Page 6 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)

CHAPTER FIVE

“W hat do you think of Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth asked her sister the morning after the Lucas’s party. They sat together in the blue parlour, the smallest, shabbiest of Longbourn’s parlours, staying out of sight of their mama, who had one of her nervous megrims. Mary had already been captured and shackled, so to speak, to her mother’s bedside, while Kitty and Lydia had escaped to their aunt Philips’s in the village.

To her surprise, Jane frowned; it was not an expression often seen upon her fair visage. “There is nothing to think about him. I wish everyone would stop asking.”

“Who has asked?” she wondered, thinking of her conversation with Mrs Hurst.

“Oh, the Harrington sisters and Mary King, a couple of others. It is all nonsense of course—the idea that for the sake of a few dances, Mr Darcy might be considering wedlock. If he held an interest, he would call—and I am glad he does not, for he really is rather terrifying. Even Mama does not believe it means so much, after she learnt of his kinship to the Earl of Matlock. Still, it is a good thing that she is so much in awe of him and his uncle both, lest she begin to hope.”

Miss Bingley had ensured that everyone in the neighbourhood knew of that connexion. Lord Matlock was a more alarming figure than Mr Darcy would ever be, a firebrand of the London political scene and an icon of the social one.

“I doubt he is too much like his uncle,” Elizabeth offered, thinking of the scene at the river with a secret smile. He had not been so high in the instep then . “Perhaps you should try to encourage him. He seems like a worthy gentleman.”

Jane’s eyes widened. “Oh, I would never . Lizzy, I cannot even speak of the weather to him! Polite conversation seems stupid and dull when he is nearby. It is those eyes of his, I think. They are so dark, so cold, so fathomless.” She shuddered, but Elizabeth had to stop herself from rolling her own eyes, and it was with some impatience that she replied.

“He cannot help his eyes , Jane. Miss Bingley has no trouble simpering at him with that awful shrill giggle of hers, and her birth is not nearly so well as yours.”

Jane raised a brow, her tone laced with remonstration. “Miss Bingley cannot help her dreadful laugh just as Mr Darcy cannot help his dreadful gaze. You must try harder to befriend her.”

In this, her sister was correct, and Elizabeth could not even be offended at the scold. Miss Bingley, unfortunately, presented something of a dilemma in any hopes for a union between herself and Mr Bingley. Miss Bingley did not appear to like most people, with the possible exception of Jane—for who could help but like Jane? Mrs Hurst had been friendly when she was attempting to discover whether Mr Darcy had called at Longbourn, but had dropped all attempts at conversation quickly enough after gaining her answers.

Elizabeth, in turn, did not like either of them.

“I know you are right,” Elizabeth grumbled. “If I had a brother, I would certainly object to his marriage to a woman for whom I could not feel any affection. Clearly, I must somehow learn to like them. Yet, after a few minutes of conversation with the Bingley sisters, I feel an unholy urge to put a nail in my eye if only so it would give me an excuse to leave them. How do you do it, Jane? How do you ignore Miss Bingley’s snide remarks upon every fault in the neighbourhood, and Mrs Hurst’s vapid agreement with everything you say?”

Jane giggled. “Oh, Lizzy, they are not that bad. Some people have more trouble with change and new places than others. I try to overlook Miss Bingley’s complaints, and encourage the conversation towards happier subjects. She is an expert on all the latest fashions from town, and Mrs Hurst has met so many people! Mr Hurst is a nephew of Lord Courtenay and is invited absolutely everywhere. She can tell you anything about anyone.”

Yet another earl to whom Mr Darcy was, apparently, related, since Mr Hurst was his cousin. Elizabeth decided not to mention the connexion to her sister.

“When given an opportunity to speak, perhaps so,” Elizabeth replied. “Her younger sister, however, dominates every conversation. I cannot think of a duller afternoon than listening to Miss Bingley drone on about sleeves.”

Jane smiled sympathetically, and Elizabeth bit her tongue against any more complaints.

It was probably Jane’s virtues, as much as her beauty, that attracted most people—Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley, certainly. All the sermons Elizabeth had ever read or listened to said so.

