Page 43 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)

“I must, for I was the victim.” Bingley leaned forward, his face alight with amusement. “The masters decided, in their infinite wisdom, that I should recite a memorised passage from Cicero. My Latin was not entirely abysmal—”

“You confused agricola with gladiator ,” Darcy said.

Miss Elizabeth’s laugh was quiet and quick—evidently she knew the difference between a farmer and a warrior.

Bingley smiled at her before replying, “That was stylistic interpretation.”

“You offered to plough the Roman Senate,” Darcy said drily, and Miss Elizabeth laughed again, merrily this time.

“You made me nervous!” Bingley cried, but he was enjoying himself rather too much.

Miss Bennet bit her lip. Even Mrs. Hurst smiled.

“In any case,” Bingley continued, waving off the laughter, “there I stood, red-faced, mortified, the entire class sniggering at me—”

“Because they were relieved not to be in your place,” Darcy added.

“Indeed. The master was winding up for what I expect would have been a blistering scold, and I was trying to remember whether Caesar was pronounced with a hard c or not—when Darcy, from the back of the hall, said something that stopped the old man cold.”

Bingley paused and tipped his head in Darcy’s direction, indicating that the next line was his to deliver .

Very well. “I remarked that the master himself had mistranslated a line in our third-form primer and that mistakes were not failures if they taught us something,” Darcy added. He sighed. “It was pedantic and impolite.”

“It was heroic ,” Bingley insisted. “The master turned so purple he had to sit down. I was dismissed, and he would have made Darcy write out the first two chapters of Livy as punishment, except that he was no longer a student and therefore not subject to his discipline.”

Miss Elizabeth glanced at him. “That was very generous of you.”

“It was not disinterested. I never did like the Latin master.”

Bingley laughed. “We did not see one another again until I ran into him at a bookshop in Bond Street, oh, it must be two years ago now. We reached for the same copy of Tacitus’s Agricola , if you can believe it.”

“I allowed him to have it, for he was the more in need,” Darcy said. He paused, then added, “He mispronounced Caesar again.”

Miss Elizabeth turned to Bingley, greatly amused. “Did you truly?”

“Only slightly,” Bingley replied, unbothered. “But I always say one ought to be consistent, even in one's failings.”

The men all laughed, and the ladies smiled. Mrs. Hurst shook her head fondly.

“Anyway, I recognized him at once,” Mr. Bingley said. “He did not remember me, but I reminded him. And then we went to the club for a drink.” He lifted his wine.

A pause. Then Miss Elizabeth smiled, not just with her lips, but with her whole face. Darcy’s heart thrummed in his chest, and a few other parts of him took heed as well. He picked up his wineglass and took a long, slow sip.

“I believe we must all be grateful that you met again,” Miss Bennet said from her place across the table. “Or we might not all be here, dining together. ”

“Well said.” Bingley raised his glass high. “To friends , old and new.”

His friend was skirting very close to the edge of Darcy’s patience.

The conversation continued with a liveliness that seemed to surprise everyone except Bingley, who appeared delighted by the turn events had taken.

Miss Bennet contributed gentle observations that drew increasingly warm responses from their host, while Elizabeth's wit sparked exchanges that left Darcy feeling oddly exhilarated.

Even Hurst roused himself to occasional commentary, particularly when the discussion touched upon the superior quality of Bingley's wine cellar.

In the middle of a conversation about the largest trout Hurst had ever caught—at Pemberley, as it happened—Miss Bingley re-entered the room.

She was now clad in a light-coloured gown trimmed in red and silver embroidery with a cluster of pearls around her neck and a diamond hairpin at her temple that he was certain had not been there before. He stood.

Bingley rose from his chair as well. "Ah, Caroline! You have missed Darcy's grand defence of my mangled Latin."

His friend's pleased greeting was genuine, as it always was when it came to his sisters. Darcy had long known that Bingley possessed a nearly inexhaustible well of familial affection, even when the recipient proved herself undeserving. Had he not known that Bingley had plans to send his sister to their family, he might have worried that Miss Bingley was again about to exploit his friend’s good nature.

Miss Bingley gave a low, musical laugh as she returned to her chair. "I hope that someone will relate the tale to me later." She glanced at Darcy.

