One Thread Pulled: The Dance With Mr. Darcy (23 page)

Waking again as the room filled with morning light, Elizabeth could not recall how the dream had ended, but this time the pieces did not shatter with wakefulness. They lingered instead, in her memory, to ponder and reflect on through the day.

~*~

Elizabeth was the last to enter the dining room for breakfast. Her father had already eaten and left, but the rest were discussing the events of the previous evening with great animation. Elizabeth took a seat as far from Mr. Collins as possible. She lazily spread some jam on her toast, nearly oblivious to the noise her sisters were making, her mind pleasantly engaged in puzzling over her dream.

“Lizzy!” Lydia broke into her reverie. “Lizzy, what did you say to poor Wickham last night? It took us nearly half an hour to get him to laugh again after
 
you
 
ruined his spirits.”

“We spoke at some length of his childhood. Perhaps he was feeling nostalgic,” Elizabeth replied.

“That's right!” Lydia exclaimed. “He told me too—all about how Mr. Darcy used him very ill. That is not nostalgia, Lizzy. That is his poor heart being broken.”

Elizabeth looked impatiently at her sister. “We have known Mr. Wickham but two days, and even I can see that he does not bear the countenance of a heartbroken man, Lydia.”

“He told me you would not hear him.” Lydia countered. “You did not want to hear the truth about Mr. Darcy and his cruelty toward Mr. Wickham—though I cannot imagine why.” Lydia stood as she pounded her hand on the table. “Mr. Darcy was jealous of Wickham, and then he cheated him! Poor Mr. Wickham was denied his rightful inheritance and income because Mr. Darcy was mean and vindictive! Wickham was
 
forced
 
to join the militia!”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together disapprovingly. “Lydia, lower your voice.” She glanced up at Mr. Collins, who was paying close attention to the conversation. “Lydia, if there is a dispute between Mr. Darcy and Mr. Wickham, they must be the ones to settle it.” Elizabeth could see Mr. Collins nodding his head in agreement, as he chewed a mouthful of food. That could not stand. “Besides,” she added lightly, “you said you loved the sight of Mr. Wickham in his regimentals. You must be sure to thank Mr. Darcy for forcing Wickham to enlist.”

“Humph.” Lydia puffed her cheeks as she plopped back into her chair. “I will thank Mr. Darcy to take his leave.”

Elizabeth looked sharply at her youngest sister, willing her to stop speaking.

“What? I am only saying what we are all thinking—even you, Lizzy, if you would admit it.” Lydia defended. “Mr. Darcy adds nothing at all when in company. He may be very rich, but he is dreary and too stuffy. The officers are much more pleasant.”

“Lydia, dear,” Mrs. Bennet interrupted, “I have been thinking. You have made a number of acquaintances among the officers of the regiment, but they have not yet come to call at Longbourn.” Mrs. Bennet paused, waiting for her words to have their desired impact. “You must invite them to tea.”

“Oooohhhh yes!” Lydia squealed and Kitty giggled. “Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham, and, of course, Captain Carter! We must serve cake, Mama! Nothing but cake will do, you know.”

“You shall have your cake, Lydia, if you invite them for tomorrow.” Mrs. Bennet nodded approvingly. “Jane, why did Mr. Bingley not call yesterday? The very day after your father consents to his courtship, he fails to call. It is a disappointing beginning.”

“Mama,” Jane said sweetly, “Mr. Bingley had some urgent business in London which he had planned to attend to after the ball. When I informed him that we were to go to Aunt Phillips’ home last night, since he had not been invited, he took the opportunity to see to his affairs in town early so that he would not be obliged to leave Hertfordshire for several weeks. I am certain he will call today.”

“I suppose that is all right.” Mrs. Bennet sniffed.

