Page 11 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)
CHAPTER TEN
O n that first day and evening spent at Netherfield, Elizabeth held firmly to her objectives: stay at Jane’s bedside as much as possible, and when forced downstairs by civility and the need for nourishment, speak as much as possible to Mr Bingley.
It was easier than she had expected. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing; indeed, she had very little notice from anyone except him. Had not Jane been so ill, Elizabeth might have taken some heart that Fate was finally doing its job, pushing them together. When looking about for a book to read, he offered to bring her his whole library, if it would entertain her. Granted, his book collection was not very grand. Still, his consideration was most flattering, and she thanked him from her heart, feeling less like an intruder and more of a welcome guest with his every courtesy.
Mr Darcy all but ignored her, thankfully, with Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst adopting his conduct, and she left them all to their game of loo with the excuse of wishing to remain close to her sister. It was a long night, with very little sleep for Elizabeth. In the wee hours of the morning the fever mercifully broke, and she wondered, again, if this was a sign that she had righted her path. Briefly, she considered sending a note to Longbourn and obtaining Mrs Bennet’s opinion on whether or not Jane might be well enough to return home.
She decided she could not risk it.
As long as Jane stayed at Netherfield, they both must stay at Netherfield. It might be a matter of Jane’s life or death that Elizabeth remain right where she was, and encourage Mr Bingley’s affections in any way she could.
With Jane’s recovery imminent, if not at all complete, the next evening, Elizabeth felt better about joining the party in the drawing room. She had resolved to speak to Mr Bingley and if possible, come to know him better and help him to know her. Above all, she would not engage Mr Darcy.
Alert to any possible conversational opportunities, she listened as Miss Bingley pestered Mr Darcy mercilessly as he wrote letters, until Mr Bingley interjected a tease regarding Mr Darcy’s extensive vocabulary. This generated Miss Bingley’s valiant defence of her favourite. When she scolded Mr Bingley for his own reliance on single-syllable words, Elizabeth promptly came to his aid.
“Your humility must disarm reproof,” she told him.
To her surprise, Mr Darcy rose up in criticism of Mr Bingley, whom she of course again supported, and soon Elizabeth and Mr Darcy were bickering between themselves.
“An indirect boast! Do you expect such perfection in your friends?” she questioned.
“I expect them to have some courage of conviction, avoiding a change of mind at any slight change of opinion.”
“Is it so awful to be malleable? Is it a fault to conform to the desires of a friend when one’s plans are not fixed?”
“It is,” he said, “when one’s plans are never fixed, for want of resolution.”
She frowned at him. “Such a man might only be showing a friend respect! Whether the friend deserves it or not, in his willingness to adapt to the plans of another, can you not recognise his own modesty? You have only shown him to be the better comrade.”
Mr Bingley, appearing somewhat alarmed at their rapidly heating debate, intervened. “I daresay your application is overly generous, Miss Elizabeth.”
Mr Darcy’s eyes narrowed, continuing as if Mr Bingley had not spoken. “Oh, by all means, Miss Elizabeth, convert all of his faults into virtues. Would you receive a friend’s letters full of scores and crosses and be pleased with his careless attention? How is that not inconsideration?”
Elizabeth was filled with energy at his unsubtle rebuke. “Should a friend refuse to write his letters, thus neglecting his friends, simply because he does not perform the task perfectly? Do not those very imperfections add to the correspondence rather than render it futile? Surely there is much more entertainment in questioning the finer points of his dispatch than to struggle upon a dull Sunday evening to find something to talk about?”
“There is nothing more awful than Darcy with nothing to do on a dull Sunday evening,” Mr Bingley agreed, still looking from one to the other of them with unease.
“You make little sense,” Mr Darcy snapped, ignoring him. “Why write at all, if one cannot convey a comprehensive thought? A letter is a vehicle created for the express purpose of conveying information. Why is it the responsibility of the recipient to decipher random words and try to form them into coherency?”
“Obviously, the degree of friendship must be taken into account,” Elizabeth argued. “Those to whom I am close, I already understand much of those subjects of interest to them, which of course aids all such interpretations. Surely you know Mr Bingley well enough to supply a missing word or two.”
“Surely he could slow down long enough to make such efforts unnecessary.”
“Surely it matters more that his thoughts express the sweetness of his temper, the generosity of his spirit, the kindness of his manner. Why would you parse grammar over content?”
“What proof of goodness can you detect in negligence?”
The sheer number of responses she was tempted to say, briefly silenced her. They stared daggers at each other, both furious until…it happened again. The look crossed his face once more—not anger, no, but the one from the river. The one which said he did not wish to argue, but do something very different. It was almost as if his passionate arguments had been a disguise for another sort of passion entirely, and abruptly, her words disappeared, fading away into disbelief, dismay, and…yes, desire. It seemed a sort of conduit between them carried live coals within it, heating the very air in the room.
“This is too much,” Mr Bingley cried, his words a cold splash of water upon the warmth, recalling her to herself. “I am exceedingly gratified by Miss Elizabeth’s defence, but we will agree that, for Darcy’s sake, I shall hire a secretary for my correspondence before my reputation is pilloried beyond repair.”
“I apologise,” Mr Darcy said immediately. “My fondness for debate overruled any virtue I can claim of my own. Will you forgive me my hasty words, Bingley? Miss Elizabeth?”
While Mr Bingley guffawed heartily and declared it all meaningless, Elizabeth could barely manage to—very hurriedly—nod and return her attention to her needlework, hoping against hope that the fates had not noticed her blunder.