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She saw Mr Bingley herself that afternoon on the promenade. He was of a medium height with a shock of blonde hair and an open, unguarded expression that seemed to invite conversation.
He was telling a story to a gentleman she did not know, gesturing expansively, apparently just reaching the best part, when he stopped, mid-gesture, his eyes widening comically as he caught sight of her sister. His hand stayed in the air for a moment as he flushed red.
Jane was standing with their mother a little way along the promenade. Mrs Bennet laughed at something she said, a real laugh to Elizabeth’s ear, while the late afternoon light lit her sister like a renaissance painting. She loved Jane but her ability to always look like walking art could be trying at times.
The gentleman waited politely for Bingley to finish his story, which he resumed after an awkward moment of silence and with less gusto than before.
He did not approach the object of his distraction directly. He resumed the story and polite small talk, but over the following quarter of an hour moved relentlessly in Jane's direction, conducting three separate conversations along the way.
Elizabeth was enjoying herself enormously, approaching the proceedings like a naturalist observing the mating behaviours of a particularly silly bird.
She felt the shadow of Mr Darcy’s approach before she noticed the man himself. "Your friend is not very subtle," she said with a small laugh.
She had not planned to speak to Mr Darcy. He was simply the nearest person who would find it amusing.
"Does he do this often?" Elizabeth asked, watching as Mr Bingley abandoned one conversation in favour of another that happened to be three feet closer to Jane.
"Frequently," said Darcy. "Though I do not believe he is aware of it. Bingley has always possessed a remarkable talent for becoming entirely occupied by whatever, or whoever, happens to interest him at the moment. The rest of the world tends to disappear."
"That sounds a dangerous quality."
"It can be."
"You say that as though experience has taught you so."
"Experience has taught me a great many things about Mr Bingley."
Elizabeth glanced up at him, expecting amusement and finding something gentler.
"And yet you are fond of him."
"Very."
The answer came so simply that it surprised her. Most gentlemen seemed to find friendship a subject beneath discussion, as though affection of any kind ought to be disguised beneath jokes and indifference. Mr Darcy appeared entirely unembarrassed by it.
"Then I suppose he is fortunate in his friends."
Darcy looked down at her. "I have often thought myself the fortunate one."
For a moment Elizabeth forgot to answer.
There was nothing remarkable in the observation itself. It was perfectly sensible. Yet something in his manner when he said it unsettled her. She had become accustomed to his gravity and was therefore unprepared for the warmth that occasionally appeared beneath it. When it did, it transformed him socompletely that she scarcely felt she was speaking to the same man.
She became suddenly aware of how near he was standing.
The promenade was crowded. People passed constantly in both directions. There was no impropriety in their proximity. Nevertheless, she found herself conscious of it in a way that was both novel and faintly irritating.
Fortunately, Bingley chose that moment to laugh far too loudly at something Jane had said. He had finally struck his target.
Elizabeth turned towards Mr Darcy and saw him looking down at her thoughtfully. His eyes, dark and liquid, the colour of coffee with the smallest dash of milk, were unreadable.
"Your friend appears entirely lost."
"Yes," said Darcy, following her gaze. "God help him."
Mrs Bennet watched Bingley and Jane, and then Darcy and Elizabeth, and then Bingley and Jane again. She nodded once to herself, very slightly, and smiled.
