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Posted on Friday, 25 January 2008
Never before had a week passed in such a flourish of pleasure and uncertainty. Elizabeth left the parsonage early each morning, before the Collinses were awake, and walked out to the hedgerow where Darcy was usually waiting by the gnarled oak. He would smile, bid her good morning, and offer her his arm, and the two would walk wherever their steps happened to take them; across the meadow, down the lane, in the wood, or to the pond so quietly sheltered by trees.
They talked of anything and everything: the conversation of people wishing to learn about each other. Nothing was too insignificant or commonplace to be overlooked; tastes and preferences, opinions, and ideas were all discussed and catalogued with that eager interest particular to new lovers. Elizabeth wished to know everything about his past – what had made him who he was – while Darcy sought in her to discover that which, in her character and disposition, might portend happily for the future that was constantly in his thoughts.
Their mutual ease grew, and both found in the other something perhaps more rare and remarkable than a sweetheart: a friend. Gone was the fear of not measuring up to the other’s ideals, the concern that one might think badly of the other’s actions, however benignly meant. The more they learned, the more they could love.
It is remarkable, I believe, that the state of emotion and spirituality called ‘love’ can unfold to reveal, like the purest cut diamond, many different facets – and that each, when turned into the light, have their own singular purpose toward making the whole a thing of incomparable beauty. The first flush of infatuation, new understanding, tenderness, affection, romance, loyalty, fidelity, forgiveness, passion....all these are a part of love; and those who have not experienced them all have not known some of love’s greatest joys.
And so did Elizabeth and Darcy while away their mornings, parting always before breakfast and regretfully turning in opposite directions at the gate: one back to the dubious pleasure of her cousin’s company, one back to empty halls and a cold reception by his aunt. Many times, Darcy tarried at the gate to watch Elizabeth until she disappeared beyond the knoll, consequently arriving late at the table and incurring his aunt’s displeasure. Lady Catherine’s ill-wishes gave him no anxiety, but he might perhaps have been more cautious had he realized that his tardiness was also raising all her suspicions.
The mistress of Rosings Park had even further cause for vexation: Colonel Fitzwilliam had taken to joining Darcy on his frequent visits at the parsonage; he enjoyed the freedom out of the estate grounds, and took great delight in flirting with Maria, occasionally Mrs. Collins herself (when Mr. Collins was out) and, to his cousin’s consternation, Elizabeth. (It may be supposed, however, that the colonel, who had taken note of Darcy’s odd behavior, and recalled that ‘Miss Bennet’ had been the writer of the letters Georgiana had received in London, chose Elizabeth as a candidate for his gallantry to bedevil his cousin into a confession of affection for the lady. Such a supposition would not be anything extraordinary, and I daresay rather accurate indeed.)
The gentlemen found that, since Mr. Collins was often from the house on errands for Lady Catherine, the parsonage was a vastly pleasant place to spend an afternoon, and soon the household came to expect them every day or two. Maria was quite ecstatic with their attendance, and since Charlotte seemed to harbor no resentment at the interruption of her daily household routines, Elizabeth could fully enjoy Darcy’s company at Hunsford; and though they had not the freedom of speech and expression available on their walks, there was a comfortable rapport formed between all five participants in these impromptu gatherings.
Occasionally the party would divide for various pursuits, and once or twice Elizabeth and Darcy found themselves alone in the parlor while the colonel and Maria strolled in the garden and Charlotte took care of some business that required her attention. The door was always left wide open – Charlotte was most attentive to the proprieties – but the two could talk with greater ease, with no fear of being heard or questioned.
Once Elizabeth was even cajoled into playing the instrument in Charlotte’s upper parlor. Mr. Collins had purchased it on recommendation from Lady Catherine, who professed to be very fond of the pianoforte and an expert in all things musical. The poor instrument, however, was not put to much use, for Mr. Collins could not play, and Charlotte had not the time for it; since it sat neglected, Colonel Fitzwilliam insisted that it ought to be played at least once, to make it worth its price.
