Page 12 of Mr Darcy’s Quizzing Glass

Proud of what accomplishment? Refusing to stand with young ladies at a country assembly? Elizabeth thought a housemaid could be proud of the gleam she brought to a tarnished tea set but only nodded. “Yes, Mr Darcy has much to be proud of.”

Jane appeared assuaged, particularly when Elizabeth added, “Your Mr Bingley is the very ideal of a young man. His friendship with Mr Darcy, a gentleman he openly venerates, speaks well of him.” She smiled impishly. “I am your sister, and you must endure all of my ill humour and silliness, but the esteemed Mr Bingley willingly abides the unpleasantness of his friend.” And Miss Bingley, she refrained from adding.

Jane smiled and, shivering, went back into the house. Elizabeth continued on her walk, determining she must try harder not to wound her sister by mocking the Netherfield party—however well-deserved it might be. She could not excuse the rude arrogance of Miss Bingley or Mrs Hurst, but she could ascribe some of it to protectiveness of their brother. Feeling even more benevolent as she rambled along breathing in the crisp autumn air, Elizabeth considered Mr Darcy. He stared, he appeared displeased with everything and everyone, and he was coolly incurious in his discourse with others. More charitable thoughts intruded, leading her to determine that at best, he was tired or suffered from a headache or from the company of Miss Bingley; at worst, he disliked everyone but Mr Bingley. Especially herself.

Why did he stare at me with such an expression of shock? It was unlike any look I have ever received—or ever thought to receive.

Suddenly she laughed. Mr Darcy had glanced at her, turned away, then eyed her again, directing at her a piercing, almost horrified stare before quickly looking away and practically running into the crowd. Am I Medusa? My hair is often wild, but not even Mama has said I have snakes coming from my head.

No, likely she bore resemblance to someone he knew, or he was suddenly ill. Indeed, that strange expression, and the actions he took while bestowing it upon her—patting his pocket, gripping a chair—assured her that Mr Darcy had in fact been made sick. Not, she hoped, by the sight of her, intolerable though she may have been to him, but truly overcome by something. Perhaps she had been uncharitable not to ensure he was well, but being eager to find Jane and a more agreeable location, she had slipped into the crowd.

No one else in Meryton has ever looked at me in such a way. We may be dull country folk, Mr Darcy, but most of us have manners.

By the end of her walk, one which she would be ashamed to admit was consumed less by appreciation for her surroundings than by thoughts of Mr Darcy, Elizabeth concluded he was an interesting specimen of study for however long he remained at Netherfield. Happily for them both, it was unlikely they would be much in company.

NINE

Sir William Lucas and Mr Robinson had been good friends since their youth, and at gatherings such as these, Elizabeth was reminded of at least one reason for it. Sir William, their host this evening, was stout and garrulous, and fully apprised of all the news in the neighbourhood. Mr Robinson, tall, thin, and long-widowed, clearly took great enjoyment in his friend’s company, as it gave him opportunity to nod and devour more of the cakes and tarts piled on platters at Lucas Lodge. Next to him, filling a plate—his third, she believed, though she would be embarrassed to admit the attention she had paid to his actions—was Mr Hurst.

Smiling, she turned to observe the rest of the Netherfield party. Only the gentlemen had come to Lucas Lodge. Charlotte had given her an arch look when the trio arrived without the Bingley sisters, but Elizabeth was too pleased to laugh, happy to see Mr Bingley, unencumbered by vexatious sisters sneering at those beneath their company, chatting with Jane. Although the cheerful gentleman had been all that was gracious to the Lucases and the other guests, he and Jane had been in conversation all evening—often with Kitty or Mary or one of the younger Lucases or Gouldings attending them, but their attention was clearly on one another.

As both he and Mr Hurst were highly occupied with their own fascinations, she began searching the rest of the room, wondering how Mr Darcy was coping. Not well, apparently, although perhaps the walls enjoyed his company. Elizabeth watched, amused, as he stood stoically in place, as if cursed by an angry god to remain still and implacable. If only Miss Bingley were here to brush his nose with a feather and conjure up a violent sneeze.

She returned her attention to Mrs Talbot’s tale of her trip to see her aunt in ‘dreadful Liverpool’. The lady drew a rapt audience as she described the terrible company in the post-chaise and the inedible food at the inns, permitting Elizabeth to spy on Mr Darcy and ensure his pleasure in the evening remained unaltered. Smirking, she thought he appeared especially fond of the bookcase by the windows, where, sooner or later, he would encounter her father, who occupied himself by avoiding conversation with Mr Goulding about his gout and with Mr Bellows about his soul.

