Mr. Darcy Came to Dinner (6 page)

Sally smiled prettily and set the plate aside. “Are you comfortable, sir? Shall I fluff the pillow? A blanket — shall I fetch you one? You mustn’t catch your death.”

Darcy heard Bartholomew’s huff of exasperation, and Darcy himself barely stopped rolling his eyes. He had experienced this phenomenon before — a young maid’s flirtations while he was a guest at a friend’s estate. There were those of his acquaintance who would not hesitate to take advantage of the situation, but they were not Fitzwilliam Darcy. He would never lower himself to bed a servant; he would never act as had Wickham.

The thought of his former childhood playmate darkened his expression. Wickham in Meryton! Nothing good could come of that! Thank goodness he had not brought Georgiana to Netherfield. It had been many months since Ramsgate, but his sweet sister still suffered from mortification and had withdrawn from society. How much worse would it be for her to be but a few miles from that reprobate!

Apparently, his morose thoughts were transparent, for Sally grew worried and concerned. “Oh, sir, are you in any pain? Mr. Bartholomew, more laudanum, if you please!”

“No, no,” Darcy labored to reassure the girl, “I am quite comfortable.”

Actually, he was not. A few hours on the Bennet’s couch might be agreeable, but a full night’s sleep had done away with the sofa’s appeal. The light dose of laudanum administered that morning had done little to relieve his discomfort. What made matters worse was that Darcy could not move very much; he was limited to placing both legs on the sofa or his right foot on the floor. In either position, he was flat on his back, his left leg immobilized. And now Macmillan said he was not to be moved for a month, except for the necessities? A month on this couch? In what level of hell had Darcy landed?

Bartholomew answered a knock on the door; it was Miss Jane Bennet. “Mr. Darcy, are you up to having visitors?” the lady asked kindly.

Darcy set aside his self-pity. “I should like it of all things, Miss Bennet. Please . . . ” He gestured to a chair near the couch. Once she was seated, Bartholomew begged to be excused, saying he had a few things to discuss with Mrs. Hill. The valet left, leaving the door slightly ajar, while Sally in the role of chaperone busied herself by puttering about, dusting the room.

Miss Bennet worked on her embroidery while sharing small talk with Darcy. After only a few minutes, he found himself almost as much at ease talking to her as he had been in conversing with Miss Elizabeth at Netherfield weeks before — easier in some ways, for he was not fighting the attraction he felt for her sister. They spoke of family and horses, two subjects Darcy enjoyed. He was surprised to learn that Miss Elizabeth did not ride; a childhood fright had quite put her off the occupation. Darcy found himself speaking of the joy he found in riding with Georgiana when they were interrupted.

“Oh, go away, you furry thing!” cried Sally.

Darcy glanced at the door and saw a ginger cat slowly walking in.

“No, no, Cassandra, you are not welcome here.” Jane put aside her embroidery and rose to expel the cat, but it was too quick for either lady and, with a bound, planted itself on Darcy’s chest. The cat was not light, and Darcy gave a
whoof.
Not discouraged in the least, the feline settled down upon the prone man.

“Oh, Mr. Darcy, I am so sorry!” Miss Bennet made to remove the beast, but Darcy forestalled her.

“No, no, I am not troubled. After all, this is her house, not mine.” He glanced at the purring cat. “I believe we have met before although we have not been properly introduced.”

Jane turned bright red. “This is our cat, Cassandra. I am afraid you met yesterday.”

“I thought I recognized the color.” Darcy gently rubbed the animal behind the ears, and the cat accepted his attention with rumbling delight. “Come to apologize, eh? Very well, I suppose the blame must be shared with the horse and its rider. You are welcome here, Miss Cassandra.”

“She is very sweet to us but not usually accepting of strangers.” Miss Bennet smiled. “You have made a conquest.”

Darcy chanced a quick glance at Sally, who was watching the scene with adulation.
There
was one conquest he would eschew even if his life depended on it.

“Your sister must be very worried about you,” Jane observed.

Darcy absently stroked the cat. “She would be if she knew of this.”

“She does not?” Jane said with some emotion. “Has no one written her?”

“I would, but the laudanum — it is difficult to concentrate.”

Miss Bennet firmed her lips, an act Darcy heretofore thought the lady of incapable of performing. “Then allow me to assist you. We together shall pen a quick note to her.” Before Darcy could protest, the lady marched to a desk opposite, sat herself down, and gathered ink and paper. She turned her head, brandishing a pen. “Tell me what you wish to say, sir, and I shall write it down.”

It took a while and several drafts, but in the end, Darcy signed a letter written by Miss Bennet that informed Georgiana that an accident would necessitate his remaining in Hertfordshire until Christmastide. He claimed that he was in no danger or pain and only regretted this time away from his dear sister. He charged her to attend to her lessons, not to worry, and soon he would join her in London. Miss Bennet rose with the now-sealed letter in her hands.

“I shall have my father post it directly.”

Darcy tried to dissuade her from that action — he could certainly pay for the postage — but Jane would not hear of it. She was almost at the door when it was opened by Mrs. Hill, a beaming Mr. Bingley close behind. The reason for Bingley’s quick return to Longbourn was instantly revealed.

“Cheer up, Darce!” cried Bingley. “I have brought you a bed!”

He had brought more than a bed. The entire Netherfield party was now in attendance, including Mr. Hurst and Mr. Macmillan. The ruckus raised the house, and soon the hallway was filled with Bennets, Bingleys, and other persons as Mr. Hill and a few other servants moved the furniture about the parlor and assembled the bed.

