A Man of Few Words
Being an Addendum
to
Pride and Prejudice
as told by
Fitzwilliam Darcy
to
Jane Austen
and
Katherine Woodbury
Copyright © 2011 by Katherine Woodbury. All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Peaks Island Press. Edited by Eugene Woodbury. Second Smashwords Edition.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the appearance, personality, or actions of any person, living or dead, should be considered the consequence of watching too many Jane Austen movies (not that there’s anything wrong with that).
Foreword
I have requested that Miss Katherine Woodbury record the following in hopes of clarifying certain aspects of the courtship between Mrs. Darcy, née Bennet, and myself found in the account penned by Miss Jane Austen, widely circulated under the title, Pride and Prejudice.
Let me hasten to observe that I find no fault with any part of Miss Austen’s account which records, with commendable accuracy, my behavior towards and conversations with my future bride. However, through no fault of Miss Austen’s, there have arisen many fanciful inventions in connection with her work. These inventions are, I must stress, wholly without foundation.
I speak specifically to descriptions of my person and character that persist in providing me with the gregariousness of Tom Jones, the masterfulness of one “Mr. B” in Pamela, and even, I am sorry to say, the licentiousness of a Restoration rake. I am portrayed as a type of contemporary knight-errant: emotional, hotheaded, and distressingly unorganized.
To be sure, my wife and sister find such depictions amusing in the extreme, and Charles Bingley has taken to regaling dinner guests with each and every new derivation that chances across his eyes or ears.
However desirable such a picture of the English gentleman might appear to many, it is precisely my honor as a English gentleman that compels me to attempt to convince the reading public that, in my case, these portraits have no basis in the truth.
It is thus my earnest hope that the following should put to rest the presumptions contained in any and all such conflicting narratives. Miss Woodbury assures me that she has taken my full character into account. If I detect, occasionally, a hint of amusement in her writing, I lay such amusement at my wife’s feet.
One must, in marriage, make some concessions to the impressions of one’s spouse.
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Pemberley
Lambton, Derbyshire
28 January 1814
Chapter 1
Darcy Rejects a Lady Without Realizing It
Fitzwilliam Darcy came to Hertfordshire during a damp fall.
Hertfordshire was not part of his usual routine. He usually spent the fall and winter at Pemberley, the family estate in Derbyshire, departing Pemberley in the spring to visit his aunt’s place in Kent.
However, Darcy’s friend, Charles Bingley, had purchased a house, Netherfield, in Hertfordshire. Darcy, Charles insisted, must see it and give Charles suggestions for its improvement.
So Darcy had come, although he was beginning to suspect that what Charles meant by “suggestions” was “admire the view.”
Not that the estate didn’t have potential. Darcy took a tour with the estate agent (Charles did not yet have a steward), and they agreed that the west side of the estate could possibly be quarried for chalk, but rents to farmers would make up the bulk of the estate’s income.
Darcy re-entered the house, shaking rain from his coat, and found that the neighbors had descended on Netherfield.
He knew they would. Bingley’s arrival in the area—with his sisters, who would turn up that afternoon—increased the population of the neighborhood’s gentry by ten percent. At least. And Darcy had to admit that Bingley was a pleasant addition to any community.
If only he did not insist on including Darcy.
“This is Mr. Bennet,” Charles said when Darcy entered the sitting room. He indicated a lanky gentleman with a sardonic look. “Mr. Bennet, this is my good friend, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy and Mr. Bennet shook hands.
“I mustn’t stay long,” Mr. Bennet murmured. “Meryton would welcome your presence at the assembly ball, Mr. Bingley—and your entire party. You will be able to dance with my, ah, reasonably pleasing daughters.”
Ah. The man had daughters to marry off. Darcy shook his head as Mr. Bennet got ready to depart. For all his gregariousness, Charles would never marry a girl from a country family. Darcy assumed Charles would marry one of the many ladies who flocked around him in London.
“We will make every effort to attend,” Charles told Mr. Bennet at the sitting room door.
Darcy’s heart sank. He wished people would restrain their communal instincts. He understood the need to gather but why did it need to happen so repeatedly? And in such uncomfortable settings? With strangers?
