Page 4 of The Happiness of a Most Beloved Sister (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

CHAPTER THREE

W ho does Mr Darcy think he is?

Had Jane not been so carefully practised at concealing her private thoughts, she was certain her annoyance would have been easily discernible to the high-handed gentleman who had earned it.

A month ago, she had been inclined to garner his favour—ten thousand a year and connexions to an earldom were quite the juicy lure for any lady—but his head had proved difficult to turn in her direction.

Assuming he was too full of pride to lower himself for any country maiden, Jane had transferred her attentions to his friend, the affable Mr Bingley.

He might be only half Mr Darcy’s consequence, but five thousand a year was not nothing, and he obviously moved in elevated circles despite his humble trade origins.

A bird in the hand was worth two in the bush, as they said.

After their initial introduction at the assembly, where Mr Darcy had made his indifference plain by refusing to stand up even with her—whom he openly acknowledged as the ‘ only handsome girl in the room’—Jane had ceased to give him much thought other than as Mr Bingley’s friend.

Somehow, during this inattentive period, Mr Darcy had developed some sort of tendre for Elizabeth.

How and when he had determined her more than ‘tolerable’, Jane could not say, but now he was evidently prepared to champion the very lady he had previously disdained.

More confounding than this reversal of opinion was the mystery of how he had come to admire Elizabeth and not Jane, who was considered the prettiest of her sisters.

She took after their mother—who had ably employed her own charms to elevate herself to the role of gentleman’s wife, despite her unfortunate manners—and exhibited the best of Mrs Bennet.

She was not only blonde and delicate but also demure and properly educated as a gentlewoman.

Elizabeth was not unhandsome, but she more greatly resembled their father in colouring and disposition.

If that were not masculine enough, she also had the tendency to wander about the countryside spattered in mud and spouting bold opinions no one particularly wished to hear.

How she had drawn the eye of the distinguished Mr Darcy was a conundrum that Jane simply could not resolve.

Howsoever it had occurred, the result was that Jane suffered the palpable dislike of that gentleman, who glowered at her across the drawing room.

With his unrelenting gaze always trailing Elizabeth about, he had apparently noticed Jane’s penchant for relying on her sister’s ready aid and felt some compunction to interfere.

Not that it was any of his business. And why should Jane be reproached for availing herself of that which was freely offered?

Elizabeth never minded and likely enjoyed being of service, even when it was not wanted.

When one considered it in that way, Jane was a saint for enduring such constant attentions with gentle patience.

Mr Darcy might fume over Jane’s habits all he wanted so long as his scorn did not colour Mr Bingley’s opinion, for she was almost certain of success there.

She might have received his proposals already had Elizabeth not appeared on Netherfield’s doorstep, prepared to meddle in her elder sister’s affairs.

Wretched girl, always underfoot when she is least wanted.

No matter, Jane remained confident that her arts and allurements would win the day, even if she must dodge her sister’s coddling and endure Mr Darcy’s thinly veiled contempt.

He might be easily led, but Mr Bingley was his own man and did not require anyone’s approval to marry where he liked.

It was up to her to ensure he realised that she was his preferred choice.

With this in mind, Jane severed her staring war with Mr Darcy and returned her gaze to Mr Bingley with a coy flutter of her lashes. The way he stammered and leant in closer filled her with satisfaction.

Who does Jane Bennet think she is?

The lady who had incurred Darcy’s ire sniffed delicately and withdrew her gaze from his, turning it to Bingley. Her aspect, which had been rigid and cold as she beheld Darcy, returned to its usual insipidity as they resumed their conversation.

“Miss Eliza certainly thinks highly of herself, does she not?” said Miss Bingley in what was surely meant to be a whisper but could likely be heard across the room.

“It was I who objected, not Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy reminded her, struggling to smother the asperity that threatened to leach into his tone. He was not wholly successful.

Not that Miss Bingley acknowledged it. “And it was gentlemanly of you to do so,” she replied in a simpering tone, “but she ought to have just gone from the first and not embroiled the entire room in their conflict.”

There was nothing Darcy could say to this amendment of history, so he took up his book, opened it, and pretended to read.

