CHAPTER FIVE
“Did you enjoy dancing with Mr Darcy?”
“I did indeed,” Elizabeth replied to her sister, watching as Mr Darcy strolled around the room, greeting people with ease and friendliness. “He is all that is amiable.”
“Do you suppose he knows of Mr Darcy’s proposal?” Jane asked. “I should think it quite odd if he did, and yet showed you such preference.”
“Did you think he showed me preference?”
Jane nodded emphatically. “You are fortunate our mother is not here; she would be calling for the banns to be read.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Let us assume he does know of Mr Darcy’s proposal—and I think surely he must—then yes, his preference would be peculiar. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
Elizabeth did not remove her eyes from Mr Darcy. “I do not recall mention of a cousin in any of my conversations with Mr Darcy.”
“Likely there is much you do not know of him.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed. “However I would imagine that a cousin who lived on the same estate as he did must earn some mention, do you not? Do consider that I do not speak only of our time in Hertfordshire, but of the weeks in Kent as well. Mr William Darcy was not discussed, not by Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy, nor by any of those who must be mutually acquainted with him.”
“That is true,” Jane said. “But what can it mean?”
“In fact,” Elizabeth said, with greater vigour. “Lady Catherine scolded him for being unable to come to her more often. He always claimed the duties of his estate drew him away. Would you not think that with Pemberley in the hands of a trusted cousin, he might go where he pleases for as long as he wishes to be there?”
“He likely did not wish to be in Kent and used his obligations at Pemberley to exempt himself,” Jane said in a reasonable tone. “You have said yourself, he appeared quite disgusted to be there.”
“Your answers have far too much logic for me, Sister,” Elizabeth said, at last removing her eyes from Mr William Darcy. “I fear your sense shall overcome my fancies.”
“And what are your fancies?” Jane asked.
“Something is afoot here,” Elizabeth pronounced. “And I intend to find out just what it is.”
She turned, addressing Mrs Gardiner, who had recently finished her conversation with Mrs Jones, the wife of the apothecary. “Our dance partners have gone to retrieve some refreshments for us. I do hope you will meet them when they return.”
Mrs Gardiner gave Jane a little look. “I am exceedingly curious to meet Mr Bingley, of whom I have heard so much. And Lizzy? Was Mr Darcy your partner?”
Elizabeth smiled. “How did you guess?”
“He is very the image of his father,” said Mrs Gardiner. “I cannot claim intimacy with that family, but such distinguished personages are always known to those in the towns, even if they themselves do not recognise the townsfolk.”
A thrum of excitement coursed through her. Of course! Here beside her was the greatest proof of all. Surely a cousin would be known to Mrs Gardiner?
The gentlemen were approaching again, and Elizabeth made haste to speak to her aunt. “It may surprise you to know that it is not Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy who you see but Mr William Darcy. A nephew; I believe he is the son of Mr George Darcy’s younger brother.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs Gardiner looked confused. “But I did not think that?—”
The gentlemen were then upon them and Mr Darcy was first to speak, nodding respectfully to Mrs Gardiner before saying, “Miss Elizabeth, pray introduce me to your friend.”
Elizabeth gave him a wide smile and if it was a bit like the smile a cat would give to its mouse, she did not intend it to be so. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”
She made the introduction, pleased with the amiability of Mr Darcy and Mr Bingley towards her beloved aunt. Before they could introduce any subject for conversation, however, she interceded further. “Mr Darcy, my aunt spent her youth in Derbyshire.”
Her eyes were intent upon Mr Darcy’s countenance when she pronounced it, and thus she did not miss the slight widening of his eyes or the fleeting distress that marked his looks. “A town called Lambton,” she added.
“That is but five miles from Pemberley,” Bingley cried out jovially. A moment later, he grasped the implication of this news and sobered.
Mrs Gardiner stepped forward, her features showing her intelligence and kindness. “I could not claim an intimacy with your family, sir,” she said. “But we did attend the parish church at Kympton and saw them all when they were in Derbyshire.”
Mrs Gardiner tilted her head at Darcy, seeming as though she studied him closely, though politely. “My nieces tell me you are the cousin of the present Master of Pemberley.”
Elizabeth nearly laughed aloud. Mr Darcy stared at Mrs Gardiner in horror but did not speak. One could almost hear his mind spinning.
“I must own I find it exceedingly surprising. I can remember once, when I was only a girl, you… your cousin fell ill and the town was so very fearful he would not last it. Oh, how much everyone hoped and prayed! Of course, no one wished to see a child perish but I had understood it was also because there were no near male relations to inherit Pemberley.”