Maria had no ear for music, so Elizabeth, although scarcely any more familiar with the instrument than her friend, made due with what little instruction she had received as a girl. Sometimes, when watching the effortless ease with which others played, she wished she might have attended to her lessons instead of daydreaming or scribbling on the sheet music; but it could not be helped.
Upon the request of her listeners, she sat down directly to the instrument. Darcy drew a chair near her, while the colonel and Maria occupied the nearest sofa. Elizabeth’s fingers stumbled over the keys, but as she trudged through the song, the movements became easier, less forced, and she found some genuine pleasure in the way the notes drifted from her hands. She became easy enough to move her eyes from the keys, and she looked up to see Darcy watching her attentively, with a single-minded intensity that could not but raise a blush from her. He could not listen to the melody she coaxed from the instrument, but he could see her, and that was enough to keep him well contented.
When the song came to an admittedly discordant end, the small audience clapped politely, and Elizabeth heard a great deal of praise to her talents, all of which she knew were patently false.
“Come, come, Colonel,” she said, after the gentleman had just finished comparing her to Georgiana. “You do not fool me; I saw how you winced at the last.”
He looked sheepish, and could offer no reply but a grin. She turned to Darcy, who had been observing the conversation with interest. “You have been spared the burden of a very mediocre performance, Mr. Darcy.”
“Oh, no, you were quite g-good.”
She blinked, and collecting herself, leaned forward curiously. “Can you hear it at all?”
“Not really, n-no.” He laid a hand on the pianoforte. “Sometimes, at P-Pemberley in the music r-room, I can h-hear some of the l-lower register; the vibrations are very strong th-there.”
“Then you cannot know whether I was good or not.”
He sketched a gallant little bow. “I am sure, Miss B-Bennet, th-that anyone who has had the p-privilege of hearing you c-can confirm what I c-can only sup-pose and state as fact.”
“Do you mean to flatter me, Mr. Darcy, by announcing in all this state that my talents are more than they are? Perhaps your intent is quite opposite, and you mean to have me admit that I am not so very skilled, as any modest young lady ought to say when faced with such praise. But I will not be alarmed by your mischief, though your sister does play so well and you therefore know what a true musician is. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”
He laughed at her teasing simper. “I shall not say th-that you are mist-taken,” he replied, “b-b-because you could not really b-believe me t-to entertain any d-design of alarming you; and I have had the p-pleasure of your acquaintance long enough t-to know th-that you find great enjoyment in occasionally p-professing op-pinions which in fact are not your own.”
Elizabeth was amused at this picture of herself, and said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire – and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too – for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out, as will shock your relations to hear.”
“I am not afraid of you,” said he, smilingly.
“I would be, and so would you, if you were wise,” the colonel said dryly. “An advantage like that can make a lady a most formidable creature – unless of course you wish to have embarrassing tales spread about you at every tea-table in England.”
“I fear Mr. Darcy has the true advantage,” Elizabeth replied, “for I find that every time we meet, he always manages to find me in the worst possible situation. Do you know how your cousin and I first met, Colonel?”
“No, but I suspect it is worth hearing.”
“You shall hear then – but prepare yourself for something very dreadful.” Elizabeth gave him a lively rendition, sparing no details about the runaway bonnet and her climb through the bramble bush. “Your cousin was kind enough to return my hat to me, but by that time I was too mortified to be grateful. The look of silent reproof he gave me was equal to anything a governess or school master could have produced.”
“It is not m-my fault if you h-happen to h-have a habit of f-falling into or c-crawling under every shrub or tree you see, Miss B-Bennet,” he said mildly, one corner of his mouth curling into a puckish smile.
“No, indeed – but such a smile as you have now might have made me more inclined to forgive you for trampling unintentionally over my dignity.”
“I had not at th-that t-time the honor of knowing you.”