“Mr. Collins.” Mary's voice was just above a whisper, and her face flushed slightly when everyone at the table turned to look at her. “Mr. Collins,” Mary spoke more loudly and with a most unusual shade of determination in her tone. When the object of her address finally responded by looking at her, she continued. “Mr. Collins, it has occurred to me that we have been remiss. We have not considered that as a clergyman, you will be expected to call upon our own parson, Mr. Timmons, during the course of your stay at Longbourn. I thought, perhaps, you might fulfill this obligation today, when the road is drier.”

Mr. Collins colored slightly and answered with his usual verbosity that Mary was correct and that such a call would certainly be the appropriate thing to do. Mary then advised Mr. Collins with a boldness that astonished her mother and sisters that she would happily oblige him with her company on his walk to the rectory in order to provide detail on Mr. Timmons' recent sermons. This, she assured him enthusiastically, would provide a common ground for their discourse and serve to make him at ease in the visit. Although Mr. Collins seemed surprised and slightly reluctant, with much encouragement from Mary, seconded by Jane and Elizabeth, he did at length agree to the outing.

~*~

Within the space of two hours, Lydia and Kitty had gone to Meryton to make the invitation to tea, and Mary and Mr. Collins had walked out with them, to go together as far as the rectory. Mrs. Bennet had gone to the kitchen to discuss the evening meal and the requirement of cake for tomorrow's tea.

Jane sat by the window watching for Mr. Bingley with one eye as she stitched on a sampler with the other. Elizabeth sat near her, the light from the window illuminating the delicate pattern of her embroidery as she placed the tiny stitches in a new handkerchief.

“What is that pattern, Lizzy?” Jane asked, glancing at Elizabeth's handiwork. “I do not recognize it.”

“The whitework pattern is my own design Jane. I am hoping to finish it in time for the ball at Netherfield. As soon as I have done the stitching, I will trim it with lace to match my gown.” Elizabeth smiled at her sister. “I am wearing the gold-threaded muslin our Aunt Gardiner gave me last year. I have not had a chance to wear it since she took us to that ball in London last spring. What will you wear Jane?”

“My white silk. I am re-trimming it with new ribbon, and I think it will turn out well.” Jane turned to look out the window, and the movement she detected was what she had hoped. “He is come!” Jane's face blossomed with her smile as she turned to watch the approach. “He is not alone, Lizzy.”

Elizabeth stood and looked out the window, tipping her head to the side slightly as she softly uttered, “Romeo.”

“What did you say?” Jane peered at her in confusion.

“The horse, Jane. Romeo is Mr. Darcy's horse.” Elizabeth smiled to herself as she muttered her reply.

Jane glanced out the window at the approaching riders. “Mr. Darcy does not seem like a romantic.” Jane observed. “He must be a complex man.”

“I think you may be right, Jane.” Elizabeth drew closer to the window until she stood so close that her breath condensed on the pane as she spoke, her eyes fixed on the black horse and rider. “He is a complicated man, to be sure.” The sight of the two horsemen transfixed her, Mr. Bingley posting to his horse's trot, while Mr. Darcy was regal and erect in his seat as his horse moved in a smooth, ambling gait.

“Come, Lizzy, we must move away from the window—they will see us! We must not stare!” Jane urged as the men drew nearer.

“I believe Mr. Bingley already knows you like him, Jane. There is no need to hide it. It may even please him to know you are eager for his company.” Elizabeth tipped her head toward her sister as she spoke but kept her eyes trained on their gentlemen callers as amusement crossed her face. “And as for Mr. Darcy, he will not notice us—he comes for Bingley's sake. I am sure his mind is engaged in loftier pursuits than spotting the spies in the window.”

In this assessment, Elizabeth erred, for at that moment, the gentlemen were in fact highly aware of the two eldest Bennet sisters tracking their approach. In the case of Mr. Bingley, it was exactly as she supposed, but if she could have perceived the bent of Mr. Darcy's thoughts, she would have been greatly astonished.