“We are going,” Charles told him when Mr. Bennet left on his horse. Darcy didn’t bother grumbling.
Not much, that is.
Bingley’s sisters, Carolyn and Louisa, arrived the next day. Louisa was married and brought her husband, Mr. Hurst, along. He was a self-indulgent man who spent much of his time staring at cards and ignoring his wife.
“Oh, Charles, you shouldn’t have,” the sisters both cried when he told them about the assembly ball, but Darcy didn’t bother feeling hopeful they would force Charles to change his mind. He’d heard these protestations before. The sisters wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to show off their finery.
The sisters did carp at the “small town” nature of visiting an assembly house rather than a well-furnished family dwelling. Darcy considered simplicity one of the (few) redeeming qualities of the affair. A town like Meryton had an obligation to contrive entertainments for its populace.
Civic accountability proved the evening’s only redeeming quality. The assembly room was too hot and too crowded. People thronged around the Bingley party, wanting to be introduced to Bingley, to his sisters, to Mr. Hurst, and to Darcy.
—to Bingley, to his sisters, to Mr. Hurst, and to Darcy.
—to Bingley, to his sisters, to Mr. Hurst, and to Darcy.
—ad nauseam. Darcy disciplined himself sufficiently not to groan aloud. But he had to wonder why they bothered; he would never remember their names. He was unlikely to spend much time at Netherfield anyway. Bingley would get bored soon and move on. Darcy gave the Netherfield experiment six months.
More faces—more introductions. People welcomed Darcy to the district and extolled the town. Women exclaimed at him. An over-scented woman cried, “Doesn’t the quartet sound lovely?”
There was nothing to say to that. It wasn’t as if Darcy could hear the music with all the chattering and thumping and unending introductions.
“What beautiful gowns,” another woman shrieked. Darcy managed to detach himself from the gossiping women who whispered as he edged away. He shook his head. Some of these women carried on as if lace and ribbons were state secrets.
He circled the room, nodding to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. “What an odd company,” Miss Bingley mentioned as he passed her. “Don’t you think?”
Darcy shrugged but didn’t pause. He’d already danced with her and didn’t need to again—she had plenty of partners. Worthy women could always obtain partners. He started another circuit, looking for Bingley. They’d been here nearly two hours, which was long enough. Bingley would make the customary excuses, they’d go back to Netherfield, and Darcy could read and go to bed.
Bingley was ending a dance with a tall, serenely smiling woman. Darcy waited near the edge of the woman’s party. Bingley bounded over to him like a Pemberley pup. Wasn’t this ball splendid? Weren’t all the girls pretty? He was having a wonderful time—
Darcy felt the beginnings of a headache. Bingley appeared puzzled. Darcy knew that look—Why isn’t Darcy having fun?—and predicted his friend’s deductive leap—Darcy would have fun if he danced.
Bingley lived up to Darcy’s expectations. Bingley was going to get him a partner—another Bennet sister, there, behind Darcy.
Darcy turned his head and caught the eye of a sitting young woman. “She’s very pretty,” Charles said as if a young lady’s looks should instantly sweep Darcy into a maudlin, uncritical state of mind. “Stop standing here so stupidly and ask her to dance,” Bingley continued.
Darcy snapped refusal. Even if they weren’t going to leave early, that didn’t mean he was going to dance with somebody he didn’t know in an overheated room amongst a crowd of people exchanging pointless remarks.
Bingley understood at least that much. He laughed, slapped Darcy on the back, and strode back to the serenely smiling woman.
Darcy’s headache was getting worse.
Chapter 2
A Bennet Sister Turns Down Darcy, and Darcy Doesn’t Mind
After the assembly ball, Charles insisted that he, his sisters, and Darcy attend dinner parties around Meryton. So long as Charles could promise cards, Mr. Hurst tagged along; otherwise, he stayed at Netherfield. Darcy wished he could also stay behind, but Charles would be hurt, not to mention Darcy didn’t accept Mr. Hurst as an example of proper behavior.
The Bennet family attended most of the gatherings. Charles tended to gravitate to the side of the oldest daughter—Darcy remembered her vaguely from the assembly ball—where he talked enough for both of them.
