Page 11 of Some Natural Importance (Pride, Prejudice and Romance #3)
CHAPTER SEVEN
The day had started bright but the afternoon’s breeze carried the scent of rain. Still, the fields and roads were dry, and after a good hour spent inspecting Netherfield’s fences, the promise of it proved too great a temptation. Darcy pulled his hat more firmly on his head and turned in his saddle.
“Fancy a race?”
Bingley nodded keenly and tightened his grip on his reins. “My estate, it must be my victory! One, two, three!”
And he was off, leaving behind his startled friend. Darcy grinned, leaned over his mount’s neck, and urged the eager gelding forward. Bingley, though a decent horseman, was overmatched by his competitor’s skilled manoeuvres and his swifter ride; Darcy overtook him within minutes.
They raced through a field and into a small stand of trees; when they emerged from the wood, Darcy spied a small group of ladies ahead on the road.
He gently reined up; the horse came to a restless halt, trembling and snorting under Darcy’s calming hand as he waited for Bingley.
He caught Bingley’s eye and gestured to the ladies, whom he now clearly saw to be the Bennet sisters .
Walking their horses over to greet them, they had exchanged only a few words before a rumble of thunder not two miles away prompted Bingley to offer the sisters an escort home. The expression on Miss Elizabeth’s face shifted in a manner Darcy found puzzling.
Is she frustrated by the confined company demanded by a heavy rain, or does she not wish the company of two men with whom she danced?
Darcy recalled their conversation at the assembly two days earlier when Elizabeth expressed some resentment of his role as adviser to her father; he would assure her that no visit was intended today.
Manners dictated they escort the ladies, but he in fact wished to conclude his race and celebrate his victory at Netherfield.
Bingley exercised good manners and poor judgment, walking the ladies to Longbourn’s door.
They were captured in conversation for not too many minutes before the skies broke open with a thunderous roar and all rushed inside.
Once the servants ensured the shutters were firmly closed, Mrs Bennet found her wits and insisted the men stay for tea.
She had had a letter from her sister in London, with whom the much missed and much discussed Jane Bennet was staying, and there were stories to share.
The lady smiled indulgently at Bingley, who agreed with alacrity that tea would be wonderful.
Now the game has turned , Darcy thought, with us as the prey .
When he snuck a look at Elizabeth and found her eyes on him, Darcy raised his lips in a grim smile to convey his own chagrin at their current situation.
Her expression was unreadable but for what he discerned as some shared embarrassment.
Mr Bennet was nowhere to be seen. Darcy was certain he had heard noises behind the book room door, and even now a muffled cough sounded once or twice, giving pause to conversation.
When Darcy’s eyes turned to the door and he began to form a query, Mrs Bennet swiftly parried with her own question about the duration of his stay in the country .
Bingley replied in his stead. “Oh, my esteemed friend will not abandon me. I rely too much on his good sense at Netherfield.”
“And what is London to our own society, Mr Bingley,” Mrs Bennet cried. “And you, Mr Darcy, may be away from your business in town and enjoy the season here.”
Which season? Darcy wondered. Michaelmas and the harvest were past, Christmas was two months away. She could not mean the Season itself. Darcy swallowed his reply with his tea and looked at Bingley. Unfortunately, the youngest, most impertinent Bennet spoke up instead.
“Mr Bingley, you promised us a ball.”
Bingley laughed and set down his cup. Darcy wondered whether he was thinking of his sisters, still angry over the indignity of the assembly two days past; they had warned him they would not be pleased to host a ball.
“I believe we can indeed host a ball at Netherfield, say late in November?”
Caroline will have his head.
“Such a long wait,” Lydia said.
“Mr Bingley and I have business in London, Miss Lydia, and consultation must be made with Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst.”
“Of course,” Mrs Bennet said. “And my dear Jane will be home. Such a wonderful welcome for her!”
Game, set, and match. It was almost Machiavellian how the entire troupe of Bennet ladies had manoeuvred Bingley. His desire to leave Longbourn, nay exit the country itself, flared again.
Kitty giggled. “And the officers will come?”
Bingley nodded and asked questions of the neighbourhood and the officers. Darcy was working on his best strategy for escape and trying not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth when his attention was arrested by the sound of a much-hated name .
