Chapter Text
It was in the middle of the distinctly unremarkable country of Hertfordshire where Fitzwilliam Darcy’s life took a turn for the worst.
It was insupportable, truly. What material claim should so insignificant a neighbourhood have on him? on a Darcy? And yet, it was so.
She was a country miss with inferior connexions, and he was smitten.
God have mercy.
He had resisted. Heaven knows he had resisted. However, it seemed as if fate — or at least the entire neighborhood — was conniving to throw Miss Elizabeth Bennet his way. Such as when Miss Bennet fell ill whilst she called on Netherfield, so Miss Elizabeth simply had to stay. But other than that morning where they sat mutely in the library, they were never alone. The people Hertfordshire never let them be. Someone — be they sisters, friends, matrons — was always, always there, interrupting the unparalleled brilliance of conversation Darcy knew that he and Miss Elizabeth were equal to if they were only undisturbed.
Take the current situation as an example.
The Netherfield party had been invited to a soiree hosted by yet another of Hertfordshire’s four-and-twenty families. Miss Bingley, thankfully, declined, stating that she had much better spend her time reading in the library. She sent Darcy a significant look as she said this, which quickly withered away any similar plans he might have been concocting. Pardon him if he thereafter neglected to inform Miss Bingley that he would, in fact, attend the soiree.
Thus, they arrived at the hosting house as a party of all men, Mrs. Hurst having remained behind with Miss Bingley due to an upset stomach. Mr. Hurst, on the other hand, would never turn down an invitation where food was involved. Bingley, as was his wont, was being his fantastically agreeable self. How he managed it, Darcy would never know, and was content to leave to his enthusiastic friend the pleasantries that so often left him exhausted. However, as soon as the Bennet sisters arrived — not that Darcy was waiting — all of Bingley’s attentions mysteriously localized themselves on the eldest Miss Bennet.
The defenses of Bingley’s society soon disappeared. Darcy was left to fend for himself.
“That Mr. Bingley!” crowed Mrs. Bennet, and Darcy braced himself for what was to follow. “Oh, what fortunes await my Jane! I always said she could not be so beautiful for nothing. Five thousand a year! I am all aflutter!”
“Mama,” said Miss Elizabeth exasperatedly, cutting off what probably would have otherwise been a very trying tirade. “That is all well and good, but nothing is so fortunate about this possible match as that Jane may have all the joys of shared affection.”
Darcy’s head snapped to Miss Elizabeth. Truly?
“Yes, yes, Jane shall be happy with Mr. Bingley. I say he is a most agreeable man, unlike some gentlemen we have had the misfortune of knowing. But five thousand a year! All the pin money! I know not how she should spend it!”
“On bonnets, of course!” declared the youngest and most audacious. “Why, if I had her money, I should buy a new dress a week! Always the prettiest fashions, with fine lace and daring cuts and—oh! We shall have balls, the grandest balls, large enough to invite all of England’s red coats!”
Miss Elizabeth rolled her eyes heavenward. Darcy found it terribly endearing.
There was a small shuffling beside him, and he became aware of a new presence. It was the silent one — Miss Mary.
Hmm. That could be borne.
The rest of the girls scattered, Miss Elizabeth to her friend Miss Lucas. Darcy was content to watch her from a distance.
That was, until another man approached her. Inexplicably, Darcy found himself growing irate.
Raising his chin, he considered the merits of that man. He was affable — not as much as Bingley, but tolerably so — passably handsome, if pockmarked and a touch on the heavy side. Not rich, certainly not, the cut of his clothes told him that. Moreover, if he was, that mercenary of a mother would have had them married by now.
Darcy shuddered. That could not be borne.
He watched them interact a while longer. She was friendly to him, but he failed to meet her quickness of conversation. Ha.
Then Elizabeth laughed, and as one, the triad’s gaze turned to him. Darcy’s curiosity shot to the sky.
Granted, he often got a great many looks at social events. That was not an oddity in itself. It was expected, even. But Hertfordshire was different. No one batted their eyelashes, or giggled when he looked their way, or pushed their daughters forward and scolded them to chin up, thrust their chest out, and stand straight.
Yes, yes, Darcy was only curious about the looks they were giving him because it was unusual in this setting. That was all.
Then again, he was comfortable by the wall, was he not? There was no reason to quit his solitary sphere. No need to put himself out there when he could watch from afar —
Her bright, playful eyes met his, and suddenly his feet were moving of their own accord, oh Lord, oh Lord.
“Mr. Darcy,” she greeted him, quirking a brow. Darcy’s heart jolted. “I see you have finally condescended to grace us with your presence.”
