Page 17 of Some Natural Importance (Pride, Prejudice and Romance #3)

With no quick reply and less certain of her belief in either Mr Wickham’s morals or Mr Darcy’s deficiencies, Elizabeth set to entertaining her friend with amusing stories Jane had written to her of their little cousins .

Returning to Longbourn from her walk with Charlotte, Elizabeth saw Mr Darcy and an unknown older gentleman walking from the house to the stables.

Mr Darcy nodded at her before mounting his horse and trotting off with the other man.

Elizabeth walked quickly into the house and went in search of answers.

Mr Hill was nowhere to be found, so she turned to her mother, sitting in the saloon with Kitty and Mary.

“Who was that man with Mr Darcy?”

Mrs Bennet peered at Elizabeth over her fan. “Have you been with Charlotte Lucas? What says she about her brother’s wife?”

“Mama, who came to see Papa with Mr Darcy?”

“I have no idea, I care more to hear about that Welsh girl that John married,” she huffed.

When Elizabeth shrugged and left the room, her mother cried after her, incredulous, “Not a word to me besides how do you do?”

Elizabeth walked straight to her father’s door and knocked. It took two more taps before her father called out. “I hear you, Lizzy. Come.”

“Papa—,” she broke off as she entered, struck by the sight of Mr Bennet in his shirtsleeves. She sat across from him and took his hand. It was cold and dry, and lacked its usual strength. “Are you well?”

“Yes, my girl.”

Her eyes narrowed as they roamed over his appearance. Not only was his hand cold, his skin was sallow and pale, and his neckcloth slightly loosened.

“Where is your jacket?”

He grimaced and nodded at the fire. “The extra log made it too warm in here.”

She looked at him doubtfully. “Truly, you look dreadful. What did Mr Darcy and his friend say to you?”

Mr Bennet chuckled, removing his hand from hers and rising to retrieve his jacket. “Help your poor, infirm father with his coat, would you?”

Elizabeth helped him into his sleeves, unwilling to accept his jibe and ignore the fact that his appearance was alarming; she had never seen him in such a weakened state. What had his ‘friend’ said or done to him?

“You were well at breakfast. Mr Darcy paid a visit here with a gentleman I have never seen before, and now you are unwell. What was their business here and why are you so affected?”

Mr Bennet glanced around the room at the stacks of books and piles of paper.

“I am affected only by my own neglect, Lizzy. I dismiss Hill when she attempts to clean in here. ‘Take the tray,’ I tell her, ‘dare not touch my books’.” He shook his head wryly.

“So when Mr Darcy moved that pile from there to there,” he pointed at half a dozen books stacked on the edge of a side table, “such clouds of dust arose as you have never seen in Longbourn. Now then, would you fetch your papa a cup of tea?”

Darcy had debated with himself over the wisdom of inviting Hurst to ride with him out to Copperdale, but the man had far greater knowledge of map reading and was in need of escape from his wife and sister.

By following the bend of Larkspur stream until it widened into the river, they easily found their way to Copperdale.

The yard itself was unkempt, overgrown and neglected as it had been for many years.

From a distance the house looked sturdy enough, its windows all in place and its stones and bricks still mortared.

He looked past the outbuildings and rode over to the stream, following it until he found where it began to emerge from underneath a rocky hillock.

Dismounting, he climbed atop, walking through a thicket of leafless trees and looking around the grounds .

“What say you, Darcy? The land is hardly arable. Far better for a geologist than a farmer.”

Darcy was in agreement. He had no great knowledge of rocks but this acreage had quite a crop of them. It was no wonder Wadham could not make a go of farming but took in work as a blacksmith.

There was no sign here of an ancient Roman city.

Whatever had been here, whatever was still here, was buried.

But there was water, now only trickling out slowly from an underground stream.

Men with shovels and carts could improve the water’s flow and hence the land.

It was worth the investment. And it could be an adventure as well; one never knew where treasure could be found.

Mr Darcy did not call again that day. Nor was he found wandering the paths between Netherfield and Longbourn, or in Meryton. Elizabeth spoke to many of her neighbours, waved to many more, and nodded at some men in uniform, including Mr Wickham, but the object of her hunt remained elusive.

