“Aha, there you are!” Bingley’s voice boomed as Darcy entered Netherfield’s hall. “I suppose I dare not hope that you have waited to allow me the pleasure of taking you on a tour of Netherfield’s lands?” Bingley stood in mock sternness in the doorway of the morning room, his arms crossed and his brow lowered, glowering at his friend.

“No hope at all, Bingley,” he responded without contrition. “It’s this deuced autumn weather! It just pulls one out-of-doors.”

“Indeed?” queried Bingley imperiously, in obvious delight at the unusual experience of having the upper hand with his friend. “I rather thought it was the prospect of having to provide amusement for Caroline this morning that pushed you out! Lord knows, I would be off in a shot!” The hauteur Bingley had assumed was then replaced with a genuine frown as he continued. “But really, Darcy, I was very much looking forward to riding over the estate with you.”

“And you shall,” Darcy hastened to assure him. “I apologize for anticipating you, but I needed to encounter Netherfield for itself without seeing it through your eyes, as would happen on a joint tour. Well you know that you would be filling my ear with rhapsodies about this stream or that wood.” Darcy paused briefly at Bingley’s strangled objection to his scenario. “You know I am right! Such distractions would give me no opportunity truly to be of service to you.”

With a crooked smile, Bingley ruefully acknowledged the reasonableness of his friend’s excuse. “I know it is not, nor will it ever be, a Pemberley. But even I know it can be more than it is,” he responded. “The thing of it is, I have not the slightest idea where to begin.”

“You may begin with allowing me to change out of my riding clothes and joining me over some refreshment in the” — Darcy glanced about the hall for a room into which the ladies or Mr. Hurst were unlikely to wander — “library.” Seizing the opportunity, he added, “Would it be possible, Charles, to have some comfortable chairs moved there? It is really quite spartan.”

“Of course, Darcy, immediately. I can’t tell you —”

“Then don’t, old man. Hold your gratitude until after you’ve heard me out.” Darcy could not help but grin at the enthusiasm on Bingley’s face. “After you’ve found yourself up to your waistcoat buttons in paper, broken quills, agricultural reports, and bills, and feel that you still feel a compunction to thank me, I’ll be glad to entertain it.” He began moving toward the stairs, then checked and turned a serious countenance upon his friend. “I warn you, Bingley, earning a Cambridge fellowship is nothing to becoming a complete man of property. I have that on the greatest authority.”

“And who, pray, might that be, O my master,” quipped Bingley.

“My father,” replied Darcy quietly as he turned and started up the stairs. “He did both.”

Gaining his room, Darcy carefully removed his sister’s letter from his coat pocket and read again the first part, his eyes lingering on the first page’s last line, “I am mending under her care into a stronger vessel.” Tenderly, he refolded the letter and pressed it to his lips. “Please God, it is so,” he murmured, placing it in his secretary, then pulled the bell that would summon Fletcher, his valet, and what he required for a day spent at the country estate of his friend.



Ensconced as they were companionably in the library amid the threatened blizzard of papers and broken pens, the remainder of the morning passed quickly for Darcy and Bingley. When Stevenson tapped at the door to announce that an afternoon repast was available and that the ladies desired their company, the two rose from their labors well satisfied with the progress that had been made and ready for a diversion.

“Whatever have you been doing all morning, Charles? Caroline and I could find you nowhere about!” complained Mrs. Hurst as she poured tea for the gentlemen and her sister. “Mr. Hurst particularly desired to see the coveys and discuss plans for a shooting party this morning, did you not, my dear?” She paused for an instant to look vaguely over at her husband, who at that moment appeared interested more in hunting the victuals set before him than those less sure ones out-of-doors. Darcy and Bingley accepted their cups, quickly setting them down at the opposite end of the dining table.

“I spent the morning most satisfactorily, Louisa. Darcy has consented to offer suggestions on how I might improve Netherfield, make it more —”

“More like Pemberley!” cried Miss Bingley as she fixed on Darcy a look of entreaty. “Oh, Mr. Darcy, can it be done?”

“Caroline, you mistake me.” Bingley looked at her with annoyance. “You must see that Netherfield can never be Pemberley, for Hertfordshire cannot be Derbyshire! Nevertheless, I believe, and Darcy agrees, that Netherfield possesses interesting possibilities that time and patience will reveal. Now,” he continued hurriedly, “what communication have we received from our neighbors? I would expect quite a few cards to have been sent after last night.”

“Yes, I suppose one could say a few.” Miss Bingley sniffed as she flicked her fingers at the pile of correspondence in the tray before her. “There are one dozen letters of welcome, seven invitations to dinner, four for tea, and three notices of assemblies or private evenings of musical entertainments. Really, Charles, what does one do for society in such a place?”

