Page 2 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious “Miss B”

Darcy

Netherfield

T he carriage wheels rumbled against the cobbled road as they approached Meryton, and Fitzwilliam Darcy tried to ignore the mounting sense of dread settling in his chest. Hertfordshire countryside stretched endlessly in every direction—fields of brown stubble and bare hedgerows that reminded him why he preferred London.

At least in town, one could find intelligent conversation and proper society.

Here, he would be subjected to an evening of country dancing with farmers’ daughters and shopkeepers’ wives.

“There it is!” Bingley pressed his face to the window. “The assembly rooms. I can see carriages already arriving.”

“Calm yourself, Charles,” Caroline Bingley said from her seat across from Darcy. “One would think you’d never attended a ball before.”

Darcy watched his friend’s enthusiasm with barely concealed irritation.

For the past two days, Bingley had spoken of nothing but this country assembly and the possibility of seeing Miss Jane Bennet again.

The woman he had met at some bookshop and who had apparently bewitched him with a single conversation about novels.

“You must tell me again about this Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, adjusting his cravat. “I confess I cannot understand your fascination with someone you’ve spoken to for all of ten minutes.”

“Twenty minutes, actually,” Bingley grinned. “And what twenty minutes it was. She’s the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, Darcy. Golden hair, the sweetest disposition, and when she smiled…” he sighed. “I’ve been counting the hours until tonight.”

Caroline sniffed. “How romantic. Though I do hope you will remember what I told you about her circumstances. Five daughters, all unmarried, and their estate entailed away to some relation or other. They only came out of mourning two weeks ago.”

“Mourning?” Darcy’s attention sharpened. “Who died?”

“Their father,” Louisa Hurst supplied from her corner of the carriage. “Apparently, it was quite sudden. The family is in rather reduced circumstances now, from what I understand.”

Darcy frowned. A household of five unmarried daughters with no male protection and limited funds sounded like exactly the sort of family that would set their caps at any gentleman with a decent income. He made a note to keep Bingley from making any rash decisions.

“That only makes me more eager to see her,” Bingley said, his voice growing tender. “She must be bearing such a heavy burden, helping to care for her younger sisters. I admire that in a woman.”

The carriage drew to a halt outside the assembly rooms, and Darcy could already hear music drifting through the windows.

Through the lit windows, he glimpsed the silhouettes of dancers and felt his spirits sink even lower.

An evening of stilted conversation with provincial gentlemen and their eager wives stretched ahead of him.

“Come now, Darcy,” Bingley said, climbing down from the carriage. “Try to enjoy yourself. When was the last time you danced with someone who was not a duke’s daughter or an earl’s niece?”

“There’s a reason I prefer such company,” Darcy muttered, but he followed his friend towards the entrance. There, the Hursts and Caroline parted from them.

The assembly rooms were smaller than he had expected, with low-beamed ceilings and walls painted a cheerful yellow that somehow made the whole space feel cramped.

The air was thick with the scent of beeswax candles, and too many people crowded into too small a space.

Ladies in their finest gowns—which would have been laughably out of fashion in London—twirled across the dance floor with their partners.

“Mr Bingley!” A woman’s voice called out, and Darcy turned to see an elderly gentleman approaching with a lady on his arm.

“Mr Phillips,” Bingley said with a smile.

“How good to see you again. May I present my friend, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy? Darcy, this is Mr Phillips, the local solicitor, and his wife. They are the Bennet sisters’ aunt and uncle.

We met at the book shop. Surely you remember that I told you about its Darcy. ”

How could he forget?

Mrs Phillips curtsied with obvious delight. “Oh, Mr Darcy! What an honour. We so rarely see gentlemen of your standing in our little corner of Hertfordshire. You must be presented to our young ladies immediately.”

Darcy bowed stiffly. “Madam.” They followed the couple across the room.

“There!” Bingley’s voice rose with excitement, and Darcy followed his gaze across the room to where a group of young women stood near the refreshment table. “There she is. Miss Bennet.”

Darcy studied the object of his friend’s fascination.

She was indeed attractive—tall and graceful, with fair hair arranged in a simple but elegant style.

