Page 9 of More Than You Know (The Love Conquers Pride #3)

Chapter Eight

I t was not long before the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room. At Sir William Lucas’ suggestion, card tables were set up, and the younger girls, along with Mrs Bennet, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Sir William and Lady Lucas, all sat down to a game of whist, while Mr Bennet contented himself with a book he procured from a nearby shelf and took up residence by the fire.

After exchanging a brief word with Mr Darcy, Mr Walsh crossed to the small settee where Charlotte was seated. Elizabeth could not help but notice the sweet smile and becoming colour that suffused her friend’s countenance at his approach. However, she had little time to dwell on the matter as Mr Bingley soon joined her and Jane on the larger sofa.

Across the room, Elizabeth observed Miss Bingley’s eyes instantly drawn to Mr Darcy as he entered. After a brief hesitation, she advanced upon him, enquiring about his preference for tea or brandy. Mr Darcy declined both offers with his usual reserve before approaching their party and seating himself in a winged chair, which he angled away from the nearby fire.

For her part, Elizabeth felt all the awkwardness of being placed between Mr Bingley’s cheerful attentions and Mr Darcy’s stern, unrelenting gaze. While the former engaged her and Jane in pleasant conversation, the latter’s rigid expression unnerved her. What could Mr Darcy be about, staring at her so intently? If he had no interest in her himself, he had no right to silently rebuke her for her attentions towards his friend.

Finally, when the talk turned to the estate, Elizabeth faced the dour gentleman with a pert expression. “Mr Darcy, what think you of Netherfield? Mr Bingley has mentioned that he is counting on you to advise him on its management.”

Mr Darcy started, clearly surprised to be addressed directly, but he soon replied, “I have seen nothing to cause me concern. The estate is well situated, and the soil appears fertile. Although the gardens and fields on the north side of the property show some signs of neglect, I have no doubt these difficulties could be easily remedied with the appointment of a new steward.”

“I see. And is it your recommendation that Mr Bingley remain at Netherfield to oversee these improvements?” Elizabeth asked.

“That, I am afraid I cannot answer.”

“Cannot, or will not?” Elizabeth challenged with an arched brow.

Mr Darcy stared back at her with an inscrutable expression before saying deliberately, “May I ask, Miss Elizabeth, to what these questions tend?”

“Merely to the illustration of your character,” Elizabeth replied sweetly, endeavouring to maintain her composure. “I am trying to make it out.”

“And what is your success?”

“I am afraid I do not get on at all. Since the beginning of our acquaintance, I have perceived such contradictory conduct that it puzzles me exceedingly.”

“That I can readily believe,” Mr Darcy answered gravely. “I am well aware that I am apt to display many inconstant traits. Therefore, I would wish, Miss Elizabeth, that rather than attempting to sketch my character, you might simply take me at my word.”

Elizabeth blinked at him, chastened by the severity of his tone, but before she could muster a reply, Miss Bingley interjected.

“Oh, my dear Eliza, your tea has gone cold. Let me pour you a fresh cup.”

Her thoughts still with Mr Darcy, Elizabeth turned to her hostess, but before she had the opportunity to accept or decline Miss Bingley’s offer, the lady snatched up Elizabeth’s teacup so rapidly that the delicate piece teetered precariously upon its saucer, splashing its contents on the hem of Elizabeth’s gown before toppling to the floor.

“Caroline, have a care!” Mr Bingley cried as Jane let out a gasp of surprise.

“Oh! How clumsy of me,” Miss Bingley tittered, her smile strained.

Mr Darcy shot her a stern look before turning to Elizabeth with evident concern. “Miss Elizabeth, are you hurt? You have not been burnt, I hope?”

“No, no. As Miss Bingley said, the tea was cold, so there was no harm done. In any case, I am afraid it is the carpet that has borne the brunt of the damage,” Elizabeth said lightly, brushing at her skirt.

Mr Bingley immediately assured everyone that the carpet was of no concern as Jane bent to retrieve the cup and saucer.

“But we must do something about your gown,” Miss Bingley interjected in an agitated tone. “Pray, let us go and tend to it before the stain has a chance to set.”

“Here, take my handkerchief,” Jane offered, opening her reticule, but Elizabeth waved her sister’s concern away with a small smile.

“Yours is far too pretty to ruin. Besides, it was only a few drops. ’Tis already dry.”

Jane looked back at her with mild concern, but she acquiesced, setting the delicate linen square on a nearby table.

