He disliked the realization on principle.
Bingley, meanwhile, appeared scarcely capable of concealing his satisfaction with the evening. Whatever Miss Bennet’s illness had interrupted between them seemed already resumed with renewed warmth, and the man now leaned back in his chair with the expression of someone pleased with both society and supper.
Mr. Bennet poured another glass of port with philosophical composure while Mr. Wilson launched into further observations regarding northern manufacturing. Mr. Hurst listened with intermittent interest whenever profit arose in the conversation, though otherwise devoted most of his attention toward walnuts and wine.
Darcy contributed little. His thoughts remained divided between irritation and amusement, both centered upon Elizabeth Bennet—Barnett.He had not expected the evening to alter him further.
Instead, dinner beside her had proven more dangerous than anything which came before it.
The ease between them had deepened. That was the difficulty. Their conversation no longer carried the strain of apology or misunderstanding alone. Wit came naturally now, as though they had long practiced speaking in precisely that manner together. Better still, Elizabeth no longer regarded at him solely with suspicion. Wariness remained, certainly, but something warmer flickered beneath it often enough to encourage hope.
Hope.
Darcy reached for his wineglass with slightly more force than necessary.
Across the table, Mr. Wilson continued speaking. “…and once machinery expands beyond a certain point,” he declared, “a man either grows with it or loses everything.”
Bingley nodded agreeably. “Very true.”
Darcy observed the exchange with mild curiosity. Mr. Wilson’s interest in trade clearly exceeded his interest in nearly every other subject, and though his manners remained imperfectly polished, intelligence showed readily enough whenever business arose. The man understood industry. That much seemed undeniable.
His understanding of social restraint proved considerably weaker.
Darcy’s gaze drifted toward the far end of the room—and paused.
Two small faces peered through the narrow opening of a servant’s entrance just beyond the sideboard.
Thomas and Toby. The twins crouched partially concealed behind the doorframe, both boys glaring at Mr. Wilson with astonishing concentration. Toby’s eyes had narrowed to slits. Thomas appeared moments away from declaring formal war.
Darcy nearly smiled outright.
Apparently, their exclusion from the evening had failed to prevent surveillance.
Mr. Wilson, blissfully unaware of his observers, leaned farther back in his chair while emphasizing some point about labor negotiations.
The movement proved unfortunate. Or perhaps not wholly accidental.
Darcy could not afterward have said precisely what occurred. One moment Mr. Wilson balanced comfortably upon the rear legs of the chair, and the next those same legs slid abruptly against the polished floor with startling violence.
The chair tipped backward completely. Mr. Wilson disappeared with a loud crash.
Bingley jerked upright. Mr. Hurst blinked heavily. From the corner of his eye, Darcy caught sight of two small heads vanishing straightaway behind the servant’s door.
Mr. Bennet lowered his gaze to the sprawled figure of his cousin with admirable composure.
“Good heavens,” he remarked mildly. “Are you well?”
Mr. Wilson surfaced from the wreckage red-faced and embarrassed. “Perfectly. Quite perfectly.”
“Excellent.” Mr. Bennet sipped his port. “I confess I was more concerned for the chair. My wife grows very attached to her furniture.”
Bingley choked visibly into his glass.
Darcy turned away before amusement betrayed him openly.
Mr. Wilson righted himself with what dignity remained available under the circumstances and resumed his seat more cautiously this time. His embarrassment lingered plainly despite attempts to recover conversational ease.
Darcy suspected the twins, wherever they now lurked, considered the incident a tremendous success.