The following day, however, the odds were in her favour and she intercepted the interloper on one of her favourite shady paths bordering the two estates. He stood, hands on his hips, surveying the stream below as though he could redirect it or stop it up with a mere word.

“Mr Darcy.”

“Miss Elizabeth.”

They stood in silence for a moment before he spoke again. “You walk out frequently.” She waited for some allusion to her tanned skin or muddied skirts. “The stream here?—”

“Larkspur Stream,” she said.

“Yes, has it always been so low? I recall a strong current not a week ago, and the muddied banks indicate it has lowered quickly recently. ”

Mr Darcy’s notice of the changing depth and flow of the stream was puzzling. She was impressed, and now joined him in his curiosity.

“I have assumed rainfall is the deciding factor in the stream’s depths. We had endless days of rain a week ago.”

“Endless days indeed for a lady who likes to walk.”

Did she hear amusement in his voice? Elizabeth turned to see an expectant expression on Mr Darcy’s face; his eyes were light with mirth. She met his challenge, saying,

“Or a gentleman who likes to ride. Few of us can tolerate our own company for too long a time, especially when we are confined in the company of others less tolerable.”

He chuckled and she felt a small thrill at it.

“There are days when even a book is not good company,” he replied.

“My father would likely debate that point, sir. I have never seen him more content than when he has a book in hand or on his lap.”

Mr Darcy nodded. “And you? You seem the daughter most like your father. When are you most content?”

He looked at her with an expression that appeared caught between interest and shock at his own impertinence.

Briefly she considered shocking him right back with a rather scandalous answer but as she practised no scandalous behaviour beyond the occasional run or game of ball tossing with a dog, she chose a more sober answer.

“I cannot pretend to the most interesting habits of those ladies in town, who may be happiest whilst shopping on Bond Street or drinking tea at Almack’s or promenading in the park,” she replied.

“I am more simple in my pleasures and find myself most content in nature, for I am as you observed, ‘a great walker’, and I most like to meander and happen by chance upon its treasures.”

Her answer provoked a warm, pleased smile that could only deepen a lady’s admiration of his mien, and disarm her equilibrium. In fact, it left her near breathless and unable to voice to him the same question he had posed to her.

“Thank you for answering my rather impertinent question, Miss Elizabeth.” His smile remained. “I admire not your form of contentment but the means by which you achieve it.”

“And you, sir? You enjoy riding and books, but I have heard you are quite adept at both fencing and writing letters. Which of these provides your greatest contentment?”

His eyebrows rose. “Miss Bingley speaks of me with self-appointed authority. I shall ask her to add bonnet catching to my list of accomplishments.”

Elizabeth bit her lip, unwilling to laugh aloud at Miss Bingley. Her eyes were shining and her response was on her lips when Mr Darcy’s horse nickered loudly and drew their attention. The black beauty was tied to a bush nearby, a package slung across its saddle.

“Do you venture to Longbourn, sir?”

“Yes, tomorrow. I sent for some books from London to lend to your father.”

“He is resting today and will appreciate your visit tomorrow. He has been ailing since your last call.”

She watched his face pale and take on an expression of extreme concern.

“Is this true? Is he unwell?”

It was not exactly true nor false. At breakfast, Mr Bennet had appeared uncommonly restored from whatever had afflicted him. He had waved Elizabeth off, colour in his cheeks and a glint of humour in his eye.

“He shows no signs today of whatever afflicted him during your call yesterday,” Elizabeth admitted, disturbed by the display of emotion on Mr Darcy’s face. “I found him, pale and unsettled, after you and your friend left Longbourn. Please, you must tell me what your business was with my father. ”

Her eyes were flashing at him. Her eyes, always sparkling, always full of life and vivacity and a fullness of emotion almost unfamiliar in its depth.

Her eyes were full of laughter and wit, full of joy and mischief, when she spoke to her father or sisters or neighbours.

Her eyes had teased him and challenged him—moments ago they had been full of mirthful warmth—but never had he seen them full of worry and concern.

He swallowed. Mr Bennet wanted his wife and daughters to know nothing of the reasons for Mr Hunt’s visit.