“Why, that is remarkable!” Mr Bingley exclaimed as he picked up the handkerchief to admire the intricate embroidery. He held it aloft, revealing the delicate likeness of a horse’s head encircled by a wreath of yellow buttercups. “Did you stitch this yourself?”

“Indeed, she did, sir,” Elizabeth replied on her sister’s behalf. “Jane is by far the cleverest of all of us with a needle.”

“It is always amazing to me,” Mr Bingley said earnestly, “how young ladies have the patience to be so accomplished. You paint tables, cover screens, net purses, and I know not what!”

At Mr Bingley’s praise, Jane flushed, her expression alight with modest pride. “In this case, I am afraid I cannot take all the credit. Lizzy sketched the image—I am merely responsible for the needlework.”

Mr Bingley began to reply, but it was Mr Darcy’s deep baritone that cut through the conversation. “It is a remarkable portrayal. Only someone with a true understanding of the natural world could have captured such detail so faithfully.”

Although it was unclear which lady he addressed, Elizabeth’s gaze lifted instinctively, only to find his eyes fixed on hers.

A brief, awkward silence fell over the room until Miss Bingley rose abruptly, addressing Elizabeth. “Miss Eliza Bennet, might I persuade you to take a turn about the room? I assure you it is most refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude.”

Elizabeth lifted a brow at the sudden invitation but could see no reason to decline. Rising from her seat, she excused herself from the rest of the party and hesitantly took the arm Miss Bingley offered. Together, they began a slow promenade around the perimeter of the room. It was not until they reached a quieter corner that Miss Bingley began speaking in a low tone.

“Let me recommend you, Miss Eliza, as a friend, that you ought not to set your cap at Mr Darcy. I have it on excellent authority that he has no interest in taking a wife, so I must assure you that any hopes you may have in that quarter will come to nought.”

A ripple of mortification coursed through Elizabeth, but she kept her expression neutral, replying serenely, “I thank you for your concern, Miss Bingley, but may I ask what makes you think I have any designs on Mr Darcy?”

“Oh, my dear Eliza! You must know it is evident to anyone who observes the two of you together. However, if you spent less time trying to capture the gentleman’s attention and more time studying his activities, you would see where his true interest lies.”

With that, Miss Bingley tilted her head meaningfully towards the opposite side of the room, where Mr Darcy now stood by the darkened windows in quiet conversation with Mr Walsh.

“Of course,” Miss Bingley continued, “there have been rumblings about it in town for some time. Personally, I try to avoid such mean-spirited gossip, and as he is my brother’s particular friend, I have always given him the benefit of the doubt. But you know what they say—where there is smoke, you are almost certain to find fire.”

Elizabeth stopped walking abruptly, forcing Miss Bingley to halt as well. Fixing her companion with a steady gaze, she said evenly, “Forgive me, Miss Bingley, but I, too, make it a point to avoid mean-spirited gossip. I do not know where these accusations tend, but so far, I have heard you reproach Mr Darcy for nothing worse than remaining unmarried and maintaining a close personal friendship with a trusted advisor—neither of which are…”

She paused, searching for the right word, but Miss Bingley interrupted with a patronizing laugh.

“Oh, my dearest Eliza, do not be so na?ve! Why else would a gentleman of Mr Darcy’s age, wealth, and connections never so much as look at marriageable young ladies? It is well-known that he eschews social gatherings, and not once has his name been linked with any lady, save his cousin Miss Anne de Bourgh—and even that has come to nothing. Why, he rarely leaves his estate! He is all but a recluse. Do you not find that rather…odd?”

“A recluse?” Elizabeth replied with a startled laugh. “I certainly have seen no evidence of that. I met Mr Darcy recently at a ball in town, and now he is here at Netherfield, visiting your brother. Perhaps he only appears misanthropic to those individuals he wishes to avoid.”

Elizabeth was gratified to see Caroline Bingley’s countenance turn a vivid shade of scarlet at this remark, though the lady quickly masked her embarrassment with an affected smile.

“Be that as it may,” Miss Bingley countered, her voice clipped, “I have it from his own cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam that Mr Darcy will not marry. And you need do no more than look across the room to see why that is.”

Elizabeth felt heat rise in her cheeks at the insinuation, but she maintained an air of calm indifference. When she spoke, her tone was measured and devoid of emotion. “I am certain I do not know what you are implying, Miss Bingley, but I can assure you that Mr Darcy’s personal affairs are of no concern to me.”