That would never happen. He sat and said nothing, sipping his wine and allowing the silence to speak for itself.

“I shall, I shall,” Bingley assured his sister as he resumed his own seat .

Miss Bingley’s lips straightened, but she resumed her seat, folding her napkin just so and surveying the table, appearing eager to reclaim a part in the conversation.

“I have always adored that gown on you,” Mrs. Hurst said quietly.

Darcy thought Mrs. Hurst might be issuing a compliment to encourage more diversity in the colours Miss Bingley wore. It would be to her benefit, for she did look elegant in this ensemble.

“Thank you, Louisa.”

The conversation had turned to musical accomplishments, an inescapable topic at such dinners, and one Darcy usually endured rather than enjoyed. If the conversation revolved around the music itself, he would enjoy it more, but it was nearly always a paean of the musician instead.

"Of course, the pianoforte and the harp remain the most elegant instruments," Miss Bingley said with the sort of knowing tone she reserved for remarks she believed clever, "but novelty has its charm.

Only last season, Miss Grantley and I encouraged a dear girl from the country to take up the tambourine. "

Darcy's knife paused mid-cut. Tambourine?

The instrument would mark the player instantly as coarse, a fixture of wandering musicians at country festivals or a woman who walked the boards.

No gentlewoman would dream of even owning such a thing, let alone playing it in polite society.

To encourage its use, even in jest, was not merely unkind, it was cruelty masquerading as wit.

She had deceived some poor innocent very badly.

He saw Elizabeth glance up, brows delicately arched. Her voice, when she spoke, was light but alert. "The tambourine, Miss Bingley?"

"Oh yes," Miss Bingley replied, clearly relishing the memory.

"Lord Aston once made some remark about admiring Spanish dancers.

I suggested, in jest, mind you, that the young lady cultivate an exotic flair to please him.

She took it rather seriously. She brought the thing to his musical evening, but we were certain to tell her it had been a joke .

" Laughter bubbled from her lips. "We called her the Spanish Minstrel for weeks. "

Darcy’s jaw tightened. He had witnessed such cruelty before, dressed in the finest silks and delivered with the sweetest smiles.

It was the province of some who had known uncertainty themselves to find amusement in the uncertainties of others.

That Miss Bingley should so casually confess to orchestrating another's humiliation revealed a callousness he found increasingly difficult to overlook.

He thought of his younger sister Georgiana, of how easily she might become such an object of ridicule in the wrong company should she falter or try too hard. The thought turned his stomach.

Across the table, Louisa Hurst's expression had stiffened.

Her gaze dropped to her plate, and she reached for her wine glass with a too-careful hand.

She had likely been present for the incident.

Perhaps not complicit. Darcy noted with some satisfaction that rather than amused, she appeared a little ashamed.

His eyes shifted to Miss Elizabeth, whose face remained composed. There was no smile, no encouraging nod, no attempt to join in the merriment at another's expense. Instead, she regarded Miss Bingley evenly.

“How clever you must have felt," she said softly.

The words were mild enough, yet Darcy heard the frost beneath them. Something twisted in his chest, though whether it was admiration for her restraint or guilt at being linked, however distantly, with Miss Bingley, he could not tell. Likely both.

Miss Bennet, calm and serene as ever, interjected before the silence could deepen. "How very unfortunate. One hopes she has recovered from the embarrassment. "

Her words carried the gentle reproach that her sister had delivered more pointedly but wrapped in such kindness that even Miss Bingley could not take offense.

Their hostess waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, we did not allow her to actually play. It was most amusing."

Darcy doubted the young woman had been spared embarrassment as Miss Bingley claimed.

Everyone would have seen the poor girl carrying the instrument and the talk would have been humiliating.

Even if she had escaped detection, the mockery Miss Bingley and her friend had perpetuated remained no less distasteful.

There was no kindness in making a spectacle of another's ignorance, and certainly no honour in actually planning such a thing. It spoke poorly of Miss Bingley’s character that she saw no distinction between a jest and a joust.

Bingley, ever eager to rescue a conversation and far too gentle-hearted to do so directly, turned to Miss Bennet with a hopeful smile. "Miss Bennet, did you not mention a story about your sister and a wager the other day?"

