Page 19 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)

E lizabeth had scarcely removed her pelisse when Miss Bingley appeared as if summoned by some invisible bell, her smile strangely triumphant.

Mrs. Hurst lingered behind her sister with an expression of barely concealed satisfaction, and Elizabeth caught the meaningful glance that passed between them as they took in Mr. Darcy's forbidding countenance.

How peculiar that they should appear so pleased when the gentleman beside her looked positively thunderous.

Surely his grim expression should cause them concern rather than delight?

But before Elizabeth could puzzle out this reaction, Miss Bingley was advancing with a particular gleam in her eye, the one that always preceded her most poisonous observations.

"Miss Eliza! How good of you to return so promptly from your constitutional. I confess I had thought you would be away rather longer, given how excellent a walker you have proven to be. I trust the air was not too bracing?”

“Perhaps the mud was too deep even for you?" Mrs. Hurst inquired as both ladies made a show of gazing at Elizabeth's muddy boots and wind-tousled hair .

Before Elizabeth could issue a biting retort and turn once more for the door, Mr. Darcy stepped into the conversation.

"Miss Bingley," he said with that tone of cool civility that Elizabeth was beginning to recognise as his version of drawing a sword.

"I have just been discussing with Miss Elizabeth her observations regarding the drainage patterns across your brother's estate.

Perhaps you might assist us in locating Bingley's survey maps?

I find myself quite eager to examine them. "

Miss Bingley’s brows pinched together, caught off guard by this unexpected request. "Survey maps?" she repeated, as though he had suggested they consult ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs.

Elizabeth was no less startled by Mr. Darcy’s inquiry, for Miss Bingley was uninterested even in fulfilling the duties expected from the mistress of the house. She could have no idea at all about those belonging to the master.

"Indeed." He turned to Elizabeth with an expression of grave interest that she suspected concealed considerable amusement. "Did you not mention something about redirecting the eastern drainage, Miss Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth, who had mentioned no such thing, found herself nodding with what she hoped appeared to be sage agreement. "The eastern approach does seem problematic."

"Precisely." Mr. Darcy's eyes held the faintest glimmer of mischief. "Miss Bingley, surely you know where your brother keeps his maps?"

Poor Miss Bingley, thus cornered into either appearing ignorant of her brother's affairs or confessing her complete lack of interest in anything so mundane as drainage, could only weakly suggest that surely such matters were better left to the steward.

"How refreshing to encounter such feminine delicacy," Mr. Darcy’s wry tone suggested precisely the opposite. "Miss Elizabeth, I fear we must postpone our discussion until Bingley returns. I am certain he will be most interested in your suggestions."

With that, he offered Elizabeth his arm and led her away, leaving Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst standing in the hall with their mouths slightly agape.

"Drainage patterns?" Elizabeth murmured as they walked to the morning room.

"Yes, you were quite eloquent on the subject. I was particularly impressed by your insights into . . . what was it? The eastern approach."

"I have never in my life discussed drainage patterns with anyone, Mr. Darcy."

"Have you not? How odd. I could have sworn that you had." He paused, considering. "Perhaps it was your treatise on Ryeland sheep that so captured my attention."

“Whatever has happened to ‘disguise of every sort is my abhorrence’?”

He did not respond at once, and Elizabeth cursed her impetuousness. Less than an hour into their truce and already she was questioning his honesty. But then he spoke, and it was not at all what she expected.

“You see what comes of my sad attempts at gallantry,” he said wryly. “I must beg you will not judge me too harshly.”

He was not going to apologise for his fabrications, evidently. Not that she wished him to, for though they confounded her, she was delighted by his cleverness. It was only that he had surprised her. “I see you mean to take your role as my protector quite seriously."

"I am a man of my word, Miss Elizabeth."

Elizabeth sought refuge in Netherfield's sparse library after luncheon, hoping to find a quarter hour's peace amongst the leather-bound volumes that filled a few of the many mahogany shelves.

She had just settled into a comfortable chair near the window with a volume of Shakespeare's sonnets when she heard the unmistakable sniff that belonged to Miss Bingley.

