“That is curious, Miss Elizabeth,” said he as Elizabeth was trying to think of some subject they could discuss without difficulty.
“What is that, Mr. Darcy?” asked Elizabeth, though given his gaze was fixed on her father and Mr. Hurst, she had a notion of what he meant.
“Hurst and your father,” said he, confirming her conjecture. “Hurst considers morning visits a bother and does no more than sit with a cup of tea and cakes. It seems something of a friendship has developed between them.”
“Yes, I dare say you are correct. Papa is also not social—I suspect that, and their similar characters have brought them together.”
Finally, Mr. Darcy turned to regard her. “Similar characters? I had not thought of it, but I would not have considered them to be at all alike.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Their interestsare, I suppose, not common, but the way they look at the world is not at all at odds. Papa laughs at the world, and Mr. Hurst ignores it. In a certain way, their oddities complement one another.”
Mr. Darcy appeared to consider this. “That is still curious, but not an unreasonable assumption. When I consider the autumn, I do not recall them speaking much to each other.”
“No, I do not recall it myself. After Mr. Hurst arrived, he attended Sir William’s Christmas party, and their mutual aversion for society drew them together. Then, knowing Mr. Hurst was alone at Netherfield, Papa invited him to join us for Christmas. Since then, they have been fast friends.”
“Your father is a bibliophile, is he not?” said Mr. Darcy, turning to regard her.
“The most determined I have ever met,” replied Elizabeth. “Papa is never happy unless he is holding a book in his hands.”
“While I have never seen Hurstholdinga book. Hurst loves hunting, food and drink, and cards, but has very little interest in anything else.”
“Yet,” replied Elizabeth, “in essentials, that is much like my father, for each is immersed in his own preferred pastimes, devoted to them, to tell the truth.”
Mr. Darcy nodded, conceding the point. “What of you, Miss Elizabeth?”
“You know me better than that, Mr. Darcy,” said Elizabeth with mock reproof. “Did I not confess that I have far too manyinterests to focus on one? As I recall, I gave that excuse when apologizing for my lack of ability on the pianoforte.”
“I have never found your performance lacking.”
Elizabeth eyed the gentleman, wondering if he was toying with her. “Then you have not paid attention, Mr. Darcy. Though I can play, I do not practice enough to be called proficient. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both have far more ability than I do.”
“Perhaps,” said the gentleman, considering. “However, there is much more to performing than technical proficiency.”
Uncertain what he meant, Elizabeth said: “How so?”
“It is the presentation of the music that draws the attention. Without a doubt, proficiency matters far more than any other factor, but it is not all.
“Take Miss Bingley, for example.” Mr. Darcy smiled. “You held her up as a proficient, but to own the truth, I do not find her performance pleasing, for she adds embellishment that rarely fits the mood of the piece she plays. Perhaps she has more technical proficiency than you, but I find your performance to be superior. The musicmeanssomething more to you than it means to Miss Bingley—she treats it as a way to display herself, not to provide enjoyment for her audience.”
It was impossible not to feel flattered by Mr. Darcy’s praise. “I only recall one occasion you heard me perform, Mr. Darcy.”
The gentleman’s smile grew wider. “Once was enough, Miss Elizabeth.”
How Elizabeth might have responded, she could not know—it was fortunate that an interruption arose in the form of her younger sisters, or she might have been forced to acknowledge the flutter in her chest. As the day was mild, they had said something of a visit to Meryton that morning, and while Mr. Bennet had listened, he had not commented. Now, it seemed the girls were determined to go.
“We shall return before tea, Mama,” Lydia told their mother. “Kitty and I want to know what has happened with Mr. Wickham.”
“Why we should care what happens to that odious man is beyond my comprehension,” said Mrs. Bennet with a sniff of disdain. “You girls would do well to remain strictly away from him as your father instructed.”
“We will not speakwithMr. Wickham,” protested Lydia. “But I am certain there is plenty of gossip about him. When we learn all, we shall return to Longbourn.”
“Sit down, Lydia,” said Mr. Bennet, a note of command he used infrequently, pulling his daughter’s attention at once. “You saw the officers only yesterday. Today, it is better that you stay home.”
“Papa!” exclaimed Lydia as if the notion of staying home were foreign to her understanding.
Mr. Bennet raised a hand, forestalling any further protest. “Lydia, you will obey and stay home today. The officers will still be there, even if you are separated from them for a week.”
As their father instructed them but little, Lydia did not know how to take it, and this allowed Mr. Bennet to speak again. “Given what we learned of Wickham and our discussions yesterday, I am wondering if we should rethink our interest in the officers. Your behavior while with them treads the line of what is proper.”