“True, and nobody can ever be introduced in such a state; my sister Mary reproved me for talking with you before I had secured an introduction, though there was no one else there to perform it. I did suspect who you were – you and Miss Darcy are most alike in countenance and coloring.” She shot him a saucy look. “I might have liked you better at first if I had known you were related to her.”
“P-Perhaps,” said Darcy, “I should have judged b-better and d-dragged B-Bingley out of d-doors to make the introduction; b-but I am ill qualified t-to recommend myself t-t-to strangers, p-particularly ones with their skirts six inches d-deep in mud.”
“I am sure it could not have been six inches – and besides, most of it was on my knees.”
An entreaty from Maria that she might play again put an end to this conversation, and Elizabeth turned her attention back to the pianoforte, while Darcy turned his attention happily back onto her.
These were idyllic days, which would be looked back upon with fondness in future times when everything seemed as though it were careening out of control – but it served its purpose. Elizabeth would learn to remember the past only as it gave her pleasure.
“Darcy!”
A tap on the shoulder, courtesy of Colonel Fitzwilliam, alerted Darcy to the fact that Lady Catherine was calling him. He turned to find his aunt in the threshold of the parlor door, scowling up at him and tapping one slippered foot in a wordless and universal expression of impatience.
“You g-go on,” he said quietly to the colonel before trooping back down the stairs to where she awaited him. She gave him a quick glance, and, apparently finding his appearance presentable enough, she gestured for him to follow her into the room.
Sitting in the large wing-backed chair, she dipped her chin to indicate that he could also take his seat, looking for all the world like some ambitious queen dictating to her court. He sat, not terribly eager for whatever she meant to tell him – Lady Catherine was never the bearer of good news.
“Is th-there something you n-need?” he inquired, inwardly sighing as she predictably drew back from the timbre of his voice. He was tempted to finger-spell instead, out of spite, but he knew she hated that almost as much as his speech; she thought gesturing terribly vulgar and heathenish besides.
She straightened, her heavily be-ringed hands clenched over the armrests; her gaze was steady and piercing, and he met it unflinchingly. “I have heard,” she said slowly, “that you have been reckless; you have wandered too close to the village.”
“H-how so? I t-took care t-to stay within the g-grounds...”
“Someone saw you,” she snapped. “A farmer. Mr. Collins came to me with the news only yesterday; his wife’s maidservant heard the report from the man himself. If you are not more careful, everyone will know.”
“Know wh-what? Th-that your own nephews are visiting you? I c-can think of more s-scandalous things t-to stir up sp-peculations, madam.”
“You know perfectly well what I mean,” she said coldly.
He made as if to rise. “If th-that is all you h-have to say t-to me, then I m-might as well return upstairs.”
“Not so hasty – I know you and Fitzwilliam have been going to the parsonage nearly every day, and unseemly as that is, you must realize that your exposure to the servants there will only spell more danger of discovery.”
Darcy resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Aunt, m-most p-people already know of m-me; I have b-been coming here for nearly t-ten years. By now, th-there is no secret in it. You must know th-that.”
The truth of his statement irritated her. “I know no such thing. Now will you not cooperate at least? I ask that you try to moderate yourself, and keep out of sight and away from the main roads. I am determined that my business here will not be bandied about Kent.”
“I p-promise you it w-will not.”
She snorted. “That gives me no comfort.”
He looked at her for a long moment, truly affronted. Lady Catherine might have spoken ill of his deafness, of his speech, of his intelligence and competence...but never had she called his honor or his word into question before. “A p-pity. If you w-will excuse me.”
Without waiting for her dismissal, he rose from his seat and walked from the room; one glance over his shoulder confirmed that she was in a fit of incredulous anger at being ignored, and he was, not for the first time, grateful that he could not hear her.
On Thursday, a fortnight and a week after her arrival in Kent, Elizabeth rose even earlier than was her wont; dressing quickly, she slipped down the back stairs and out the kitchen door, moving down the lawn toward the knoll. Since the sun was not yet even up, she was not certain that Darcy would be at their tree, but sleep had evaded her all night, so she imagined that there was no harm in walking about for awhile until he arrived.