“I shall dance with Wickham and Denny,” Lydia said in a sing-song voice.
Wickham? But the name was a common one. Warily, he turned to the young girl.
“These are the officers you spoke of earlier, Miss Lydia?”
“Oh yes. They are so handsome in their regimentals,” she said with a bright smile.
“Denny is my favourite,” Kitty allowed, “but Wickham is brave and heroic as well, what with the dashing scar on his cheek from saving his regiment from the French.”
Fury and indignation burned through him. Scar on his cheek . Darcy remembered it well, having put it there himself when he found the degenerate availing himself of an unwilling scullery maid in their rooms at Cambridge.
“Marvellous,” Bingley said, glancing at his stern-faced friend. “I look forward to hearing heroic tales from the battlefields.”
Darcy stared out the window, ignoring his company and waiting for the skies to clear. He had come to a small town to flee his family’s machinations only to be mired in a place of schemers with equally dubious motives.
The subdued lighting at White’s reflected so many faces.
Some strangers, some who had once been friends.
It was the first outing he had attempted since burying Anne.
Lady Catherine had seen that he was dressed to go out, and it sent her into a rage.
She would not be happy unless he buried himself with poor Anne.
He had only wanted…a bit of relief from the sorrow, a little companionship.
But from the moment he entered the club, he had sensed a difference.
In all those faces, not one met his gaze; there were a few muttered greetings, but no expressions of condolence.
And yet, the feeling that all eyes were upon him was disconcerting and perplexing.
Discovering a quiet corner, he leant against tall shelves, trying to catch breath th at was suddenly choking.
Still, he could not hide from the whispers.
“He’s here, did you see him, Bertie? Darcy is here, his wife not even cold in the ground.”
“Well, he has to go out, doesn’t he, Harry? You remember what Wickham said—he married for Rosings and it was a bad gamble. If he’s pockets-to-let, he must get back into society, find another rich bride or a rich card game. The betting book odds are on the bride.”
At only four-and-twenty years, isolated and alone, Darcy had felt as though his life was over.
Wickham was a duplicitous pig incapable of decency.
Would he ever be the only person who saw this?
His father had not. His uncle had found Wickham as amusing as his father had, allowing him the ribaldry and malfeasance he would never tolerate in his sons.
Darcy’s warnings about the man had been scoffed at, and only the incident at Ramsgate—whitewashed for the family from an attempted elopement to a young girl’s misbegotten affections—had led his uncle to agree that Georgiana should be kept away from the scoundrel.
And now Wickham was here.
Elizabeth sat in her bed, unable to sleep as her mind was over-filled with thoughts of the day.
Their trip to Meryton to visit Aunt Philips had turned dramatic when Mrs Potter hurried out of the milliner’s crying that her son had gone missing.
He was quickly discovered splashing sticks in a horse trough by a young soldier, and returned to his mother with much fanfare by a trio of red-coats.
Lydia and Kitty had been overly impressed by the gallantry of it all, and while the officers who bewitched her sisters were pleasant fellows, Elizabeth had heard little of the conversation, more intent on watching young Jimmy Potter be reunited with his worried mother.
Lydia had been loud in her laughter and the officers seemed to enjoy provoking it.
A fourth officer, who introduced himself as Lieutenant Wickham, was satisfied with gazing steadily at the scene, his mouth fixed in a small, amused smile.
She could only admire his fortitude in the face of Lydia’s and Kitty’s provocations.
Mr Darcy’s stoicism had been of a different sort; she had seen his expression narrow as Lydia and Kitty spoke in raptures on their favourite officers. It was when they spoke of Mr Wickham—charming, battle-scarred Mr Wickham—that Elizabeth had seen his eyes harden and his grip tighten on his hat.
She would not have thought a fine, rich gentleman such as Mr Darcy would begrudge those beneath him in service to the king.
Her father would find it at least as amusing as she had.
What passed through Mr Darcy’s mind to disdain or perhaps envy a man in uniform?
He had changed colour, turned pale, and Mr Bingley had looked discomfited by his friend’s reaction. What could be the meaning of it?