Page 18 of A November to Remember

Elizabeth turned to the window.

Standing half-concealed by the curtains was Mr Darcy. He was silent, his broad shoulders stiff, staring out at the gravel drive with an expression of misery. Beside him was Mr Bennet. Elizabeth nearly choked on a startled laugh. The two men were in unconscious imitation of one another. Both were tall, both were clad in dark coats, both had their hands clasped firmly behind their backs, and both had the same face of men praying for deafness.

The moment Elizabeth’s boot shifted on the floorboards, the spell broke.

Mr Darcy turned from the window, his eyes locking onto hers. The air in the room, already suffocatingly full, seemed to vanish. The misery on his face was instantly replaced by an intense focus that sent an irritating jolt through Elizabeth’s chest.

Viscount Keathley, possessing the predatory instincts of a hawk, caught the shift in the atmosphere. He offered a delighted grin and pivoted his head to the door.

“Ah! Miss Elizabeth!” Lord Keathley declared, rising to his feet gracefully. “Returning from a morning march, I see. A constitution of iron! We were just discussing the merits of withdrawal. It put me in mind of Lucius Mestrius Plutarchus.”

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, her mind snapping back to attention. She stepped fully into the room, refusing to look at the tall man next to her father. “Plutarch, my lord? You flatter the fox cub of your story to compare it to a Platonist philosopher.”

Lord Keathley’s eyes danced in mischief. “I was thinking more of Alcibiades, Miss Elizabeth. A man who understood that sometimes, one must switch sides and adopt the customs of the locals to survive.”

Elizabeth smiled. “And yet Alcibiades’s adaptability did not preserve him. Plutarch makes his vanity and love of pre-eminence quite plain. A man may learn to swallow Spartan black broth, my lord, and still fail to swallow his own pride.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth caught a swift exchange of glances between the viscount and Mrs Bennet. It was a look of mutual appreciation. A chill of apprehension came over her, though she could not fathom why her mother and an heir to an earldom would have any cause whatsoever to communicate silently.

Before she could dissect the look, a deep baritone voice cut across the room. “I must agree with Miss Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth’s head snapped to the window. Mr Darcy had moved away from Mr Bennet’s side, and he was walking slowly to the centre of the room, his eyes fixed intently on her.

“Plutarch,” he continued, his voice low and steady, “makes clear that great abilities are no defence against vanity. Alcibiades could accommodate himself to every society, yet he could not govern his own ambition. His brilliance repeatedly restored him to favour, but neither brilliance nor charm could silence the enemies his conduct had created.”

Elizabeth stared at him, her thoughts coming to an abrupt halt.

He was agreeing with her. The man who had called her tolerable, the man she had verbally eviscerated barely twelve hours ago, was standing in her drawing-room, employing a classical historian to concede, at least by implication, the point of his own arrogance. She opened her mouth to deliver a harsh rebuttal, only to find she had nothing to rebut.

She closed her mouth, a flush creeping up her neck. How dare he agree with me? It ruins the satisfaction of my righteous anger!

The silence in the room stretched. Viscount Keathley was watching them both as if he had secured the best place beside the ropes at a prize fight.

“Plutarch,” came a dry voice from the window, “would have lasted approximately five minutes in this house before throwing himself on a sword out of philosophical despair.”

Mr Bennet turned, his hands still clasped behind his back, and surveyed the assortment of his family and the Netherfield guests with detached amusement. “I find the Greeks dreadfully loud, Lord Keathley. Much like my drawing-room.”

Everyone smiled politely in agreement, and the tension shattered.

The call had reached its natural conclusion, and the gentlemen prepared to depart. Bingley tore his eyes away from Jane reluctantly. The colonel set the depleted tray aside and stood, looking at Mary, who had produced one final bleak note and was slumped over the keys.

Mr Darcy bowed to the room at large, but when he straightened, his eyes lingered on Elizabeth.

“Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured.

“Mr Darcy,” she replied, her voice even, though her pulse was hammering in her ears.

The gentlemen left after exchanging pleasantries and promising Mrs Bennet that they would call again. Elizabeth sank into the nearest chair, pressing a hand to her temple. The exhilaration of the mountain air was gone, replaced by confusion and the sinking realisation that the Netherfield party was not going to be ignored as easily as she had hoped.

The carriage had barely cleared the Longbourn gates before Charles Bingley began composing.

“Did you observe, Keathley, how Miss Bennet holds her teacup? There is a gentleness in it. A sort of... benevolence of the wrist.”

Robert arranged himself against the squabs and let the words wash over him as rain ran off a good hat. Externally, he presented the picture of an aristocrat bored by the proceedings. Internally, he was in such violent agreement that it threatened to tear him apart.

Benevolence? You blithering idiot, Bingley, it is not benevolence. It is poetry. Her wrist is a masterpiece of anatomical perfection. When she lifted that porcelain cup, she elevated the entire concept of tea to a divine sacrament. She is an angel. My angel. Not yours. MINE.

Robert swallowed hard, suppressing the urge to seize Bingley by his cravat and throw him out of the moving carriage. He could not do that. Bingley was a friend, and Robert was a gentleman, albeit one currently drowning in a sea of impossible and inappropriate devotion. He forced his features to remain impassive.