The next oldest daughter was Elizabeth Bennet. On more than one occasion, Darcy observed that she had autumn-colored eyes. She was a trifle short, her smile a trifle crooked, and she was far from elegant. She wasn’t shrill, though, and was easy to listen to. She had a whimsical way of delivering little quips, then waiting with contained amusement for others’ reactions. Darcy began to place himself near her at events. He also listened to her sing. She wasn’t as polished or as adept as his sister Georgiana, but the songs were well-rendered.
All in all, Elizabeth Bennet was a pleasing and intelligent young woman.
Sir William Lucas—the owner of Lucas Lodge, a moderately well-managed property—held a party. Charles insisted they all go. Darcy objected less than usual. Miss Elizabeth was sure to be present, and Darcy could watch her talk with others.
Alas, the event deteriorated into a dance. Why in the world did people prefer to hop around rather than converse on interesting subjects? Darcy sighed and looked for Mr. Long, hoping they could continue their conversation about tax law from the last social undertaking.
Instead, he found himself next to the prattling Sir William: “There is nothing like dancing. I consider it one of the first refinements of polished society.”
“Every savage can dance,” Darcy pointed out, but Sir William was making pleasantries, not actual conversation, and Darcy subsided. Sir William began to ask Darcy pointless questions about his dance habits. Darcy glowered; if he stopped answering, maybe Sir William would go away.
The questions finally ceased. Darcy had started to move off when he realized Sir William was presenting Miss Elizabeth Bennet to him as a potential dance partner. It was an unanticipated opportunity to converse with her one-on-one. Darcy extended his hand.
Miss Elizabeth refused. Correctly, Darcy allowed: this wasn’t an appropriate venue for a dance. Still, he bowed and repeated Sir William’s proposal. She was after all, preferable—much preferable—to another five minutes of questions about where and when Darcy liked to dance.
She raised her brows, and her eyes—dark brown with flecks of gold—met Darcy’s momentarily. She was, he was disconcerted to see, amused: by Sir William, he guessed. Amusement was probably a better tactic with someone like Sir William than monosyllabic responses. Darcy wondered if he should smile back.
But Miss Elizabeth had moved away. He gazed after her, marking the straight line of her back and her dark curls. She turned to pass a remark to Miss Lucas, and he noted the liveliness of her countenance when Miss Lucas made her laugh.
A pleasant-looking young lady was always a positive addition to a party. One didn’t have to be a besotted follower to appreciate a pair of fine eyes.
Miss Bingley approached. She was talking in her rapid, caustic way. Darcy caught the last sentence: “What would I give to hear your strictures on them!”
On Miss Lucas and Miss Elizabeth, Darcy assumed. He had no strictures. He said so, adding his thoughts about Miss Elizabeth’s eyes.
Miss Bingley waylaid his stroll around the room, her mouth working into a scornful smile. “What praise! When will you two announce your engagement?”
Typical female reaction. Miss Bingley pounced on erroneous conclusions even more than Charles, but her lack of perception was not Darcy’s problem. He shrugged and occupied himself with watching Miss Elizabeth until the evening ended. He noted that she had easy, pleasant manners, that she discussed a range of topics, and that she liked to sit back and observe people closely, though never rudely.
It was a good thing he wasn’t the type of man to form instant attachments.
Chapter 3
Elizabeth Bennet Comes to Stay at Netherfield, and Darcy Gets All Flustered
Several days after Sir William’s party, Darcy and Charles spent the evening with Colonel Forster, who commanded the militia quartered in Meryton. Colonel Forster was a affable man who spoke more about horses than troop movements. Darcy didn’t put this down to a frivolous mind. Colonel Forster was simply the kind of man who thought he should entertain people with innocuous topics.
They returned to Netherfield near ten. Miss Bingley greeted them with the news that the elder Miss Bennet, who had come for dinner, was ill.
Charles peppered his sister with questions. “I hope she feels better,” Darcy said and went to bed.
The next morning, he was told that the local apothecary, Mr. Jones, had been sent for. Charles insisted on giving Darcy a detailed account of what he said to Mr. Jones and what Mr. Jones said to Charles and what Miss Bingley said to Mr. Jones and what Mr. Jones said Miss Bennet said to him and so on and so on. Darcy ate his toast and coffee and waited for Mr. Hurst to finish with the newspaper.
