Page 7

CHAPTER SIX

A few days after the humiliation in her mother’s parlour, Elizabeth sat miserably alongside Jane in the parlour at Netherfield.

She had received an invitation to see her dear friend, Charlotte Lucas, that afternoon, but Mrs Bennet insisted Elizabeth accompany Jane to call on Miss Bingley.

Mrs Bennet was sure that the invitation portended great things, certain that Mr Bingley would propose that very afternoon.

Elizabeth was certain that was not the truth, but held her tongue.

What would be the point of arguing with Mama?

Mama’s commentary about Mr Darcy had been even less welcome. All had wondered at Mr Darcy’s disappearance, but Elizabeth knew more about his motives than the rest of her family who merely said he had a bad character and deemed him unfriendly and unworthy of further invitation.

Heavy yellow curtains blocked much of the light of the dim day, which deepened Elizabeth’s dark mood.

The portraits on the wall were not Mr Bingley’s family, but had come with the house as had all of the furnishings.

Mr Bingley was explaining that over time he planned to acquire his own art and redecorate, but that it would take time.

Mr Darcy said to Mr Bingley, “Though before such a commitment to decorations and furnishings, you must be certain that this is a place in which you plan to settle.”

Mr Bingley smiled. “I have told you it is. I find this county more pleasing than any other, as I do its company.” His eyes flicked to Jane’s, and she blushed.

Elizabeth watched Jane smooth her skirt and knew her sister was doubting herself.

That morning, Jane had changed her gown and had the maid rearrange her hair so many times that Elizabeth had mentioned they would be too late for the tea, a possibility that had hastened Jane’s preparations.

Elizabeth had not spent more than a moment choosing a gown, for things had ended so poorly with Mr Darcy that she held no hopes in that quarter.

All was not lost for romance, as she was due at her aunt and uncle’s for supper with Mr Wickham and Mr Denny the next day.

That engagement would require her to take some consideration for her attire.

This periwinkle gown she wore today suited her well enough, but it was a day gown, not evening.

Among the evening gowns she had, the yellow satin was her favourite.

Thinking of it even now, she decided on the yellow.

Elizabeth thought back on her conversation with Mr Darcy.

Presumptuous as it was, she had thought it had gone well, had even enjoyed their little piece of verbal swordplay.

She had pushed the boundaries of propriety, but Mr Darcy had not seemed to mind. Until the end.

What had she said that so turned the conversation and ultimately led to his cruel departing words?

She was not certain. She had not shared what he said even with Jane, for she did not desire to sour Jane’s opinion of Mr Bingley.

One’s friends pointed to one’s character.

This thought led her to believe that Mr Darcy, having his closest friend be the amiable Mr Bingley, could not be as harsh as he seemed.

No, ‘harsh’ was not the word for him. Something had upset him, but what?

Now that she thought on it, his countenance had been equally severe when he encountered Mr Wickham. Could there be a connexion?

Darcy’s fists clenched unintentionally, watching Bingley flirt so boldly with the eldest Miss Bennet.

His friend seemed to be fixing his attentions on the sister of the most alluring and maddening woman he had ever met…

and whose family was abominable. He had attempted to dissuade Bingley from pursing Miss Bennet, reminding his friend that Society was full of other beautiful ladies, but Bingley found something in Miss Bennet that was lacking in any he had met, and Darcy, to his dismay, had to agree.

Miss Bennet was perfect for Bingley. Darcy had at first thought the lady cool, but he was coming to understand that she was merely shy.

Furthermore, unlike many ladies of the ton , Miss Bennet seemed unconcerned with wealth and its trappings, therefore removing the concern of every man of marriageable age of means that he was only desired for his income per year.

If Bingley fell in love with Miss Bennet, and meant to make the attachment permanent, Darcy would not stand in their way.

As Bingley and Miss Bennet continued to chat, Darcy gazed upon Miss Elizabeth, who seemed quieter today than she had on other occasions.

Periwinkle was not his favourite colour, but she looked handsome in it.

He could not think of a colour he would not find her handsome in.

Miss Bingley, who sat to his left stirring tea as if the leaves had done her wrong, was wearing brown, and it paled her as it did most ladies.

Even men who wore brown suits never looked as well as in black or blue or grey or even deep green.

He was partial to his forest green velvet coat and would ask his valet to be sure it was clean and ready for wear when the weather turned.

What was he to do now? He felt a bit stupid, sitting silently, not contributing even the barest civility to the discussion.

He could not speak with Miss Bingley, for she took every interaction as a hint at feelings he did not have for her, and clung to him like a peregrine upon a falconer’s glove.

He feared speaking with Miss Elizabeth, as his last words had been unkinder than intended and he did not know how to make amends.

Thus, he crossed the room and took hold of a book he had been reading.

Once he sat down, however, it felt rude to read, so after opening it and staring at the same sentence over and over, he then closed it and spent the rest of the time counting flowers on an embroidered pillow on a chair across the room.

“Miss Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “would you care to take a turn through the gallery? The weather is too frightful to be out of doors, but as you seem to admire Netherfield’s art, perhaps we might walk through the gallery? There are some beautiful paintings to be seen.”