He had yet to digest a single word of the volume, what with Miss Bingley buzzing about him like a pestering insect, but he remained determined in his aim to disregard her.

He curved his mouth into a forbidding frown—not at all difficult in his present dark mood—to further encourage her to turn her unwanted attentions elsewhere.

At length, the lady reluctantly withdrew and began prowling through the seating area, doing her best to lure his gaze to her figure.

He resolutely kept his eyes on the page, maintaining his studied pretence by turning to the next every so often.

He might have actually attempted to read with Miss Bingley at a greater distance, but he was far too preoccupied with his implacable irritation with another lady in the room.

How did Miss Bennet have the audacity to order her sister about like that?

It greatly pained Darcy to see an independent, witty young lady like Miss Elizabeth cater to the selfish whims of a petty tyrant.

How could a woman who would walk three miles on her own be brought to heel in such a way? Darcy did not understand it.

It was almost as if Elizabeth did not see it.

To him, it was entirely obvious that Miss Bennet thought herself entitled to her sister’s devotion.

Darcy ought not to have inserted himself the way he had, but it had provoked him beyond endurance when Miss Bennet had reduced Elizabeth to the work of a servant.

Maids were compensated to fetch things, it was part of their duties to the household, but Elizabeth was a gentleman’s daughter and above such treatment.

There was no special talent for fetching shawls; any servant down to the lowliest scullery maid could have performed the office just as well as another.

No, Miss Bennet merely enjoyed directing her sister in the same manner his cousin Anne employed with her long-suffering companion.

Perhaps this comparison was partly why it irked Darcy so to witness Elizabeth ordered about; he did not like to see anyone lowered to the status of poor Mrs Jenkinson.

No, if he was being completely honest with himself, it was Elizabeth in particular who invoked his protective nature.

At first, he had thought her entirely ordinary, merely a country girl of average looks and insipid conversation; nothing to tempt him.

After additional encounters, his opinion had undergone a revolution due to the intelligent expression of her undeniably fine blue-green eyes.

The way they sparkled knowingly, impishly, just before she said something especially clever caused his gut to clench and his…

well, suffice it to say, Darcy was careful to temper his admiration when in company.

The light squeal of a hinge heralded Elizabeth’s return, and, confound it, Darcy found his gaze inexorably drawn to her as she strode into the room.

Her movements were graceful yet bespoke purpose as she approached Miss Bennet with the requested shawl draped across her arm.

That conceited sister of hers accepted the tribute as her due, then dismissed Elizabeth by returning her full attention to Bingley.

Darcy’s hands clenched around his book—when he had closed it, he could not say—as he witnessed Elizabeth flush and stand there a moment, apparently unsure, before walking away.

Darcy’s heart leapt and collided with his ribcage when he saw she was coming his way.

He sat up straighter in his chair, manoeuvred himself about into a position he thought more enticing to a young lady, and waited with impatience for her to take up the settee nearest to him.

He thought she might, given the proximity of the book she had laid aside in service of Miss Bennet’s selfish whims, and if she did, it would be his duty to entertain her with conversation.

What witty rejoinder will she treat me to this time?

Will her lips quirk in that particular way I like?

Elizabeth was within mere feet of the settee, her hand extended to take up the volume she had left on the table beside it, when Miss Bingley strutted into her path like a peacock on display.

Indeed, the feathers sprouting from her turban added to the image.

“Miss Eliza Bennet, I have been persuaded by your example to take a turn about the room. You make it appear so refreshing. Do join me.”

The only sign of Elizabeth’s displeasure at this entreaty, he fancied, was the taut quality of her smile as she acquiesced. Miss Bingley then slipped her arm through Elizabeth’s and led her away, casting a glance over her shoulder at Darcy as if to make certain he was still watching.

Darcy sank deeper into his chair, his pulse settling back into its usual rhythm. It is probably for the best , he told himself without conviction. She attracts me more than I like.

Left to the cold comfort of this bit of prudence, he opened his book and made a determined effort to read. If he was frequently distracted by Elizabeth passing near, he hoped at least it was not obvious.