Not only had Mr. Gardiner remained for the rest of the afternoon but the trout had been most cooperative as well, exhibiting sufficient cunning to offer a challenge yet being sensible enough to yield themselves to the inevitable at the appropriate moment in the game. Only a punishing gallop atop Nelson over rough ground could possibly have diverted Darcy better from the wonderful fact that Elizabeth’s company and companionship had that day been his. To see her at Pemberley, in his home and in those rooms in which he had long imagined her, was more than he ever had had reason to hope for after Hunsford. It was a thing to be dwelt upon, which he did, alternating between such pleasure and doubt that Georgiana had been forced to clear her throat several times through dinner in order to recall him to his surroundings and guests.
“As I was saying,” Bingley began again after one such lapse, “the attraction of angling continues to elude me, Darcy.”
“As did the trout, damn them,” Hurst interrupted.
“Well, you would roar and stamp about. Frightened them so they were only too happy to have Darcy or Gardiner catch ’em.” Bingley turned back to his friend. “As much as I should like to accommodate Mr. Gardiner, I hope our next visit to your river will be no more demanding than a picnic.”
“A picnic!” broke in Mrs. Hurst. “Oh, Caroline!” She leaned toward her sister. “Would not a picnic be just the thing?”
Miss Bingley lifted a quelling eyebrow in response. “Perhaps,” she said slowly and then bid for Darcy’s attention. “If that is agreeable, sir, allow me, I beg you, to spare Miss Darcy the arranging of it?”
He inclined his head in permission but offered her not even the encouragement of a smile. He had suffered Caroline Bingley for Charles’s sake, but her jealousy and ill-bred disparagement of Elizabeth had now rendered her presence utterly distasteful to him. Let her be kept busy with ordering his servants about if that would amuse her. The experience would be short-lived, and his people would survive it with reasonably good humor once he had given Reynolds the word.
“Tomorrow, then.” She pounced upon his acquiescence. “We shall breakfast at the river alfresco! What will be the number? We expect no one in the morning, I trust?”
“No, no one, Miss Bingley,” he affirmed, his irritation rising with both the woman and her transparent implication.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet, her aunt and uncle will be with us tomorrow evening,” Georgiana reminded her gently. “I do hope we may prevail upon her to play and sing for us. You have heard her before, have you not, Miss Bingley?”
“Yes,” Miss Bingley responded in a clipped tone, but when Georgiana drew away from her, a slight frown creasing her young brow, she stumbled on. “Yes, I have; we all did…at…oh, that man’s. What was his name?”
“Sir William Lucas, a most congenial gentleman.” Bingley reproved her with a frown deeper than Georgiana’s. “As I remember, she played and sang beautifully, and was universally importuned for another. It will be an uncommon pleasure, Miss Darcy, if you are able to persuade her to perform. Do so, I beg you.”
Darcy did smile at that. Bingley’s confidence and willingness to assert himself had increased steadily since that day in Darcy’s London study. His friend certainly moved with more assuredness among his contemporaries, but it was in his own family that Darcy particularly appreciated Charles’s new self-confidence. If he could school his sister in some discretion, she might continue to be received in his house after this visit. The issue that occupied him to the exclusion of his present guests, though, was not Miss Bingley’s future visits to Pemberley but, rather, whether such might be hoped for by Elizabeth Bennet.
Had she been pleased with his home? She had affirmed so upon their first encounter, but had her opinion been no more than that of any visitor on holiday? Now that she had been a guest, what did she think? He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, annoyed with himself. Yes, he wished her to think well of Pemberley, but what truly lay at the bottom of his speculation was whether she as yet thought well of Pemberley’s master. His anxiety to know if he had progressed in her estimation was consuming every thought that was not strictly needed to maintain an appearance of attention to his guests. They swung from hope to doubt and back again with alarming swiftness. Her quick-witted response to Miss Bingley’s implication joined with her silent collusion in Georgiana’s protection were encouraging, as was her willing acceptance of his assistance into the carriage and her soft smile of farewell. Could he credit these incidents with any substance, or were they merely general politeness?
“Ahem.” Startled, Darcy looked over at his sister as Georgiana cleared her throat yet again. Her lips pursed in a bow of rueful amusement.
“Brother.” She prodded him with a gesture to the door. “Shall you and the other gentlemen want your brandy now?”
The mystery of Elizabeth’s regard for him plagued Darcy for the remainder of the evening and followed him to his chambers after wishing Bingley and Hurst bonne chance over the billiard table. Tomorrow evening she would be here…possibly for the last time. The thought chilled him as he reached for the bell pull. Her aunt and uncle might have been done with Lambton and, desirous of continuing on in their holiday plans, might whisk her off the following day to the next great estate or praised natural view. A great, painful No! arose in his chest. She must not! She must not disappear, perhaps forever this time, before he could make some substantial determination of where he stood in her esteem! But how? How was it to be done? He turned slowly toward his dressing room.
“Mr. Darcy, sir.” Darcy started in surprise at Fletcher’s voice.
“Good Heavens, man! I only just summoned you!” Darcy said sharply. Then, realizing his valet must already have been there, he added, “Make a bit of noise if you are about, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” The man bowed and approached him. “May I assist you, sir?” Nodding, Darcy unbuttoned his coat as he turned his back. Fletcher’s sure fingers carefully stripped him of the garment. “Your fobs and watch, sir.”
“What?” Darcy demanded and then looked down at his waistcoat. “Oh, yes, of course.” He pulled the items from their pockets and laid them on the table. What he needed was time, more time, and time that would not be interrupted or curtailed by others. Time, he mused, staring down at his watch while Fletcher removed his waistcoat, a commodity that, regrettably, was not in his power to command or create.
“Is there aught amiss with your pocket watch, sir?” Fletcher scooped up the mechanism and peered at its face before pulling out his own and comparing the time.
“No, Fletcher. I was woolgathering, musing over the inflexible independence of Time.” He let out a short sigh and began unbuttoning his shirt while the valet worked at the knot of his cravat.
“ ‘Inflexible independence,’ sir?” Fletcher pulled at the neckcloth and then tossed it onto a chair.
“Yes.” Darcy bent and removed his shoes. “Men invariably need more or less of it but cannot command it to be still or bid it go faster. Time proceeds as it will and will not be bridged or created.”