Page 13 of Penned by Mr Darcy (…By Mr Darcy #3)

They settled in the parlour, the tea set out before them. Lydia was almost vibrating with joy as she took in the grand surroundings. Kitty was similarly overjoyed, and Lizzy watched as they squirmed on the settee, trying desperately to keep still.

She couldn’t help but smile at them. For all their silliness, their excitement was genuine, and in a way, endearing. Netherfield was an elegant house, and being welcomed here - even temporarily - felt like a small triumph for the Bennet family.

Mrs. Bennet had placed herself closest to Mr Bingley and was fluttering her eyelashes in a way that made Lizzy want to sink into the floor.

Jane, of course, was not present—still abed upstairs, though doing better by the hour.

Lizzy had insisted she remain resting, and Bingley had, to his credit, agreed that it was best not to disturb her.

“I do hope Miss Bennet is improving,” Bingley said, glancing up at Lizzy with a sincere furrow to his brow as he handed her a cup of tea. “It has been a trying few days, but I trust she is on the mend?”

“She is, thank you,” Lizzy replied, touched by his concern. “She slept much of the morning, and the fever has all but gone.”

“Wonderful news,” Bingley said warmly, clearly pleased. “But she mustn’t rush her recovery. Tell her, if you please, that her presence is sorely missed at tea.”

Mrs. Bennet beamed.

The door opened once more, and Mr Darcy entered.

He paused just inside the threshold, surveying the room with his usual inscrutable expression. His eyes flicked briefly to Lizzy, who returned his gaze with what she hoped was calm neutrality, though her pulse was already racing.

“Darcy!” Bingley called. “Come, take tea with us. You know the rest of the Miss Bennets, of course, and Mrs Bennet.”

Mr Darcy inclined his head stiffly.

“Mrs Bennet. Miss Bennets.” He nodded toward Kitty and Lydia, who were too busy gawking at him to respond coherently.

“Mr Darcy! You are still here. I would have expected you to have departed Hertfordshire; I know that you do not hold much stead with us here. It was clear from your poor show at the Assembly, leaving so many girls to dance alone.”

Darcy’s gaze flicked to Elizabeth, as though expecting her to share his horror or rebuke her mother. She gave him only the faintest of smiles and returned to her tea.

Lydia whispered something to Kitty, who broke into a fit of muffled giggles. Lizzy shot them both a warning look.

Conversation meandered awkwardly, with Bingley doing most of the talking and Mrs. Bennet dropping unsubtle hints about Jane’s virtues, her fine complexion, and the elegance of her needlework. Lizzy did her best to redirect the flow when she could, but she was fighting a tide.

All the while, she was acutely aware of Mr Darcy's quiet presence, of his gaze that lingered a fraction too long when it met hers, of the heaviness in the air whenever he was near.

“I am bored of public balls,” Lydia said, as though anyone had asked for her opinion. “Mr Bingley, I hear talk that you are to host a ball here at Netherfield before Christmas!”

Lizzy thought privately that Lydia had heard no such talk; instead, she knew that the way to make people do what she wanted was to act as though it was their decision entirely.

It was a well-practised tactic, and Lizzy was disappointed to see that Mr Bingley fell immediately for her sister’s tricks.

“A ball! I had not planned on it, but if it would be a welcome addition to the social calendar, then, why not!”

“Charles,” Caroline Bingley began, “I rather think…”

“The end of November, I think,” Mr Bingley continued. “That would be splendid. I believe we will have much to celebrate.”

“And then he said he will host a ball at the end of November, just like that!” Lizzy recounted to her sister once their family had returned to Longbourn.

“I do hope we receive an invitation.”

“An invitation? Why, Jane, I believe you will be the guest of honour! He said there would be much to celebrate – what else could he have meant but an engagement!”

“Lizzy, we have not known him a month! Mr Bingley does not strike me as an impulsive sort, and I should like to know him better. He has seen little of me, and what he has seen has been far from ideal. He has seen me dance at a ball, and then utterly laid out because of a cold. I should think a happy medium would be the start of a courtship.”

It was the first time Jane had made an admission that a courtship would be something that she desired, and Lizzy savoured this small triumph.

“Fine, fine, but it shall be an excuse for him to see you at your most beautiful once again! He will be as enchanted with your dancing as he was that first night, and I am sure – if he has not already done so by the time the ball begins – he will call upon our father to ask for his permission to court you.”

