Page 6 of Some Natural Importance (Pride, Prejudice and Romance #3)

CHAPTER FOUR

While Lydia remained abed and the sun was still attempting to win the sky from stubborn clouds, Elizabeth set off with Mary and Kitty to visit the Lucases; one wished to borrow sheet music, the other to laugh with Maria.

Elizabeth, aware that Charlotte was spending the day with her brother’s family, had a different plan for her brief escape from Longbourn.

Elizabeth held a basket in hand, determined to collect smooth stones and pebbles for her little cousins’ counting games.

Mindful that she must move quickly to avoid the drenching her mother had predicted, she hurried towards the estate’s largest pond.

She heard the sound of a horse’s gentle whinny as she rounded the last stand of trees, and she paused.

“How deep is this pond?” said a gruff, unfamiliar voice.

“Some twelve feet at its centre,” she heard her father’s voice reply.

“That must be where all the trout are hiding from my hook!”

Mr Bingley! Elizabeth leaned closer and peered through the juniper trees.

Her father stood not a dozen feet away, holding a fishing rod and conversing with Mr Bingley and another gentleman.

Fishing? When had Papa last been known to fish?

He and Uncle Philips had taken her once, when she was eight and thought Longbourn Pond large as an ocean and certain to contain at least one whale.

They had lured nothing to their hooks that day, and had not returned; she was told that clever though it may be, her stream of conversation and observations was unwelcomed by fishermen.

Yet here he was, fishing and conversing with these gentlemen!

Mr Bingley’s excited voice broke into her thoughts. “You say you do not fish often, Mr Bennet, yet look at the luck we are having!”

Her father replied in a droll voice. “Ah, they sense the rain, and want a good meal before the deluge.”

Elizabeth watched as her neighbour reeled in a large, helplessly flopping fish. The unknown gentleman, barrel-chested and ruddy-cheeked, helped him subdue it before pulling the fish off its hook and tossing it into a large basket.

“Good show, Hurst! Mrs Sharp will be pleased to dress so many fish.” Mr Bingley turned to her father. “Of course, Longbourn’s cook will take first choice of the catch.”

He had fine manners, Elizabeth thought. Even if he talked perhaps a little too much whilst fishing.

“Good morning, Miss Bennet.”

She released the branch and turned to find Mr Darcy standing just behind her.

Half-mortified, half-angry, she dipped her head and returned his greeting. “Mr Darcy.”

His eyes left hers briefly to canvass her appearance; she was certain there was at least three inches of mud on her skirt. When he looked at her again, she did her best to make sure he knew that she knew what he was about. But rather than chastened, he seemed amused.

“Have you brought us another basket? Bingley is having quite the luck this morning. I am certain you heard his cries of joy all the way to Longbourn.”

She bristled. “No, indeed. But it appears that I cannot achieve my own mission while the fish are so ready to fulfil the goals of four gentlemen. I would not wish to impose on the good luck of fishermen.”

He smiled, ever so slightly, his gaze still intent on her. “The goals of two fishermen. I fear my own efforts, and those of Bingley’s brother Hurst, have garnered fewer rewards.”

They stood in silence for a long moment.

She could not help but notice that he did not yet appear shaved, and combined with the cool, damp wind, his complexion was dark and roughened.

It was not unappealing, but it was unexpected in a gentleman wearing a well-cut greatcoat and finely polished boots.

“May I escort you to your father, Miss Bennet?”

She took in his words and shook her head before glancing up. The grey sky looked as though it was preparing a tantrum of angry rain. “No, I thank you. I shall return home before the rain comes and the three inches of mud on my skirts becomes six inches.”

With that, she said goodbye and hastened back in the direction of Longbourn. She did not look back and determined that she would ignore the expected laughter when Mr Darcy told the others he had found her spying on them. Vexing man. He had been the one lurking, coming from nowhere to startle her.

Elizabeth was settled in the parlour with her embroidery when her father welcomed Netherfield’s residents inside.

Moments later, a crack of thunder sounded and the skies opened up to the expected rain.

After some pleasantries, she watched Mr Darcy and her father depart for the book room while Mr Bingley continued attending to Mrs Bennet’s observations on the fearsome puddles, her descriptions of her eldest daughter’s beauty and talents, and her pleasure in setting a fine table.

Mr Hurst nodded and busied himself with plates of Cook’s magnificent tarts and cakes.

She could say little of his manner or conversation but that he was a man given to showing pleasure and praising those who gave it to him.

She learned he was the only married man at Netherfield, wed some five years to Mr Bingley’s elder sister, who had taken to her bed since arriving in the country.

The other sister, previously mentioned by Mr Bingley, was the lady’s loyal companion.

Neither gentlemen made mention of her aborted visit to the pond or to their friend’s interception of the spy in their midst. Had Mr Darcy said nothing of her to them, or were they too well-mannered to refer to it?

She looked past Mr Hurst, whose jowly face held a few smidges of sugar and jam, and asked Mr Bingley about his fishing prowess.

“Never have I had such luck,” he cried. “Even at Pemberley, where Darcy ensures the pond is well-stocked, have I felt my rod nibbled so frequently. Give me an hour and I believe I could feed a village for a day with my catch!”

She found him delightful. “Ah, but give the villagers fishing poles, and they will feed themselves for a week.”

“Oh ho,” he replied, chuckling. “That would lessen my fun?—”

“And your heroics,” she said, joining in his laughter. “But it would give your boots a chance to dry.”

Mr Hurst tapped the table. “Louisa would say exactly the same thing.”

“She has said the same thing to me often since we were children.”

The three of them laughed, and Lydia sighed loudly from the front window, where she was on the lookout for her sisters.