Towards the end of breakfast, the door opened and Miss Elizabeth Bennet entered. Darcy scrambled to his feet and looked beyond her, expecting Mr. or Mrs. Bennet. But Miss Elizabeth was alone.
He frowned. He hadn’t heard a carriage. “No,” Miss Elizabeth was saying to Miss Bingley, “I walked from Longbourn,” which was quite a distance even if she cut across the fields which she obviously had. She looked exceptionally well, Darcy acknowledged, her eyes bright and cheeks glowing. He folded his arms so he wouldn’t smile at her like, well, Charles.
Charles was beaming as he shook Miss Elizabeth’s hand and told her all about what Mr. Jones said. Miss Bingley took Miss Elizabeth upstairs to her sister, and Darcy went to the library to figure out exactly how many miles were between Longbourn and Netherfield. Miss Elizabeth was a hearty walker.
Darcy spent the rest of the day with the stable master. Charles came out towards mid-afternoon, agreed with every recommendation Darcy and the master made, and returned to the house. Darcy sighed. Maybe the Netherfield experiment would only last five months. He realized Miss Jane Bennet was a concern, but Miss Elizabeth was more than capable of coping with any contingency. Charles needed to accept that being a landowner meant more than the occasional comment on the condition of the roof. It was a life-role.
Darcy’s trust in Miss Elizabeth’s commonsense was confirmed at dinner. Miss Elizabeth answered all Charles’s questions thoroughly and equably, allaying his concerns. Now, maybe, Darcy could convince Charles to focus on his new property’s easements. After Miss Elizabeth returned upstairs, Darcy retrieved Netherfield’s plans from the library. When he re-entered the dining room, Miss Bingley was babbling about some subject or other. Darcy unfolded the plans, forcing Mr. Hurst to move his dessert plate.
“You observed it, Mr. Darcy,” Miss Bingley said, and he raised his head. “I’m sure you would not wish to see your sister make such an exhibition.”
“Certainly not,” Darcy said. Like her brother, Georgiana shrank from exhibitions.
“To walk three miles, or four miles—”
“Three point four,” Darcy muttered.
“—shows a conceited independence, a most country-bred indifference to decorum.”
“It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,” said Charles.
Miss Bingley leaned towards Darcy over the table, disarranging Netherfield’s plans. “Likely, this adventure has affected your admiration of her fine eyes.”
“Not at all. They were brightened by the exercise,” he said and moved himself and the plans further down the table.
Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst fell to discussing the Bennet relations. One of the uncles was an attorney; one was in trade. Charles contended that this did not affect the Bennet sisters’ agreeableness, a comment—however true—that rather missed the point: relations directly influenced a woman’s ability to marry well. Miss Bingley, for example, would marry well because of Charles. Darcy pointed this out, more or less, but no one seemed to understand what he was saying, so he went back to the plans.
Charles, however, wasn’t in the mood for a discussion of easements. He, his sisters, and Mr. Hurst were going to play cards. “Come along, Darcy,” he cajoled. “Don’t punish us with your absence,” and Darcy reluctantly agreed, replacing the plans in the library on his way to the drawing room.
They were playing when Miss Elizabeth came downstairs. This meant her sister was feeling better, a good sign, and Darcy nodded to her. She didn’t see him, though, as she was selecting a book from the shelves. Netherfield had come with a library which Charles had supplemented with his father’s minor collection. The end result was a haphazard assortment, including Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations, Samuel Richardson’s Pamela, and some agricultural tomes. Charles was unlikely to fill the library’s gaps.
“I would buy the Pemberley library in an instant,” Charles said when the topic was broached. Likely he would, assiduously showing off the collection even if he never took a book off the shelves. Charles preferred people and conversation to reading and quiet contemplation.
Darcy smiled to himself. Looking up, he found Miss Elizabeth beside him. She looked quite nice in some blue-greeny gown. She’d closed her book on one finger and was half-smiling at Charles’s exuberance.
Miss Bingley leaned between Darcy and Miss Elizabeth to say chattily to Darcy, “Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring? Is she as tall as I am?”
