Page 6 of A Question of Character

Elizabeth curtsied. “Mr. Darcy.”

“Miss Bennet.”

It was the first time she had heard his name, and she could not suppress a small measure of surprise that the gentleman with whom she had been conversing so easily possessed an estate even her uncle had spoken of with admiration.

Mr. Darcy accompanied them to Gunter’s afterwards for ices. Elizabeth fell into easy conversation with him, soon learning from offhanded comments that he was the owner of a vast estate in the north. He carried himself with dignity but did not appear to look down on those others would deem beneath him. When it came time to depart, he asked Aunt Madaline if he could send round an invitation to dine.

Aunt Madaline agreed.

“Very good. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Bennet. Mr. Gardiner, Mrs. Gardiner.” He bowed to each in turn and bid them farewell.

When he was gone, Mr. Gardiner grinned. “Well, that was unexpected. It has been many months since we last saw Mr. Darcy.”

“Indeed,” Elizabeth’s aunt replied. “Why, he came into the warehouse in December in search of a gift for his sister.”

“He does not seem like most of the ton,” Elizabeth mused. “I would have expected such a man to think meanly of those in trade.”

Her aunt laughed. “Mr. Darcy is adept at applying his society mask when necessary. He has always maintained that a man’s character is more important than the contents of his bank account. Why, we have met many a poorly behaved aristocrat, have we not, Mr. Gardiner?”

Her husband nodded. “Indeed, it is so. I am pleased to say, Mr. Darcy is not at all of that sort.”

Elizabeth listened to her aunt and uncle trade stories of the gentleman as they boarded the carriage and returned to Gracechurch Street. Their reports of the man spoke well of him, and she could not wait to know him better.

two

A Fortunate Acquaintance

Darcy had not intended to think of Miss Elizabeth Bennet before breakfast.

The determination lasted until his valet laid out his coat.

“Will you wear the dark blue today, sir?”

Darcy, who had been standing near the window with a newspaper held open and unread in his hands, gave the coat a brief inspection and said, “Yes. That will do.”

Barton paused, his hand already extended toward the garment. “You wore the blue yesterday, sir.”

“Then the brown.”

“The brown is suitable for morning calls.”

“I do not make morning calls today.”

Barton’s brows did not rise. Years of service had rendered him nearly immune to surprise, or at least to the display of it. “Very good, sir.”

Darcy folded the newspaper with more care than the news deserved and set it aside. He had read three lines regarding Parliament, four concerning the price of wheat, and half a paragraph on a ship recently arrived from Jamaica before discovering that his thoughts had slipped, most improperly, to a painting recently seen at an exhibition, a weathered oak, and a young woman who had defended unfashionable subjects with all the confidence of a general reviewing troops.

Miss Bennet.

Elizabeth Bennet, niece to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner of Gracechurch Street.

That last circumstance remained a source of unreasonable satisfaction. Had she been a stranger met once in a public room, he would have had no proper means of pursuing the acquaintance. Had she belonged to one of the families his aunt preferred, he would already be enduring inquiries, hints, expectations, and the dreadful industry of relations who thought themselves subtle. Instead, Miss Bennet was connected to people he already knew and esteemed. Mr. Gardiner had always been a sensible, well-informed man, pleasant without presumption, and Mrs. Gardiner possessed manners that would have done credit to any drawing room in England.

It was a fortunate connection. Exceedingly fortunate. Too fortunate, perhaps, to be examined before coffee.

Darcy dressed and went down to breakfast, where Georgiana sat with a piece of toast cooling untouched upon her plate and a book open beside her teacup. She was reading, or pretending to read, with the fixed diligence of a girl who wished not to be asked what occupied her mind.

“Good morning,” he said.