Hardly knowing what he said, he replied, “I found that watching by the wall left much to be desired.”
“I suppose it is more conducive to crafting judgment to be more intimate.”
“I find it hard to believe that that was Mr. Darcy’s design in attending,” Miss Lucas interrupted. “We may as well deduce that he is here for reasons most amiable.”
He cleared his throat. Had they discovered his motivations? “Indeed.”
“Pray, what should those reasons be?” said Miss Elizabeth. She was so saucy, so enchanting. He found himself leaning towards her.
No! He mastered himself, and cast around for a believable reason. “This was the path to the punch table.”
A minor silence ensued. Darcy congratulated himself for a successful deflection.
The man in the group coughed. “Shall I grab us refreshments?”
Not wanting to be outdone, Darcy declared, “I shall accompany you.”
And so he did, and the two men returned to the women with a cup in each hand. Darcy strode forward quickly to ensure that he would get there first. His drink would go to Miss Elizabeth.
She sipped at his offering.
It felt good.
Darcy spent the proceeding conversation quietly relishing his victory. Furthermore, he was taller than the other man. It wouldn’t do to let such an advantage go to waste.
But then Miss Elizabeth addressed the man by his Christian name, and Darcy felt his stomach plummet.
His angel. His Rachel. His sweet, sweet Jane.
They had been talking for who knew how long, the world passing them by. A lull came in their quiet conversation, and Charles Bingley found nothing better than her presence to appreciate.
Her light eyes looked about the room, a serene smile on her full, rosy lips. Slowly, the smile morphed into something else — but no less lovely — a slight purse.
“What is it, Miss Bennet?” Oh, how he longed to call her by her Christian name. Would her virtues never cease? When would he be granted the privilege?
“Mr. Darcy...” said Jane with the most beautiful tiny pucker on her brow, “pays a curious amount of attention to my sister, does he not?”
Bingley’s head whipped around. Darcy? That untouchable man? Surely France and England would give up arms before Darcy came out of his shell and —
His eyes finally landed his friend.
Bingley’s mouth fell into an “o”.
The most eligible bachelor to ever touch the neighbourhood was falling for Elizabeth, and Charlotte was there to bear witness.
Eliza, of course, would hear nothing of it. She insisted that Mr. Darcy looked at her only to find fault, but Charlotte knew that the reasoning was not sound. Had men so consistently and unwaveringly stared at women to find fault, then eyes would follow Charlotte’s plain face wherever she went.
Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, possessed an attitude so wholly absorbed with Eliza that he hardly acknowledged either Charlotte or her brother. It was most enlightening. Charlotte should laud him for his good taste. Eliza was indeed singular.
Her father glanced over at them, and after completing his courtesies to the local matrons, walked over and clapped her brother on the shoulder. “Why, John, I am delighted to see you make friends with Mr. Darcy!” To the estate master, he bowed. “Indeed, Mr. Darcy, you choose finely superior society.”
“Yes,” said the man, suddenly tense. “I am particular about my company.”
Her father either had not caught the mood or chosen to barrel over it. “Might have I the honour of introducing you to my son, Mr. John Lucas, and my daughter, Miss Lucas? That is, if Miss Eliza Bennet has not beaten me to it.”
Elizabeth blushed. “My apologies, I was most distracted.”
“It is of no consequence,” said Mr. Darcy immediately. Charlotte wondered if he realized on how many toes of social etiquette he was treading. Given the observations she has so recently made, Charlotte was inclined to forgive him for the offense.
Her father was more begrudging, but his ever cordial face betrayed nothing to one who did not live in his house. “I cannot help but wonder, Mr. Darcy, about the circles in which you normally engage?”
Mr. Darcy appeared to fidget. Charlotte inwardly sighed at her father’s assumption that everyone loved to dwell as he did on the social ladder of rank and distinction.
“When I am in the Ton,” said Mr. Darcy at last, “I am oft invited to dinners, balls, and similar engagements.”
“I assume it pleases you to honour them with your presence?” challenged Eliza.
“Not at all,” he said frankly. “I much prefer the company of a few choice acquaintances than to mingle in a large party.”
The confession was of no surprise to Charlotte, but an expression flitted across Eliza’s face too quickly to be deciphered. “I take it this party is not to your taste?” ventured John.
Mr. Darcy seemed to glare at Charlotte’s brother. “It is tolerable.”
The chagrined flash across Eliza’s face was easily deciphered then.
“Of course,” said Sir William, “A man so distinguished as yourself can have only the highest standards.”
At this, the said man’s gaze fixed steadily on Eliza. “I do not deny it.”
Oh dear, Mr. Darcy. Charlotte eyed her friend. You are in trouble.