Page 5 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived

D arcy was elated to escape Netherfield by the time they walked out the front door. Miss Bingley had not been content with their plans for the evening—particularly as they had been so sudden. She had appealed to Darcy’s desire for peace and quiet, suggesting that he might rather spend the evening at Netherfield—with her. He rather suspected her primary objection was the inclusion of the Bennets.

As he had not yet met their hostess, Darcy thanked her for her kind invitation and studied her, attempting to trace out whether she was more like Mrs. Bennet or like Miss Elizabeth. Unfortunately, Mrs. Phillips seemed prone to gossip and lacking in intelligence. Fortunately, her husband was rather more intelligent and very gentlemanlike. So were some of the officers. Simply the introduction of new people was more of a boon than he had expected. The weight of repeating days did not press nearly so hard upon him in their presence.

“Ah, and there I hear my nieces and Mr. Collins,” Mr. Phillips said as the sound of excited squeals echoed from the hall.

Before Darcy had even greeted the Bennets, a tall, heavy-looking man accosted him.

“Mr. Darcy! I am astonished that you would grace us with your presence; truly, your condescension is equal to your aunt’s. I have the pleasure of informing you that your aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, was in excellent health when I saw her Sunday last.”

Darcy stared at the man, not quite sure how to respond to this pleasantry. He had never seen the gentleman in his life.

“May I introduce Mr. Collins, Mr. Darcy?” Mrs. Phillips hurried to put in.

Ah. This then was Miss Elizabeth’s cousin. Darcy inclined his head. “Mr. Collins.”

“Lady Catherine de Bourgh has recently been so gracious as to bestow upon me the position of rector at Hunsford. She is truly a wonder. I do not believe anyone could sufficiently sing her praises. I am certain you are well aware of her beneficence and prodigious care towards everyone whom she encounters. She even condescended so far as to refurbish the parsonage for my own especial use.”

Mr. Collins continued with a minute description of precisely how wonderful Rosings was, as though Darcy had never seen it. To be fair, Mrs. Phillips gave him rapt attention, but truly, Darcy wished only to escape the conversation. The moment Mr. Collins drew breath, Darcy left and made his way over to Miss Elizabeth, hoping to partake of her wit.

“Mr. Darcy,” she greeted as he drew near.

Darcy hesitated for a moment before going so far as to sit down in the chair next to her. It seemed unlikely that what he did today would matter anyway. And even if it did, sitting at a proper distance from her and speaking would be unlikely to raise expectations, would it?

“Good evening, Miss Elizabeth. I trust you have been well.”

She nodded. “And you? Mr. Bingley said you were indisposed this morning.”

It had been days since they had exchanged anything but the barest greetings. He had forgotten, or never appreciated the musical lilt of her voice. “Unfortunately, yes. A headache—the extra rest this morning served to mend it.”

Miss Elizabeth hesitated. “I am glad that it was not of a lasting duration.”

“As am I,” Darcy said, for once allowing himself to drink in her beauty. “How have you spent your day?” he asked, then, as she stared, he realised what an odd question it was. But really, asking about any prior days seemed like a waste. Then again, for her, it had only been two days since she had left Netherfield; he ought to have asked if her sister was entirely recovered or if her family had been well in her absence.

“Well, this morning I went for my customary ramble.” She glanced towards Mr. Collins. “A bit of time to myself in the mornings is necessary for the rest of the day to have a favourable outcome.”

“I am in the habit of going for a morning ride myself. I find it gives one space to breathe for the rest of the day.”

“Indeed.” Miss Elizabeth quirked a smile. “Seeing the day begin reminds me that there is more to life, much as gazing at the stars does. I love the pregnant silence of the morning when there is quiet, and then as more and more of the world comes alive, every bird begins to go about its business. I am reminded that life begins anew each day.”

Perhaps that had been what he had been missing. His morning rides the past few days only served to emphasise that he was stuck repeating the same miserable day all over again—that no matter how much the world pretended to move on, it was actually trapped.

“I had not thought about it that way.” He swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in his throat. “It is a reminder to you that even when you are repeating the same events over and over, there is a newness to them simply due to the passage of time.”

“Yes.”

Darcy suppressed a grimace. What newness was to be had when time did not pass? “What else have you done with your day?” he asked, laying hold of the question like a drowning man, trying to keep the depressing thoughts from dragging him below the surface.

Miss Elizabeth raised one eyebrow, but obliged him with a short summary of her day, finishing with, “I am surprised by your interest, Mr. Darcy. Surely the activities of a country girl are far from absorbing.”