Her hostess had entered the room with the purposeful air of a general advancing upon a poorly defended position.

"Miss Eliza!” Miss Bingley exclaimed. “How industrious you are, always improving your mind with literature.

" She approached with measured steps, her hands clasped before her in a manner that suggested she had rehearsed this encounter.

"I confess myself curious about your reading habits.

Living so far from London, you must find yourself quite limited in your selection of books.

Country lending libraries, I am told, rarely possess the very latest works or the finest editions. "

Elizabeth recognised the familiar prelude to one of Miss Bingley's elaborate insults. "I find that a truly engaging book requires no fine binding to recommend it," she replied.

"Oh, but surely you must feel the want of variety.

The sort of extensive collection one finds in private libraries, where the very best new publications are immediately acquired?

" Miss Bingley's voice carried the false sympathy that always preceded her most cutting observations.

"I fear that those accustomed to, shall we say, humbler offerings, often fail to appreciate the subtle complexities of truly sophisticated literature. "

Her father’s library was a good deal more extensive than Netherfield’s sad collection, but before Elizabeth could summon the words to say as much, a familiar voice rose from the chair nearest the fire. She had not known that there was anyone else in the room.

"As your brother has not had the opportunity to start his library, Miss Elizabeth has borrowed a volume from my collection," he said with perfect composure.

Elizabeth flipped to the front of the book where she saw Mr. Darcy’s bookplate .

He was still speaking. "I make it a point to share interesting works with those capable of appreciating them."

Miss Bingley's eyes narrowed as she processed this information. "How generous of you, Mr. Darcy. Though I confess surprise that you should lend your books so readily. I was under the impression that you were most particular about your library."

"I am," Mr. Darcy replied with a meaningful look. He stood.

Miss Bingley's complexion took on an alarming shade that clashed unfortunately with the colour of her morning dress.

"Miss Elizabeth has been perusing Shakespeare’s sonnets. Perhaps you would like to join us, Miss Bingley, and share with us your thoughts on Sonnet 75."

Elizabeth looked at him, her mind racing. Sonnet 75. Was that not the one about pride and jealousy? She turned the pages to find it, hoping that no one would notice.

“Or perhaps Sonnet 98?” Mr. Darcy added.

Silently she willed Mr. Darcy to make up his mind. She flipped through the pages again. This one was about the absence of one’s lover in April, making the speaker feel as though it was winter again.

Elizabeth was very confused.

"Sonnet 98?" Miss Bingley repeated.

"Indeed." Mr. Darcy's expression was solemn. "Your insights would be most valuable."

Elizabeth caught the meaningful look in his eye and realised this was her moment to perform. She glanced at Miss Bingley, who was watching this exchange with visible irritation, then back at Mr. Darcy.

He lifted his eyebrows at her in an invitation to speak.

"Ah yes," Elizabeth said, warming to her role. "It is a poignant expression of loss"—she glanced at the sonnet in her hand—“expressing how even sublime beauty cannot penetrate it.”

"Some think it rather overly sentimental, Miss Bingley. Are you among them?" Mr. Darcy inquired.

The woman had no idea how to reply. Presumably she had read the sonnets when at her seminary, though perhaps not. Even if she had, that was some years in the past and she clearly did not recall anything at all about them. She opened her mouth but only an unintelligible noise came out.

“I see,” Mr. Darcy said and turned back to Elizabeth. “Have you anything to add, Miss Elizabeth?”

Her mind scrambled for something that might sound plausibly critical.

“Well, one cannot help but remark upon Shakespeare’s rather .

. . melodramatic assertion that spring itself becomes winter in his beloved's absence.

There is a want of restraint that borders on the theatrical, which of course he was.

But surely the beauty of April's flowers exists quite independently of one gentleman's romantic disappointments?”

She congratulated herself and then thought that it was a good thing that sonnets were so short.

"Fascinating," Mr. Darcy murmured, nodding thoughtfully. "I had not considered that perspective. To have lost one’s love even to a mere undefined absence seems to me a very grievous sort of blow."

What sort of game was this, where Mr. Darcy took the side of the romantic and she the sceptic? Her entire world was being turned upside down.