It is past time I developed her best qualities in myself , she thought, with some despair. Saintliness had never been one of her strong points.

Darcy knew, after dancing with the beauteous Miss Bennet once again , that he ought to either call upon the young lady and begin his suit, else go back to town. His feelings inclined towards the latter. However, he could tell that the instant he did so, Bingley would begin a pursuit of her—the only thing stopping him was Darcy’s own possible interest, he was sure. Since Darcy had not, yet, decided unequivocally against the lady, he remained at Netherfield. It did not mean he was happy with the supply of entertainments available.

The village of Meryton and its surrounds was celebrating the end of the harvest with their annual Charities Fair, and Bingley’s enthusiasm for the event surpassed what was logical or reasonable.

“Look at this, Darcy! The vicar told me that most of what is raised selling food and gewgaws at this event will go to build a new school. An excellent cause, do not you think?”

Darcy sighed, glancing over to where tables were set up underneath the trees on the village green. Those selling ale and meat pies were quite the busiest group—Sir William himself, along with his eldest sons, were urging others to partake. They were not the only ones showing their devotion to a cause; tables were set up all around the green, selling all manner of wares. He recognised Mrs Goulding organising a table of beads; Mrs Harrington and her daughters were displaying cheaply made rings and necklaces while Lady Lucas and the Miss Lucases presided over a table of baked goods. Bingley had made a beeline for a prettily decorated table offering lemonade for sale; the Bennet sisters ladling it up were the obvious attraction.

But not all of the Bennet sisters were hawking lemonade. He searched among the crowds for the one who did not possess golden curls and blue eyes, the one who did not fit the usual mould. Rather, she was striking—if he did not miss his guess, she would remain in looks long past the time when all her sisters’ beauty had faded. Idly, he wondered where she might be, scanning the lines for the sight of her trim, pleasing figure.

“Mr Darcy!”

He heard Miss Bingley’s voice calling him through the surrounding chatter and laughter, and only just stopped himself from sighing again as she and Mrs Hurst approached, their eyes alight.

“You will never guess what I have learnt, no never! You will not believe what Miss Elizabeth Bennet has done!”

He understood that Miss Bingley was jealous of all the Bennet sisters as a general rule—for even the homeliest of them was quite pretty—but she could not practise her usual scorn upon the eldest, who had never yet made a blunder she could pounce upon. Perhaps that was why she held the second sister in an even greater contempt. He could not imagine how Miss Elizbeth might have earned her derision at a charity fair, however.

It was a temptation to make a cutting remark that would silence her—but had Miss Bingley discovered the fishing? If so, he must try to undo any damage from her gossiping tongue. “Is she here?” he asked, affecting a tone of disinterest.

“She is. Oh, yes, she is,” Mrs Hurst said, with what could only be termed a snicker.

“She has her own table for her preferred, most favoured charity,” Miss Bingley divulged, with the air of one revealing a scandalous secret. “I can only imagine what dear Miss Bennet—indeed, what her entire family must think. I cannot believe her father allowed her to involve herself in such a way. She shames them all.”

He began to feel somewhat alarmed; he knew, from Miss Elizabeth herself, that Mr Bennet seldom paid much attention to the niceties. Frowning, he skimmed the tables again, not seeing her.

“She is over there,” Miss Bingley tsked, pointedly staring behind him. “I heard that Mrs Long tried to prevent her from participating, lest it lend disgrace to others. She has her nieces to think of, you know. Apparently the vicar, Mr Palmer, intervened on her behalf, else Miss Elizabeth would not have been allowed to promulgate her fancies at all. It does not look as though sales are brisk, however.”

There was too much glee in her tone. This could not be good.

Darcy cast his gaze in the opposite direction of the crowds, and saw at last a lone, small table, stacked with handkerchiefs. Behind it, sat Miss Elizabeth, her head held high. There was something about her posture that told him she was both furious and…fragile.

“What might this disgraceful charity be?”