Mr Darcy glanced quickly at Elizabeth and she dropped her eyes quickly, not wanting him to see what she felt. She was nearly positive he was pretending to be his own cousin, but why? She could not imagine.
Mr Darcy shifted on his feet, seeming to be at a loss for words. Elizabeth waited, wondering what explanation he could, or would, give them. The silence seemed to stretch long.
Just when she began to think he would remain mute forever, Mr Bingley gave a strangled cry. He then lurched forward and his glass of punch—a glass that had been largely untouched—poured directly onto Mr Darcy. The drink, a deep claret colour, splashed liberally over Mr Darcy’s waistcoat, dribbling onto his breeches as well as colouring a small portion of his cravat and shirt.
Mr Darcy leapt backwards, his action too late to be of any help. “Bingley!”
“Oh my!” Bingley exclaimed. “What a dreadful clumsy oaf I am! Someone must have bumped me!”
Mr Darcy removed his handkerchief and began to dab uselessly at his clothes. He gave his friend a strained smile, which more resembled the baring of his teeth, but he did not get angry. “It is nothing, just a spot.”
“I do hope your suit is not ruined!” Mr Bingley exclaimed. “Come, let us find someone to help!”
Mrs Gardiner stepped forward. “May I be of use? I might?—”
“No, no!” Mr Bingley took hold of his friend’s arms and began to push him towards the side of the room, ignoring Mrs Gardiner. “I could not importune you, ma’am. Come with me, Darcy.”
Darcy permitted Bingley to direct him towards a small room to the side of the dance floor, looking back only once to see Elizabeth standing with her sister and aunt, staring after them in astonishment.
Bingley immediately sent two servants to retrieve some water. Sir William arrived to see whether he could assist. Darcy opened his mouth, a curt refusal on the tip of his tongue, but Bingley hissed, “Amiable!” under his breath, so Darcy forced a smile.
“Nothing at all, Sir William. A minor spill. I am certain to be back among the dancers by the time the next is called.”
Sir William clapped his hands, made a few silly and absent-minded remarks about not being denied the pleasure of watching them dance, and then was gone.
As soon as the door closed behind Sir William, Bingley heaved a sigh, then removed his own handkerchief and mopped his brow. “You are most welcome, sir,” he said to Darcy.
“Welcome?” Darcy was incredulous. “I am welcome? You suppose I should thank you? Have you gone witless?”
Bingley reached over to dab uselessly at Darcy’s waistcoat with his sweat-laden handkerchief. “I aided you in escaping just in time! What singular misfortune to come across someone who knows your family when otherwise you might have passed very creditably.”
Bingley began to pace as they awaited the servant with the water. “What if you say there was a breach in the family…some time past, perhaps some blackguard of a great-uncle of sorts?”
Darcy sagged against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. “The game is up,” Darcy told him tiredly. “Elizabeth is far too quick-witted to believe?—”
Bingley shook his head, fully resolute. “We can think of some explanation. A brother who was believed dead, but after your father died, appeared suddenly?—”
“I cannot lie any more! An uncle brought back from the dead? It is too much!”
Bingley crossed his arms over his chest. “Very well then. You reveal yourself. Then what?”
Darcy sighed. “Then we…I am sure I cannot say.”
“Then she is angry. She will be angry because she will not yet comprehend what is good in this little farce.”
“What good is there in this farce?”
“That you have shown yourself willing to do anything to be with her,” said Bingley. “That you would even be another man if it would meet with her approval.”
Darcy considered that moment, then slowly nodded. It made sense, and it held promise.
“So you need only show her that you are an agreeable fellow. Then when you reveal William and Fitzwilliam are one and the same gentleman, she will realise there was more to you than she knew and that she is in love with the William part of you.”
“She may already suspect William is me in disguise.”
“Then I return to my previous point—she is behaving rather warmly to you. So whether she thinks you are William or Fitzwilliam, you have much to gain by continuing. You could win her heart either way, but in either case, it is far too early to give up.”
Though Darcy hated to admit it, Bingley was correct. Elizabeth had been alternately warm and teasing, sometimes curious, sometimes dubious, but never with indifference or spite. Bingley noted it, and yet Bingley knew nothing of his letter. Had his letter, the letter he had given her after his botched proposal, made her think differently of him?
He supposed it all must depend upon whether or not she knew he was Fitzwilliam—which was very hopeful—or whether she truly believed he was Cousin William—much less hopeful.
He could not give up until he knew, for certain, whether her teasing smiles and sparkling fine eyes were for him or for William. Who better than William Darcy to lead the discovery?