“I know what I am doing,” Bingley replied. “I merely danced with the lady twice, and while she is quite the handsomest lady in this area, I am in no way ready to be tied down.”
“Just be careful, Bingley,” Darcy repeated, a touch of unease tightening his voice as he redirected the conversation to safer ground.
CHAPTER THREE
The next few days only increased Darcy’s feelings of discomfort. Miss Bingley was relentless in her attempts to display her skills as hostess, unaware of how little her displays were wanted or appreciated. Somehow the lady had yet to realise that being a hostess was only one of many expectations for the mistress of an estate, and it seemed evident that she had little desire to learn what else might be required or expected.
Therefore, Bingley and Darcy spent as much time as they could out on the estate or in his study, as Darcy attempted to teach his friend what it meant to be an estate owner. The mornings, once Bingley deigned to rise, were spent in the study pouring over ledgers and maps with the occasional meeting with the steward when there was a question about why something was done, and the afternoons were spent riding out or walking the estate.
The only exception to this was one shooting party when Mr Hurst, Bingley’s brother by marriage, joined them in the pursuit of pheasant, which did much to add to not only their table, but also to the tenants’ preparations for winter.
It was nearly a week after that first assembly when the Netherfield party ventured out into the local society again.
As soon as they entered the room at Lucas Lodge—with Miss Bingley’s machinations and her apparent inability to read a clock making their party late yet again—Darcy’s gaze immediately sought the lovely Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Still uncertain how to approach her, he found himself drifting about the room, keeping her within earshot as he tried to determine how best to begin a conversation.
To his surprise, it was she who addressed him first. “Did I not express myself clearly just now?” she asked, her tone lightly impertinent, her eyes bright with challenge as she caught him appearing to listen in to her conversation with Mr Goulding about the war with France a short while later.
“Perfectly well, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied, momentarily caught off guard. “It is a subject upon which you seem to feel most strongly. My own cousin is presently on the Continent, and we have received but a few letters from him. We worry constantly for his safety even though he assures me they will deal with the ‘Corsican Ogre’ soon enough.”
“So I have heard others say,” Elizabeth replied. “But I also understand that tensions are rising between Great Britain and the American States. Are we truly prepared to face war on more than one front?”
Darcy’s expression remained composed, his tone carrying the weight of conviction as he considered her words. “Britain is ever prepared, Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “Our navy commands the seas, and our armies are the finest in Europe. The Americans may bluster if they wish, but they would do well to remember the might of the Empire they once defied. Whatever smalldisturbances arise across the Atlantic shall scarcely divert us from the true threat—Bonaparte.”
“As I recall, they have defeated us once before, when many thought they could not,” she countered lightly. “I think we can hardly be certain of the outcome should hostilities rise again. As I understand it, privateers and American sailors have already made matters troublesome for our navy.”
Darcy listened to her well-formed arguments with genuine interest. Mr Goulding soon joined the conversation, insisting that the British navy was the finest in the world—a claim Elizabeth did not dispute. It was clear the gentleman found the notion of a lady debating such matters improper. Darcy, however, found himself impressed by the clarity of her reasoning and noted the faint surprise in her expression each time he agreed with her or offered a remark in support of her point.
When Mr Goulding withdrew a short time later, Elizabeth turned towards him with her customary arched brow. In his brief observation of the lady, he had noticed it was an expression she often wore, particularly when she intended to challenge someone.
“I thank you for your support,” she said quietly. “While I have had this same conversation with Mr Goulding on several occasions, he has rarely yielded so easily, nor without a few remarks upon how ill-formed my arguments are. He is never able to explain precisely which of my points are weak, of course—merely that my being a lady is reason enough to dismiss them.”
“My sister has only just turned sixteen,” Darcy replied, lowering his voice to match hers, “and we often read the papers anddiscuss what we find there. My cousin earned his rank by merit rather than by purchase—and although he cannot speak freely of his experiences, I have heard enough to know our forces are far less prepared than some would claim.”
Before Elizabeth could respond, a lady approached and interrupted them. “Since Mr Goulding has at last quit the field, it is time for you to entertain us all, Eliza, and play a song or two. Papa has requested your playing in particular, and you know you cannot disappoint him.”
“Very well, Charlotte,” Elizabeth said to her friend, before turning back to Darcy. “Excuse me, sir—and try not to think too poorly of my attempts. I fear I am not so accomplished as some you may have heard of in town, but my friend and Sir William are rarely persuaded that I would prefer not to exhibit.”
With that, she curtseyed and crossed the room to the pianoforte. Darcy’s gaze followed her, drawn irresistibly. Despite her modest claim, her playing was very fine—though lacking his own sister’s precision, it was filled with warmth and feeling. He found himself entranced, not only by the melody but by the grace with which she seemed to live within the music itself.
When she finished her second song, he applauded along with the rest of the company, and despite some insisting she continue playing, she refused, preferring to allow another to take her place. Several young ladies followed, but none held Darcy’s attention in the same way. He continued to watch Miss Elizabeth as she made her way through the room, seemingly speaking to everyone present, until he was approached by Miss Bingley.
“I can scarcely imagine enduring many more evenings like this,” she said, stepping far too close for comfort. When he saw her hand begin to rise—clearly intending to take his arm—Darcymoved at once, clasping his hands firmly behind his back. The gesture was deliberate, leaving her no opportunity to continue although he maintained his composure as her hand faltered uncertainly in mid-air.
It may be considered unkind to behave so, yet in this case it seemed absolutely necessary. He had made his intentions abundantly clear to her brother and as plain to the lady herself as propriety allowed. No, he would not permit such familiarities, nor would he allow her to impose upon his person in order to create an illusion of intimacy that did not exist.
She faltered only a moment before recovering her composure. “You must help me convince Charles to return to London. It is clear that he likes Miss Bennet entirely too well, and I do not trust him not to entangle himself with that family. I have heard rumours that Miss Eliza Bennet is not, in fact, the second eldest daughter as we all believed. There are whispers that she is a niece—the child of Mr Bennet’s brother and some woman—but I have my doubts. She is reportedly an orphan, and no one knows what, if any, dowry she possesses. I rather suspect she is not an orphan at all, but someone’s natural child.”
Her voice was far from quiet, and her words could easily have been overheard. Fortunately, there was no one close enough to do so.
“Miss Bingley,” Darcy said sharply. “Do you have any proof of these accusations? You can scarcely go about making statements that could ruin a young woman’s reputation.”
“I have not made it up,” she protested. “My maid told me what she heard from Mrs Nicholls and others in the house.”
“The housekeeper at Netherfield told your maid that Miss Elizabeth Bennet is someone’s natural child?” Darcy asked, deliberately lowering his voice and hoping she would follow.
“No,” Miss Bingley admitted after a pause. “My maid only said that she was a niece of Mr Bennet’s and that nothing is known of her dowry. It is well known that the other Misses Bennet will share their mother’s portion of five thousand pounds upon her death, so I cannot imagine that Eliza has more than the others.”
Darcy was silent for several moments as he considered this. Since he had never been formally introduced to Miss Elizabeth, he had merely assumed she was Mr Bennet’s daughter. He had never met the gentleman, but it was clear she bore little resemblance to Mrs Bennet. She favoured neither her complexion nor her manner. There was, however, a slight similarity between Miss Elizabeth and two of the other Bennet girls—the middle ones, both of whom had darker hair. If they were cousins rather than sisters, such a resemblance would not be unusual.
