Page 7 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)

CHAPTER SIX

O n the next morning Elizabeth could escape her mother’s attention, she made her way, with her tackle, to the little bridge where she so often sat to fish. She knew she must stop worrying, and nothing helped soothe her worries like the silence of the river.

The previous weeks had been devoid of progress towards a romance with Mr Bingley. There must be a way to capture his attention! Her hopes, however slight, that Mr Darcy might pursue Jane—and that Jane would, in turn, encourage such pursuit—seemed now so unlikely as to be impossible. Elizabeth had not seen the man in ten days, not since shortly after the charity fair. Mrs Harrington had told Mama that Captain Carter had told her that Mr Darcy had gone back to town, and no one knew if or when he would return.

Besides, it was such a persistently lowering thought—that the man Fate had designed for her must first be lured away from her sister.

Elizabeth looked up sharply at the sound of hooves and the chuff of a horse, and to her astonishment, the subject of her thoughts, Mr Darcy himself, appeared over the rise.

At least my ankles are covered this time.

“Mr Darcy,” she said, finding a smile for him, although she little felt it. “You are back! Fancy meeting you here.”

His smile was brief in return. He tossed the reins over the hedge atop the embankment, and surprisingly, he had brought a pole and basket when he strode down it.

“I like to fish,” he said, “and a local angler told me this is a good spot, even if I am trespassing.”

Elizabeth had placed herself at the centre point of the bridge’s edge, and he did as well—but facing the opposite direction, so that the width of it—just wide enough for a farm cart—was between them.

“I have had your donation delivered. I understand it was received with much gratitude.”

“Thank you,” she replied, blushing for no good reason except that he was absurdly handsome and had performed an unusual kindness for her.

Thankfully, he did not try to converse—he was, plainly, a good enough angler to know that chatter would be unwelcome. It was improper of him to be here at all, of course. As soon as he had seen her here alone, he ought to have turned away. Yet, there seemed something about their mutual pastime that transcended society’s rules governing them both.

For an hour or more, there was silence between them. It was surprisingly easy to pretend he was not there, to find her peace in the easy rhythm of the current. Better still, she was able to set aside her troubles with romance, and simply…fish, thinking of nothing at all.

She was snapped from her reverie when Mr Darcy stood, working his pole; it was not many moments later that he successfully landed a fine-sized carp. He appeared much pleased, with a greater aura of delight than his usual solemnity allowed.

“Shall I put it on the string?” she asked, only to see his eyes widen.

“You?”

Elizabeth shook her head in some amusement. “No servant attends me here. Who did you suppose does it for me?”

“I suppose I did not consider it at all.” He dealt with it himself though, and did not seem to think anything of mud on his trousers or water on his boots. She watched him, wondering at how Jane considered his eyes to be so cold. If she could see him now, she would not be at all frightened of him .

Afterwards, Elizabeth could not seem to go back to pretending he was not there; somehow, she was attuned to his every breath, every shifting creak of wood. The fish were not biting anyhow—at least, not on her side of the bridge. It was annoying, and she nearly gave way to a temptation to pack up her gear and take her leave.

A sudden thought interrupted this plan, however. Might this not be an opportunity, a means of assisting her quest to earn Mr Bingley’s regard—a chance to know more of him and his family?

“How long have you known Mr Bingley’s sisters?” Elizabeth blurted, before she could talk herself out of it.

Mr Darcy swivelled to face her; he appeared thoughtful rather than irritated at her interruption.

“Hurst is a distant cousin of mine. When Bingley’s father died a couple of years ago, Hurst introduced me as someone who could assist him.”

She nodded, thinking of how she might steer the conversation. “I have tried to befriend them, without much success.”

His brows rose, but he did not deny her statement. “They do not easily take to others outside their family circle.”

“They like Jane well enough, I think.”

A furrow appeared. He seemed to struggle for appropriate words. “Your sister is—she is very…very agreeable.”

In her efforts to paint the perfect picture of Jane, Elizabeth’s words got away from her. “There is no one in the world more good-hearted and considerate than Jane. One would have to be an utter toad not to respond to her warmth and kindness. She and I are opposites.”