Mrs Hurst opened her mouth to answer, but Miss Bingley quelled her with a look. “Oh, I do not think it would be proper to say,” she cooed, fluttering her fan in pretended modesty.

“I cannot always understand a lady’s aim in beginning a conversation she does not mean to finish,” he said bitingly, and she flushed. “Perhaps it is meant to inspire wonder and intrigue, but if so, it fails in its objective.”

Mrs Hurst, obviously troubled by his annoyance, decided that distraction was the better part of valour. “Oh, look, Caroline,” she cried, as if she had never before noticed the Bennets serving lemonade. “There is our dear Miss Bennet with a couple of her charming sisters. We must patronise her table, must we not? We do want to help her very admirable cause! A new school building, I believe.”

Miss Bingley obeyed her with alacrity; as soon as they were caught up in the not insubstantial crowd surrounding the Bennets, he made his way to Miss Elizabeth. In order to draw as little attention to himself as possible, he approached from the trees behind her.

“What have you done to make of yourself a pariah?” he asked.

She startled, swinging her gaze to meet his. Very quickly, however, her chin lifted again as she answered. “My cause is just, and if certain people wish to ignore it or believe that they are too elevated to feel empathy, I cannot help them.”

He gestured to the untouched stacks of handkerchiefs upon her table. “You do not appear to be doing much to help your cause, either. What is this scandalous charity?”

“The Magdalen House,” she said defiantly.

His brows raised. He had heard of it. “I have heard it more fully referred to as a house for the reception of ‘penitent prostitutes’.”

“Well, yes. But where is such a girl to go, if she does not wish to live in sin and horror? Everyone wishes to raise money for a new school, but it is not as though they have nowhere to meet now. The vicar will continue to teach the boys, all of whom, I can assure you, have good homes and live in comfort, whether or not a new school is built for them.”

“Some would say that those girls created their own horrible situations.”

Her expression hardened. “I am not na?ve, Mr Darcy. I would allege that not every seducer required permission from the young lady in question before he took what was not his to take.”

Darcy knew she was right; had he not had to find new homes and situations for some whom Wickham had either seduced with empty promises, or failed to ask at all? “You have a point, I suppose. Still, how did you hear of this place?”

“The vicar had this,” she explained, handing him a dog-eared pamphlet and sounding more conciliatory now that she plainly felt she had outreasoned him. “It tells all about the work they do. They clothe the girls, feed them, give medical care, and help them find new situations or else reunite with their families. People come from miles around to attend their chapel services to hear the girls sing—it is said that they sound like angels. And Queen Charlotte is its patroness. The Queen of England! It is a very respectable organisation, and only Mrs Long and those who listen to her or care about her stupid opinions would fail to realise it!”

“I do not argue the point,” he assured, holding up his hands as if in surrender.

She slumped a little. “But you are right. Mrs Long has cowed the village matrons into submission, and no one will buy my handkerchiefs. They are a very good cotton, too, each with such nice embroidery. It took me forever to make them, and I shall have to listen to Mama complain about Mrs Long’s criticisms until Christmas, I expect.”

“How much?”

“Oh! Would you care to purchase a handkerchief? I am asking two shillings sixpence, or five shillings for two.”

“I will give you three guineas for the lot. I will even ensure, upon my word as a gentleman, that the entirety of the donation is delivered to Magdalen House. But only if you agree to join your sisters immediately in the business of lemonade and new schools, saying nothing else of penitent prostitutes for the rest of the day, no matter how provoking is Mrs Long.”

For a long moment she hesitated, and he thought she might argue, but when, eyes shining, she agreed, he felt unaccountably cheerful. She wrapped the handkerchiefs in brown paper and tied the parcel with string, handing it over to him. As he reached to take it, she held it fast for a moment, looking up at him earnestly. “I only wanted to help in some real way. Just this once, I wanted to make a difference in something that truly matters.”

He was caught and held there for a moment, warmth suffusing him. “I can appreciate such intentions. I suppose it is why I am now the proud owner of two dozen more handkerchiefs,” he replied, smiling down at her. She really was astonishingly pretty; he could not think why he had not noticed it from the very first.