Her gown was lavender coloured, well-made but not fashionable, and she wore it with the kind of natural grace that could not be taught.

When she looked up and caught sight of Bingley, her face lit up with a smile that transformed her from merely pretty to genuinely lovely.

“She is handsome,” Darcy admitted. “Though I wonder at the wisdom of forming an attachment so quickly.”

“Wisdom be damned,” Bingley said cheerfully. “Some things don’t require wisdom, merely courage.”

Mrs Phillips had obviously overheard, for she beamed at them both. “Oh, you are speaking of our dear Jane. Such a sweet girl and so devoted to her family since their poor father’s death. She and her sisters have shown such strength through their trials.”

“There are five daughters, I hear?” Darcy asked.

“Five daughters in total,” Mr Phillips explained. “Jane is the eldest. Then there’s Elizabeth—the one in the blue gown there, with the dark hair. Then Mary, Catherine, and young Lydia.”

Darcy’s gaze shifted to the woman in blue and felt something unexpected.

She was not classically attractive like her sister—her features were too sharp, her manner too independent.

A gentleman came up to her and spoke briefly.

She dipped her head to the side, shook it and the man departed.

There was confidence in her mannerism, self-assurance that seemed at odds with her recent loss.

“Come,” Bingley said, tugging at Darcy’s sleeve. “I must pay my respects to Miss Bennet, and you must be properly introduced.”

Before Darcy could object, he was being led across the room towards the group of young women.

As they approached, he could see the family resemblance between the sisters—the same fine eyes, the same elegant bone structure—but each was distinctly individual.

The youngest appeared to be barely out of the schoolroom, while the middle sister had the serious air of a bluestocking.

“Miss Bennet,” Bingley said, sweeping into a bow that would have been perfectly proper at Almack’s. “How lovely to see you again.”

Jane Bennet curtsied. “Mr Bingley. What a pleasant surprise. I was not certain you would attend our little assembly.”

“Nothing could have kept me away,” Bingley said with such obvious sincerity that Darcy nearly winced. “May I present my friend, Mr Darcy? Darcy, Miss Jane Bennet.”

“Miss Bennet.” Darcy bowed.

“Mr Darcy.” Jane’s voice was soft, musical. “How do you do?”

“And this is my sister Elizabeth,” Jane continued, gesturing to the woman in blue. “Lizzy, Mr Bingley and Mr Darcy.”

Elizabeth Bennet curtsied, but her manner suggested she was merely going through the motions of politeness.

When she straightened, her eyes met his with a directness that seemed at odds with her subdued circumstances.

There was a gravity about her that spoke of recent trials, yet she held herself with quiet dignity.

“Mr Darcy,” she said. “Welcome to Hertfordshire.”

Her voice was pleasant enough, but Darcy caught the slight emphasis on his name, as though she had already formed some opinion of him. The thought rankled in a way that caught him off guard.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he replied.

An awkward silence stretched between them, broken only when Bingley stepped forward with his usual good humour.

“Miss Bennet, I wonder if you might honour me with the next dance?”

Jane’s smile was gentle but genuine. “I should be delighted, Mr Bingley.”

As the couple moved towards the dance floor, Mrs Phillips swept across the room like an admiral’s flagship.

“Mr Darcy, you must dance with our Elizabeth. She is an excellent dancer, I assure you, and such a sensible girl. You will find no better partner in the room.”

Darcy glanced down at Elizabeth Bennet and found her watching him with what might have been resignation. The suggestion that he should dance with a country nobody, no matter how sensible, was presumptuous in the extreme.

“I thank you for the recommendation, madam,” he said, “but I do not dance.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when he saw Elizabeth’s eyebrows rise slightly. A faint flush crept up her neck, though whether from embarrassment or something else, he could not tell.

“I see,” she said. “How refreshing to meet a gentleman who speaks so plainly about his aversions. It saves everyone such awkward misunderstandings. I shall be sure to spread word of your preferences.”

She sauntered away, joining her younger sisters whose name he had already forgotten. Lydia? Margaret? Whatever their names, none looked pleased to be here and indeed, he had to wonder about the wisdom of having all five of them here so soon after their father’s death.

