplish by kindness what cannot be achieved by force.”

Miss Bingley remained silent for several moments before rising stiffly to her feet. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice was steady as she said, “I thank you for your candour, sir, but if you will excuse me, I seem to have lost track of the time. I have the dinner to prepare for.”

And with a brief curtsey, she turned on her heel and walked quickly from the room, leaving the colonel to watch her retreat with quiet contemplation.

The Bennet and Lucas carriages, followed directly by Mr Bingley’s barouche, arrived promptly at the appointed hour.

Although the rain had ceased late that afternoon, at Darcy’s suggestion, Bingley had instructed his footmen to lay down a carpet retrieved from the attic, ensuring the ladies could alight without dirtying the hems of their gowns. The gesture, though merely practical, was met with glowing approval from Mrs Bennet, who loudly proclaimed her gratitude as she stepped out of the carriage with a flutter of lace and ribbons.

The Netherfield party had gathered in the front hall to greet their guests. Darcy, however, made a deliberate point of standing near the entrance to the drawing room, where he could observe the proceedings without drawing undue attention to himself. It had been nearly a week since his conversation with Elizabeth at Oakham Mount, and although he had spent the intervening time preparing himself for this evening’s encounter, he found himself torn between anticipation and unease. He was eager to see her again, but after his precipitous departure from their last meeting, he was also apprehensive about what her reception might be.

As expected, Bingley was the picture of geniality, welcoming each guest with unrestrained warmth and good humour. His enthusiasm extended to every member of the Bennet family, from the radiant Jane to the spirited Lydia, who preened under the attention. Walsh, as ever, was reserved but courteous, though Darcy noticed a flicker of animation in his expression as he greeted Miss Lucas—a subtle but telling departure from his usual stoicism.

Richard, ever the charmer, greeted everyone with practised ease, bowing over the ladies’ hands and enquiring after their health with such sincerity that even Mrs Bennet was momentarily rendered speechless. Darcy could not suppress a wry smile at his cousin’s effortless ability to win favour wherever he went.

Miss Bingley, meanwhile, wore a mask of forced civility. She simpered over Miss Bennet and Elizabeth with excessive sweetness, bestowed a half-hearted welcome to the family patriarch, and all but overlooked the remainder of their guests. When Miss Lydia’s voice rose in a particularly exuberant exclamation, Miss Bingley’s lips pressed into a thin line, though she managed to maintain her composure long enough to usher the entire party into the drawing room to await the dinner bell.

Upon entering the parlour, it was Mrs Bennet who spoke first, declaring the room charming and effusing over everything from the furnishings to the prospect from the windows. Lady Lucas bobbed her head in rapid agreement, her murmured affirmations blending with Mrs Bennet's enthusiastic commentary.

Sir William Lucas, eager to insert himself into the conversation, began comparing the room to one of the parlours at St James’s, though the younger girls seemed more entertained by their own whispered remarks, interspersed by bursts of giggles. Meanwhile, Mr Bennet, leaning casually against the back of an armchair, surveyed the scene with a sardonic twist to his lips, offering no comment of his own.

“Indeed, I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield,” Mrs Bennet proclaimed loudly over the din. “You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope,” she added, fixing her attention on Bingley with a pointed look.

“Whatever I do is done in a hurry,” Bingley replied with an easy smile. “If I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself quite settled here.” He turned his gaze towards Elizabeth, the sincerity in his expression unmistakable.

Mrs Bennet positively glowed at the marked attention to her second-eldest daughter, clearly already planning the wedding. She then turned to Mr Darcy with a more calculating expression. “And you, sir? I hope you are enjoying your sojourn in the neighbourhood. Do you and your cousin intend to stay long?”

Although Darcy kept his eyes on the matron, he was acutely aware of Elizabeth’s gaze, the scrutiny of her expression sharper than any question Mrs Bennet might pose. Taking a measured breath, he replied, “I am afraid, madam, that my cousin’s time is not his own. He is due back at his regiment within the fortnight. As for myself”—here he risked a fleeting glance in Elizabeth’s direction—“at present, my plans are not firmly fixed.”

Mrs Bennet’s eyes sparkled with interest, and she opened her mouth to press the matter further, but just then, the dinner gong sounded, and a flurry of movement followed as the party made their way to the dining room, saving Darcy—at least temporarily—from further discourse on the matter.

Elizabeth placed her hand lightly upon Mr Bingley’s sleeve, allowing him to escort her to Netherfield’s large dining room.

In the days since the assembly, Mr Bingley had called upon her more than once, and Elizabeth always received his attentions with great delight. The gentleman’s manners were universally admired by the ladies at Longbourn, for it was plain that he took genuine pleasure in their company, a quality that only served to recommend him further to their good opinion.

