As Darcy replaced his wineglass on the table, his hostess motioned for the footman to refill it, but he covered the bowl with his hand and shook his head.
“Is the wine not to your taste, Mr. Darcy?” she asked assiduously. “I would gladly send for another.”
“No, do not trouble yourself,” Darcy replied. “The wine is excellent.” He began to rise from his place but was forestalled by Miss Bingley’s request.
“Mr. Darcy, you cannot be leaving so soon. We have yet to hear your impression of Hertfordshire society.” She looked round the table to garner support for her request. “I am sure it will be most amusing.”
Darcy looked to Bingley, covertly seeking deliverance, but his friend could only grimace and shrug his shoulders. Shooting him a ferocious frown, Darcy resumed his chair and turned a countenance of hastily assumed indifference to the ladies. “As you say, Miss Bingley, the country people here are ‘not very entertaining.’ They are, though, the sort commonly referred to as the ‘backbone of the Empire,’ and as we must look to them to supply much-needed brawn, it is, perhaps, unreasonable to expect a surfeit of wit.”
Of the two ladies, Miss Bingley regained her composure first, but not before she had resorted to her napkin, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. “But what of the ladies, Mr. Darcy?” A cruel gleam of anticipation illuminated her eye. “Surely you do not include the local females in the supply of brawn?”
“Not at all, Miss Bingley. I would not be so ungracious.”
“But, sir,” she pressed on, “you have acceded to their lack of brawn and have discounted their wit. On what basis, then, may we discriminate among the ladies of Hertfordshire?”
“You hint at the most obvious where females are concerned, Miss Bingley. You wish me to comment on their physical attributes, their beauty, if you will.” Vastly uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation, he motioned to Bingley. “It is your brother rather than myself to whom you should apply for that judgment.”
“We know what Charles thinks,” she replied, a note of peevishness in her voice. “To him they are all diamonds of the first water. It is your opinion we would hear; is it not, Sister?”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy, do tell us,” Mrs. Hurst requested brightly, then glancing at her sister, added mischievously, “I would especially enjoy your further views on the Bennet girls.”
“Darcy,” intoned Bingley with a pretense of menace, “I will not countenance a comment on Miss Jane Bennet save of the highest order. You may confine your assessment to her sisters…to Miss Elizabeth, perhaps? Now, she would be my idea of beauty if it were not for her elder sister.”
Silence fell as all three of Darcy’s dinner companions awaited his reply. It passed through his mind as he wiped his hands with the napkin on his lap that in some mysterious way Miss Elizabeth Bennet was continuing to exact her penance for his stupid blunder. So, with as much insouciance as he could summon, he made it clear as he criticized her face, her form, and her manners that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was not his idea of perfection in a woman.
Chapter 4
Intermezzo
The morning of the shooting party dawned crisp and clear, affording the gentlemen an excellent day’s sport. Armed with advice gained from Darcy’s experience in arranging these matters, his own engaging nature, and his new fowling piece, Bingley handily established himself among the prominent sporting men of the district. His weapon was exclaimed upon, his kills congratulated, and his company so required at future hunts that he could hardly be blamed for considering himself the most fortunate of men.
Despite repeated attempts by the other gentlemen to draw him out, Darcy stayed obdurately in the background, concentrating on the further training of the young hound he had brought with him rather than the conversation of the party. He reasoned that it likely would be as Caroline Bingley had complained, “all horses and hunting,” and therefore something to which he need only half attend. Even that was merely for Charles’s sake, to help him sort everyone out later when they discussed the events of the day over a glass of port in the library. This was Bingley’s time to make his mark, and Darcy had no wish to divert the attention of the neighborhood away from his friend.
Darcy took a deep draught of the cool, fresh air, holding and savoring it as he had the wine at dinner the night before, then exhaled slowly, causing the field and wood before him to waver in the vapor of his breath. The party had continued across the field without him, their voices fading into a quietness that nourished peace in his soul. The peace was soon broken, however, by an urgent appeal for recognition from the region of his knee. He stooped down, balancing on the balls of his feet as he scratched the hound behind its ears.
