Page 2 of The Work of a Moment

“Miss Elizabeth?”

Startled, she turned to find Mr Darcy standing just inside the library. His coat was splattered with mud, and his hair was less than perfectly groomed. Everything in his appearance was altered from his usual pristine shine, but it was his expression that disturbed her. Alarm? Or was it annoyance upon finding she had invaded his retreat? Why was he here in such a state of muddy disarray? Heat rose to her cheeks as she fumbled to reply.

“Are you well? Has Miss Bennet⁠—?”

“She is well. As am I,” she said, shaking her head. Mr Darcy’s grim and unwavering stare made it obvious that her answer did not give him satisfaction. He stepped farther into the room, farther into the haven she had hoped to claim as her own. With him he brought the smell of the brisk autumn wind, of leaves and dirt—of the fresh air and freedom she sought.

“Have you misplaced a book?” the gentleman asked. “As you see, there are few here, and even fewer of interest or quality.”

“I would agree. Please excuse me.”

Moving quickly past him, Elizabeth fled the room, intent on escaping unpleasant people and dispiriting events with a long walk through the gardens.

CHAPTER 2

A Mutual Ennui

Where is Bingley?

Darcy rolled his neck as he walked through Netherfield’s front hall towards the library. He was tired. No visit to a country estate should be this fatiguing, nor should it require two rides a day to alleviate tedium or escape his hosts. He slept poorly, read and rode too much, laboured fruitlessly with Bingley over the details of managing an estate, and argued with him over whether this was the appropriate choice.

Bingley was preoccupied with concern for Miss Bennet, but he was, rather oddly for such a lively prattler, keeping his thoughts to himself.

As do I, but my thoughts would be unsuitable for company. Especially for the company of one lady.

Darcy had faced the affected interest and flirtations of ladies since reaching his majority and was well-accustomed to Caroline Bingley’s ingratiating attentions. He was not, however, familiar with the standoffish yet beguiling charms exhibited by Elizabeth Bennet. Nor was he immune. He had been hiding smiles for two days as she parried Miss Bingley’s mean-spirited questions and comments. Tired and preoccupied though she must have been caring for her sister, Miss Elizabeth was unbowed as she deflected slurs and slights so skilfully and sweetly that her tormentor was left perversely uncertain as to whether she was being laughed at. The back-and-forth was delicious entertainment and relieved him of any need to show his temper to one or his preference to the other.

It was dangerous, this irrational liking he felt for Elizabeth Bennet’s company. He desperately hoped her sister would be well and that the two ladies would leave Netherfield the following day. Neither he nor Bingley could afford such dalliances, real or fanciful.

I can scarce afford another restless night, with that lady under the same roof. He opened the door to the library. This house has the dullest assemblage of books I have encountered. If I am to sleep, I must find the most tedious.

Devil take it. She was there, leaning against the window, her hands fisted at her sides. Had her sister taken a turn? Had Mrs Bennet threatened another visit? Distress, anger, illness… The myriad possible explanations for her demeanour raced through his mind.

“Miss Elizabeth?”

She spun towards him, markedly unsettled. She was pale, even wan, but as she stood staring at him wordlessly, a blush rose from her bodice to her cheeks. She shrugged off his concern for Miss Bennet and his thoughts of books—the very purpose of the room in which they stood—before she practically flew past him towards the door.

Had she received distressing news from Longbourn? Or had Miss Bingley, from her own ‘sickbed’, at last managed to land one of her arrows?

Much as he wished to know, it was none of his business, and the lady obviously did not consider him a confidant. Darcy strode to the spot by the window where she had stood. Her scent, hinting at lemon soap and lavender, lingered. He breathed it in and considered Miss Elizabeth Bennet, she of the dark eyes and charmingly pleasing figure.

He had never been in company with a lady so eager to flee his own. Granted, he was splattered with mud and likely smelled of horse, but she was a lady who had shown her own penchant for windswept hair and mud-soaked boots. She exhibited no fear of the out of doors but had been trapped inside Netherfield for two days now, unable or unwilling to leave her sister’s bedside for more than an hour or so. He could admire her for it even as he resented her presence in the house—and resented that she had confined that maddening presence to her sister’s company. There was no reason his weariness with Bingley’s family party should require that he temper his desire to converse with the most intelligent person he had met in this town.

Perhaps Bingley will persuade her to join us for dinner. Perhaps I should hint that he must persuade her. Despite the risks, knowing Miss Bingley would be made unhappy with jealousy was one more incentive to do so. That lady might be his hostess, but she deserved no grace from anyone, not after her relentless incivility towards and about the Bennet sisters. First, he must find his friend and ask after Miss Bennet’s condition. Nothing but a turn in her health could have so distressed Miss Elizabeth. Though she had claimed her sister was well, her expression—a mix of surprise and distress—plagued him. Something had afflicted the lady that she had been unwilling to tell him.

Concealing her distress from Jane proved more difficult than usual for Elizabeth. While her sister was accustomed to Elizabeth’s impatience with her mother and younger sisters, hiding her disgust with the man she had thought might be her future brother was challenging.

How was she to keep Jane away from Mr Bingley? How could she allow him to keep his attentions, his large, endearing blue eyes, on her sister? She found herself unable to shake the image of Mr Bingley whispering to the maid. She tried to convince herself it was nothing more than an innocent conversation, attempted to remind herself of his sociable manner, but she could not banish the memory of what she had witnessed, and it cast a shadow over her opinion of the otherwise amiable gentleman.

After two days spent viewing Mr Bingley as the only welcoming face at Netherfield, it distressed her that it was impossible to think of him as she once had. Elizabeth had thought him to be decent, though it had puzzled her how a man so considerate of her and Jane was incapable of curbing his sister’s sharp tongue and preening behaviour. He could not be oblivious to it—Mr Hurst snorted loudly in amusement at times—yet Mr Bingley took no action to hush her. Even Mr Bennet roused himself to quiet Lydia or Mrs Bennet when irritation overtook hilarity.

Mr Bingley is so much altered from the man I thought he was. If not a profligate who plans assignations with young servant girls, he is a cork-brain to act with so little discretion.

She hoped the staid and pompous Mr Darcy had not seen her distress. Staid? He knew of the ‘arrangement’ and condoned his friend’s abuse of the servants! Those were the ways of the ton, she had heard. Certainly, the Prince Regent set no example of decency.

No matter if Mr Darcy had seen her misery and spoken of it to Mr Bingley. Elizabeth envisioned the two of them, feet up and fine brandy warming them, chuckling about the green girls of Longbourn.

She nearly stomped her foot in anger when the note arrived from Mrs Hurst several hours later, asking her to join them at dinner. She already had expended enough effort avoiding and fending off the insults of the others.