Disquieting dreams had disturbed her rest, and she found herself privately grateful for the opportunity to have a few minutes left to herself. Her temper was not what it ought to be, and she very much feared that she might let slip to him some of the discontent she was feeling. She could not name its source; she only knew it for what it was, and hoped fervently that it would soon pass away.
Rays of light were just beginning to spread across the grass when Elizabeth heard footfalls on the road. Perching up on the stile, she watched Darcy walk down the lane, his cloak billowing out behind him with the strong, chill wind. He appeared as lost in thought as she, for he did not even look up at her until they were a mere foot or two apart. He was pale, and she automatically looked at his hands, but they were not bandaged or swollen. Helping her off the post, he followed her down along the hedgerow toward the pond.
“Are you well?”
He had expected the question and was quick to answer. “I am quite w-well, th-thank you. I d-did not sleep much, ‘tis all. And you? You look p-peaked.”
She shook her head, not wishing to go into specifics. Not until they had gained the log seat by the pond did she speak again. “Have you...have you thought about what will happen?”
“H-Happen?”
“After we leave – we cannot both stay here until the end of time, you know.” She smiled. “We would not be comfortable forever imposing upon relations of ours...and those relations often do not make for the most wonderful hosts besides. I merely wondered where you are to go from here. I know where I must go.”
Something in his expression told her that he had been considering the same thing – and something else told her that those considerations had not been satisfactory. “I...My p-plans are not f-fixed at p-present; I t-told Georgiana I w-would return to T-Town again to fetch her.”
London! Elizabeth did not wait to hear what he said next. A cold sensation of dread swept through her. Hurt, resentment, frustration that she had long thought buried and gone came rushing back – all the loneliness of that winter, when she had believed he might never return to her, the endless days she had had to endure uncertainty and humiliation at the hands of her well-meaning friends who had thought only to comfort her but had increased her sense of loss; days in which she had questioned herself and her heart as she believed her affection was not reciprocated....all this she had been harboring inside her – and he dared to speak of his leaving with such indifferent concern? How dare he? How dare he sport with her feelings?
Quite unaware of the rising outrage welling in the woman next to him, Darcy was attempting to think of some discreet way to inquire whether she wanted him back at Netherfield – a word, a look, would determine whether he returned to Hertfordshire or never. The delicacy of the venture was extreme, and he was unsure of how to bring the subject about. It would take a leading comment of careful construction and subtle wording, meant to draw her into a confidence without invoking suspicion. He settled for the inane instead. “You w-will g-go back home soon, I sup-pose.”
Elizabeth glared at him, but managed to speak civilly enough. “I suppose so. I should almost rather go to London and stay with my aunt and uncle – perhaps I ought to ask my uncle to send for me here. I cannot bear the thought of spending another long season in Hertfordshire.” Alone was unspoken but fully implied – and the implication went right over his head.
Darcy smiled faintly. “Not g-go t-t-to Longbourn? Running t-to London without s-sending word d-does not much s-sound l-like s-something you would ever d-do.”
“No,” she said sharply. “That is something you would do.”
He drew back, wide-eyed at the anger which burnt deep color along her pale cheekbones; he may not have heard the words, but he could certainly feel the ire in them.
She was not finished either. A wellspring of bottled fury and insulted dignity gave her courage, and she boldly poked a finger in his chest, gaining some satisfaction at his look of stupefaction as he hastily stepped back. “No, you never did think about me, did you? Not all those months that I waited for you in Hertfordshire did you manage to summon up the bravery to tell me how things stood between us; I was left to wait and languish in uncertainty while you were off....” She struggled to think of an appropriately forceful word, “....gallivanting in London. I know your cousin was unwell, and I honor you for going to him when you were needed – but why did you go to Pemberley?”
