Page 7 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious "Miss B"
“I couldn’t sleep,” Jane said, settling on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed. “I keep thinking about Lydia. She was so different tonight—so withdrawn and sad. What are we to do about her?”
Elizabeth set down her pen and turned to face her sister. “I do not know, Jane. I have tried speaking with her, but she pushes me away every time. She blames herself for Papa’s death, you know.”
“Blames herself? But why?”
“She thinks if she had been a better daughter, less wilful and demanding, Papa might not have worked himself into such a state. She believes her behaviour contributed to the apoplexy that killed him.”
Jane’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, the poor dear. How could she think such a thing?”
“Grief makes people believe all sorts of nonsense,” Elizabeth said. “And Lydia was always Papa’s pet. His death has hit her harder than the rest of us, I think.”
“We must find a way to help her,” Jane insisted. “Perhaps if we gave her some responsibility, something to make her feel useful?”
“What sort of responsibility?”
“I do not know yet. But Mary was right earlier—sitting alone in her room will only make things worse. She needs purpose, engagement with the world again.”
Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. Jane was right, but the question remained: how could they help Lydia when their own future was so uncertain?
“Jane,” Elizabeth said, “what do you really think of Mr Bingley?”
A soft smile crossed Jane’s features. “He is everything a gentleman should be—kind, considerate, well-educated. When he speaks, I feel as though he truly listens to my responses. And his manners are so natural, not studied or affected like some men of his station.”
“Do you think you could care for him?”
Jane’s cheeks flushed pink. “I think… yes, I think I could care for him very much. But Lizzy, I must not allow myself to hope too much. We danced twice, nothing more. For all we know, he was being polite to a neighbour.”
“Jane,” Elizabeth said, “you are allowed to hope. You are allowed to feel happiness, even in the midst of our troubles. Papa would want that for you.”
Tears gathered in Jane’s eyes. “Do you think so? Sometimes I feel guilty for enjoying Mr Bingley’s attention when we are still mourning Papa.”
“Papa would be delighted to see you happy,” Elizabeth assured her. “He always said you deserved the very best in life. If Mr Bingley makes you happy, then Papa would approve.”
The sisters talked for another hour, sharing hopes and fears about the future. When Jane finally returned to her own room, Elizabeth felt better than she had in weeks. Perhaps some good could come from this evening after all.
Chapter 3
Darcy
The fire crackled in the drawing room at Netherfield as Darcy poured himself a brandy and settled into his chair. Across from him, Bingley sprawled in his own seat with obvious contentment, his cravat loosened and his normally impeccable appearance decidedly rumpled. The evening’s events had left his friend in high spirits—too high, perhaps.
“Darcy, my good fellow,” Bingley said, raising his glass with a flourish that sent amber liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “Did you see how radiant Miss Bennet looked tonight? Like an angel in lavender silk. By Jove, when she smiled at me during that first dance, I thought my heart might stop altogether.”
Darcy took a measured sip of his brandy and studied his friend with growing concern. Bingley had consumed rather more wine than usual during supper, and the effects were clearly evident in his effusive praise of the eldest Miss Bennet.
“She danced very gracefully,” Darcy agreed diplomatically.
“Gracefully!” Bingley laughed, the sound carrying more volume than discretion. “My dear Darcy, you speak as though she were merely competent. Miss Bennet moves like poetry in motion. Every step, every turn—absolute perfection. And her conversation! So intelligent, so thoughtful. Did you know she has read Richardson’s entire collected works? Twice!”
Caroline Bingley entered the drawing room at that moment, her silk skirts rustling as she moved to the sideboard to pour herself a glass of ratafia. Her countenance suggested she had been listening to her brother’s rhapsodies from the corridor.
“Charles, dear,” she said with obvious patience, “perhaps you might moderate your enthusiasm just a touch. One would not want to appear too eager.”
Bingley waved a dismissive hand. “Eager? Caroline, I am beyond eager and well into besotted. Miss Bennet is everything a gentleman could want in a wife—beautiful, accomplished, gentle, kind. In fact, I would like you, Caroline, to call on her and invite her for tea this week. What say you, Darcy? Surely you could find no fault with such a plan?”
Darcy set down his glass with deliberate care. “Charles, whilst I admire your… enthusiasm, perhaps you should consider moving with greater caution. You have known Miss Bennet for all of two conversations.”
“Sometimes That is all it takes,” Bingley replied with the confidence of a man slightly in his cups. “My father always said he knew he loved my mother the moment he saw her. Love does not follow a schedule, Darcy.”
