Page 9 of Some Natural Importance (Pride, Prejudice and Romance #3)

CHAPTER SIX

Despite the lack of tolerable ladies, the superiority of Longbourn’s table and the challenge of a capable chess player were enough to attract Mr Darcy back to Longbourn two days later.

He came with Mr Bingley, who amused Mrs Bennet with his cheerful conversation. She appeared to eye him less as a prospect for any daughter present in the room and more as a project aimed at her absent eldest.

Mr Darcy loitered in the parlour with his friend, but his presence seemed reluctant, his smiles forced and his humour unsettled by the gabble of the Bennet ladies.

Elizabeth found herself caught between satisfaction that her father was occupied and unable to provide the younger man a haven from the ladies of Netherfield and irritation that Mr Darcy had invaded their own haven, such as it was.

She glanced at him, amused by his discomfort, trapped as he was by so many intolerable ladies. She wished to provoke him, to make him aware that she had heard his remark. Her manners prevented it, but her will and her pride strained against propriety .

“Mr Darcy, my father has told me you enjoy an extensive library in your home.”

Mr Bingley guffawed. “Extensive? Darcy has a collection so vast he keeps his books in two houses and carries the leftovers in a box wherever he travels.”

The other man’s expression shifted from surprise at being addressed to one of annoyance. “Bingley exaggerates, Miss Bennet.”

Lydia turned and looked a little too closely at Mr Darcy. “Books? I would prefer a collection of bonnets and gowns so vast I need three houses!”

“On this, my sisters would be in agreement, Miss Lydia.” Bingley laughed and looked at his friend, still silent in his seat by the window. “Darcy’s sister, Georgiana, is far more sensible, is she not, my friend?”

Georgiana. The name was new information, and from the startled expression on Mr Darcy’s face, not of the sort he was pleased to share. Of course, he seemed unhappy much of the time, so perhaps it was more that hearing his sister’s name made him sentimental for her company.

“Georgiana enjoys books and bonnets, but it is the pianoforte she requires for any home to be to her liking.”

Mary was stirred to speak. “Music fills a house and the soul.”

“Jane is so skilled with a needle and thread. Such delicate work she does with lace and flowers on her bonnets,” asserted Mrs Bennet as she fixed her gaze on Mr Bingley. “The gentleman who marries her will have the most dearly sewn handkerchiefs. I must show you a few she has made for Mr Bennet.”

Elizabeth could not help herself, cringing as her eyes sought out Mr Darcy’s. His ever-present frown deepened into a sneer. Does he think us all so repulsive? Do he and my father make sport of us whilst sitting behind closed doors?

She knew little about Mr Darcy. At this moment, she wished she knew even less .

It was odd—for he had not heard it so often that he should recognise it—but when Darcy heard Elizabeth Bennet’s laugh, a rich, happy sound, echo across what had seemed a desolate field, he knew it all the same.

He kicked his horse and trotted towards a small rise.

There she was, by herself, running after a bonnet caught in a windy gust. She was within inches of it when another gust blew it further out of reach and in his direction.

Amused, Darcy dismounted and stepped quickly towards the errant hat.

He grabbed it with one hand, dropping the reins to grasp hold of his own headwear.

“Thank you, sir,” she said as she arrived at his side. “That was admirable, in gallantry, action, and strategy.” She looked at his hands, one holding the ribbons on her bonnet and the other clenching his beaver, and smiled at his horse. “And your horse is a most cooperative partner.”

Despite the breeze, Darcy felt unaccountably warm standing so close to her. He held up her bonnet and watched as she took it, donned it and tied the ribbons firmly under her chin.

“I have chased a few bonnets in my day. My younger sister is forever setting them down and forgetting them,” he added when he noticed her expression.

“The height of men’s hats makes them equally victim to the wiles of nature, be it wind or a low-hanging tree branch.

” He pointed to a small dent on the side of his hat and shrugged.

“A dead oak on the other side of the estate caught me by surprise.”

He felt ridiculous discussing his damaged hat with her. He had not even mentioned it to Squills, just handed it to him and let him brush and pat it back to its customary elegance. What on earth was he nattering on about?