He opened his mouth, and she jabbed him again. “Don’t you dare tell me that business kept you there! If you even hint at it, I swear I will do something dreadful!” Her voice rose. “I could have forgiven you anything but this. Had you definitively severed all ties between us, had you told me frankly of your disinterest or disinclinations, I might have been able to forget and move on. But no! – You let me worry and fret and question myself for four months – four! – and when we finally do meet again, you offer me no explanation, no apology, not even a mention of our time apart! I thought I could forget the affront, overlook it at least, and let things go along as they are now, but you will not let me, will you? You speak of going to London, of leaving me behind again. Of course you have the freedom over your movements, but I must wait at home until you see fit to grace us all with your presence again!” She stopped to take a deep breath; and suddenly she could speak no more. Her eyes lifted to his, her bosom still heaving, cheeks flushed with agitation.
He was staring back at her, lips parted in shock, face as white as his cravat – and the round-eyed amazement on his countenance, mixed with the tense set of his muscles, as though he expected her every moment to hurtle herself at him, might have given her some amusement had she not been so aggravated.
The silence that necessarily stretches out in the lull after so many fierce and passionate words are said was exceedingly awkward. Gradually Darcy seemed to recollect himself, and though he was still colorless, his eyes were shuttered, hiding whatever he was feeling away from her. When he spoke, his voice was cool and impersonal, as though he were discussing some tedious matter of business. “You s-seem t-to make accusations with ease, Miss B-Bennet, but you s-seem equally reluctant t-to allow others to d-defend themselves.”
His emotional withdrawal was more than she could bear, and she turned her head away. “Perhaps I had better go back to the parsonage, sir.”
Darcy held out his arm without a word, and the two of them walked quickly back down the lane, tension thick between them – both were upset and anxious about their quarrel, but neither knew exactly how to begin to mend things again. As soon as they reached the gate, he walked away, straight-backed and proud. A fresh spurt of irritation assailed her, and she rushed down the hill and into the house, slamming the door violently behind her.
The noise summoned Mr. Collins from his study, where he had been laboring over his latest sermon, attempting to work in a few well-chosen compliments to Her Ladyship; it was not so easy when the subject of the speech was the crucifixion, and he spoke sternly to the interrupter of his solitude. “Cousin Elizabeth, you missed breakfast again – and kindly stop racketing about the house. I have work to do, and Lady Catherine will be most displeased should I be remiss in my duty to the parish.”
A sudden weakness stole over Elizabeth in a delayed reaction to the vehemence of the quarrel and the shock of having spoken such bitter words; and, shaking and desperate for any scrap of comfort, she threw herself at the parson, buried her face in his coat, and burst into angry tears.
A strong desire for solitude drove Darcy back to Rosings. He could not stay outside: the cheerful morning seemed to mock his conflicted feelings. At least at the house he was assured of being left to himself.
Still reeling, he somehow managed to make it in the doors and up the staircase, his one urgent wish to reach the safety and silence of his chambers. Colonel Fitzwilliam was at the top of the stairs, dressed for riding; he hailed his cousin with a grin and a wave of his crop. “Shall we ride by the parsonage again?” he called, the volume of his voice in the cavernous hall earning him a disapproving look from the butler. “I’ve a mind to escort Miss Maria around the park, if you should like a little time alone with...”
Darcy cut him off. “No, th-thank you. I b-believe I will retire now.”
The colonel’s broad smile melted away. “Darcy, you are unwell?”
Slipping past him, Darcy moved up to the landing, desperate to be alone. “No, I am quite w-well – I have b-busi—” Elizabeth’s reproof rang in his head, and he shook it warily. “F-Forgive me, R-Richard. Give my respects to Mrs. C-Collins.” With that, he hastened around the corner, leaving his cousin staring after him in confusion.
Once he had gained his rooms, he was able to sit and calm himself; and his first sensations of hurt and surprise – mingled with some resentment at Elizabeth’s perversity – soon gave way to more ordered, but not remotely tranquil, thoughts.
