Page 18 of The Last House in Lambton (Pride and Prejudice Variations #6)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I left Hertfordshire in a strange mood. To be sure, I was relieved to be away from the place, to have whisked Bingley away from the danger of attaching himself to unfortunate connexions, and to return to a more reserved, appropriate society.

Below this superficial relief, however, was a faint unease, a tinge of the cringing self-disgust one feels after having acted in a scurrilous manner.

Subterfuge, manipulation, distortion of facts—in other words—disguise of any sort was abhorrent to me, yet I had participated in just such a scheme.

Bingley, innocent and good-natured, had been hurt in the process as his sisters and I convinced him that Jane Bennet liked him well enough, but was, in fact, being pushed to secure him.

His confidence suffered a blow, for he thought she showed true partiality, even affection for him.

Yet, we, his trusted advisers, saw that beneath her complacency was a heart too amenable to everyone to attach exclusively to any man in particular .

He managed to put on a brave show, but his heretofore radiant smile now seemed a pantomime of what it had been when he was dancing at Netherfield with Miss Jane Bennet.

Distasteful as my part had been in all that, it had been for the best. I justified my actions in the court of reason, and though I was found by my internal judge—whose voice reminded me forcibly of my father—to be in the right every time, I could no longer quite look my friend in the eye.

When I learnt Miss Bennet was visiting relations in London, that she had attempted to continue her friendship with Bingley’s sisters, and they had, through the judicious application of cold civility, cut the connexion, this hesitancy worsened to the point that I became unequal to facing Bingley without a slight sense of dread.

In the end, I resolved to cease my inner fidgets and to settle it that I had acted as a friend. Bingley and his sisters were expecting a visit from Hurst’s relations, and in the spirit of moving on, I took Georgiana to Pemberley for the festive season.

This was suitably distracting for the most part, except that a certain restlessness overtook me in the long shadows of the afternoon while on the road north.

I refused to think about the source of my restless feelings. No good would come of thinking of her—er, it.

I had, after all, read the stoics, and Marcus Aurelius’s assertion that ‘you have power over your mind’ became something of an inward chant whenever that unhelpful stream of thought began to flow southward in the direction of Longbourn.

Pemberley is beautiful even in the cold, wet of winter.

The estate’s well-drained roads are tamped with new gravel every other year.

The riding trails are similarly groomed, and we are not plagued by the mud lakes and dismal grey mush seen almost everywhere else.

Mrs Reynolds keeps a warm and cheery house, and throughout there is a feeling of ease and a prosperity unthreatened by any possible loss of fortune .

I breathed a sigh of relief to be home, filed my visit to Hertfordshire on the lowest, dustiest shelf in the library of my mind, and went about the never-ending business of owning such a large, wealthy estate.

I gave ceremonial nods to the preparations being made for the Yuletide.

I listened gravely to the lamentations of two tenants who had suffered crop losses after an early frost, took the advice of my steward, toured the stables with my stablemaster, and attended a large dinner party at the squire’s manor.

There I was introduced to Mr Colton’s niece, a young lady brought specifically to my notice for the purpose of a match. I admired her face and figure, but when she spoke, my mind wandered rather unintentionally to a different conversationalist altogether.

What had she said in reply to my enumeration of what constitutes an accomplished female? ‘ I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder at your knowing any…’

Sharp. Quick too, to flash out with some remark that was simply too true to be called merely cutting—but, no.

She must not be allowed to overtake my thoughts.

I smiled at Miss—Emily, was it? Amelia? No matter.

The tinder was damp, and no flame caught hold.

I left as soon as I could politely excuse myself.

The following afternoon, I was still dredging up the words of Marcus Aurelius, still intent upon mastering my thoughts because she—er, my thoughts—continued to loop around to where I had let them wander for too long at the squire’s party.

Thus, inwardly consumed, I bounded blindly down the main stairs in search of Mr Parker, the butler, to ask after?—

“Miss Bennet!” I wheezed.

She stood below me in the front hall, an apparition of my inner thoughts conjured into flesh! Good God! Had she followed me to Derbyshire to attach me? My heart began to race, and I ushered her into the salon.

She held her head at that patrician angle she adopted when on her dignity and refused to sit without being urged to do so.

Her cheeks were pink with cold, a curl had come loose and hung on the shoulder of a serviceable woollen dress, and her hems, she pointed out frostily, were covered in mud.

I glossed over her remark with an assurance that the tea tray would arrive momentarily.

“Tea?” she asked in surprise, as though the prospect of partaking refreshments with me was ridiculous.

This could hardly be classed as the demeanour of a woman arriving upon some manufactured excuse to renew our acquaintance.

I surreptitiously scoured her face for clues, and seeing the faint shadow of fatigue under her eyes, I came to the obvious conclusion that Mr Bennet had died, left them in a state of penury, and she had come to beg for some assistance.

“Your family?” I blurted out with real concern. “Are they well?”

Incredibly, she stood abruptly and smiled warmly at Mrs Reynolds, who had suddenly appeared in the room. With a distracted curtsey, she dismissed me simply by leaving the room with my housekeeper.

“Parker!” I roared after ten seconds of shocked silence.

“Sir?”

“What is Miss Bennet’s business with Mrs Reynolds?”

“The young lady visited some days ago and took Mrs Reynolds’s advice on a domestic matter, sir. She is staying with Mrs Jennings in Lambton.”

“Who, pray tell, is Mrs Jennings?” My tone was not unlike the snapping of an irritated dog.

“She inherited the Frye house after Mr Jennings died. He was in some way associated with Lord Carlson’s enterprise with the lead mines, sir.”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet came to Pemberley and did not ask for me?” I demanded. Egad, had I really voiced aloud my insulted feelings?

My butler pretended such a question was reasonable. “She asked for Mrs Reynolds, who had given word that she would receive the young lady if she visited again.”

“Well for God’s sake, man. Send to the stables to have the carriage at the door when she finishes her errand.”

The sensation of discomposure was foreign to me. I had always kept my feelings under good regulation, shielded my thoughts from the prying curiosity of—well, everyone—and was generally master of my physical body.

Harassed as I was by those foreign feelings of both excitement and anxious dread, I began to pace the long hall down which the lady had disappeared.

No good would come of her arrival in Lambton, none whatsoever.

I was too susceptible to the hypnotic appeal of her eyes, the inexplicable allure of her incidental movements, the way she had of tilting her head when listening to someone speak, the nonsensical way I interpreted the crook of her little finger over a teacup as a mark of her intelligence.

Pure and simple attraction, nothing more and nothing less, and I could not fall prey to it.

My father’s voice sternly urged retreat, suggesting I closet myself in the library until the danger passed.

I, however, stood rooted to the spot, breathing too heavily to be seemly, unwilling to forgo a second opportunity to see her if only to convince myself I had not just hallucinated in broad daylight.

Soon enough, she came towards me with an expression of civil confusion on her face.

She tried to nod and brush past me but failed.

I stood my ground and forced a conversation.

She made noises of protest about being driven home that meant little to me.

I shielded her from the rain, helped her into my coach, and sent her on her way as any gentleman would do.