Darcy hesitated. Miss Elizabeth would not recall anything he said tonight anyway. Perhaps... perhaps he could simply respond honestly instead. “To be candid, Miss Elizabeth, though I am interested in your daily activities, I am—ill-at-ease among company. Of course, if you would prefer I ask about your sister’s health or how you have been since leaving Netherfield or any other topic, I am your servant.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “I would not have expected that one so accustomed to society would be ill-at-ease in a small country gathering.”

“I am not—I have never possessed the talent that others have of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”

Miss Elizabeth studied him for a moment. “I have often wished to become a better pianoforte player—my fingers do not have the same force or rapidity as other women’s, nor do they produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I have other things that I would prefer to do than practise. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s.”

“You are perfectly right,” Darcy said, in awe of this woman who could turn a simple admission of flaws into a pointed commentary on her listener. “You have employed your time much better than in endless hours of pianoforte practice. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”

Miss Elizabeth quirked an eyebrow. “I do not believe the presence or absence of strangers has anything to do with my playing—it is simply a matter of practice. And I would not characterise kindness as a performance.”

“Kindness?”

“You do not believe that putting oneself out to ensure another feels welcome—stranger or not—is a matter of kindness?”

The “kindness” of the ton flashed through Darcy’s mind. All the petty arguments, the cattishness of those women who were near the bottom (and some few who were in the upper ranks), the mean-spirited gossip.... “I am not used to thinking that kindness belongs in society.”

Miss Elizabeth chuckled. “Perhaps that is why you are so uncomfortable among strangers then.”

“How so?”

“I believe that kindness is the soul of politeness. Without kindness, politeness is a mere shell, designed to make a person appear to their best and to fulfil society’s expectations. It is like an empty pie crust and leaves one distinctly unsatisfied. Not to mention that relating becomes a near-meaningless dance of expectations and speaking for form’s sake, rather than an opportunity to come to know someone better.”

“You have a very different view of the world than what I have encountered.”

“I am not surprised,” Miss Elizabeth said with a smile. “Considering that we do not move in the same circles. My aunt and uncle introduced me to this philosophy, and my uncle is in trade.”

Darcy hesitated as she studied him, apparently expecting a strong reaction to her pronouncement. “I wonder if being in trade teaches one congeniality. Bingley is one of the most congenial persons I know. I have always believed it to be his nature, but perhaps his nature has been aided by his upbringing.”

“I think we can all agree that both nature and nurture play a part in forming one’s character,” she said, her gaze flicking over to Bingley and Miss Bennet.

For the first time, it struck Darcy how similar his friend and Miss Bennet were: they both appeared perfectly content whatever their circumstances and, judging by Miss Bennet’s overly frequent smiles, both were congenial to those around them nearly all the time. “Do you believe that congeniality is a virtue, Miss Elizabeth? Or does it show a lack of opinion?”

Miss Elizabeth frowned. “How so?”

“If one is never displeased, does it indicate a willingness to be pleased or simply a lack of discernment?”

“I suppose either might be the cause; however, most of the congenial people I have encountered are simply willing to be pleased. A disdain for others often leaves one disappointed and miserable regardless of one’s company.”

“Then you equate disdain with an unwillingness to be pleased rather than with discernment?”

Miss Elizabeth nodded. “I would not dare to make sweeping statements such as that everyone who shows disdain refuses to be pleased; however, in my experience, those who show disdain for others are often simply unwilling to be pleased, regardless of any circumstances.” She held his gaze. “It is too bad that some people refuse to be pleased—such disdain would make for a very poor life.”

Darcy nearly started. A poor life? That was what the old woman had said when she had first seen him—that he was poor. “What do you believe a rich life would look like?”

“To what end are you asking, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Elizabeth asked in bewilderment.

Darcy pinched himself, willing the red that was creeping up his neck to recede. He had been speaking to Miss Elizabeth for longer than was his custom and had forgotten to consider how it might appear to her. “I have recently begun considering the question myself, and as you have frequently provided a unique perspective in our conversations, I would like to hear your opinion.”

Miss Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “I suppose you are asking about metaphorical riches.”

Darcy nodded. At least that seemed reasonable—clearly, the old woman could not have been referring to physical riches as the Darcy family had not been poor for several generations.

“Well, I—I suppose it would depend upon what one values.” She fell silent for several moments, apparently considering the matter. “For me, a rich life would include loving and being loved, having space to be myself, being challenged, tasks that I enjoy and that are worthwhile, an opportunity to continue learning, opportunities for fun, characters to study and people to interact with. What about you?”

“I have been used to considering a rich life to be one in which I fulfil the duties of my name: to ensure that my tenants are well-cared for, that my estate is well-managed, and that I retain beneficial connections so that my sister may marry well.“

Miss Elizabeth studied him, and he thought he detected a hint of pity in her gaze. “I see.”