It was not, Darcy thought, even her best work. There had been a time when Miss Bingley’s malice carried a polish, an economy he had been obliged, however unwillingly, to respect.This was blunter, the sort of thing one said when one could no longer bear to think it without saying it aloud.
Miss Elizabeth began to rise.
That decided him.
“No,” said Darcy, sharper than he intended. Everyone stilled, and there was only the sound of the rain striking the stone outside.
He corrected himself at once. “Miss Elinor shall have more room, certainly. Richard, move nearer the arch. Bingley, move closer to my cousin. Miss Bennet need not be put into the weather.”
There was nothing improper in it. And yet he had said it too quickly, with too much force.
Any host might have done as much. A gentleman ought to object to a lady being moved nearer the rain when another arrangement could be made. There was nothing in the thing itself that required explanation.
It was the manner of it that troubled him—the sharpness of his first refusal, the haste with which he had spoken, the fact that Miss Elizabeth had scarcely begun to rise before he had stopped her. He had not considered what might be most convenient for them all. He had seen only that she was being put forward, exposed to Miss Bingley’s malice and the weather, and he had answered without further thought.
Rather like when he had begun to run before he knew the subject of her alarm.
It was still no more than courtesy, he told himself, and really, he almost believed it.
“I find a good storm most instructive,” said Richard, breaking into the silence. “Do you not, Bingley? There is a great deal to be learned from one. The behaviour of barometers. The conduct of cattle in a field.” He gazed steadily at MissBingley. “The military principle that, when quartered too closely, even civilians are apt to cast off the restraints of civilised behaviour.”
“Then we had better preserve them from temptation,” said Bingley.
“A noble object,” said Richard. “Though I warn you, Bingley, civilisation is a delicate thing in close quarters. It depends upon dry feet, sufficient elbow room, and the ability to leave the field when one has said too much. We are at present deprived of all three.”
Bingley, to his credit, understood enough to help Richard continue. “Then we must make do with elbow room,” he said, though there was precious little of that to be had either.
While they spoke, Miss Pelham bent her head to murmur to her sister, and Mrs. Hurst kept her eyes on the water creeping over the floor. Bingley and Richard carried the conversation between them. Elizabeth had not stirred from the bench, nor Darcy from the arch, and pressed as they all were, neither could have gone a step further from the other had they wished it. But no one was looking at them now. In a folly so small, with the storm at the door, it was the nearest thing to privacy the place could offer.
For a moment he said nothing. The rain came hard through the arch beside him, and the stone at his feet shone black with it.
Then she spoke, very low.
“I hope Miss Elinor is not hurt.”
“No,” said Darcy, keeping his voice equally low. “Frightened only, I believe.”
“She wasveryfrightened.”
Miss Elizabeth’s hands tightened once in the folds of her skirt. They were still gloved, but the gloves were wet through. Adrop of rain had caught at the edge of her bonnet and trembled there, refusing to fall.
“You came very quickly,” she said.
He looked out at the rain rather than at her. “Not quickly enough.”
“That is not true. You said you were heading to the stables, and I presume you reached them before heading back.”
“Nearly. The storm gathered suddenly. It does happen from time to time, but I usually have more warning.”
“You came very quickly,” she repeated.
The words were quiet, but they struck him more sharply than more voluble praise would have done. She did not say them as flattery. She truly meant them.
Darcy had no ready answer.
Across the chamber, Richard was now explaining, with great solemnity, the military importance of dry feet, and Bingley was assisting him by asking questions that were not nearly so foolish as they sounded. It was one of the things Darcy liked best in his friend. Bingley could look young, careless, even a little lost, and all the while be doing precisely what kindness and good sense required.
Miss Bingley was not listening. Darcy could feel her attention moving about like a draught, searching for a way in.