Page 8 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
Charlotte’s lips twitched as she carefully wrote out labels for several glass jars. “I am sure her ladyship will inform us if we have gone astray.”
“In great detail,” Elizabeth said with a little laugh and then affected Lady Catherine’s imperious tone. “‘My own stillroom at Rosings contains seventeen different varieties of leaves and herbs, arranged by height, weight, and cost. Miss de Bourgh would have had twice that number, had she been allowed to pursue the activity.”
Both women shared a quiet laugh, mindful of Mr. Collins in his study nearby.
“Truly, I feel some pity for Miss de Bourgh,” Elizabeth admitted. “She is never allowed to do anything, it seems.”
“She is not well enough,” Charlotte replied mildly.
“How will she know if she is never allowed to make the attempt?”
“Eliza,” her friend admonished her, “her mother surely knows what her limitations are better than we do.”
And better than her daughter, it would seem. Elizabeth shook her head. “Do you not ever weary of being right?”
Charlotte pursed her lips, and her eyes searched the ceiling as though she was mulling over the question. “No,” she said lightly, and they both smiled. “We are invited to dinner at Rosings tomorrow. I tell you this now so that when I reveal it to Mr. Collins this evening, you will be able to appear pleased.”
“You promised me that when Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam were here, Lady Catherine would not take any notice of us,” Elizabeth reminded Charlotte. “I clearly recall the conversation.”
“I am as surprised as you are,” Charlotte agreed, “though I do believe they came to call so early because of you. Mr. Darcy would never have called so soon just for me.”
“Charlotte,” Elizabeth replied with a sigh.
“Besides, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s presence should make dinner rather more entertaining, do not you think?”
She decided not to quarrel. “His conversation is everything amiable,” she agreed, reaching for another handful of leaves. “Though I suspect he enjoys provoking his cousin almost as much as attending us.”
“And speaking of Mr. Darcy,” Charlotte said carefully, “have your feelings about him changed at all since the autumn?”
Elizabeth’s fingers stilled momentarily before she resumed her work with deliberate nonchalance. “He still favours looking out of windows and staring at me with disapproval. I am not sure why my feelings would have altered when his behaviour has not.”
“Are you certain it is disapproval?”
He seemed different with his family, less conceited, less imperious. But it did not make him more palatable toher. She frowned and arched one brow at Charlotte.
“Eliza . . .” Charlotte’s tone held gentle reproach.
Elizabeth smiled. “Poor man. Between my impertinence and his aunt’s folly, Kent must be a trial to both his social and architectural sensibilities.”
“You are too severe on him,” Charlotte observed.
“Am I?” Elizabeth’s voice turned thoughtful. “A man who was certainly involved in separating Jane and Mr. Bingley? Who denied Mr. Wickham his living?” She shook her head, though her tone remained light. “No, Charlotte, I believe Mr. Darcy and I understand each other perfectly. He disapproves of me and those I hold dear, and I . . .” She paused, glancing out the window where she could see that Mr. Collins had left his study and gone out into the garden. “I find his pride a very faithful companion to his wealth and consequence.”
“You seem to have made quite a study of him,” Charlotte noted with a small smile.
She had. But it meant nothing. “Merely a study in natural philosophy, I assure you. One must have some occupation in the country, and observing Mr. Darcy’s various expressions of disapproval provides endless entertainment. Have you noticed how his left eyebrow rises exactly one quarter of an inch when he is particularly offended?”
Charlotte laughed despite herself.
“I am convinced he practices in the glass,” Elizabeth continued blithely, though something fluttered in her chest when she imagined him doing so. Whatever else he was, Mr. Darcy was a handsome man. “You know how his aunt advises regular practice for every skill.”
“I suppose you do not recognize that your own right eyebrow arches a bit higher than that before you deliver one of your own witty retorts?”
“It does not.”
“It does, my dear.” Charlotte returned to her labelling, but not before giving her friend a knowing look that Elizabeth chose to ignore. Better to jest about Mr. Darcy’s disapproval than examine why she had indeed made such a study of his expressions, or why she could so easily recall the exact way his eyes brightened when he smiled at his cousin’s jests.
After all, she thought with a private smile as she returned to her work, someone had to provide entertainment at Rosings, and Mr. Darcy’s diffidence made him an irresistible target. That was all it was.
