Bingley looked pained. “That is not untrue.”
Darcy smirked. “Speaking of—where is Miss Bingley?”
“Oh, in the drawing room, trying to convince Louisa that country air is poisoning her complexion.”
“How dreadful for her.”
“Quite. Shall we go inside?”
The drawing room at Netherfield was precisely as Darcy had left it six months ago—tasteful, well-furnished, and entirely too orange.
Louisa Hurst was lounging indolently upon a settee, while her husband was already half-asleep in an armchair, snoring gently.
Caroline Bingley sat stiff-backed at the writing desk, penning what was no doubt an acidic commentary on country society to an equally disinterested acquaintance in town. The moment Darcy entered, her eyes flicked up, her expression briefly startled—before settling into cool politeness.
“Ah,” she said. “You are here.”
“As you see,” Darcy replied.
She set down her pen. “For long?”
“Not if I can help it,” he said, and she visibly relaxed.
Bingley coughed into his fist, his amusement poorly disguised. Caroline’s disdain for him had become something of a morbid joke between the two of them. Upon their first introduction three years earlier, she had glanced at his tall figure, his stately posture, and taken him for what he ought to be—a man in possession of a large fortune and a comfortable estate with no other cares but the search for a bride.
But when she learned he was no more than a public servant, whose duties were so obscure that they lacked even a definition, and whatever claims he had once possessed to wealth and title were nothing more than a vague memory, why… she cared as little for him as he did for her. Which suited him well enough.
Darcy settled into a chair opposite Bingley, stretched out his legs, and let the warmth of the fire sink into his bones. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself the luxury of ease.
Perhaps he would even enjoy it.
May 12, 1812
FitzwilliamDarcyspentthenext day deliberately avoiding the world.
The sun had been bright, the fields damp with the lingering breath of morning rain, and Charles Bingley had been in his usual good spirits as they walked the countryside, shot at pheasants, and exchanged only the most necessary words. It was, in every respect, the perfect way to disappear for a time.
They had returned to Netherfield late in the afternoon, just long enough to change before setting out for dinner at Longbourn—an invitation apparently extended weeks ago, before Darcy had even arrived. They could hardly alter their plans now.
And so, he found himself here once more, in the modest, lively dining room of the Bennet household, surrounded by familiar absurdities. Darcy had thought the Bennet females ridiculous last autumn, and nothing in the intervening months had softened his opinion.
Mrs. Bennet was as noisy and indiscreet as ever, clearly eager to see her daughters married to as much wealth as they could manage. And if wealth could not be caught, a redcoat would do. He, therefore, was safe from her on both counts, and she made no secret of that fact.
Misses Lydia and Catherine Bennet leaned toward one another, heads bent close, their hands fluttering to disguise—rather unsuccessfully—their whispering. Darcy had observed this habit last autumn as well; neither of them possessed any real talent for discretion. It was never difficult to determine what—or more often,who—had captured their interest. At present, their giggles and darting glances toward Bingley suggested they were still speculating on his marriage prospects, though Lydia, as the younger, seemed far more intent upon the entertainment of it.
Miss Mary Bennet sat slightly apart from her sisters, her posture rigidly upright, her fingers curled around the stem of her wineglass as though she had given great thought to the precise way a lady ought to hold it. She was discussing virtue and restraint, though not in the way one might expect from a sermonizing moralist. There was no firebrand energy in her speech—no dramatic declarations of ruin. Instead, she approached the topic as one might a philosophical problem, her tone grave but studious, as if she were considering the matter from a purely academic standpoint.
Darcy had met women who preached morality with the fervor of the righteous, but Miss Mary Bennet seemed to be working through her convictions in the midst of expressing them, arranging her arguments with care, though with little consideration as to whether anyone was listening.
Indeed, no one appeared to be.
The eldest, Miss Jane Bennet, was somewhat less of an oddity and somewhat more of a curiosity. She sat composed and quiet, offering the occasional polite remark but never volunteering conversation of her own accord. She was much as Darcy remembered—pleasant, mild, and largely indistinct.
She smiled often, though never with any particular animation. Her expressions were carefully modulated, never too pleased, never too affected, as if trained to rest in agreeable neutrality. It was difficult to tell whether she was truly engaged in the conversation around her or merely enduring it with practiced patience.
Darcy was not entirely certain which.
Had she always been so silent? He had noticed, last autumn, that she was not given to strong opinions or lively debates. Even now, she seemed content to sit back and let others speak, her presence felt only in the occasional murmured agreement or the soft laughter she offered at appropriate moments. Was it shyness or reserve? He did not know, and frankly, he did not care. It was of no consequence to him, except in how it pertained to Bingley.
