Page 6 of The Work of a Moment

His expression softened, albeit slightly. “Of course. He is a good man, a man of humour and benevolence.”

She nodded. “A man indulgent of his friends and relations.”

“Indulgence and grace are often the same.” He dipped his head closer to hers. “We all have family, Miss Elizabeth.”

She was spun away to take a turn with the gentleman on her left, almost dizzy from Mr Darcy’s proximity and the unsettling aroma of his cologne. Elizabeth hoped he had meant Mr Collins when he disparagingly referred to family—her cousin had nearly assaulted Mr Darcy when learning of their ‘hallowed connexion’ in Kent—but in the view of such a man, she acknowledged many apt choices amongst the Bennets for what could have only been meant as an insult.

Newly conscious of the crowd observing their unlikely pairing, she returned her hand to his and smiled tightly. “Yes, though is it fair to be generous to one man and not the other?”

“Yes, when two men are nothing alike.”

“Yet each has called you his friend.”

He faced her, taking both her hands in his. “Your interest is admirable, but to what do these questions tend? Is it your curiosity about my estimation of these self-proclaimed friends or something more general on the morality of man? If so, your father undoubtedly owns volumes by Locke, Hobbes, and Plato.”

At that moment, Elizabeth recognised the absurdity of her position. She was interrogating a gentleman she knew more through observation than conversation about two other men who had not behaved in a gentleman-like manner. She could not understand either man’s motivations, but her neighbourhood models were not ideal. Sir William was overly talkative and subject to boasting, but never did he impugn another’s reputation. Her father saved his words for jokes and jibes, but those little cruelties at another’s expense were meant to amuse him, not to ruin another. She could not imagine either man in their youth behaving as Mr Bingley had with a servant. Let alone doing so while wooing a lady under his very roof!

“I thank you for the advice. My father does own the books you recommend, and it may do me well to read them.”

Elizabeth remained quiet for the remainder of the set. When not bound to a gentleman for a dance, she retreated to the company of Charlotte or Mary. Her set with Mr Bingley felt as long as the one she had danced with Mr Collins. While neither her slippers nor her pride was in danger, her temper was delicate. She managed herself and her partner by smiling at his smiles, nodding at his joyous proclamations, and agreeing with him that no ball had ever been as wonderful.

“Did I hear that you must leave soon for London?” she asked.

“Only a brief trip, for business.”

Although Mr Bingley had never shown an iota of interest in business or the claim of it on his time, she chose to believe him. She smiled and looked away, but not before she saw his gaze drift not to Jane dancing with Uncle Philips but to the doorway, where she saw a few servants peeking in at the dancers. The flame-haired girl was amongst them.

During the interminable quarter of an hour in which they were forced to wait for their carriage, Elizabeth saw that her desire to be gone was matched by the wishes of at least two of their hosts. Mrs Hurst and her sister, evidently impatient to have the house back to themselves, scarcely opened their mouths except to complain of fatigue. They repulsed every attempt of Mrs Bennet to converse, and into the silence stepped an indefatigable Mr Collins and his long speeches complimenting Mr Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment and the hospitality and politeness that had marked their behaviour to their guests. Lydia and Kitty yawned and sighed. Mr Darcy said nothing at all, but unlike the equally silent but amused Mr Bennet, he surveyed the scene with disdain. Mary appeared no different in her sullen observations.

All of it chafed Elizabeth’s nerves, but it was the sight of Mr Bingley and Jane standing together, a little detached from the rest and talking only to each other, that piqued her distress.

You will flirt with my sister then go off to your servant girl tonight before you travel to London ‘for business’?

Her abhorrence for Mr Bingley now verged on anger. All of Jane’s hopes for happiness, for him to be the gentleman who deserved her tender heart, were for naught. Elizabeth alone had seen his genuine character. He is a true Bingley, she realised with revulsion—he shared his sisters’ false affection while concealing his true self behind thoughtless cheer.

Tired of disguising her own feelings on the various charades, she looked away from her family and stepped towards a small painting above the umbrella stand. It was a rather dull and faithless portrayal of Netherfield Park, lacking colour and including far too few windows and far too many chimneys. Unable to contain her displeasure any longer, Elizabeth softly sighed before turning back to the assembled group and reverting to a silence as unrelenting as that now practised by Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley.

She was startled when a grim-faced Mr Darcy stepped to her side and enquired quietly, “Are you well, Miss Elizabeth?”

“I—yes, thank you.”

“You rarely are so quiet in company.” His voice was softer than his stern expression. “May I assume the evening was an exhausting success and your thoughts are occupied with all the moments that most amused you?”

His eyes crinkled in the corners, and she wondered whether it was warmth or mockery she detected in them. Whichever it was rendered him handsome, far more handsome than she preferred to notice. Yet she acceded to it, too exhausted to debate.

“My thoughts are twofold, sir. One centres on the leisurely pace of Netherfield’s stablemaster in bringing our carriage, and the other ponders the provenance of such a whimsical rendering of Netherfield itself.”

“I will add a third consideration, as I have wondered at its placement in so notable a spot.” Mr Darcy looked at the painting and back to her. She nodded, as it was a keen observation to add to her own. He evidently took encouragement from her expression and, with his hands clasped behind him, leant closer to the work.

“Whether or not it was intended as whimsical, and you are kind to describe it as such, I understand it to be the work of a relation of one of Netherfield’s earliest tenants. A wedding gift, perhaps, from a much-loved aunt. One cannot hide away such a heartfelt gift.”

Elizabeth nodded again, unsure which surprised her more—his knowledge of Netherfield or his decision to converse with her. “The painting’s origins do add to its small charms. If whimsy was the intent, the pinkish hue of the sun is an especially apt artistic decision.”

The opening of Netherfield’s front door and the butler’s announcement of the Bennets’ carriage gave Elizabeth her escape. The relief she felt when word arrived a day later of the departure of the entire party was even greater.

CHAPTER 6

Poisoned Ink