To
 
him
, she was as a specter in the glass, a vision of a warm and welcoming heart standing watch in the windows of Pemberley, waiting for his return home. It was not a great leap to contemplate the loving embrace that would greet him inside the door nor the sweet fragrance that would fog his mind as he held her close and cherished the comfort of her arms as they wrapped around him. Salutations would be spoken only after his lips had been satisfied upon hers and even then uttered between his address of kisses on the lovely face of his precious wife.

The shock of the word penetrated and jolted him from the reverie as surely as if he had fallen into a lake of ice. Elizabeth Bennet could never be his wife. Of all the bitter truths he had ever known, this one cut the deepest and caused the sharpest pain. What had begun as admiration and evolved into love had crossed into an agony more acute with every encounter. If seeing her thus in the window could plunge him to despair, how could he bear to speak to her? How could he bear not to?

This was the state of Mr. Darcy's mind as he dismounted and with Mr. Bingley approached the entrance to Longbourn as he braced himself against his traitorous emotions.

~*~

Jane and Elizabeth were seated, innocently looking as though they had been industriously stitching for hours, when Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy were announced and shown into the room. The ladies stood, setting down their handiwork, and curtsied, welcoming the men formally and graciously, but as soon as Hill had closed the door, Mr. Bingley closed the distance between himself and Jane in great strides.

“Miss Bennet.” Mr. Bingley took up Jane's hands in his as he looked ever so happily into her eyes. “I have counted the hours since we were last together, and they have been far too many!”

Pink crept into Jane's cheeks as she fought to maintain her composure. “For me as well, Mr. Bingley.”

At this, Elizabeth turned away, seeking to give her sister and Mr. Bingley at least a semblance of privacy, and discovered that Mr. Darcy had picked up the hoop of her embroidery and was studying it with apparent curiosity.

“Are you generally so fascinated with needlework, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth's eyes sparkled with merriment as she held out her hand to receive the article.

“No,” he replied as he returned it to Elizabeth. “It is the pattern that caught my eye. It is unusual.”

Elizabeth looked down at the pattern of loops and swirls she had designed. “Is it? It is not so very unusual, I daresay, but perhaps not common either, for I composed the lines myself.” She proceeded to sit, taking up the hoop and needle, to resume her stitching.

It was then that she saw them—the elements in the pattern that were as inadvertent as they were prominent. This was undoubtedly the source of Mr. Darcy's interest in the pattern. Embedded quite unmistakably in the design of pulled eyelets and tucked ridges were the letters “E” and “D,” interlaced and connected in the appearance of bold initials.

She continued stitching as she felt the color creep into her cheeks. It was not mortification that tinged her face with a rosy hue, but the laughter that she was attempting to suppress.

“Miss Elizabeth?” Mr. Darcy had seated himself near her own chair and looking at her with alarm. “Are you quite alright?”

She looked up at him, her eyes almost wet with tears of hilarity. They sparkled dangerously as she nodded, grasping inwardly to retrieve the breath that eluded her without revealing her laughter to Mr. Darcy. She did not want him to suppose that she was laughing at him when her own blunder had caused it.

“Excuse me.” Elizabeth dropped the hoop beside her as she stood and removed herself from the room before she lost all control. A step into the outside air gave her release, and she gulped the air in with great rushing breaths as her laughter escaped her, rippling waves of mirth that subsided gradually as she leaned against a tree and composed herself.

After several minutes, she straightened herself to return to the house, only to discover that Mr. Darcy had followed her outside and had, it seemed, witnessed her loss of control, the offending embroidery hoop once again in his hand.

“Miss Bennet,” he said softly as she moved to pass him on her way back to the house. “I did not intend to be discourteous a moment ago. The design is quite enchanting.” He handed the hoop back to her awkwardly. “Please forgive me if I offended you.”

“I could hardly refuse forgiveness when you beg it with such politeness,” Elizabeth said with a raised brow as she received the article yet again, “but I assure you, an apology is quite unnecessary. There is nothing to forgive.”