Unable?and unwilling?to engage her mind fully in the edifying literature, Elizabeth thought of her changed circumstances, of her purpose and her independence. She missed painting. She missed the business of sharing her work.
It was unladylike to entertain such thoughts, but Elizabeth had tasted industry and enterprise, and now that she had given them up, she felt the void. She had enjoyed the satisfaction of completing a painting with the knowledge that an appreciative viewer would reward her hard work and creativity with a payment that signified security and stability for her and her family.
Taking a much-needed break from her needlework, she pulled her sketchbook out of her workbasket and began flipping through the pages.
Mr. Collins loomed over her shoulder. “That is very good. Lady Catherine will be pleased to know you possess some artistic talent.”
She slammed the sketchbook shut, angry at his intrusion, and resumed stitching as Mr. Collins flipped to the section in his book that extolled the virtues of an accomplished young lady. Elizabeth prayed the rain would stop before she went mad and turned her creative mind to all the ways she might silence Mr. Collins.
CHAPTER 31
Darcy was going mad. After four days of incessant rain, he had caught up on all his correspondence, played countless games of cards, marbles, and spillikins, and exhausted his supply of reading material. None of it was distraction enough.
To make matters worse, Miss Bingley seemed to be under the delusion that he enjoyed her company. He was running out of polite excuses to avoid her.
All he could think about was Elizabeth.
Consumed with finding a solution where there was none, he tried again and again, reliving his disappointment with every failed idea. And yet, he hoped. He continued trying.
Finally, just before Darcy’s patience reached its end and he would certainly have told Miss Bingley in no uncertain terms what he thought of her selfish conceit and pomposity, the rain stopped. The earth might be asodden, mucky mess, but he did not care. Nothing would keep him indoors.
That morning, he went down to the breakfast parlor in search of sustenance and company. Richard arrived shortly thereafter, followed by Georgiana, and then Bingley.
Georgiana tapped her boiled egg with a spoon. “It is too wet out of doors to ride or walk, and yet I cannot remain indoors another moment.”
Bingley tugged at the corner of his mustache as though pulling on it would encourage the hair to grow. “I have some business to attend to in Meryton.” He looked about and lowered his voice. “Caro thinks the food is being delivered from London.”
Richard scoffed. “Because London fare is far superior, no doubt.”
“Who wants to eat freshly made food, anyway?” added Georgiana. Darcy had not known she possessed so much sarcasm. Four days trapped indoors must have been difficult for her, too.
“Precisely!” Bingley agreed wholeheartedly. “Which is why I made arrangements locally. All will be well so long as she does not find out.”
“And you experience no delays getting your supplies to the kitchen,” added Darcy.
Bingley rubbed his upper lip. “Well do I know it! If one of my plans fails, Caro will never let me hear the end of it.”
Richard drained the last of his tea. “How long have you been growing that mustache, Bingley?”
“A month.”
Darcy controlled his surprise. Ifhehad gone a month without shaving, his facial hair would rival Archie’s!
The clever canine looked up from his place on the mat, his plate of kidneys empty. He tapped it with his paw, requesting more. Darcy filled another plate and took it over to him.
Bingley tugged on the ends of his mustache again. “Is there any hope it might fill out a bit more before the ball?”
“In two days? When this is the work of a month?” Richard shook his head.
Crestfallen, Bingley bowed his head.
Darcy shot Richard a glance. What he said was true, but he could have been gentler. “Why do you want a mustache?”
“It looks dignified and mature.” Bingley glanced once again at the door and lowered his tone. “Caro teases me all the time that I look younger than my years. I had hoped it might make me look older.” He angled his chin from side to side as though to prove his point.
If anything, the thin whiskers made him look much younger. Like a boy trying too hard to look like a man.
Bingley must have read Darcy’s expression clearly enough. He grimaced. “How often do you have to shave?”
