Page 10 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)

CHAPTER NINE

I t was no surprise when Jane received an invitation to dine with the Bingley sisters—an invitation that excluded Elizabeth. She had made no inroads in furthering a friendship with them; in fact, the opposite had occurred. She had dealt with her inexcusable feelings for Mr Darcy and her shortage of them towards Mr Bingley in the most cowardly way possible—by avoiding the Netherfield party almost entirely for the last two weeks.

Feelings were stubborn things; they refused to be ruled by the mind, or even by Grandmama’s iron will. Nevertheless, Elizabeth was convinced that all would be well, if only she had enough time to forget the inexplicable results of moonlight and an inexcusably handsome man.

Jane had been urging her, most vehemently, to cease her incomprehensible evasions and resume socialising with them. Elizabeth had been unable to bear telling her sister the truth of her own weakness, leaving Jane to deal with all events Bingley-related, without Elizabeth. In that time, Miss Bingley had, apparently, ceased her rudeness, for it was impossible to know Jane and yet dislike her.

As importantly, Elizabeth’s efforts were working. By dint of avoiding the Bingleys, she had nearly talked herself out of the dilemma.

My perplexing feelings for Mr Darcy were a result of my triumph over a fish, and nothing to do with love or the decisions of a lifetime.

As for Mr Darcy, after walking her and her trout home in silence, she soon heard he had returned to town. Undoubtedly, she had only imagined his response, and exaggerated her own; as for his slight inclination towards Jane, she could not really believe he felt much. Still, the idea of trying to think of Mr Bingley with affection and of Jane pairing off with Mr Darcy was not yet quite possible.

Stupid, stupid Elizabeth.

Mr Darcy was gone, and Mr Bingley—her possible future—remained. I simply need more time.

Jane handed the invitation to Elizabeth with a question in her eyes. “You must go, Jane,” she said, handing it back. “It would be rude to refuse to see your friends.”

“Go? Of course she will go,” Mrs Bennet decreed. “It is unfortunate that the gentlemen are out, but if you go on horseback, you must stay all night. It seems likely to rain. You can take the old mare.”

“What? Mama, no,” Jane protested, but neither Jane’s nor Elizabeth’s arguments over the means of conveyance to Netherfield swayed Mrs Bennet, who had always taken for granted that Jane must be the one who would win Mr Bingley’s heart, and had found a way to ensure they had opportunity to meet again. After it began to rain in drenching floods once Jane would likely have been halfway to her destination, even Lydia gave Mrs Bennet a gimlet eye.

When Elizabeth read the note the following morning, notifying her of the fever from which Jane now suffered, she could think of nothing except reaching her sister’s side. Her father’s reluctant offer to send to the farm for the horses was refused—it would take half the day to fulfil such arrangements, when she could be to Netherfield within an hour if she kept her pace a brisk one.

A shock awaited her in the Bingley breakfast parlour. Its inhabitants were very surprised at her appearance, and upon the faces of Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst, she saw open censure as they looked her up and down, their gazes lingering upon her muddy hems. She almost did not notice them, however—for Mr Darcy was back.

Her flush was immediate; she prayed it would be attributed to the chill of the three-mile walk in the out of doors. He, in turn, gave her a look which was the opposite of her memories of the midnight river; he appeared as though he had all kinds of criticism to offer, and was only prevented from doing so by the sheer number of reproaches leaping to his tongue. Unfortunately, there was no getting round the fact that he was as attractive a man as she had ever seen, and Mr Bingley merely a pale shadow in comparison. Desire was still a live coal in her chest, making her breath hot and closing her throat as she met his dark eyes.

It was Mr Bingley who recalled her to herself, welcoming her with every civility and encouraging her wishes to be with Jane; his good-humoured benevolence restored her voice. Thankfully, she was shown promptly to her sister, who was relieved to see her.

“I am sorry,” Jane whispered, once they were left alone. “I did not mean it to happen.”

“Jane! Of course you did not. This is Mama’s fault, and if you do not recover quickly, I will never speak to her again!”

Jane smiled weakly. “There is not much wrong with me.”

It was obvious, however, that Jane’s fever was not a slight one. Mr Jones came and clucked his tongue, prescribing tonic and rest. Miss Bingley came with Mrs Hurst, and they both proved amiable, sympathetic, and visibly concerned. As the day progressed to evening, her sister grew worse.

