Page 16 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
Chapter Thirteen
Despite the pressing strangeness of the Guy Fawkes night—the flickering light in Longbourn’s upper windows, the quiet urgency in Elizabeth’s voice, the implications neither of them had yet dared name—Darcy awoke with an unexpected sense of contentment on each morning following.
He had slept later than usual, not waking until the sun had already spilled gold across the damask curtains of his bedchamber.
The fire had burned low; the air was crisp, and yet for the first time in many days, his thoughts were not dominated by concern or caution, but by something quieter. Something warmer .
Elizabeth .
He smiled faintly as he dressed, allowing his mind to return, unhurried, to the memory of her beside him in the orchard.
Her face lit by firelight and lantern-glow, her voice gently teasing, her eyes—bright, intelligent, clear—searching his face as if she might find something worthwhile there.
He had told her a story he had not spoken aloud in over a decade. She had listened. She had understood.
She challenged him, yes—but also disarmed him. She surprised him at every turn. And, he realized with a quiet exhale, she steadied him.
By the time he descended the staircase and crossed the echoing marble of Netherfield’s front hall, he was already anticipating a ride to Longbourn—perhaps a walk in the fresh air, should the opportunity arise. He wanted more time with her. He wanted… her conversation. Her presence.
And perhaps someday, her heart.
He entered the breakfast room, intending to fortify himself with coffee before joining Bingley in the library. But as he approached, he paused just beyond the open door, halted by the unmistakable voice of Miss Bingley.
“…and so I told you, Louisa, that of course he finds her eyes fine. He stares at them often enough.“ Miss Bingley’s voice held its usual saccharine veneer, barely disguising the irritation beneath.
From within the room, Louisa Hurst gave a low hum of agreement.
Darcy’s brow furrowed, but he remained still, ears sharpened.
“He received a note this morning,” Miss Bingley continued. “Charles, I mean. The officers have invited the gentlemen to dine—no ladies, naturally. I believe Colonel Forster’s own batman delivered it.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Hurst asked mildly.
“Yes, and Charles means to accept. But it presents an opportunity, does it not?” Her voice took on a calculating tone that Darcy knew too well. “If the gentlemen will be gone, I shall invite Miss Bennet and her sister to tea.”
There was a pause. Mrs. Hurst did not immediately reply, and Miss Bingley pressed on.
“I should like to observe Miss Eliza Bennet in her natural environment—without Mr. Darcy standing guard like some ancient knight.” The sarcasm practically dripped from her next words.
“I am eager to discover what exactly he finds so captivating beyond her fine eyes. It cannot be her family. Or her manners. Or her appearance, if we are being honest.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened, but he made no sound .
“I daresay,” Miss Bingley added, “if left without distraction, her charms will lose their luster.”
Her sister sniffed. “You plan to catch her out, then?”
“Oh no. I simply wish to understand . For now. Besides, there is more that must be learned. Our brother is fascinated with Miss Bennet. We must discover all her weaknesses and protect Charles from making a permanent mistake.”
That was enough. Darcy stepped silently back from the doorway and turned on his heel. Within moments, he was striding down the west corridor in search of Bingley.
He found his friend precisely where expected: in the library, his arm slung lazily across the back of a winged chair, a steaming cup of coffee on the side table beside him and the officers’ note open on his knee.
“Good morning!” Bingley said cheerfully. “I half expected you to sleep until noon. We had a late evening.”
Darcy gave a faint smile. “Indeed, it was quite a night.” A rousing and competitive game of billiards had lasted until late. Bingley had finally conceded, so they might go to bed.
He crossed the room, took a seat across from Bingley, and got straight to the point. “Have you responded to the invitation yet?”
Bingley shook his head. “Not yet. I was just debating it. How did you know about it?”
“Your sister. I am here to tell you: do not accept. ”
That caught Bingley’s interest. He straightened slightly. “Oh?”
Darcy leaned forward, his voice low. “I overheard Miss Bingley speaking to Mrs. Hurst. She plans to invite Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth to tea while we are gone.”
Bingley’s brows lifted. “Does she?”
“She means to use our absence as an opportunity to study Miss Bennet. In her words, she means to seek out the lady’s weaknesses so she might protect you.
” Darcy did not include what Miss Bingley had said about Miss Elizabeth and her fine eyes.
He was not yet ready to share his newfound and growing admiration for the lady.
