Page 4 of Old Boots (Pride and Prejudice Variations #3)

CHAPTER FOUR

T he interior of Mr Bennet’s house was just as I imagined it would be after having seen the exterior.

There were clues here and there that it had been remodelled in the last century—an awkwardly placed arch, marble flooring in the hall, and a pair of windows in the parlour that looked too Palladian in style to match the rest of the glazing.

Miss Bennet urged her father to come out of his library, and he greeted me with distant civility.

He was slightly bent as though from the weight of old age and had about him an air of distraction.

He was not in the least inclined to nurse along a conversation.

Miss Elizabeth went directly to a chair and began to sew, and a young lady came into the room bearing a tray.

“My sister Mary,” Miss Bennet explained, before serving my tea, and I searched vainly for something to say. Thankfully, Miss Bennet’s manners were such that she smoothed over what threatened to be an awkward silence.

“As I said earlier, Mr Darcy, you handle Bandit very well. How do you do it?”

“Having bridle-trained a few high tempered stallions, I adopt a certain tone of voice.”

“Truly? I have tried to speak to him insistently but to no avail.”

“That is because he only hears your tone that, forgive me for saying so, is far too forgiving.” I tried to keep my attention focused solely on Miss Bennet, but I saw Miss Elizabeth’s eyes roll just a little as she listened.

And so I said, perhaps too pointedly, “Neither is a tone of exasperation likely to command his attention.”

Mr Bennet observed he had yet to see anything other than his dinner command the dog’s attention, but his eldest daughter then described to her father the obedient creature he had become under my tutelage.

“My wife did not allow dogs, perhaps for good reason,” Mr Bennet said, “but my daughter is a pudding-heart where that mongrel is concerned, and I am a pudding-heart where she is concerned.”

All three daughters graced their father with such a loving look at his confession that I could not help but be struck. For some reason, I felt compelled to offer my assistance.

“If you like, perhaps I could show you how to manage him better.”

“Would you, sir? But that would be marvellous! I can only agree, however, if you promise such an undertaking is no imposition on your time. I understand you are here for the shooting?”

Mr Bennet roused himself a little, and we spoke sparingly of sport. I finished my tea and excused myself, only after making arrangements to come back to train Bandit to heel.

Unfortunately, Miss Bingley held back tea at Netherfield Park on my behalf. I had no desire for more, however, and this became yet another stone in her shoe.

“Tea, Mr Darcy?” she asked sweetly.

“Thank you, no. A glass of claret would be welcome, however.”

The wine was dispensed by a footman at the chinoiserie cabinet where the spirits were kept, a circumstance that threw Miss Bingley into confusion.

“Wine? But I know how much you enjoy your tea, sir,” she said.

I might have relented because, in truth, I am not thoroughly wicked, were it not for the footman’s expression as he lifted his eyes to me for clarification. It was almost as though he willed me to cross her.

“I believe I would like the claret,” I said, turning to speak to Bingley.

“Well! But I prepare his tea just as he likes it,” I heard Miss Bingley say to her sister sotto voce.

There was something in this proprietary statement that caused me to rebel. While sugar in my tea was not my preference, nor was tea without cream, I decided then and there never to ask for my tea to be stirred in the same way twice in a row.

My programme of disrupting Miss Bingley’s claims of familiarity grew over the following days. I suspect that some discussion of the lady’s discomposure must have been indulged below stairs because Carsten began to give me a few hints.

“I have heard, sir, that Miss Bingley has requested the roasted capon for dinner,” he said one morning shortly after the incident of the tea.

I frowned at such a seemingly random comment, but then my valet casually added that Miss Bingley believed that dish to be one of my favourites.

Our eyes met in a flash of solidarity. “Is that so?”

That evening, when I was offered a portion of the capon, I declined, opting instead for a second helping of soup.

It would have been very poor taste for Miss Bingley to remark upon my odd selection, and she refrained but only with obvious difficulty.

Her assurance was knocked slightly out of square, and she faltered more than once in leading the dinner conversation.

Meanwhile, I became a great favourite of the servants and began to enjoy my status. My horse was always saddled before Bingley’s, and Mr Hurst complained his hot water was late in the mornings, while mine arrived promptly, still steaming, with shy smiles and deep curtseys.

My host seemed fairly unaware of these doings, as were Mr and Mrs Hurst. Louisa Hurst was a slightly empty-headed, incurious lady, which was just as well, given she married a lump of flesh who loved only food and drink.

Thus, we careened along. Most mornings, the gentlemen went out shooting, and most afternoons I spent with Bingley, trying to force him to pay attention to what I tried to teach him.

And while he expressed eagerness to learn, he only became truly eager when he had visitors or went out visiting.

Unlike me, Bingley was a man who loved to be amiable, social, and accommodating.

But he was not without compassion, and he seemed not only to understand but to provide for my preference for solitude.

“A local gentleman, Sir William Lucas, called on me yesterday while you were out,” he told me one afternoon.

I had gone for the third time to Longbourn and spent a solid hour instilling a particle of discipline in my brainless student—Bandit, not Miss Bennet.

“Oh? And how did you find him?” I said, dragging my mind away from the Bennets.

“Quite cordial, in fact. He has offered to introduce me to everybody worth knowing.”

I groaned inwardly, but replied impartially. “Oh?”

“You do not want to always be visiting,” Bingley said with a burst of perspicacity, “but if you would like to join me, of course you are welcome. I leave it to you, Darcy.”

“I have enjoyed my solitary walks,” I murmured, drowning out my twinging conscience, since my absences were all spent, not alone, but in company at Longbourn.

“And I have no intention of disrupting your pleasure,” Bingley continued. “I am for Lucas Lodge to pay a call, and I mean to take Hurst with me if I can roust him off the sofa.”

“Hmm? What?” mumbled the man drowsing by the fire.

“I was only jesting, Hurst,” Bingley said, in the loud voice one uses with an elderly or drunken person. “I am making a few calls this afternoon if you would like to go.”

“Take Caroline and Louisa,” Hurst mumbled, before once again closing his eyes .

When the subject was brought up with the ladies, they agreed to go.

Miss Bingley looked perfectly satisfied with the plan, and I suspected that my presence when the invitation was extended implied I would go along.

How Bingley got her to leave the house without me I do not know, for I was already hacking to Longbourn.