As for Mr Darcy, Elizabeth had not laid eyes on him since the morning he had walked away from her at Oakham Mount. Although she could not deny a peculiar mixture of frustration and curiosity whenever she thought of him, she was resolved to set those feelings aside and enjoy her evening at Netherfield to the fullest.

Conversation flowed in an easy manner as everyone took their seats. Elizabeth noted with mixed emotions that she and Mr Darcy had been placed as far apart as possible—she at one end of the long table beside Mr Bingley, and he at the opposite end with Miss Bingley seated to his left. At least I shall not have to endure his sombre looks or reproachful airs tonight, she thought uncharitably as Mr Bingley assisted her into her chair.

The meal began well enough. The food was plentiful and expertly prepared and the company pleasant. Mr Bingley and Colonel Fitzwilliam kept up a lively discourse that drew out even the more reserved members of their party, and Elizabeth was relieved to see that her mother and youngest sisters appeared to be on their best behaviour.

To her surprise, Miss Bingley said little, though her watchful gaze continually shifted between Mr Darcy and Mr Walsh, who was seated at her other side. It was not until the second remove that their hostess finally found her voice. Turning to Mr Darcy’s friend, she spoke at a volume calculated to draw the attention of the entire table.

“I hope you are enjoying your stay at Netherfield, sir,” she began, with a brittle smile. “Though from all appearances, you might still be in Derbyshire. You and Mr Darcy have been so very industrious since your arrival—always shut away in some corner of the house. I do hope it is not all dreadful accounts and estate papers?”

Beside her, Walsh inclined his head, his expression politely neutral. “A necessary evil, I am afraid. Mr Darcy and I have taken advantage of the quieter moments to attend to a few matters long delayed. It is not the most cheerful use of one’s time, perhaps—but it keeps me out of mischief.”

Miss Bingley tittered lightly, but her eyes sharpened. “Indeed, you and Mr Darcy appear to be quite inseparable. As I recall, you were in residence at Pemberley when my family and I visited last summer.”

Across the table, Elizabeth sat straighter in her chair, her curiosity piqued as much by Miss Bingley’s tone as by her words. She cast a sidelong glance at Mr Darcy, who was clearly unamused, his features taut with displeasure. Mr Walsh, by contrast, looked entirely at ease as he replied, “Indeed, madam, I spend most of my time at Pemberley and often travel with Mr Darcy. As I am employed to oversee his affairs, it generally makes matters more efficient.”

“I see,” Miss Bingley said, her tone suffused with feigned curiosity. “Pray forgive my ignorance, but is it common for a business advisor to work exclusively for a single gentleman? My brother retains a man in London, but I dare say he could not support himself on Charles’s custom alone.”

“Caroline,” Mr Bingley interjected from the opposite end of the table, his voice coloured with exasperation, “I hardly think you can compare my fortune to Darcy’s.”

“No, you are quite right, Miss Bingley,” Walsh replied smoothly. “It is, indeed, an unusual arrangement. But as I am sure you can imagine, Mr Darcy’s holdings are vast, so there is more than enough to keep me occupied.”

Elizabeth observed the conversation with a growing sense of discomfort, not for the first time marvelling at Miss Bingley’s persistence in attempting to elevate herself in Mr Darcy’s esteem while subtly denigrating others in the process.

A brief silence settled over the room, broken only when Sir William Lucas jovially called out, “I say, that reminds me of the last time I was in London?—”

But he got no further before Miss Bingley, her gaze still fixed on Mr Walsh, continued loudly, “I believe, sir, that you were visiting relations in Bedfordshire before travelling to Netherfield, were you not?”

Mr Bingley was frowning openly at his sister now, but Mr Walsh merely replied in the affirmative, to which Miss Bingley tilted her head in an exaggerated manner.

“You must correct me if I am mistaken, sir, but is not Bedfordshire to the north? Would it not have been more advantageous for you to travel straight to Pemberley rather than journey in the opposite direction to join Mr Darcy here in Hertfordshire?”

“Caroline!” Mr Bingley hissed loudly, but Charlotte gave a delicate cough, turning towards Mr Walsh with a bright smile.

“Bedfordshire has some lovely countryside,” she offered, plainly attempting to redirect the conversation. “My mother has a sister in Dunstable.”

Mr Walsh grinned back at her with obvious pleasure. “Truly? I come from Bedford, but the majority of my relations reside near Luton, no more than five miles away. Do you visit often?”

“Indeed we do, sir,” Lady Lucas interjected as Sir William added, “We shall stop there at Christmastide if the weather allows it.”