Earlier, she had seen Mr Darcy engage politely with Sir William, nodding and replying tersely to his host’s kindly, if sometimes insensible, chattering, but it appeared the other gentlemen in the room were too daunted to attempt conversation with the aloof, brooding man. Ah, Mr Darcy. Too many comments about your ten thousand a year and the fine knot in your cravat? Or, Elizabeth thought, watching Mrs Goulding urge a clearly frightened Susannah towards him, too many eager mamas?

Sliding away from the pillar as Mrs Talbot nattered on, she observed the gentleman surreptitiously and was satisfied to see he appeared hale and hearty, if a bit sour. After his odd behaviour at the assembly, this was the first they had again been in company. He had not accompanied Miss Bingley and Mr Bingley to Longbourn, nor had he been at Netherfield when she, her mother, and sisters had called there. Oh, his presence had been felt nevertheless. Miss Bingley had made certain of it, once again mentioning his grand estate, his vast intelligence, his illustrious relations, and of course, the Bingleys’ close and longstanding connexions to him. What need was there of the man himself when all the Bingleys painted such a portrait for them to admire?

It was agreeable, however, to have him in the flesh tonight, for truly he was an interesting and impressive specimen. He was everything glorious, as Miss Bingley had proclaimed—taller than anyone in the room, with a strong jaw and noble profile—and also much more that she had not.

The flaw was the blank expression he wore when looking at others, be it his familiar company or amongst new neighbours. But not her. She had not forgotten their brief, tacit, and highly agitated interaction at the assembly.

Elizabeth understood that men would stare at a lady—Jane had turned men’s heads since she was scarcely thirteen years of age—but the look on Mr Darcy’s face when he had gazed at her was more severe than one usually bestowed on a ‘merely tolerable’ woman.

Perhaps he should make use of his purportedly impressive quizzing glass to truly appreciate my merits.

Thankfully, Mr Darcy had yet to notice her this evening. Being the second-least inclined of her sisters to play Lottery tickets or linger near the pianoforte, Elizabeth was enjoying her perch at room’s edge watching the object of interest while chatting to her friends and neighbours. Here was Andrew Lucas now, eager to ask her thoughts on his new waistcoat bought lately in town. She admired its colour and fabric before turning to observe Mr Darcy without his notice. How perverse it was that while the gentleman presented a disinterested expression while in conversation, he was in fact extremely engaged in one thing: searching the room for someone or something.

She could not but wonder who or what it was. And then he caught sight of her and his expression altered.

Oh, that again. Had she not been raised a gentleman’s daughter, she might have stuck out her tongue.

TEN

Darcy could only be grateful to whatever ‘indisposition’ had seized the ladies of Netherfield Park. He hardly believed their excuses for not attending the party at Lucas Lodge, but it allowed him a reason to avoid Miss Bingley’s company for an evening and, he hoped, all of tomorrow. Of course, he would ensure not to distress her, making clear he felt it prudent to keep his distance for fear of worsening her delicate health.

He was concerned enough on his own behalf. Returning to Netherfield after the assembly, his head ached from the heat, noise, and cheap mulled wine. Without another sighting of the ‘luminous lady’ since that awful event, it appeared that the disturbing vision was merely the result of his discomfort, nothing more. But, as a man who liked certainty in all things, he desired to see her again to determine whether she had, somehow, caused his sudden, inexplicable headache. It was odd, perhaps, searching out the source of a headache to test a theory, but test it he must.

Quickly ascertaining from the sounds and shrieks that all of the Bennets were here at Lucas Lodge, Darcy knew that she—Miss Elizabeth Bennet, whom he now knew as the source of his unease—must be here as well. Oddly, he had seen no sign of her; there was no unusual light emanating from the small groups gathered round the card tables nor any glow from the sofas arranged near the hearth.

It is nonsensical she is not here, when even her father has deigned to appear in society, he grumbled to himself. Made excessively warm by his fine wool jacket and irritated by the constant notice of those he wished to overlook, Darcy moved towards the window, cracked open a bit to allow some much-needed fresh air into the room. Although he prided himself for being above taking notice of prying eyes, in his search for this one lady, he was inviting attention unto himself. The situation was unpleasant, but he had been laughed at by one member of this dreadful neighbourhood, and she was here, and he would seek her out. He cursed his foolishness in leaving behind the quizzing glass. To come into a place where he could see no reason for using it, only to be met by an unforeseeable situation which essentially demanded its use!

A sudden brightness assaulted his vision. There she was, near the corridor, smiling gaily at some idiot farmer. She was bathed in a sort of sunny light, more subdued than a few nights earlier, but still awash in some kind of glow. He moved towards her, less smoothly than he would have liked—nearly stumbling over a table leg and into a bulbous-nosed man snorting at some inanity. He heard someone call his name—it sounded like Sir William—and although he did not turn, the cry of ‘Mr Darcy!’ roused the attention of his quarry.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked directly at him. Rather than appearing startled, she gave him a look he could only call smug.

What is this devilry? Is she knowingly casting this radiance? How?