Page 17 of Such Persuasions as These (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“ I am no longer surprised at you knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder at you knowing any,” Eliza Bennet argued after Mr Darcy clarified what made a woman worthy in his eyes.

The rudeness. To contradict a man such as he—Caroline had rather die! To be sure, if Mr Darcy said something was so, then so it must be.

To Caroline’s dismay, rather than taking exception to Miss Eliza’s pert opinions, Mr Darcy actually smiled. No doubt, he was diverted by her rustic ignorance.

“You are very severe upon our sex,” Caroline chided.

“I speak as I find,” Miss Eliza answered insolently. “I have certainly never seen a woman possessed of such taste, application, capacity, and elegance united.”

Caroline could not tolerate this nobody sharing the passionate conversation with Mr Darcy that belonged to herself alone.

She wished to be sharing different words with him altogether.

Not that she would ever taunt him. What was Miss Eliza thinking?

To do aught but pander to such a powerful, wealthy, landed gentleman was societal suicide.

In fact, if she could get rid of this country chit, she might be able to engage him in more pleasant conversation right now.

Mr Darcy returned to writing his letter, and Miss Eliza was again directing her focus upon the book in her lap.

“Miss Eliza Bennet, do join me for a turn about the room. You must be hot sitting by the fire—your cheeks are fairly aflame. Come, it is so refreshing to walk after sitting so long in one attitude.”

She knew the young lady could not refuse such a request, and when Miss Eliza stood, Caroline placed her slender fingers in the crook of her arm. She led her in silence for several moments before inviting Mr Darcy to join them.

He replied that he would not, as they might have only two motives for their activity—either they were in one another’s confidence, and he would only get in their way if that were so, or they were aware that their figures appeared to best advantage by walking, in which case he could admire them much better from his current position.

Miss Bingley gloried in the comment, for it showed how astute his mind was, and it let her know that he was indeed admiring, even comparing, their figures from his writing table. Several inches taller, far more finely dressed, and certainly more svelte, she bested this Bennet girl in every measure.

Yes, Mr Darcy, admire on…

He soon went back to his quill and paper, at which point she drew Miss Eliza towards his table whilst complimenting him on what a skilled letter-writer he was.

His hand was so even, she told him, his lines so close.

And how attentive he was to dear Georgiana, always in constant correspondence.

How was dear Georgiana getting on with her music?

She hoped he would send dear Georgiana her love.

Caroline placed Miss Eliza standing against the table, while she herself bent over it and noted how dull his quill was getting.

“I am excellent at mending pens. Indeed, Charles always entrusts me with the mending of his pens, do you not, Charles?”

Over the protestations of Mr Darcy and the muddled response of her brother, Caroline took the quill out of Mr Darcy’s hand and, while ostensibly reaching for the pen knife, knocked the inkwell on its side where it splashed and spilled all over Miss Eliza’s gown. It had worked exactly as she had hoped.

Miss Eliza stood in stupefaction, her arms outspread and her mouth agape, looking in astonishment between Mr Darcy, herself, and the pool of black seeping down the entire front of her apricot muslin.

“Have a care, Caroline,” Bingley shouted from the sofa beside them.

“Elizabeth,” Mr Darcy cried as he flung his body across the desk and caught up the offending pot, as if he could mitigate the damage by righting it quickly. He could not.

Naturally, Caroline was mortified that she had accidentally done such a thing.

Really.

Mortified.

“Oh Miss Eliza, look what a fright I have made of you! I do apologise. Your gown is completely ruined. I hope it was not a favourite, although it is probably one of your best. Wherever shall you find the five shillings a yard to replace it?”

It was while thus comforting her guest that she realised there was ink pooling on the wood of the writing desk.

Turning her attention to the corpulent young parlour maid who had begun clearing away the refreshments, she barked, “Quick, girl. Yes, you, you stupid girl. Do you not see what has happened? Clean this up now before it ruins the finish.”

“I do apologise, Martha, it seems there has been an accident,” Mr Darcy added kindly. “Would you please have Jepsen come in to inspect this stain and see whether he has anything that might remove it?”