“Well then, I shall wish for temperate conditions on your behalf,” Mr Walsh replied graciously. He then turned back to their hostess, adding, “And Miss Bingley, to answer your question—yes, Bedfordshire is to the north. So, indeed, it would have been more convenient for me to return directly to Pemberley. However, Mr Darcy and I had several matters of business to discuss, so in truth, it was far more expedient for us to meet here, rather than relying on the vagaries of the post—or worse yet, postponing our work until Mr Darcy was at liberty to return to his estate.”

Lifting his glass, he took a measured sip of claret before concluding, “Although I do thank you for your concern, as well as your generous hospitality.”

“Well, we are very glad to have you,” Mr Bingley interjected, casting his sister a dark look before turning to Sir William and asking him to resume his story.

Sir William eagerly took up the thread, and the conversation flowed once more. It was not until the dessert course that the weather was mentioned again. This time, Jane turned to Mr Bingley, her voice soft and sincere.

“It was very kind of you to send your carriage for us earlier. I was particularly struck by your fine pair of horses. It was a true joy to behold them in motion.”

Mr Bingley’s expression brightened immediately, and he replied with great animation. “They are a marvel, are they not? I defy anyone to find a better-matched team in the entire kingdom. And they are as even-tempered and sure-footed as they are handsome! I acquired them only last spring from a gentleman who refused to drive them together as they are both mares. Thought it unmanly—can you imagine that?”

Elizabeth smiled. “You seem quite the authority when it comes to horseflesh, sir. Has this long been an interest of yours?”

Mr Bingley had just opened his mouth to reply when Mrs Bennet called out from halfway down the table, “If you are fond of horses, you have certainly come to the right place. There is no finer countryside for riding, and the stables at Netherfield are among the largest in the county!”

“Indeed!” Mr Bingley replied, his enthusiasm undimmed. “It was one of the reasons I leapt at the chance to lease the estate. That and the proximity to such charming neighbours,” he added, flashing an easy smile in Elizabeth’s direction.

Glaring at Mrs Bennet, Miss Bingley replied shrilly, “Pray, do not encourage him, ma’am. Once Charles begins speaking of horses, there will be no other topic of conversation for the remainder of the evening!”

“I am certain Jane would not mind that,” Elizabeth quipped, exchanging a teasing glance with her sister.

Mr Bingley looked eagerly between her and Jane before turning to the latter. “Are you also partial to horses, Miss Bennet?”

“Oh yes, very much so,” Jane answered, a light flush rising to her cheeks. “I have a mare, Buttercup, that I quite dote on. I ride out as often as I can, though not as often as I would wish.”

“Why, then we must organize a riding party! With your father’s approval, of course,” Mr Bingley added hastily, nodding to Mr Bennet. “I should love to see more of the countryside, and I have a full stable if anyone requires a mount. What say you, Miss Elizabeth?”

Beside him, Elizabeth laughed lightly. “I am afraid Jane is the horsewoman in the family. I do not ride, unless circumstances require it,” she replied, darting a glance at Mr Darcy.

But if the gentleman noticed her subtle reference to their conversation at Oakham Mount, his expression did not betray it. Elizabeth’s attention was soon claimed by Mrs Bennet, who cried out, “Nonsense, Lizzy! Of course you must go. You will enjoy the opportunity to show Mr Bingley around the neighbourhood.”

Turning to Mr Darcy, Mrs Bennet continued, “And what of you, sir? I am certain you will wish to be of the party. Jane would greatly enjoy your company. And although I do not like to boast of my own child, one would be hard-pressed to find any young lady who is a more skilled equestrian than my Jane.”

Across the table, Elizabeth noted the tightening of Mr Darcy’s jaw, but he was spared the obligation of a reply as Mrs Bennet turned her attention to Colonel Fitzwilliam.

“And you, Colonel? Surely you are quite at home in the saddle. Lydia, my love,” she called loudly, “would you not wish to ride out with Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

Lydia wrinkled her nose in obvious displeasure. “Oh no, not I! I have no desire to return home smelling of a stable yard!” she exclaimed, laughing loudly at her own jest. “Let Mary go. She cares nothing for such things.”

Mrs Bennet opened her mouth to respond but seemed at a loss for words. The silence was filled by Mr Bingley’s hearty chuckle.

“Perhaps you are only in want of a gentleman who enjoys the scent of a stable, Miss Lydia,” he replied lightly. “I, for one, find the aroma of horses and hay exceedingly agreeable.”

For a brief moment, his gaze met Jane’s, and Elizabeth saw her sister flush prettily before lowering her lashes.

It was at this moment that Miss Bingley shoved back her chair, announcing that it was time for the ladies to withdraw, and so, the conversation was at an end.