Bless his friend's good heart. Darcy ought to have thought to do something, but his temper was not yet under good regulation.

Miss Bennet took the cue without hesitation, her relief evident in the brightening of her expression. “Oh yes, Elizabeth, do tell the story about poor Mr. Harper's dog."

"Oh, dear. The bonnets?"

Miss Bennet nodded, laughter already threatening.

Miss Elizabeth glanced around the table, and he could see that her eyes were sparkling. "The Lucas boys wagered us each a new ribbon against our shillings, and in our defence, poor Gadabout looked very charming in muslin."

Darcy felt an involuntary tug at the corner of his mouth.

The matter-of-fact delivery of such an absurd statement was something he had begun to expect with Miss Elizabeth.

She seemed to possess an inexhaustible capacity for levity.

It was something he would not have thought he would enjoy. But he did.

"What did you do?" Mrs. Hurst asked curiously.

"Dressed him up in a child’s gown that had once belonged to my sister Lydia," Miss Elizabeth admitted. "We tucked a little cap behind his ears and paraded him through Meryton as our visiting cousin."

The image this conjured was so delightfully preposterous that Darcy had to exert considerable effort to maintain his composure.

He could envision it all too clearly, Miss Elizabeth and her sisters orchestrating such an elaborate ruse with the sort of creative mischief that would never occur to the ladies of his usual acquaintance.

Bingley laughed outright. "Did anyone believe you?"

"Only Mrs. Long," Jane said. "And only for a moment. But the wager only required us to fool one person."

“Mrs. Long would never admit it,” Elizabeth added, “but she is rather short-sighted.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "It was the way Lydia curtsied to Gadabout that truly sold the performance."

Laughter erupted again, warm and unrestrained. Even Mrs. Hurst pressed a hand to her mouth, and Hurst wheezed into his napkin. Darcy found himself drawn into the warmth of it all, marvelling at how Miss Elizabeth could so easily restore the company’s good humour.

“Lydia still has the ribbon.” Miss Elizabeth lifted her wineglass and sat back to take a sip. Darcy could see she was pleased with the company’s response to her tale.

Miss Bingley did not laugh, evidently unable to appreciate the guileless charm of such a tale.

The evening's other tales, which she had missed, had each possessed the redeeming quality of gentle self-mockery, their tellers displaying that most agreeable willingness to invite laughter at their own expense.

Miss Bingley, however, possessed neither the grace to find amusement in her own follies nor the fortitude to endure becoming the object of others' mirth, a deficiency that rendered her incapable of both giving and receiving the innocent pleasure such stories afforded.

“How charming a childhood you must have had,” she said.

“Oh, that is the best part,” Miss Bennet said. “Tell them how old you were, Elizabeth.”

“Eight?” Bingley guessed. “Nine? I know Miss Lydia is several years younger, so you could not have been too young yourself.”

Miss Elizabeth pretended to glare at her elder sister.

“I was thirteen.” She laughed gaily, and then added, “I will say, in my own defence, that Lydia was not yet eight and required an activity, preferably away from the house. My poor parents and her nurse were nearing distraction, for Lydia was a very busy child.”

“Not unlike someone else I know,” Miss Bennet said with a fond sort of affection.

In Darcy’s world, such spontaneous creativity was often viewed with suspicion, as though genuine feeling was somehow unseemly. Yet here sat Miss Elizabeth, completely unashamed of her capacity for joy, and somehow managing to make everyone around her feel unashamed too.

The realisation troubled him almost as much as it pleased him. When had he become so starved of authentic feeling that a simple anecdote about a dog in a child’s dress and cap could affect him so profoundly?

As the evening drew to its natural close, Darcy found himself reluctant to see it end.

He watched Miss Elizabeth answer something Mrs. Hurst said and acknowledged again with a mixture of resignation and wonder that his carefully ordered world had shifted so completely on its axis.

Whatever defences he had once thought to erect against Miss Elizabeth had proven woefully inadequate against this woman, who could find equal delight in Cicero's syntax and a dog dressed in a gown, who possessed the rare gift of making others feel that such delight was not merely permissible, but essential.