Jane agreed and the two ladies rose.

Elizabeth was irritated. The weather was not ‘frightful’, merely cloudy. She would have taken her chances with a walk, but she suspected Miss Bingley was not the type to enjoy fresh air unless the day was absolute perfection so that she might comment repeatedly on its absolute perfection.

“Let us all go,” suggested Mr Bingley.

Miss Bingley’s face twitched just enough to suggest the beginning of a scowl, but she smoothed it into a cool smile.

Noting this, Elizbeth wondered what Miss Bingley was playing at.

Why would she want to separate Jane from her brother?

To assess Jane herself? To provoke Jane into saying something that might be used to dissuade Mr Bingley from his obvious interest in her?

Mr Bingley rose, and, to her surprise, so did Mr Darcy. Now she was obliged to walk indoors, as well.

Mr Bingley asked, “Miss Elizabeth, do you admire art as much as your sister?”

They all began to stroll out of the parlour, and Elizabeth said, “I have not the eye Jane has, but I do enjoy looking at art. I have no talent for painting.”

Mr Darcy asked, “What do you have a talent for?”

“Vexing men, apparently,” she said over her shoulder.

Jane’s head snapped towards her, and Elizabeth might have been more concerned had Mr Darcy not been fighting back a smile.

“Miss Elizabeth,” Mr Bingley said, “I suspect you have a great many talents.”

“This painting is my favourite,” Miss Bingley said, pulling Jane, with whom she had locked elbows, towards an enormous landscape of craggy mountains and a dramatic sky of light and clouds. Elizabeth noticed a small carriage in the bottom corner and stepped closer to study it.

“Miss Elizabeth,” asked Mr Bingley, “whatever did you find?”

“This carriage.”

Mr Bingley stepped closer. “I did not even notice it!” He smiled. “I only ever saw the gathering storm.”

Jane said, “Which is quite beautifully rendered,” and locked eyes with Mr Bingley. Quickly they both looked away, their cheeks pink.

Elizabeth had no time to be pleased with her sister and this fine suitor because Mr Darcy asked, “What draws you to the carriage in particular?”

Elizabeth turned to him. “I always look for hidden objects in paintings, wondering what the artist wants us to see or not see.” With all eyes on her, she had the urge to end there, but she had thought often about this and never told anyone.

“Humanity is small and frail compared with nature. It is why I enjoy walking about so often. It reminds me that concerns with estates and balls and gowns and marriages mean nothing to the world. It prevents me from thinking too much of myself.”

“I despise walks,” said Miss Bingley in the drollest of tones.

Elizabeth tucked her lips between her teeth to keep from laughing and caught Mr Darcy’s look of disdain directed towards Miss Bingley, though he hid it as quickly as it had come upon him.

“Mr Darcy,” asked Elizabeth, “do you enjoy nature?”

He nodded. “The park around Pemberley, my home, is large and with a great variety of grounds. There are woods and gardens, both formal and informal, ruins, roses, poplar stands. It is nearly as impressive as our library, though most would comment upon the grounds rather than the library. Both have been the work of many generations, and I am proud of and enjoy both in equal measure.”

Elizabeth brightened. “My father allows me to borrow his books. I attempt to educate myself on?—”

“This one,” called Miss Bingley, pulling Jane along with her to an enormous painting in an elaborately carved gold frame, “shows the importance of position. Our housekeeper told us that it depicts an ancestor who married an earl and was elevated beyond Hertfordshire.” She eyed Mr Darcy who looked away.

He stepped closer to Elizabeth. “On what sort of subjects do you educate yourself?”

“Matters of science, philosophy, books considered important. Lest you think I am other than I am, I enjoy poetry and novels most. I have been reading The Mysteries of Udolpho and am finding it very entertaining.”

“My sister has been enjoying that, as well.”

“You have a sister? I did not know.”

“One sister, Georgiana, who is above ten years my junior.”

“Meaning she is…?”

“Sixteen. She is not yet out.”

“Mr Darcy, you are falling behind!” called Miss Bingley.

Elizabeth noted how Mr Darcy brightened when he had spoken of his sister, and of his land and of books, but now that he trailed Miss Bingley, dullness had settled over him again like fog.

She wondered if his remark about his sister being not yet out was meant as some sort of censure against her two youngest sisters, both out.

Perhaps it was. She would not have advised it herself, had Mama asked her opinion.

Miss Bingley continued along the hall, still gripping Jane, and pointed as if that tiny motion exhausted her.

“Apparently this young woman,” she said at a painting of a blonde wearing a scarlet gown, “was the sole daughter of the family who owned Netherfield in the middle of last century. When their daughter eloped, it brought such scandal that the family lost everything, not just this estate.”

As Elizabeth attempted to recall if she had heard this rumour, Mr Darcy suddenly turned and strode away from the group.

Mr Bingley watched him go with a knit brow, but made no attempt to follow.

Curious. What duty might have called upon him so suddenly?

Or could it have been the chatter about rank and elopements that sent him running?