Page 13 of The Widower of Pemberley

The blind and scarred sister of a pretty woman whom he met at a private party and who was presented by all as an object of compassion rather than loveliness was not a woman he must flirt with. Bingley was not naturally thrown into his ballroom manner. He was expected only to be kind to her and speak to her.

Bingley liked talking to Jane Bennet exceedingly, and he thought their minds were similar in many ways. He found, not bothered at all by being loudly informed that the common opinion was quite the opposite, that Miss Bennet was an attractive girl to look at.

When she smiled at him widely and unguardedly, thathadmade his heart flutter.

He liked the sincerity of her pleasure in his company a great deal, and he greatly anticipated future opportunities to see her.

They all met again after another week for a dinner at Lucas Lodge.

Darcy arrived in an abundance of poor spirits as he had not wholly given up the idea of asking Miss Lucas, the girl loudly proclaimed to not be pretty, to marry him.

He did not know that his statement that she could not be called pretty had spread about the neighbourhood, nor that Lady Lucas had seriously contemplated removing the invitation to Mr. Bingley’s party if Darcy was to be amongst it. It was only Miss Lucas’s amused refusal to let her mother do that, combined with Sir William’s sense that it would not reflect the highest form of good breeding, which prevented such a social tempest.

Upon entry to the Lucases’ house, Darcy was wholly unaware of the cold civility with which he was treated by the servants and Lady Lucas. Sir William was all affability, which annoyed Darcy far more than his wife’s reserve. He could not imagine a father-in-law who talked in such a senselessly friendly manner.

Sir William was like a stupid Bingley.

Darcy sat in a corner, spoke to no one, and watched the people about him.

He was tired.

He acted out the habits and general patterns of his life, but there was no joy in it, no pleasure, and no desire. He no longer read much. Instead, he spent each day staring out of the grey window. Several times since he had arrived at Netherfield, he had been the last person to descend before breakfast—not because he slept too late but simply because he sent his valet off and refused to quit his bed.

He missed his mother.

He even, sometimes, missed Mary.

She had been a constant presence in his life for three years.

The only real joy he found was in company with Emily, but she was often tempestuous and always confident and demanding. He thought her to be more than a little spoiled, and though he feared for her future character, he could not bear to disappoint her simply to teach her that life would sometimes be disappointing.

In his abstracted mood, Darcy’s eyes turned and turned towards Elizabeth Bennet.

He must stop. She was too pretty to marry, and he must think about marriage.

Jove, he did not want to marry.

No, no, no, no.

He did not want to be married. He did not wish to talk to every plain girl he met. He did not want to decide which one would make the best mother.

He did not want to do anything but sit, unmoving and isolated from the world. Alone in a crowd.

Darcy’s gaze absently returned to Miss Elizabeth, as though his eyes were drawn by a lodestone.

Clear skin, a beautiful face, elegant fingers, flashing eyes, dark hair, a light and pleasing figure… She spoke with her hands, and her whole face lit up.

He wanted to stand closer and listen to her conversation.

There was no purpose to stopping himself. There was not much point to anything.

He approached the place where she stood talking to Georgiana, Colonel Forster, and Miss Lucas.

Miss Elizabeth talked about the delights that all would enjoy if the officers held a general ball. But despite the blandness of the subject, and despite the way that this delight for dancing and company ought to leave him repulsed, Darcy was entranced by the quick changes her face showed and the loveliness of her smile.

After the colonel went away, Miss Elizabeth looked at him with a quick frown and drawing together of her eyebrows.

He regarded her steadily.