Page 43 of The Briar Bargain
The bright heat of a well-tended fire greeted them in the breakfast room, as did the rich aroma of fresh chocolate, coffee, and the comforting smell of toast and preserves.
Mr. Darcy was already in the room, of course. She knew him to be an early riser from her first days at Netherfield, when she had been tending Jane. He was not, as Elizabeth might have expected, seated with a book or newspaper, but was instead standing at the sideboard. She smiled to herself as she noted his immaculate coat, the precise knot of his cravat, the way his posture spoke of a man who approached even the selection of morning fare as a matter requiring serious contemplation. Before the flood, she hadrolled her eyes at such exactness—in private, of course. Now she found it rather endearing.
He did not glance up at their entrance immediately, though Elizabeth fancied his movements slowed fractionally as Mrs. Nicholls quietly curtsied and withdrew from the room. There was something in his stillness that suggested awareness, as though he were as conscious of their arrival as they were of his presence.
"Good morning," he said at last, turning to face them with that careful composure that Elizabeth had come to recognise as distinctly his own.
"Good morning, Mr. Darcy," Jane replied as she moved further into the room.
Elizabeth paused a few feet from him. "We hope we are not late. The morning was so inviting that I fear we may have lingered out of doors longer than intended."
"Not at all," he replied. "Mrs. Nicholls informed me that you had returned from your walk. I thought you might appreciate something warm to eat after your time in the garden."
As he spoke, he moved to the table with measured steps, carrying two plates that he had apparently prepared during their absence. One he set before Jane with careful attention to placement, the other at the place next to her. The gesture was performed without flourish or ceremony, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Elizabeth looked down at her plate, her breath catching slightly. The arrangement was not merely thoughtful, it was perfect. Eggs prepared exactly as she preferred them, neither too soft nor too firm, their golden centres just beginning to set. A slice of toast bearing a careful application of currant jam rather than the marmalade that seemed to dominate the Netherfield tables. Had he spoken to the cook again?
And beside her plate was a cup of tea. She lifted it to her lips and discovered that it had been prepared exactly to her taste.
She had said nothing of her breakfast preferences aloud, at least not recently. Indeed, she could hardly recall voicing such specific tastes to anyone in the household.
"Oh," said Jane, her voice bright with genuine delight as she discovered her own breakfast. "Chocolate. How very kind of you, Mr. Darcy."
"It was no trouble at all," Mr. Darcy replied, though Elizabeth detected something almost diffident in his manner as he spoke.
Elizabeth glanced up, seeking some explanation in his expression, but found his countenance as unreadable as ever. He had already returned to the sideboard, attending now to his own meal with the same methodical attention he had devoted to theirs.
She could not puzzle him out.
Mr. Hurst entered a few moments later, moving with the half-shut eyes and deliberate care of a man whose primary concern was reaching his coffee without worsening his headache. Elizabeth had seen her father in such a state once or twice after an evening engagement. Mr. Hurst settled himself with his cup and an old newspaper held at precisely the angle necessary to discourage any social interaction.
She exchanged a small smile with Jane and turned back to her food.
A few minutes after her husband’s arrival, Mrs. Hurst appeared in the doorway with Miss Bingley at her side. Mrs. Hurst acknowledged the Bennet sisters, but her eyes moved frequently between her sister Caroline and Mr. Hurst, as though she were observing some silent drama playing out beyond Elizabeth's comprehension.
Miss Bingley's entrance was marked by a quick nod and a smile that struck Elizabeth as brittle as ice. "What a fine morning this has turned out to be," she said with every appearance of amiability.
“It is beautiful,” Elizabeth replied, for once finding herself able to agree with Miss Bingley. Too bad a discussion of the weather was as far as their conviviality went.
Miss Bingley did not take her seat immediately but instead walked slowly along the sideboard to fill her plate. Mr. Darcy did not rise from his own meal to do her the service he had done the Bennet ladies.
"I suppose you enjoyed your walk?" Miss Bingley said, her back still turned to the table as she contemplated the various offerings.
Elizabeth had already agreed with her about the weather. It was Jane’s turn to reply, which she did.
"Very much indeed. The fresh air after so many days indoors was most restorative. It is still quite damp, however, and we were careful to keep to the paths."
Miss Bingley turned then, that same tight smile playing about her lips. "How very brave of you to risk the dirt.”
Elizabeth felt her spine straighten, though Miss Bingley had not said anything directly insulting. She was opening her mouth to deliver what she hoped would be a measured response when Mr. Darcy, without looking up from his plate or altering his relaxed posture in the slightest, said with perfect mildness, "The Miss Bennets are not in the habit of favouring appearances over health and exercise. I am certain the decision was a sound one."
The silence that followed this remark was profound enough that Elizabeth could hear the soft tick of the mantel clock and the distant sound of servants moving about their morning duties just outside the room. Miss Bingley's smile faltered for an instant before reasserting itself, though it now carried a forced quality that made Elizabeth rather uncomfortable. She did not respond to Mr. Darcy.
Elizabeth found herself at a loss for words. The statement had been delivered with the calm assurance of one commenting on the weather or the time of day. No particular emphasis, no pointed glance in their direction, no apparent desire for recognition or gratitude. Yet it had silenced Miss Bingley's implied criticism as effectively as if he had delivered a formal rebuke.
He had defended her most memorably at dinner the previous evening, when Miss Bingley's comments had grown particularly sharp. But this felt different somehow. Smaller in scope, perhaps, but also more natural. As though defending her and Jane required no effort, no thought at all.
She thought it perhaps the very purest demonstration of gentlemanly behaviour.