The crush of people convinced Cassandra to flee the scene. Mrs. Bennet, once she recovered from her initial astonishment at the scheme, joined the work of redecorating whole-heartedly, assisted by Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth. Miss Bingley contented herself with making a few suggestions, all of which were ignored. The younger Miss Bennets did little but stare. As for the master of Longbourn, he simply threw up his hands and retreated to his book room in a huff.

Once the bed was established, Mr. Macmillan requested a few minutes privacy, and under his direction, Bartholomew and Mr. Hill helped Darcy into his new accommodations.

Darcy sighed as he lay back on the mattress, Mrs. Hill and Sally tucking the covers about him. Never had a bed felt so welcomed than after his forced occupation of the Bennet’s couch. The ladies returned and completed the re-orientation of the parlor.

“There, Mr. Darcy!” cried Mrs. Bennet when the labors were completed. “This is as fine a room as may be found in Hertfordshire, I declare! Warm and cozy — certainly better than Purvis Lodge. The attics there are dreadful!”

“Harrumph!” Mr. Collins turned up his nose. “Good enough for Hertfordshire, I suppose, but nothing to Rosings Park! I say that these accommodations are unfit for my patroness’s nephew, and he should be moved to better quarters.”

“Mr. Collins,” said Darcy wearily. “Please. Leave. My. Presence.
Now
.” The fastidious parson flushed and fled while Darcy turned his attention to Mrs. Bennet. “Madam, this room is perfectly acceptable. I thank you and your staff for your kind attentions.”

A wide smile grew on the matron’s face. “I am told by Hill that you fancied Cook’s white soup. I knew you would. It is the best in the district.” She leaned in and continued, “It is ten times what you will find on Lady Lucas’s table!”

“Mother!” cried Miss Elizabeth.

“What?” Mrs. Bennet replied. “I speak nothing but the truth. Ask Mr. Darcy; he is the
connoisseur
.” She turned back to her guest. “I suppose you have three French cooks at your Pemberley, at least!”

For once, Darcy found amusement in the foolish lady’s boasting but said in all honesty, “Mrs. Bennet, your white soup is as fine as I have ever had the pleasure of enjoying.”

“There, you see?” Mrs. Bennet cried triumphantly before her eye fell on the clock. “Oh, but we must get ready for the Philipses’ party! Pray excuse us, Mr. Darcy. I am certain you appreciate the responsibilities we have, being one of the most distinguished families in the district!” She sighed. “We are always dealing with invitations, and we must honor them. It would not do for us to so disparage society. Surely,
you
understand these things!”

Darcy did not know whether it was an aftereffect of the laudanum, but he was quite diverted by Mrs. Bennet. “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours. I hope you will enjoy yourselves.”

* * *

The party at the Philipses’ was tolerable only because of the inclusion of the militia. The officers of the ——hire were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present party. Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as
they
were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy Uncle Philips, breathing port wine, who held court in a corner of the room.

Almost every female eye in the room was on Mr. Wickham, but it was Elizabeth and Lydia with whom he seated himself. At first, there was danger of Lydia monopolizing the conversation with idle talk of ribbons and red coats, but fortunately for Elizabeth, the gentleman seemed predisposed toward the topic closest to
her
heart — namely, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. He enquired how long Mr. Darcy had been staying in the neighborhood.

“About a month, almost all of that time at Netherfield until his accident,” said Elizabeth.

“Now we are stuck with him in our parlor!” added Lydia.

“I do understand your feelings,” said the officer. “Even a pleasant man in pain can be a difficult guest.”

Lydia laughed. “There is nothing pleasant about Mr. Darcy, I can tell you.”

“The story about town is that he was thrown from his horse because he was overtaken by drink. I hope that is not true. It would be very shocking if it were,” Mr. Wickham said carefully.

“Oh no, it was not drink but our cat!” Lydia explained.

Elizabeth, wanting to get back to the subject of interest, said, “He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand.”

“Yes,” replied Wickham, “his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information than myself, for I have been connected with his family from my infancy.” He sighed. “You may well be surprised at such an assertion after seeing the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”

“As much as I ever wish to be,” cried Elizabeth heatedly. “I spent four days at Netherfield with him prior to his accident, and I think him very disagreeable.”

“
I
think him not at all handsome!” Lydia declared.

“I have no right to give
my
opinion,” said Wickham, “as to his being agreeable or handsome or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for
me
to be impartial.”

Lydia laughed again. “He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favorably spoken of by anyone.”

“I wonder,” said Mr. Wickham, “whether he is likely to be in this county much longer.”

“That is up to his physician, I am afraid,” said Elizabeth. “I hope your plans in favor of the ——shire will not be affected by his being in the neighborhood.”

“Oh, no! It is not for
me
to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If
he
wishes to avoid seeing
me
, he must stay away.” He smiled. “Which should not be difficult, given the present circumstances.”

Mr. Wickham then spoke of Derbyshire. “His father was one of the best men that ever breathed and the truest friend I ever had. I could forgive Mr. Darcy anything and everything but disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.

“You see, the church
ought
to have been my profession. I was brought up for the church, and I should by this time have been in possession of a most valuable living had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now. The late Mr. Darcy bequeathed to me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather and excessively attached to me, but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere.”

“Good heavens!” cried Lydia. “While a red coat suits you
exceedingly
well and I should hate to see you in black, I am sorry you lost the living!”

Elizabeth asked, “But how could that be? How could the late Mr. Darcy’s will be disregarded? Why did not you seek legal redress?”