See how well we complement one another? Caroline reflected as she watched him take charge of the situation. They would do so well together as master and mistress of Pemberley.

Elizabeth could hardly believe what had just happened.

Her beautiful gown was besmirched with a large and growing blotch of thick black ink.

She just stared, mouth open and eyes wide, first at her ruined dress, then at Miss Bingley, then at Mr Darcy as he lurched towards her, crying out her Christian name.

“Oh, Miss Eliza,” Miss Bingley uttered some apology alongside her usual epithets, then began abusing poor Martha, the parlour maid, as if the resulting blot on the tabletop was somehow the girl’s fault.

Elizabeth could see clearly what the jade was trying to accomplish, and she would not let her succeed.

Elizabeth was not as volatile as her hostess; she would not scream or quit the room as if such destructive devices had pained her.

She decided to hold her head high, knowing that her replying graciously would irritate Miss Bingley more than any fit of temper could do .

“It is no matter, Miss Bingley,” Elizabeth replied, pasting on a wide smile. “It is only fabric and lace.”

“You must let Yardley see to that stain. You know these country-born maids—they can work miracles. You must go upstairs and change directly. Borrow one of my gowns if you like. Oh, but that will not work. Of course, my gowns would be much too long on you. And rather tight, I dare say,” Miss Bingley said, patting her flat belly with a false expression of concern.

“I have no doubt you are right,” she replied with forced serenity. “Some women are blessed with lithe frames, while some of us have other … endowments.”

Elizabeth could not believe she had said such a thing in front of two gentlemen.

She glanced at Mr Darcy, hoping he had not heard her petty reply.

The colour in his cheeks as he shifted his gaze from her endowments to the paper before him confirmed that he had.

Dipping her head to her hostess, she then took herself and her wrecked gown back to the couch, picked up her book, and strove to resume her reading.

She would not let Caroline Bingley have the satisfaction of seeing her flee to her room.

Though Elizabeth would not admit it, she was a bit heartbroken.

She found her eyes falling from the pages in front of her to the ink stain more than once.

Mr Darcy must have noticed her doleful expression, and perhaps he understood the events as plainly as she did, for he took a seat quite near her on the couch and apologised for what had just happened.

Casting them a glare, Miss Bingley left the parlour in a huff.

Goodnight and good riddance .

“I am sorry about your gown.”

“It is nothing, sir,” she replied in little more than a whisper.

“You need not prevaricate with me, Miss Elizabeth. I can see that you are distressed.”

Her eyes met his and darted away. The warm affection in them made her stomach tighten, and she could not respond.

“Perhaps I should have been more vocal about her not being welcome to mend my pen.”

“It is not your fault, Mr Darcy. I am sure Miss Bingley would have carried her point one way or another,” she said.

“It is a lovely gown; was it made in London? Or is there such a talented modiste lurking in the wilds of Hertfordshire?”

“The pattern was a gift from my aunt in London, but its construction was accomplished here. Mrs Molland has a dress-shop in the next village over and is quite skilled. That is where we all have our gowns made. Have done for years.” She was not as eager to put words together now, growing more and more forlorn as she gazed down upon the damage.

“I am very sorry, Miss Elizabeth,” he repeated, his regret evidently growing apace with the fall of her spirits. “Was it a favourite?”

He was being so kind, and it reminded her of the words of admiration she had overheard earlier in the library. She swallowed hard before answering.

“It was, yes. Of course, my mother had charge of the packing of my trunk, so she chose my best gowns,” she said with a woeful chuckle.

“This one used to be Jane’s, but she became ill last year and grew too thin for it.

I had always admired it on her—such a lovely fabric—so when she asked if I wanted it, I did not hesitate to claim it.

And hem it, of course. As time went by, vitality returned to her, but by then the gown was a full two inches too short, so she could not take it back. ”

His obligatory huff of laughter died on his lips as he watched her. He did not appear to be fooled. How could he be? He must know her better than to believe her unaffected by Miss Bingley’s machinations.

But could he sense the effect his solicitude was having on her heart?