Darcy’s sister Georgiana was five feet four. “She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s height,” Darcy said, “or rather taller.”
Miss Bingley wanted to discuss Georgiana’s accomplishments and then female accomplishments in general, a non-self-serving topic to Darcy’s mind. Miss Bingley was cordial but hardly accomplished.
“It amazes me how women can paint and embroider and make decorations,” Charles said.
Darcy thought the ability to create nick-knacks to be foisted on loving relatives rather useless. Being accomplished didn’t mean producing crafts like a provincial at a village fête; it meant being graceful and talented and having the ability to converse on a range of subjects. Off the top of his head, he could think of six accomplished women: Georgiana, obviously. His own mother, now deceased. Mrs. Reynolds, his housekeeper. Mrs. Annesley, Georgiana’s companion (he would never have hired her if she weren’t). His aunt by marriage, Lady Beatrice Fitzwilliam. And Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
He said so, more or less, but he must not have mentioned the part about Miss Elizabeth because she laughed: “I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any.”
She had a point, but Darcy had restricted his claim to six because he didn’t know many more women than six—not well, at least.
As soon as Miss Elizabeth went upstairs again to see her sister, Miss Bingley started rambling about her again. Darcy was getting rather tired of Miss Bingley discussing Miss Elizabeth when Miss Elizabeth wasn’t in the room since Miss Bingley said the same things over and over. Now she was saying that Miss Elizabeth was the kind of woman who put down her own sex in order to make herself look better, which missed the point of Miss Elizabeth’s remark.
Anyway, as far as Darcy could tell, Miss Bingley did that sort of thing more often than Miss Elizabeth. And he said so, which seemed to shut everybody up. Thank goodness.
The next morning, Mrs. Bennet and her two youngest daughters invaded Netherfield to check on the eldest daughter’s health. The youngest daughters were silly while Mrs. Bennet was irritating, being shrill and garrulous. Darcy wished he could be like Mr. Hurst and wander out of the room. But one didn’t. One was taught to stand and be courteous while this woman went on and on and on about her daughter’s illness and her daughter’s sweet temper and what Mr. Jones thought. They had heard more than enough about Mr. Jones from Charles.
Mrs. Bennet hoped that Charles would occupy Netherfield for a long time. That was unlikely. Charles was a good and loyal friend, but he treated plans like hurdles he might just possibly go around rather than over or through. Charles considered spontaneity a sign of originality.
Darcy couldn’t agree. He liked Charles—he knew how loyal Charles was—but in Darcy’s view, spontaneity was just a way to get what one wanted without considering others.
Miss Elizabeth was kinder in her pronouncements than Darcy. Looking up at Bingley, she said affably, “You are an uncomplicated man.”
He preened although Mr. Darcy thought Miss Elizabeth preferred complications.
“You’re a student of character,” Bingley said to her.
“It is one of my favorite activities.”
She wouldn’t get many chances in the country, and Darcy said so. She smiled at him and pointed out that people change over time: one could study a single person over many years rather than many people all at once.
Did character alter so significantly over the years? Did change take a month, a year, a lifetime? The idea interested Darcy, and he might have responded, but Mrs. Bennet interrupted with some declaration about the country being better than London.
Darcy wished people would stay on topic.
The conversation moved on to a discussion of poetry. Miss Elizabeth claimed that her sister wearied of a suitor who sent her poetry. Darcy smiled to himself but offered Shakespeare’s opinion: “Poetry, like music, is the food of love.”
“Of a fine, stout, healthy love,” Elizabeth agreed. “Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it is only a slight inclination, one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.”
Darcy had to think about that, and the conversation moved on before he could respond.
He was still thinking about literature and the nourishment of sensibility when he wrote a letter to Georgiana that evening in Netherfield’s drawing room. Miss Bingley was talking to him, and he made monosyllabic replies, but he mostly concentrated on asking Georgiana what she thought about poetry and requesting an update on her companion, Mrs. Annesley. He trusted Mrs. Annesley, but he had trusted companions of Georgiana before and been disappointed.
He reread the letter and crossed out a few words, then set the letter aside to review later. At the card table, Charles was bragging to his sisters and Miss Elizabeth that he could write quickly without proofing.