“Do not talk of dancing,” Jane smiled. “I feel dizzy at the mention of it.”

“Just think Jane, you will be the mistress of all this.”

Jane simply shook her head, closing her eyes. It was easy to avoid conversations when one was ill, Lizzy was realising; simply close your eyes and feign sleep. Jane was becoming rather an expert at it.

“Very well,” Lizzy conceded. She pressed a kiss to her sister’s forehead. “I will leave you to rest.”

∞∞∞

After the peculiar encounter in the kitchen, Mr Darcy was conspicuous by his absence for the rest of their stay at Netherfield.

Elizabeth scarcely knew what to make of it.

The moment itself - a quiet collision of midnight hunger, candlelight, and Mr Darcy in his shirtsleeves beside the kitchen hearth - had left her wide awake long after he had retreated into the darkened hallway.

Their conversation had been restrained, their hands had nearly touched, and yet…

something in the silence between them had cracked wide open.

She had returned to her room with uneaten bread and a pulse that refused to settle.

Since then, she had not seen him - not at breakfast, not during the polite hours of drawing room conversation, nor on the gravel paths of the garden when the weather permitted. Not even Caroline had mentioned him, and that silence, more than anything, made Elizabeth uneasy.

Bingley had offered some vague excuse - something about Darcy being "quite occupied with matters from town" - but Elizabeth did not believe it. Not fully. It was not the busyness of a man with letters to write.

Jane, of course, noticed Elizabeth’s distraction.

“You are quite pensive this morning,” she said gently over tea, her cheeks still flushed from her daily letter from London. “Has something happened?”

Elizabeth hesitated.

“Nothing of consequence… though Mr Darcy seems to have vanished altogether.”

Jane’s brow furrowed in concern.

“He is not unwell, I hope?”

“No,” Elizabeth said slowly. “But I do wonder if he’s avoiding me.”

Jane looked surprised. “Whatever for?”

Elizabeth swallowed heavily; she had no wish to tell Jane of the strange encounter they had shared.

It was nothing, she was sure. The stay at Netherfield had given Lizzy too much time with her thoughts, and as a result she was over analysing the smallest of interactions.

Mr Darcy had been concerned for her welfare, a natural worry considering she had spent much of her time with her sister.

“Oh, I am just being silly I suppose,” Lizzy smiled. “I can never seem to say the right thing around him, that is all, and I suppose I worry that I’ve caused him some grievous offence without realising.”

“If he has taken offence, then that is surely his own business; I do believe any true gentleman could not find you anything but charming.”

“You are entirely bias.”

“Perhaps. I should be glad to get home tomorrow; I grow tired of these four walls, no matter how finely they are decorated.”

Elizabeth smiled faintly at her sister’s words, but her thoughts were elsewhere. It was their last night at Netherfield, and yet the atmosphere felt strangely suspended—too much left unsaid, too many glances missed or avoided.

As she retired for the night, Elizabeth found herself restless. She wandered into the library under the pretence of finding something to read for the journey, though she suspected—no, hoped—she might find more than a book.

She did not expect to find Mr Darcy already there.

He stood near the hearth, hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid. The firelight played over the sharp lines of his face, casting half of it in warm gold and half in shadow.

“Miss Bennet,” he said without turning. “I had not thought—”

“I was looking for a book,” she replied, her voice low. “But if I am disturbing you…”

“No,” he said quickly, turning to face her. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those dark, intense eyes—seemed to search hers for something. “Please, stay.”

She crossed the threshold slowly, the door clicking shut behind her. “I had wondered if you meant to say goodbye at all.”

He flinched, only slightly, but enough. “It was never my intention to appear rude.”

“I believe you succeeded nonetheless.”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “There are things I wish I could explain. But I doubt any explanation would satisfy propriety—or your opinion of me.”

“That is not for you to decide,” she said, surprising even herself with the softness of her tone.

His eyes snapped back to hers.

“Then I will be plain. I find myself… affected by you, Miss Bennet. More than is wise, more than I understand. And when I saw you that night…” he stopped short, visibly restraining himself. “It was a moment of weakness. I have not allowed myself many.”

Elizabeth’s breath caught. The heat in the room suddenly felt suffocating.

She stepped closer—too close, perhaps—but neither of them moved away.

“And now?”

“I fear I have said too much already.”

They stood there, still and charged, a hair’s breadth between them. Elizabeth could feel the tension ripple in the air, as though even the flickering candlelight hesitated.