a friend. Lizzy, intrigued by all she had heard, moved toward the refreshments table to observe Fitzwilliam Darcy more closely.
He proved an unrewarding subject, as he scarcely opened his lips for ten minutes at a stretch. He was a good-looking man, tall and well-built and looking remarkably fine in white tie and tails, but nothing to Jorge Carrillo in her estimation. Lizzy’s head was full of Jorge; his gallant manners, the flattering distinction of his singling her out, when it was apparent that he could easily claim the notice of any young lady in the room. As she was thus pleasantly engaged, she observed Charles Bingley accosting Darcy, and made no scruple about listening to their conversation.
“Darcy, why are you standing around like a statue? It’s called a dance for a reason: you’re supposed to dance.”
“Do you really expect me to make a spectacle of myself gyrating to this stuff, Charley? It sounds like a polka, for heaven’s sake. Besides, who would I dance with? Your sister already has a partner, and there is not another woman in the room who could tempt me out on the floor.”
“Oh, come on, Darcy, there are lots of promising girls here. What about one of those Bennets? They’re new in town, and very pretty. The elder one, Elizabeth, seems nice, too. She’s right over there; let me introduce you.”
“Who?” Darcy turned around and met Lizzy’s eye before she could turn away. He studied her for a moment and then turned back to Bingley. “You call that ‘very pretty’? Besides, I saw her earlier dancing with George Carrillo; if that’s the kind of company she prefers, she’s welcome to it. You’d better get back to it, Charley; you’re wasting your time with me.”
Lizzy was left to enjoy the just reward of eavesdropping, but told herself that the source of the slight robbed it of much of its sting. The exchange had confirmed her observations of the man, as well as Jorge’s description; and she moved away with no very cordial feelings about him. She told the story with great wit to her mother and John, however, and recovered her good humor in the enjoyment of the ridiculous.
Chapter Eight
The dance provided rich fodder for discussion in the Bennet household the next day, when all their new acquaintances and all they had heard and learned were thoroughly canvassed at lunch after church. The Bingleys and their friends were naturally the focus of Mrs. Bennet’s attentions, and more attention was paid to Charles Bingley and speculation over his presumed inclinations than was entirely comfortable for Mary, who held Old Testament views on the subject. Once she had left the room, however, the rest of the family was free to suppose whatever they wished.
“He did dance with a lot of girls,” allowed Mrs. Bennet, “but he always came back to stand by John.”
John, blushing a little, said he had found Bingley good-humored and able to talk sensibly about a variety of subjects.
Impatient with this evasion, Mrs. Bennet tried another tack. “What do you think, Lizzy? You danced with him: did you get the impression he was gay?”
Mr. Bennet rolled his eyes and said to his elder son, “You’ll live to be sorry you took your mother to those meetings—what was that group’s name?”
“PFLAG—Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays,” Lizzy answered for him. “Mama, we’re all glad you’re now so supportive of your son’s sexual orientation, but John can take care of himself in the romance department! And think how embarrassing it would be if you assumed Charles Bingley was gay and he turned out not to be. He didn’t give out any hints one way or the other when we were dancing.”
“Maybe he isn’t sure himself,” suggested John. “Sometimes people aren’t, you know, especially if they haven’t had the opportunity to be around a lot of other gay people. I imagine it might not be too comfortable to be out in a community like this. What do you say we just enjoy making friends with him?”
This was too much to ask of Mrs. Bennet, who had little interest in anyone on whom she could not pin romantic expectations. So she turned her attention to Lizzy, describing to her husband in immoderate terms Darcy’s rudeness. “What a proud, unpleasant man! Why did he even attend if all he was going to do was walk here, and walk there, thinking he was better than everybody and too good to dance with Lizzy? I don’t care if he is the richest bachelor in the neighborhood, I detest him. But at least she was admired by the Carrillo boy—and very handsome he is, too, and a lot nicer! It won’t be long before he’s calling here, I’m sure.”
As if to support her parental authority, the phone rang; but it proved to be Morris Collins. “I was concerned that since you’re new in town,” he told Lizzy, “you might have no one to wish you a happy Valentine’s Day.”
“That would be a great pity, wouldn’t it?” she replied, mindful that her family was listening.
“The honor of Lambtown must be upheld, and, as mayor, it is my honor to uphold it. It’s important that we pay heed to the demands of society and not neglect such occasions as this to pay the kinds of compliments as may be appealing to ladies.”
Lizzy made a noncommittal reply, reflecting inwardly that his explanation robbed the compliment of much of its value.
“Of course,” persisted Mr. Collins, “when the ladies in question are as charming as you—and all the females of your family, I need not add—one’s duty and one’s pleasure coincide. So—”
Alarmed at the direction in which his remarks seemed to be tending, Lizzy cut in. “I’m certain all of my family will be grateful to you for your kind thought, Mr. Collins,” she said. “I’ll be sure to pass your good wishes along to them. Good-bye now.”
Jorge waited the standard three days before calling, but call he did, and met with a warmer reception. His happy notion was that Lizzy, as a gardener, might like to see more of the native plants in the area, so he proposed a drive up into Los Padres National Forest the following Saturday. To this she agreed, reflecting that after a long week closeted with the carpenter, laying plans for the transformation of Aunt Evelyn’s house, a day spent out of doors would be exactly what she needed.
It proved to be one of those perfect winter days for which California is justly famous: the sun shone through just a hint of chill in a sky of deepest blue, against which the mountains to the east of the valley were sharply etched. It was too early in the year for most wildflowers and the oaks in the cattle pastures were still leafless, but the effects of the rainy season could be seen in a green haze spread over the rounded foothills. They drove through vineyards, bare at this time of year, and climbed gradually into more rugged, mountainous terrain. Perched high above the road in the cab of Jorge’s pickup, Lizzy felt that life held few greater pleasures.
As they reached the elevation where pines began to mingle with the oaks, the shrubbery was covered with clusters of white flowers like veils cast over the heads of the slopes, their scent heavy on the air. Jorge called this buckthorn and said there were blue varieties that came out later, when the California poppies were in bloom. When Lizzy remarked on the brilliant green stone formations along the way, Jorge beguiled her ear with tales of nineteenth-century plunderers of serpentine and cinnabar.
The road topped a high ridge and descended steeply into a canyon, where they stopped at a picnic table shaded by sycamores to eat lunch. As they ate, grosbeaks and warblers sang out melodious territorial admonitions around them, and a cold running stream gurgled past their feet. Lizzy was entranced by all the unfamiliar plants and birds, and no less so by her companion, who spoke knowledgeably about the natural and human history of the area, from the geology to the medicinal uses the