Darcy frowned. There was nothing commendable about acting or reacting quickly any more than there was anything commendable about suddenly changing one’s plans—unless there was a good reason, of course. Darcy said so.
Charles laughed. Charles always thought it was funny when Darcy wanted people to plan ahead and provide specific information.
But Darcy couldn’t see how anyone could decide anything without clear facts. What was the point of talking in generalities? Darcy would never change his plans at the last moment unless someone was ill, like Georgiana, for instance, or unless his steward needed his attention at Pemberley. But he wouldn’t know the reasons until they occurred. How could he say ahead of time—now—what he would do at some later date? How could anyone, including Charles?
Charles was a far more reliable person than he sounded sometimes. Darcy and Charles had met at a house party given by Darcy’s Aunt Fitzwilliam (Charles had been to school with her youngest son). Darcy’s Fitzwilliam cousins were not fond of their de Bourgh cousin, Anne, who was also attending, and they urged Charles to string her along or, should that prospect prove too disturbing, deliberately overlook her.
Charles impressed Darcy when he refused. He treated Anne no differently than he did any of the young ladies at the party, dancing with each one on the night of the ball. If he confessed later to Darcy, “Your cousin Anne is rather cheerless,” he never embarrassed her before the company.
It was not Charles’s way to earn status at others’ expense. Right now, for example, he was saying, “Oh, Darcy must be right since he is so much taller than I am.”
Darcy shook his head although he understood Charles’s objective. Darcy preferred to finish arguments once they started, but Charles was the ultimate pacifier.
Miss Elizabeth apparently also recognized Charles’s objective, for she said, “Mr. Darcy had better finish his letter,” her lips deepening into a private smile.
Darcy did so, but Miss Elizabeth’s smile bothered him. She was a young woman of decided opinions who was quickly diverted by what she considered eccentricities. Darcy couldn’t guess what had diverted her this time. The pointlessness of the argument? (Darcy would have to concur.) Bingley’s airy intercession? Darcy’s displeasure with spontaneity?
He watched her cross to the pianoforte. She was still smiling slightly as she looked through the music books stacked on the lid. She threw glances at him now and again, and he noted that she looked quite appealing in the reddish-brown thing she was wearing.
She’d been wearing a reddish-brown thing at the Lucases’ and for the first time, Darcy wondered if her amusement there had been directed at him, not Sir William.
He got up, crossed the room, and asked if she would dance a reel.
She didn’t respond. He really didn’t understand this woman. He repeated his request.
She turned to face him. No, she wouldn’t dance a reel. “You are testing my good taste. Therefore, I have decided not to dance at all; despise me if you dare.” And she grinned up at him.
Darcy’s heart turned over.
He was not interested in her, he told himself in his room that night. She was intelligent and lovely and quick-witted. She was good company. That was all.
Darcy knew the foolishness of sudden attachments, the messiness. He’d seen friends flounder in marriages built on sudden, animal attraction. In comparison, his parents’ arranged marriage had produced a solid base for a peaceful, satisfying life.
Darcy wasn’t partial to the idea of arranged marriages, but they proved the superfluity of romance.
He was confidant in his self-knowledge and self-control when he went downstairs the next morning—until Miss Bingley began teasing him about Miss Elizabeth again. Darcy started to worry. Did she think he was pursuing Miss Elizabeth? Did everybody think that? Did Miss Elizabeth? Why would she? He hardly spoke to her.
You asked her to dance, he reminded himself and winced. That was fairly forward behavior. Had anyone noticed? He didn’t even like to dance.
He worried on his dilemma, missing the rest of Miss Bingley’s conversation.
“Are you looking forward to cards this evening?” she said as they parted.
“No,” he said and went to drag Charles out to meet possible land stewards for Netherfield. Charles didn’t yet have a full complement of servants, but a land steward was necessary, and a number had applied in the last week. Darcy wanted to discuss the various applicants’ credentials with Charles after dinner.
Unfortunately, Miss Jane Bennet decided to demonstrate her improved health by descending to the drawing room after dinner. Charles bounced over to her and started to chat. About Mr. Jones in all likelihood, judging by Miss Bennet’s disinterested manner. Darcy was glad she was feeling better, but he wished she could time her appearances better.