“My Jane never has muddy boots and never scolds anyone,” Mrs Bennet began.

After a few minutes more of her mother leading the conversation, Elizabeth excused herself to visit the book room.

Lydia, at ends without Kitty to share her restiveness, followed.

Ignoring her father’s raised eyebrows and warning glance, the younger girl fell into the window seat and watched him battle Mr Darcy over the chessboard; Elizabeth perched at her father’s desk, peering over Mr Darcy’s shoulder and frowning, her neck craned to gain the vantage point of the younger man.

“I am not afraid of you,” Mr Darcy said over his shoulder.

“Ho, you should be,” said Mr Bennet. “I remind you, my Lizzy has bested every player in town younger than I, and as I believe you fall below the age of thirty years, you could find yourself and your king quickly thwarted and outmatched.”

“Sir, you exaggerate my skill!” Elizabeth cried.

“Strategy and patience are skills indeed in one so young, and perhaps honed in the role of elder sister.” Mr Darcy’s eyes drifted to the mirror behind Mr Bennet, where he could see the young lady’s reflection.

Mr Bennet cleared his throat. “Quite observant of you, Mr Darcy.”

“Lizzy is only an older sister, not the eldest,” Lydia interjected. “Jane is the eldest, the prettiest, the kindest, the sweetest…” She trailed off in a singsong voice, looking pleased when Mr Bennet chuckled.

Elizabeth clapped her hands. “All this talk of sisterly virtues is reducing Mr Darcy’s opportunity to consider his next move. The gentleman needs our silence in order to focus on his strategy.”

The bishop in Mr Darcy’s hands stuttered across the chessboard. He drew it back and stared at the playing field. For a full minute, the only sound heard in the small room was the ticking of the wall clock.

Suddenly, Lydia jumped up from her seat. “Dull games and dull conversation. Is there no laughter to be gotten in this house? ”

“Quiet down, my girl. Your sister is teaching Mr Darcy the intricacies of the fabled Hertfordshire manoeuvre.”

Lydia snorted. “That is a dance step.”

Elizabeth laughed quietly but her attention remained on Mr Darcy’s hand.

She had felt a pang of guilt for her earlier outburst; the man’s concentration was clearly affected by any disruption.

Finally, he pushed his bishop across three squares and sat back in his chair, his fingers steepled. “Check.”

“Hmmm.” Mr Bennet leaned closer.

“Ah,” Elizabeth said, impressed.

“Chess is drearier than parsnip pies.” Lydia looked in the mirror and pinched her cheeks. “I should rather dance at a ball.”

Darcy glanced up. “You too could learn this game, Miss Lydia. Your father taught your sister to play. I taught my sister.”

Elizabeth sat back in her seat. “And who was your teacher, Mr Darcy?”

“My father,” he replied. “He thought chess a skill passed father to son.”

“Or father to daughter, or brother to sister.”

“True.”

Elizabeth thought for a moment he would smile at her but he instead returned his attention to the chessboard before he added, “And my skills have been sharpened through matches with my cousins and friends.”

“Mr Bingley?”

“No.” Elizabeth thought she heard amusement in his voice, but it might have been annoyance; Mr Darcy’s was a difficult character to discern.

“Mr Bingley prefers cards and charades and kissing games,” Lydia announced.

“Lydia!” Elizabeth was mortified.

“’Tis true! I heard Mr Hurst say it. ‘Too many curls outside, too few brains inside.’ ”

Mr Bennet began to cough. “How is a man to win a match when so much talking is going on?”

He rose from the table. “I admit defeat today, Mr Darcy.” He levelled a severe look at Lydia. “Come. I believe we must save tomorrow’s supper from today’s visitors.”

Mr Darcy stood and bowed to her. “I hope there will be an opportunity for you to teach me the intricacies of this fabled Hertfordshire manoeuvre, Miss Bennet?”

“I-I hope you were not offended by my father’s humour.”

“Not at all. Humour or truth, his words only enhance your reputation.”

As he turned to follow the others, Elizabeth began moving the chess pieces back to their starting positions on the board. Had Mr Darcy just made a joke?

Bennet was well-pleased. In Darcy, he had found a friend of mutual interests and intellect. Making the acquaintance of a Cambridge man who could debate and discuss books and philosophy and history with such depth and intelligence was a gift he would not refuse.

Oh, it was not perfect; Bennet had to tolerate Darcy’s conversation on estate business but he hurried it up by providing only as much information as he felt Darcy needed to supply Mr Bingley.

Grudging as he was in discussing business, Bennet was less grudging in his respect for Darcy’s sense of responsibility towards his friend and to his own estates.

He could be a helpful adviser to himself, if he were so interested.

Perhaps I should be , he thought, in a rare moment of reflection.

The letters he exchanged with his cousin and heir gave him little hope of sensibility or charm.

Mr Collins thought far too highly of himself and his limited thoughts, pleased as he was to express them.

A visit with him would test his patience as a gentleman and as a father.

Collins might be heir to Longbourn but did that entitle him to the hand of a Bennet daughter?

Mrs Bennet would think so—nay hope so. I must keep him away from Longbourn until I determine a plan.

Darcy could help. I could rely on his keen, disciplined mind.

Bennet’s threadbare notion of planning was put to tatters by a deep, painful cough. When he pulled his handkerchief away from his mouth, he saw streaks of blood and felt a shift in the heaviness he’d long carried in his chest.

He despised illness. The stench of sickness made him think of his mother and his sister, which triggered a deep, numbing melancholy. Only time spent with Lizzy had ever lessened it. What would happen to her and her sisters and Mrs Bennet when he died?

Well, it was simple, he thought, consigning another bloodied handkerchief to the fire. He would not die; and perhaps, he would talk to Darcy.