Well, not anyone else. His own words to Miss Bingley had placed him in this situation.
Bingley chuckled. “I must say, Darcy, I have always thought your taste rather excellent. But it seems you are now a mystery to my sister, and she cannot bear a mystery she has not authored herself.”
“She hopes to catch both ladies in some unguarded, unflattering moment,” Darcy said stiffly. “It is beneath her.”
Bingley sipped his coffee and then set it down with a resolute clink. “Well then. Perhaps we should remain at home and save ourselves an evening of forced military cheer.”
“You would not mind declining?”
“Not in the least. I would much rather pass the evening with the ladies than with a group of half-drunken officers quoting Horace and recounting their regimental victories.”
Darcy smiled—genuinely this time.
“We should not say a word,” Bingley added, grin widening. “Let my sister send her invitation and imagine she has triumphed. Then we may enjoy watching her mask crack when we stroll into the drawing room precisely at tea.”
“I find I like that plan immensely,” Darcy said.
They clinked cups in place of glasses.
“And in the meantime,” Bingley added, “we might engage in billiards once more.”
Darcy did not answer, but the small, wry smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth was agreement enough.
Darcy had retreated to the library after their breakfast conversation with a volume of Gibbon open on his lap, though his eyes rarely touched the page.
The quiet of the room was preferable to the brittle energy radiating from the drawing room, where Miss Bingley had been rustling through linen samples and tea trays like a general preparing for siege.
He could only imagine the performance she had prepared.
Just as he was contemplating moving to the study for the sake of silence, the door creaked open and Bingley stepped inside, grinning with mischief.
“She has sent the invitation,” Bingley said.
Darcy looked up. “And the response?”
“Accepted. The ladies will arrive within the hour.” He strolled to the fire, rubbing his hands together. “I cannot wait to see Caroline’s face when she finds us still at home.”
Darcy smirked faintly. “You will.”
“We will reveal ourselves at precisely the moment of maximum disruption,” Bingley added, clearly enjoying himself. “Until then, let her bustle.”
For most of the afternoon, they kept to the library, then the study, and eventually drifted to the billiards room where they engaged in half-hearted play. Darcy struck his shots with precision, but his mind wandered to the walk he hoped might come later—and to the woman he wished to share it with.
Miss Bingley did her best to lure them out. Once, she poked her head into the study and asked, “Should you not be preparing to dine with the officers?”
Bingley answered smoothly, cue in hand, “Momentarily, my dear sister. But you know we gentlemen never require as much time to prepare as a lady needs to choose her gloves.”
She had huffed and retreated.
As the appointed hour drew near, the household staff scurried about under Miss Bingley’s direction. Extra tea trays were arranged, lemon slices precisely cut, and her most fashionable shawl selected with an air of studied nonchalance.
Darcy and Bingley waited until the moment just after the Bennet sisters had arrived—hearing their voices in the hall, the rustle of skirts, the chiming greetings of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. Then, together, they walked towards the drawing room.
Bingley led the way.
“Ladies!” he called as they entered, eyes alight. “You must forgive us for this little surprise. Darcy and I decided we had no great desire to dine with officers tonight. We hope you will not mind our intrusion.”
Miss Bingley’s smile faltered, as did her grip on the porcelain cup she was handing to Miss Bennet.
“Indeed?” she said tightly. “Then I suppose I shall have to ask Cook for two more place settings. ”
Darcy settled beside Elizabeth on the settee, the scent of lavender rising from her gown, which was a delicate shade of violet-gray, trimmed with blue ribbon. Her eyes met his, curious and bright, and he felt the warmth of their shared understanding from before settle quietly between them.
Miss Bingley cleared her throat.
“I must say, Miss Eliza, your attendance is ever so appreciated. I have quite missed our conversations—especially your lively views on propriety and family.“ Her tone danced just on the edge of civility.
Elizabeth smiled. “Then I am glad to oblige.”
Darcy did not think the ladies had shared more than two conversations.
“And how was your walk? Did you take one? You do enjoy such long walks, do you not? I always wonder what you find to occupy your mind for such extended periods.”
Darcy bristled, but Elizabeth only replied, “The landscape, Miss Bingley, is more interesting than one might expect. And the quiet is rather lovely.”
Miss Bingley’s lashes fluttered. “I do believe silence is most agreeable… when one has nothing clever to say.”