Caroline Bingley appeared at Darcy’s elbow. “Making friends already, I see,” Caroline said with obvious amusement.

“Miss Bingley.” Darcy nodded to her. “Are you enjoying the assembly?”

“Oh, immensely,” Caroline said with obvious sarcasm. “The company is so… refreshing. So different from what one encounters in town.”

Darcy glanced towards where Elizabeth Bennet now stood with her sisters. Unlike earlier, she was not animated or merry—there was a composure about her that suggested someone bearing invisible burdens. Her recent mourning had clearly left its mark.

“The second Miss Bennet seems to carry herself well, considering her circumstances,” he observed.

“Indeed,” Caroline agreed. “Though I wonder if country composure translates to broader society. Some people manage well enough in small settings.”

The dance ended, and couples began forming for the next set.

Darcy surveyed the room. He had no desire to dance, but even if he had wanted to the options were slim.

Most of the young ladies had already been claimed, and those who remained were either too young, too old, or too obviously eager to catch his attention.

“Mr Darcy,” Caroline appeared at his elbow again. “You really ought to dance, it is an assembly after all.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

Caroline followed his gaze and her countenance soured. “Surely you’re not considering the Bennet girl?”

“Which Bennet girl?” Though Darcy knew perfectly well which one she meant.

“Elizabeth. I confess I find her rather… provincial. She has a tolerable figure, I suppose, but nothing that would tempt a man of discernment.”

Darcy looked again at Elizabeth Bennet and felt an odd twist in his chest. Caroline was not wrong—the girl was pleasant enough to look at, but hardly a beauty.

Her gown was well-made but not fashionable, her hair dressed, her manner too confident for someone in her circumstances.

By any reasonable standard, she was exactly the sort of woman he should avoid.

“Tolerable,” he agreed, his voice carrying further than intended in the momentary lull of conversation around them. “But not handsome enough to tempt me.”

He saw Elizabeth’s shoulders stiffen and when she turned, he was confronted with a fiery glare. She had heard. The look she gave him was not embarrassed or angry—it was flippant, as though she had taken his measure and found him wanting.

Then she turned back to her youngest sister and said something that made the girl smile.

“Quite right,” Caroline said, apparently oblivious to the fact that Elizabeth had overheard. “Far better to wait for worthier company.”

But Darcy was not listening. He was watching Elizabeth Bennet’s straight shoulders and the way she refused to acknowledge that his words had affected her. Most women of his acquaintance would have been crushed by such a comment, or would have made a scene. Elizabeth Bennet had dismissed him.

“Shall we take some air?” Caroline suggested. “It’s grown rather close in here.”

Darcy nodded and followed her towards the doors that led to a small terrace. But as they walked, he looked back towards where Elizabeth Bennet stood with her family, her composure intact despite what she had overheard.

The country air was cool against his face, a welcome relief after the stuffiness of the assembly rooms. Caroline chattered beside him about the provincial company and the inferior quality of the music, but Darcy’s mind was elsewhere.

He thought about Elizabeth Bennet’s quiet dignity and the way she had met his rudeness with such composure.

He thought about her sharp tongue and her obvious devotion to her family, her apparent indifference to his wealth and status.

Most of all, he thought about the look she had given him—not angry or hurt, but disappointed, as though she had expected better from him.

The realisation that she likely thought ill of him bothered him more than it should have.

He barely knew the woman, and what he did know suggested she was entirely unsuitable for his notice.

She was a gentleman’s daughter, true, but her family’s reduced circumstances and her own manner marked her as someone he should avoid.

So why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?

“Mr Darcy?” Caroline’s voice broke through his reverie. “You seem quite distracted.”

“My apologies,” he said, forcing his attention back to his companion. “I was merely reflecting on the evening’s… entertainment.”

“Indeed,” Caroline smiled. “Though I confess I find such rustic amusements rather tedious. How much more enjoyable it would be to return to town, where one can find proper society and intelligent conversation.”

Darcy nodded, but his mind wandered again to Elizabeth Bennet and the quiet intelligence he had glimpsed in her manner. Something told him that conversation with her would be anything but tedious—challenging, perhaps, even irritating, but never dull.

The thought disturbed him more than he cared to admit.