Mrs. Hurst gave a soft laugh, and even Hurst, who had seemed to be attending chiefly to the quality of the wine, lifted his head with mild amusement. Miss Bingley’s expression suggested she did not approve of conversation in which she was not the most admired participant.
“You speak of books, Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley said. “Are you a great reader?”
“I read when I can, though my tastes are not nearly so grand as some would wish. I like histories when they remember that people lived inside them, sermons when they do not scold more than they illuminate, poetry when it does not admire itself too much, and novels when they are not ashamed of being entertaining.”
Darcy’s smile deepened. “That is a wide library.”
“Not so wide as yours, I expect.”
“Pemberley has a large library.”
Miss Bingley seized upon the opening. “Indeed it does. Mr. Darcy’s library at Pemberley is one of the finest private collections in England. I have often said there is no greater mark of refinement than a truly distinguished library.”
Elizabeth’s expression grew wickedly thoughtful. “Then gentlemen who inherit distinguished libraries must be refined before they have done anything to deserve it. How convenient for them.”
Bingley laughed again, and Darcy nearly did the same.
Miss Bingley colored. “Surely a gentleman’s appreciation of such a library speaks to his taste.”
“It may,” Elizabeth said. “But I would rather know whether he reads the books than whether his grandfather bought them.”
Darcy set down his glass. “A fair distinction.”
“And do you read yours, Mr. Darcy?”
“When possible.”
“A cautious answer again.”
“A truthful one. Estate business, militia duties, and accounts have often had the insolence to interrupt my classical pursuits.”
“Then I am relieved. A gentleman who does nothing but read may be learned, but he would be a very poor neighbor in bad weather.”
“Miss Elizabeth,” Bingley said with enthusiasm, “you must tell Caroline that. She believes all gentlemen ought to spendmore time improving their minds, though she grows very cross if anyone improves his mind when she wishes to play cards.”
“Charles,” Miss Bingley said sharply.
Elizabeth’s lips trembled with suppressed laughter. “Then I shall not interfere with such a delicate domestic arrangement.”
Darcy felt lighter than he had in months.
Perhaps years.
The dinner stretched onward in a manner he had not expected to enjoy. They spoke of music, though Elizabeth modestly undervalued her own performance. They spoke of the neighborhood, of roads, of whether a wet autumn foretold a hard winter, of books read and books abandoned. Bingley joined often, his good humor making even topics he did not fully understand feel cheerful. Mrs. Hurst offered occasional comments when roused from indolence, and Miss Bingley, though visibly dissatisfied whenever attention turned too long toward Elizabeth, could not entirely sour the evening.
Darcy watched Elizabeth across the table and found himself repeatedly astonished by her.
Not because she was clever, though she was. Not because she was handsome, though the more he looked, the more he found her so. But because she seemed to carry within her a liveliness that did not depend upon approval. She answered without simpering, teased without malice, listened when others spoke, and defended tenants, books, and sense with equal spirit.
He had once wounded her by declaring her not tempting enough to overcome a lack of dowry.
Now, watching her eyes brighten over an obscure sermon and a flooded field, Darcy wondered how he could ever have been fool enough to mention money in the same breath as temptation.
The rest of dinner continued in a manner Darcy had not thought possible upon entering the room. Conversation moved from books to music, and from music to whether a lady oughtto play for her own pleasure or chiefly for the torment of her neighbors. Elizabeth defended imperfect performance with such spirit that Bingley declared himself a friend to all music played with enjoyment, while Hurst muttered that enjoyment improved nothing if a person struck the wrong keys.
Elizabeth agreed that wrong notes were a trial, but argued that soulless perfection was worse, at which Darcy found himself agreeing before he remembered Miss Bingley prided herself upon soulless perfection at the pianoforte.
If Miss Bingley noticed the implication, and she surely did, she bore it with poor grace and excellent posture.