As soon as she finished, she realised what she had said. Stupid! I ought not to have said that last bit! He will think I am not good enough for Mr Bingley!

Unexpectedly he smiled. “You have your moments.”

“Moments of sarcasm and teasing, or moments of pitying penitent prostitutes?” She clamped her mouth shut. Too much truth, Lizzy!

“And interesting conversation, which I am sure many would like. Why do you care what the Bingley sisters think?”

His compliment was startling, and she answered his question without thinking.

“Care? I would not, usually.” He frowned, and she hastened to add, “Yet they are new neighbours. It seems like we ought to be friendly, does it not? But even Jane cannot completely crack the cold heart of Miss Bingley. At the garden party at Stoke a few days ago, she ignored us utterly, and I think Jane was a little hurt. No one who knows Jane dislikes her, and yet one moment Miss Bingley is engaging, and the next, she disregards her like last season’s fashions. There is no reason for hostility. And if she cannot like and respect dear Jane, why, I have no chance of ever being her friend.”

Mr Darcy appeared uncomfortable, and a sudden thought struck her. Ordinarily, she would never have said it aloud, but…but they were fishing together—or at least, fishing at the same time, in a peculiarly informal situation. Or that was the excuse she gave herself later; the truth was, the thought was astonishing and her ungoverned tongue thoughtlessly voiced it.

“Miss Bingley is in love with you, is she not? And you danced with Jane and no one else at Sir William’s party! Did you explain to her that Sir William foisted Jane upon you, and it was nothing to do with romance?”

His look grew stern. “What I choose to do, or not do, should be of no importance to Miss Bingley. There never was and never shall be anything between us, which I could not have made more clear to her, had I published it in The Morning Herald .”

Elizabeth waved this off. “Of course she knows this. Her fortune was earned in trade—her birth is simply not well enough for the bluest blood. It was the compliment of your attention she could not stand, because of her love. Poor Miss Bingley! And of course, poor Mr Darcy, who must leave a trail of broken hearts wherever he goes.”

“Why do I doubt that your sister’s heart is broken, or anyone else that I know of?”

“Of course, Jane’s would not be—you already know of my relations in Cheapside, and who are my mother and uncles. Jane is nearly as ineligible as Miss Bingley is, if not more so.”

“Your father is a gentleman. In that, we are the same.”

The same ? A man with earls coming out his ears and more than ten thousand a year? Unless…unless those dances meant more than she had believed, and Mrs Hurst’s molehill was much closer to the mountain she had claimed. Elizabeth nearly fell off the bridge in surprise at the realisation. “Could it be that you have a-a true interest in Jane ?”

Darcy’s instinct was to quash Miss Elizabeth’s surprised enquiry with one of the cutting retorts he used to quell Miss Bingley’s, the likes of which were always effective. It wounded his dignity to speak of such personal matters to anyone, much less a near stranger, and were she to repeat his sentiments, he would be humiliated or worse—obligated.

Yet… any female who could sit in utter and complete silence for an hour was not his usual variety of female; one who could string her own fish and bait her own hook was hardly a female at all.

That was it then: Miss Elizabeth was, nearly, a different species.

A mannerly young lady, yes—he had carefully observed her. She was not the sort who was easily ignored. Also, a welcoming, approachable sort, who appreciated nature, who was strong and unafraid and never squeamish, who could speak easily to a crowd or single out a companion for her attention. One who brought good cheer and affable company wherever she was and yet somehow deflected such attention as well—never absorbing it for her own sake. There was, it was true, a streak of heedlessness, even recklessness, within her. She would not be easily governed, and he pitied the man who took her to wife. Still, it took much patience to be a good fisherman. Fisherwoman. Something like that . Most importantly, one other thing was clear: Miss Elizabeth would never join the clambering, scrambling vine climbers officiously vying for the office of ‘Mrs Darcy’.

“I do not know,” he replied.

Her brows rose nearly to her hairline, and he took offence at her unstated opinion.

“Taking an interest in any young lady is not so easy as you think,” he argued. “Under the usual courses of courtship, one can converse with a young lady whom one finds interesting, and thus come to know her—gradually, slowly. If either, or both, discover they could not be happy in the match, there is time to create distance before deeper feelings are involved. You, however, are likely the only person in all of Hertfordshire who does not believe I am on the verge of proposing to your sister, all on the basis of a few dances.”