“Only your hat incurred a dent? No damage was made to your head? ”

He caught the teasing in her tone and met her eyes, shining at him in amusement.

“Ah, you suspect a head injury to be my excuse for losing a match to your father, do you? A head injury lessened my skill and acumen?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. You and my father are evenly matched opponents, in addition to being well-suited conversational partners. He is pleased to have you in the neighbourhood, for however long that may be.”

A compliment wrapped inside a query. She was a clever girl.

“My plans are not fixed, although I shall stay on for another fortnight.” He watched for her reaction; she had none. “You will join your sister in London before that time?”

“A few days after the assembly, yes.”

Her eyes lost their warmth and he wondered whether his reference to the assembly stirred thoughts of her encounters with the Bingley sisters. They were not a terribly likable pair, and Elizabeth Bennet was their superior in ways large and small.

“Miss Bennet,” he said, watching her carefully. “I have been much in the company of your family these past weeks. I have a great familiarity with Mr Bingley’s family, and I am certain Miss Bingley’s enjoyment of fashion and fine fabrics was impressed on you on your recent visit.”

Her gaze grew bemused.

“I do not know whether his sisters told you of their family in Scarborough and their late father’s endeavours and investments in the mills that led to his great success in business.”

“Business?”

“Mills. Wools and textiles. His father had owned a great sheep farm and Bingley’s father took the business into?—”

“Trade.” She finished his sentence and looked away, her lips pursed. “That is indeed a fascinating bit of family history. I thank you for enlightening me so that I may better appreciate my future conversations with Miss Bingley and her sister.”

She met his eyes, and he saw the mischief in her countenance.

He hoped she saw it in his as well before she bid him good day.

He watched her fade away in the distance before mounting his horse and riding away.

It was perhaps the most satisfying conversation he had had with Elizabeth Bennet; he had made an effort to match her liveliness, and he felt he had been victorious in amusing her.

He would take as his reward the radiant expression of her sparkling eyes and the bounce in her step as she walked towards Longbourn.

Darcy found solace remembering their encounter later that afternoon at Netherfield when he looked around the sitting room, lamenting the paucity of interesting company.

Memories of the difficult months he spent at Rosings flooded his mind—listening to Anne voice her fears and regrets, withstanding and soothing Lady Catherine’s temper, overseeing business matters for two estates, all while maintaining the facade of a true marriage.

Here it was dull monotony; there it was exhausting despair.

Darcy could only wish for more bonnets to chase, more laughter to hear from Elizabeth Bennet.

Fighting back a smile, he found himself on the precipice of suggesting more friends be invited to join their party in Netherfield—anything for civilised variety of conversation—but refrained upon recognising the further commitment of his own time such an endeavour would involve.

Instead he wrote letters to his sister, hoping to amuse her and endear himself to her once again.

To his cousin Richard, he wrote only of his restlessness and his desire to remain both unmarried and in the good graces of his aunt and uncle.

It was a conundrum, and his cousin’s support for his position was less than Darcy had hoped.

He looked again at Richard’s last letter.

Darcy,

Your father has been gone these five years, and you have improved your harvest, rebuilt your cellars, and added to your holdings.

My father is twice your age and has half your skill in managing Matlock.

Marrying Cecilia would ease his mind and ease your position in society—no more talk of dead de Bourghs, no more beadle-eyed mothers or simpering girls anxious to catch your eye.

She may not be your heart’s desire but she has a good heart and would make you a fine wife. Have a think on it.

He had thought about it. What he saw in Cecilia was not what he sought in a wife.

He had loved his mother, but she was a Fitzwilliam and shared the family traits of mercenary greed and emotional coolness.

He had fought those traits in himself, feared them in his sister.

He would not have them in a wife. Had he not done enough, wedding another cousin in dire straits?

Richard would sacrifice all of Darcy’s happiness simply to increase his own. Never again .

The day of the assembly could not have been a longer one.

Elizabeth rose early and left for her usual walk, only to arrive home and find her mother had already begun fussing over which of her daughters should bathe first, which deserved the newest laces, and who could rely earliest on Sarah.

“If only Jane was here to meet Mr Bingley and secure a dance or two with him,” she lamented.