But he must reassure her, somehow. A little prevarication should do it.

“I assure you that my call upon your father was nothing out of the ordinary. Like your father and myself, Mr Hunt is fond of books and was intrigued by my mention of your father’s library. Before his return to London, he asked to pay a call to your father and see the collection himself.”

A flicker of doubt crossed her expression. “Mr Hunt is a friend of yours?”

He nodded.

“And the collection of a country squire on a small estate piqued the interest of a gentleman from London?”

“Your father not only owns complete sets of works by many esteemed authors, he has annotated first-rate translations and extensive notes. His collection is the envy of any learned man.” He smiled.

“Not every London lord or gentleman cares for his library as your father does. Some care only to own books and paintings as a mark of status, not to read them or appreciate them.”

She appeared to not only be satisfied but in agreement with, even proud of, his observation. Then that left eyebrow rose. “Upon your departure, my father appeared exhausted. Did an argument or disagreement affect him? He claimed to be overheated from the fire?—”

“There was nothing beyond the spirited conversation in which he and Mr Hunt engaged.” He looked at her solemnly. “I did place a new log on the fire, and it was rather warm in the room when we left. I apologise if your father was overcome by the conversation or the heat.”

It was a remarkable thing to watch her expression as she thought over his words; her mind was examining what he said, determining new avenues to pursue.

He had long noticed and admired her intelligence, but to see it so displayed.

.. Her expression, while intent, was softened; the blush in her cheeks from the exertions of her interrogation brightened her already lovely eyes.

Darcy wondered whether his solicitor could think through the complexities of a problem so well or whether his uncle had ever succeeded, let alone tried, to examine every angle of a situation.

It was certain neither of them could rival Elizabeth Bennet for the beauty she exhibited whilst deep in thought.

It was a glorious sight, that, if captured in oils, would be a painting he would dearly love to possess.

Uneasy with the direction of his thoughts, Darcy glanced away from her and resettled his attention, at least somewhat.

Mr Bennet did not wish his wife and daughters to take on the responsibility and ownership of Copperdale.

If they did, it would be Elizabeth who managed it.

She was the only one who could take on such an endeavour and the only one who would set aside her own dreams and happiness to do so. Such spirit .

“Will you remain long at Netherfield now that Mr Bingley has gone to London?”

“My plans are unfixed.”

“Do you not have business at your estates demanding both your attention and your capital?”

Her eyes were fast on his, flashing again. “Of course. The work of an estate never ceases, but I am fortunate to employ capable and hardworking stewards with whom I faithfully correspond.”

He paused, waiting for a response that did not come, and concerned that offence was being given on one or both sides of the conversation, he went on .

“I thank you for your concern, and I give you my word I am not neglecting my responsibilities.” He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Or is it that you would prefer I follow Bingley to town and leave your father in peace?”

Her gaze fell away from his, and in a voice of mirthful resignation, she said, “My father could not bear the loss of yet another person of sense. First Jane, and now I am off to London tomorrow.” Elizabeth gave him a grave look that brought to mind Mrs Reynolds when he did not finish his vegetables as a boy.

“No, Mr Darcy. You must extend your stay at Netherfield and keep company with my father. Please have a care for his health and bring no more visitors or ‘spirited conversation’ to Longbourn. We have spies in the kitchen, so I shall know all.”

The sternness of her words was belied by the humour in her voice, and Darcy, caught once again by the complex liveliness of her presence, could only nod.

And with that, the lady made her farewell and turned back to the path. Robbed of the chance for a gallant goodbye, he could only call after her.

“Miss Elizabeth, I wish you a safe journey.”

Relieved that his slight prevarications had ended the lady’s enquiry but more unsettled than he wished to admit, Darcy returned to Netherfield to find a letter from Bingley.

I shall return to Netherfield by Thursday evening.

Say nothing to my sisters, but my delay is not for business but for pleasure.

I have met Miss Jane Bennet and find her company far more charming than I do those who await me in the country.

(Not yours, old friend.) Miss Bennet is kind and beautiful, and she is all that is delightful, as is her family, the Gardiners, with whom she stays.

At least, Darcy thought, he did not refer to her as an angel.