“Oh, no,” Miss Elizabeth said with a grin which might be called sly. “I can assure you that my sister has no expectations, either.”

“She is pleasingly modest,” he observed. “It is not usual in great beauties.”

“You would be most fortunate to win her regard,” Miss Elizabeth contended. “Jane epitomises all the virtues.”

“That is the difficulty. I am not allowed to win the regard of anyone. I attempt a few dances to initiate a slightly more personal conversation, but what topics are relevant in a ballroom beyond the size of the room or the number of the couples?”

At his observation, she grew more serious. “I have often thought the same. External appearances are almost the only factor one might easily take into consideration, and as I know by experience, they are the least secure foundation for building a happy marriage.”

“By experience?” he asked with disbelief.

She gave him a chiding look. “Not my own, of course.” She appeared to hesitate, then shrugged. “My mother was the prettiest young lady in Meryton; my father was the handsomest young man. It only seemed natural to him that he should have her. All their interactions were public ones, at card parties, assemblies, and the like. It was not until after their marriage that they discovered they were as incompatible in their interests and understanding as it is possible for two people to be.”

“They had no parent to guide them?” He knew—thanks, naturally, to Miss Bingley—that Mrs Bennet was the daughter of a solicitor. Her parents would have been pushing for such a noteworthy connexion, but one would think Mr Bennet’s parents might have intervened.

“My father had only his mother, and she was not in good health nor in any frame to advise him. My mother’s father was much in favour of the wedding, although her mother protested loudly and often against it.”

He could not prevent his surprise at this. “Truly? But why would her mother not wish for such a promising match?”

She appeared to hesitate. After a moment she said, cautiously, “My grandmother Gardiner was well known for what she knew without knowing.”

Darcy frowned at her. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”

“Neither did the fact that Grandmama Gardiner was so vehemently opposed to a match so entirely in her daughter’s favour. She swore it would be an unhappy marriage and that my mother would rue the day she failed to listen to Grandmama’s complaints. Somehow, she was correct on every count.”

It was Darcy’s turn to hesitate. “Very often, unequal pairings are believed to be unwise.”

Miss Elizabeth gave him a wry look. “Usually, it is those at the top of the heap objecting to those at the bottom, or even the middle, climbing higher.”

“Surely not always. Not everyone has a desire to change their sphere in life.”

She smiled. “You mean, like the Bingleys? Most are content to remain in the sphere of their births?”

He had to concede that point. “Very well, I suppose most do wish for more opportunity, greater distinction. Still, perhaps her objections were personal. If she noticed a wide disparity of character and disposition between your mother and father, predicting unhappiness might not have been difficult.”

“That might be so. However, it was not her only correct prediction. For instance, she somehow knew, with every babe my mother carried, that each one would be a female.”

Darcy shrugged. “Lucky guesses. There are only two choices.”

“Not so lucky,” Miss Elizabeth sighed. “My father’s estate is entailed away from the female line.” Darcy saw her observe his obvious astonishment at this revelation. “I am surprised no one told you. It is very well known,” she said.

Darcy was conscious of a strong sense of disappointment—Miss Bennet was even less eligible than he had believed. But on the heels of that thought, came another: Was not her lack of estate, in a peculiar way, in the young lady’s favour? Had he not wished for ‘a nobody from nowhere’? If he married Miss Bennet, he would have her gratitude, always, for her rescue; her loyalty would be to him for the sake of it—and, naturally, his ability to provide protection for her beloved sisters. He must consider his plans very carefully, he decided, and noting the time, began gathering up his tackle; he would be missed at Netherfield if he stayed away much longer.

He took his leave of Miss Bennet’s unusual sister with surprising regret. Miss Elizabeth was a font of information, without being in any way a gossip—this observation causing yet another notion to occur to him. Perhaps he could come to know Jane Bennet without instigating the usual whispers and expectations; surely everything he needed to know about her, he could learn from her closest sister. It might be his only opportunity for such an experience. He must consider Miss Bennet very carefully, indeed.