“Society?” Bingley responded. “Enjoy it, I say! The assembly last night, for example. I am sure I have rarely had a more pleasant evening. Yes, it is true! Do not frown so, Caroline! The music was lively, the people received us most warmly, and the young ladies —”

“Charles, you are too undiscriminating,” interrupted Miss Bingley. “I have never met people with less conversation and fashion or more conceit. As for the young ladies, they were certainly young but —”

“Come, Caroline, I cannot allow you to speak so of at least one young lady,” Bingley interrupted. He turned to Darcy, who had just risen from the table, cup and saucer in hand. “Darcy, support me in this! Was not Jane Bennet as lovely a girl as could be dreamt of?”

Darcy strolled over to a window while sipping at his tea and looked out onto a greensward hedged by boxwood and a gravel walk. The lack of accord between Bingley and his sisters was of long standing and had manifested itself in innumerable ways since his acquaintance with the family. Generally, Darcy’s sympathy lay with Bingley in these unpleasant exchanges, but today the turn of the conversation reminded him of the resolve he had formed the previous evening to caution his friend.

Without turning he replied, “Lovely? I believe I called her handsome. If she is lovely, I bow to your superior judgment, as you danced with her. I did not.”

“But you do have eyes, man!” Bingley responded energetically.

“Which I employed, at your insistence, you may recall.” Darcy shifted his stance, his focus remaining on the scenery beyond the window. He sipped again at his tea. “She smiles too much.”

“Smiles too much,” Bingley repeated in disbelief.

“A man must wonder at such a profusion of smiles. What may be their cause?” Darcy turned then and fixed Bingley with a penetrating look, as if to infuse him with the force of his disapprobation. “ ‘Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain,’ if I may be so bold as to quote. Think, man! Do these smiles indicate a happy, even disposition, or are they a practiced pose, a charade of good nature designed to entrap or to cover an absence of real intellect?” Darcy paused, his words stirring up violent memories within him of George Wickham, whose smiles and flattery, both man and boy, had masked a vile, corrupted nature. Unable to trust that his emotions would not betray him, he turned abruptly back to the window.

Bingley regarded his friend with some astonishment while his sisters sagely nodded their heads in agreement with Darcy’s opinion. “Mr. Darcy is quite perceptive, as always, Charles,” Miss Bingley concurred. “Miss Bennet seems to be a sweet girl, but what can she mean with a smile continually about her? I must say, I could never find so much to amuse or please me to keep me forever smiling. It is undignified and shows a want of good breeding. What say you, Louisa?”

“I quite agree, Caroline. Miss Bennet appears a sweet, charming thing, and I wish her every bit of good fortune she deserves. I cannot like the rest of her family, though. It is a wonder that they are received, except for Miss Bennet’s smiles.”

Darcy only half-attended as the sisters proceeded to shred the characters of their new neighbors. The sudden surge of anger he had experienced while dissuading his friend had surprised him, and he hardly knew how to settle his emotions in drawing room company. He walked down the room to the far window, as if intent on a different perspective of the greensward. What he needed was exercise — violent physical exercise — to banish his personal demons.

Wickham! Had he not vowed to put Wickham and his infamy behind him, promised himself not to allow the man’s actions, his betrayal, to intrude on his composure? Yet the innocent smiles of a pretty stranger had again excited the rage and helplessness he felt — still felt. Darcy leaned one arm against the window’s frame, his face a grim, white mask reflected back to him in the glass. Enough! Wickham’s poisonous sway had to stop. It must stop, or every time Georgiana looked at him she would see it, and he would not have her crushed again, especially now that she had found strength to face the world.

Darcy let a slow, measured sigh escape him as he set his mind to calm his thoughts. His body, he found, was not as obliging. What he would not give for a good sword and a worthy opponent at this moment! He almost laughed. Instead, he recalled himself to his purpose, which had been to rein in Bingley’s galloping admiration of Miss Bennet, not to encourage him into a disgust of his neighbors. He acknowledged that he may have been harsh, but it was for the best. It would not do for Bingley to leg-shackle himself so young and to a mere local miss. Nevertheless, the neighbors should be rescued from the tender attentions of Bingley’s sisters.

“…her sisters, all four of them!” Miss Bingley’s disdainful laugh abruptly reinstated him into the conversation. “Mr. Darcy, you cannot be amused by the immodest behavior of Miss Bennet’s sisters? You would not wish your sister to act so.” Darcy favored Miss Bingley with a bow in silent agreement. “But the local militia do not seem to take such antics into aversion,” she continued. “They are in agreement with you on that head, Charles. The Bennet girls all are favorites. Not only Miss Bennet but the next younger, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, was also accounted a beauty! Mr. Darcy, what say you to that? Is Miss Elizabeth Bennet a beauty?”

Darcy’s hand involuntarily convulsed around the delicate china cup. Elizabeth! Yes, that would be her name, the name of a queen — so directly did she regard him! A beauty? An intriguing woman, a maddening woman, likely, with such a bold air. But a beauty? His emotions now engaged on an altogether different object, he maintained his gaze out the window, his back to the room, even when Bingley addressed him with more than a hint of exasperation in his voice. “Well, Darcy?”

Without turning, Darcy gathered himself to deflect Miss Bingley’s barb and discipline his own unruly thoughts. “She, a beauty?” he replied, his diction precise and clipped. “I would as soon call her mother a wit.”