The animal was just out of puppyhood, all legs and big feet, with a passion to please his master that verged on the comical. The look of unabashed adoration he lifted to Darcy plainly battled with the sheer joy he was experiencing to be, at last, out in the fields. Darcy laughed softly as he watched the struggle between obedience and impulse cause the dog to quiver with suppressed excitement. The bundle of confliction finally cast him a look filled with such pleading that he would have had to have been made of stone to resist it even if he had not suddenly felt an echo of the same struggle within himself. He gave the beast a brisk caress and, snatching a good-sized stick from the ground, stood up again to his full height and looked down on the animal in stern command. Hound and master eyed each other, each watching closely for any blink of movement on the other’s part that would indicate a weakening of resolve. Darcy allowed the tension between them to mount until, with a great heave, he flung the stick and shouted out the most beautiful word for which a dog might hope. “Fetch!”
Like a tightly coiled spring suddenly released, the hound leapt forward in silent, total concentration on its quarry. In a matter of seconds, sounds of scuffling indicated that he was searching for his prize in the high, dry grass. Darcy sauntered in the direction the hunting party had taken, confident that the dog’s enthusiasm for the game would shortly bring him to heel. He was not disappointed. Wresting the stick from him, he flung it again but gave no command. The hound sat directly before him, blocking his way, a question in his large, young eyes. Darcy waited. A small, impatient whine escaped his muzzle and ended with a sharp bark.
“Fetch!” The command almost caught the hound unprepared. Off he bounded, and Darcy continued on his way, quickening his pace. He caught up with the others just as the hound returned, proudly bearing his treasure securely in his jaws.
“I say, Darcy, your dog must be of extraordinary use to you. Mine will retrieve only game, while yours provides for the fire to cook it as well!” quipped one of the gentlemen standing with Bingley. The group laughed genially, Darcy joining them.
“Gentlemen, this has been a most agreeable morning’s work,” said Bingley, pausing with pleasure as he was interrupted by several hear, hears. “Thank you…my pleasure.” He nodded back, acknowledging their accolades. “I, for one, have found it to have worked up a considerable appetite. Shall we turn back and see what my cook has deemed appropriate provender for gentlemen returned from a successful morning’s hunt?”
Hefting his weapon over his shoulder, Darcy recalled his dog from his intense perusal of the prized stick and turned back toward Netherfield. A clap on his other shoulder brought his head around sharply, but he relaxed immediately when he realized it was Bingley coming up behind him.
“What do you think?” his friend asked in a whisper as they tarried behind the others. “May I report my mission accomplished to my sisters?”
“Without question,” Darcy assured him, and added with a wry smile, “Take care you do not stand for a seat in Parliament next election, for you will surely win if you continue as you have begun!”
Bingley laughed heartily, then leaned toward Darcy conspiratorially. “I have it on reliable authority that the family of a certain young woman has also accepted an invitation to dine at the squire’s tomorrow evening. And,” he continued, blind to the martial light that appeared in Darcy’s eyes in response to his news, “while it is likely that we may find them at the Kings’, it is certain that they will be at the colonel’s, for the youngest daughter, I have learned, is a particular friend of the colonel’s wife.”
“You have neglected to mention the assembly at Sir William’s. Why is that, I wonder?” Darcy decided that Bingley’s ballooning exuberance could stand a judiciously delivered pricking.
“Oh, I knew that they would be included at the assembly,” Bingley replied, oblivious to the intent of the question. “I wonder you did not notice that Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Miss Lucas are fast friends! They are often in each other’s company.” Bingley shook his head incredulously at Darcy. “Really, Darcy, you are usually more observant!”
Darcy snorted at Bingley’s naïveté but forbore to correct his misapprehension. So, Miss Elizabeth, we are to be continually thrown into each other’s society? he thought. What will be your next tack, I wonder. Bingley moved away to rejoin the other gentlemen, leaving Darcy to contemplate what forces he would need to marshal for tomorrow night’s engagement.
By the end of the evening at Squire Justin’s, Darcy knew himself to be thoroughly routed. Nothing had gone as he expected. Eschewing any form of strong drink that day to ensure himself a clear head, he had come prepared to parry wit and grace with his disturbing adversary. If the opportunity arose and all went well, he also intended to offer her his apology. Neither was to be.
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