Darcy picked up A General View of Agriculture, vol. II, and began reading while the others chattered. He heard mention of balls and turned a page, sighing. He heard Miss Elizabeth’s name and looked up.
Miss Bingley wanted Miss Elizabeth to take a turn about the room. Darcy smiled to himself. This was an old ploy. The ladies wanted to show off their figures or gossip together although the latter seemed unlikely; for all her pert comments, Miss Elizabeth wasn’t much of a gossip.
“Will you join us, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Bingley said archly.
“I can admire you better from my seat,” Darcy said honestly, though on consideration the comment seemed flirtatious, even to him, and Miss Bingley laughed, looking pleased.
After which, she claimed to be offended. “How shall we punish him?” she said to Miss Elizabeth.
Darcy tensed. Miss Elizabeth had a sharp tongue and a knowing eye, and Darcy amused her for some reason. If she wished, she could make him look foolish.
“Tease him—laugh at him,” Miss Elizabeth said.
Darcy tried not to glower. Teasing could easily become taunting which was just a form of bullying to Darcy’s mind, an attempt to promote one’s own image at the expense of others. Darcy knew people—knew a man—who used teasing to tear down loyalty and honor and other virtues that Darcy frankly admired.
“I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good,” Miss Elizabeth said. “I prefer to laugh at follies and nonsense. Perhaps Mr. Darcy is without folly?”
Darcy considered he was intelligent, consistent, and dependable, with a good head for facts and a strong sense of purpose. He was not lazy, vain, or stupid, which were the sorts of faults that deserved criticism. He had pride, but that was understandable given his position and duties in life. He tried to make this clear.
Miss Elizabeth cocked her head. The amusement was there but something else as well; she was studying him, and Darcy felt a stab of panic. He didn’t know if he liked being studied, and he didn’t want Miss Elizabeth to form the wrong conclusions.
She began to turn away and Darcy heard himself say, “I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, very profound.” He wasn’t flexible, like Charles. He didn’t feel sympathy for people of low character nor did he easily excuse such behavior. “My good opinion once lost is lost forever.”
She didn’t like that. “You have chosen your fault well. I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me.”
That didn’t make Darcy feel better. He got the impression that Miss Elizabeth didn’t like people who were safe from her. “Every disposition has a tendency to some particular evil,” he pointed out rather desperately.
“And your defect is a propensity to hate everybody.”
Darcy almost laughed. She was so smug in her playful way, but he had been watching and listening to her since he arrived in Hertfordshire. He knew the way she surreptitiously watched others while making her humorous asides; the way she subtly avoided Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, so they couldn’t cut her as often as they might; the way she expected everyone to possess her same excellent values.
He said, “Yours is to feign misunderstanding.”
Of me, he meant.
She was surprised but not, Darcy was relieved to see, offended. She opened her mouth, but then Miss Bingley interrupted their conversation with a request for music. Miss Elizabeth turned away. Darcy found he was leaning forward in his chair and carefully sat back.
He was not interested in her. He was not foolish like his friend Bertram from college who went and married his landlady’s daughter. Darcy had listened to a thousand panegyrics regarding the daughter’s affectionate nature and lovely face and kind heart. The couple lived separately now, and Darcy believed the affectionate, lovely, kind daughter was being kept by another man.
Forming instantaneous affections was imprudent. It resulted in nothing but misery. The woman Darcy married would have experience with large estates. She would come from a reputable family. She would—
He wasn’t sure. There was no image in his mind of this exceptional wife, just a blank shadow.
Miss Elizabeth’s face sprang to mind. He shook his head crossly. He had been too obvious, too forward in his appreciation of Miss Elizabeth. He must not speak to her again while she remained at Netherfield with her sister.
And he didn’t.
Chapter 4
Miss Elizabeth and Darcy Go to the Netherfield Ball, and Neither Has a Good Time
After the Bennet sisters returned home, Charles insisted that there be a ball at Netherfield. He had promised the youngest Bennet girls when they came to see their elder sister. Darcy shook his head at the excuse but couldn’t censure the result. Charles was now an important personage in the district—even if he didn’t stay long.