Miss Bingley’s eyes narrowed as she regarded Elizabeth. “In that case,” she said at last, her voice honeyed but sharp at the edges, “pray excuse my interference. It was kindly meant.”

And with that, she dropped Elizabeth’s arm and flounced off to take a seat beside Colonel Fitzwilliam on the far side of the room.

That night, Elizabeth lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling, reliving the events of the evening over and over in her head. Every glance, every word exchanged, and every unspoken tension lingered in her mind like the faint, enduring scent of flowers pressed between the pages of a forgotten book. How had the evening unravelled into this tangled mess of feelings she could scarcely name?

She pressed her palms against her eyes, willing herself to banish the image of Mr Darcy’s sharp, dark gaze, which seemed to find hers at every opportunity. Why did it matter? Why should she care what Mr Darcy thought—or whom he might care for? She, who had always prided herself on her discernment and good sense, found it maddening to be so consumed by thoughts of a man whose regard she had neither sought nor encouraged.

Elizabeth struck the pillow in frustration, rolling over in the wide bed. She had never possessed the romantic sensibilities of her two youngest sisters, who spent hours imagining the dashing gentlemen who would one day sweep them off their feet. However, had she ever truly paused to consider such matters, she might have admitted that the sort of gentleman she envisioned as a future husband bore a striking resemblance to Charles Bingley.

Mr Bingley was all that was amiable and kind. He was cheerful, easy-going, and genuinely good-natured. His manners were engaging, his countenance pleasant, and he possessed a natural charm that made him agreeable to everyone he encountered. Elizabeth knew that should she be lucky enough to secure such a gentleman as her husband, she would have no reason to repine. As her father had aptly noted after one of Mr Bingley’s visits, their tempers were by no means unalike, and she could have no doubt of them doing very well together.

By contrast, Mr Darcy was a puzzle that resisted solution. Despite his wealth and status, he seemed perpetually uncomfortable in company, as though he stood on a distant hill, content to watch the world unfold beneath him without ever fully engaging with it. His manners, while perfectly proper, were far from inviting. He was aloof, fastidious, and at times maddeningly inscrutable. While Mr Bingley was universally liked, Mr Darcy had an almost unerring talent for offending wherever he went.

Yet why was it that when Elizabeth allowed her mind to wander into the hazy unknown of her future, it was not Mr Bingley but Mr Darcy she saw at her side…?

The question stayed with her like an unwelcome guest, and Elizabeth sighed heavily, shifting on the mattress and pulling the quilt higher around her shoulders. Much as she hated to admit it, Miss Bingley’s insinuations had struck a nerve. Could it be true, what the lady had suggested? That Mr Darcy’s unwillingness to marry arose from some deep, unspoken attachment that he was not permitted to name?

Elizabeth had heard the gentleman’s own words at Oakham Mount: “I am not free to marry.” His reasons, he had said, were “complicated”. If it were something simple—an entanglement, a prior engagement—surely he would have shared it? And yet, he had remained enigmatic, leaving her to wonder, to fill the gaps with her own restless imagination.

She did not like idle gossip, she reminded herself fiercely. She never had. She knew too well the sting of baseless assumptions and unkind speculations. She would not indulge in such meanness herself—not even when the subject was Mr Darcy. Still, she could not deny that Miss Bingley’s words had unsettled her.

“Why?” she whispered aloud to the shadowed room. “Why does it bother me so?”

The answer came almost immediately, unbidden and unwelcome.

Because your vanity was wounded.

Elizabeth closed her eyes, a rush of heat rising to her cheeks even in the privacy of her own thoughts. She had spent weeks convincing herself that she felt nothing for Mr Darcy—that his reserved demeanour, his brooding silences, and even his occasional sharpness had left her untouched. Yet, somehow, she could not bear the thought of him harbouring tender feelings for anyone but her.

A groan of frustration escaped her lips as she turned her face into her pillow, as though the fabric might absorb the clamour of her emotions. Perhaps she was no better than Miss Bingley in her jealousy and pride. But even if Miss Bingley’s insinuations were baseless, the truth remained: regardless of his reasons, Mr Darcy did not wish to marry her. He had made that point abundantly clear. Only a fool would set their sights on something they could never have, and Elizabeth Bennet was no fool.

By the time slumber finally found her, she knew one thing for certain: Mr Darcy was her past, whereas Mr Bingley—steady, cheerful, and ever kind—might very well be her future. If only she could bring herself to let him into her heart.