In her fear, Elizabeth could not help but remember her father’s grievances, the ‘signs’ he had ignored when deciding to marry her mama…his favourite horse gone lame, the watch stopping unpredictably, the lost lucky penny. To be finally, brutally honest with herself, she had wanted Mr Darcy to kiss her and then she had avoided Mr Bingley for weeks afterwards and now her sister was stricken. Jane had done nothing wrong; the fault was Elizabeth’s.

It was a sign, proof she had spent the last weeks in defiance of her destiny, almost daring fate to intervene. Fate seldom intervened kindly.

Darcy had fled—there was no better word—from Elizabeth Bennet after that cursed moonlit fishing expedition, and gone back to town with the excuse of visiting his sister. When morning came after a sleepless night, he had realised how close he had come to taking Elizabeth into his arms and never letting her go. Her innocence, her bewildered expression revealed in the moonlight, was all that had saved her—and himself.

Both Bennet sisters were the daughters of a gentleman; that, however, was where the similarity ended.

Jane Bennet was—as much as anyone could be—flawless. Her manners were perfect. It was as if she had been moulded from the pages of one of those conduct books, signalling attention to all virtues, self-improvement, and modesty. Neither of his uncles—the earl or the judge—would ever be able to point to her as anything except a model of propriety. When in conversation, she was interested and alert, encouraging others to speak of themselves. Should Georgiana take Miss Bennet as a model of behaviour, he would never fear for her again.

Miss Elizabeth, however, was not cut from the same bolt. Oh, her manners in company were excellent; she never comported herself with the outrageous conduct of her younger sisters. In fact, she drew others to herself like a moth to flame—she was always surrounded by the most interesting people in the room, because she was interesting. She could speak on poetry or politics with nearly equal enthusiasm, and she understood almost as much about farming as he did.

The problem was, her propriety was a garment she donned for company, and discarded when it did not suit her. He could not trust that she would always behave. He would be forever wondering whether she would be obedient to his strictures or not. She could—and did—look him in the eye and boldly lie.

Elizabeth Bennet was unavailable for flirtation, or anything else he might like. Unfortunately, he did like, more with each encounter.

Fleeing was the only answer, and thus he had departed soon after discovering he wanted her.

Taking refuge in his London home, however, did not immediately cure all that ailed him. Even shy, quiet Georgiana had questioned his sullen silences and short temper. He could hardly tell her that he had become intrigued with someone completely inappropriate after everything he had done to terminate her romance with Wickham.

Not that Elizabeth was in the same league as Wickham; it was only that Georgiana required a sister who would teach her the impeccable behaviour required in the competitive social sphere of the ton —where all eyes would be constantly fixed upon her, searching for every mistake—not one whose prowess was in baiting hook and cutting line. It was fortunate indeed that Elizabeth had been too innocent to understand his feelings during that blasted midnight river episode.

Finally, however, he had managed to quell his baffling attraction to her, to guillotine every thought as soon as he thought it. It was easier in town, away from country life and the intrepid country girl of whom he had grown so foolishly fond. After a few visits to his club, his friends, and to Gentleman Jackson’s Parlour, he was back to himself again. Then a letter had arrived from Bingley with all sorts of nearly indecipherable questions regarding the estate—all those issues over which he had promised his assistance when leasing the place. He had examined his frame of mind, and found it to be steady; there were still glimmerings of affection in memory, but he believed them shallow enough to preclude any danger. He would return to Netherfield and prove to himself that the attraction had been an ephemeral one of no importance whatsoever. He might, even, re-examine his preferences for her elder sister.

Thus, he had been shocked by how ridiculously difficult it had been to keep from launching himself at Elizabeth when she had appeared so unexpectedly in the breakfast parlour, her eyes brightened by exercise, her wild curls escaping restraint, a mass of luxuriance he only wished to fist his hands within.

I thought I had crushed my attraction, only to find it crushing me.

He waited for news from Mr Jones, desperately hoping that Elizabeth would take her sister home and stupidly longing, wishing she would stay. When the apothecary pronounced Miss Bennet unable to be moved, he was by turns uneasy and excited.

I no longer know myself, he sighed.