In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, he tried to distract himself with a letter to Georgiana; but it would not do. In half a minute the scene by the pond was replayed, and collecting himself as well as he could, he again began the mortifying contemplation of all that had passed between them, the meaning of every resentful word Elizabeth had spoken.
At first he thought of her sharpness and unwillingness to listen to him with vexation; she had hardly been able to summon up the graciousness to hear his explanations – even though, he admitted, he had scarcely known what explanation to offer her even if he had been granted the opportunity to present one.
The next moment, however, the remembrance of the account of her lonely months in Hertfordshire brought forth from him the strongest pangs of regret – he drew away from the very thought of her suffering because of his actions; if she had felt even a fraction of the desolation that he had, her pain must have been considerable indeed.
He had wanted to come back to her. Oh, many times – more than he could count – he had very nearly abandoned his principles and rushed heedlessly back to Hertfordshire. Never in his life had he longed for a woman so badly – not just for her charms of face and figure, but for her mind, for her wit and understanding, her compassion and kindness. For years, he had been resigned to living his life unmarried and alone, but as he grew older, his desire for a companion and lover in the form of a wife had grown as well. When he looked at Elizabeth, he saw a wife and a friend, a mother of his children....and it was so beautiful and unattainable a dream that it left him in turn both full of joy and unbearably, bitterly dejected.
His departure to London had been unplanned, and he had gone reluctantly – but once he was away from Hertfordshire, from Elizabeth’s company, he began to see the danger in returning. The extent to which he had missed her even then had warned him that his heart was already being touched – that Elizabeth, through no effort of her own, had worked her way quietly and steadily into him, until she seemed as much a part of his life as his sister and cousins.
When the time finally came to leave Town, he had debated with himself for days over where to go, and at length he had decided on Pemberley. He craved the serenity and peace of mind that the estate had always offered him before, and there were matters which needed his personal attention. Georgiana had not argued or attempted to persuade him otherwise; but once or twice he had caught her looking at him with something like gentle pity, as though she understood the torment of his thoughts.
The months had passed, and his despair only deepened. He could not forget her, no matter what he did. He could fill his days with as many activities as possible to distract himself, but nights were invariably long and lonely. Whenever he was tempted to remove to Netherfield, he would remind himself that to do so would only prolong his misery, for he might again see Elizabeth, and speak to her, but he could not court her.
Marriage was unthinkable. Any father, particularly one so attached to his daughter as Mr. Bennet was to Elizabeth, would be mad to consider an offer coming from him. Even if Elizabeth was amenable to the idea – which he had doubted very much that she was – consent would never be given, and Darcy would never countenance the idea of making her choose between him and her family.
He could not offer her any advantage besides his wealth. Pemberley was a lovely but solitary place – Elizabeth was used to a lively house and plenty of gatherings, teas, and balls; she took obvious pleasure in the society of others, and there would be very little socializing at all at Pemberley or in London. She would have to endure the constant remarks and attitudes of the public toward him; as his wife, she would either be viewed as blatantly mercenary, or similarly afflicted with lunacy or simply stupidity, to choose such a husband. She would not be welcome in the best houses in Town; her family and neighbors would likely cut themselves off from such a harmful alliance.
But of all things, he was afraid, afraid that if they did by some miracle wed, Elizabeth would become miserable in the seclusion and be overwhelmed by the scorn of her family and friends as well as strangers; that she would find that her new life was full of disappointed hopes and expectations – and that she would grow to hate him for it.
Darcy did not dwell long on these reflections as he reclined on the bed, gazing up at the canopy above him. Elizabeth’s more recent words occupied all his attention.
“...you never did think about me, did you? Not all those months I waited for you in Hertfordshire...I was left to wait and languish in uncertainty....You let me worry and fret and question myself for four months – four! – and when we finally do meet again, you offer me no explanation, no apology, not even a mention of our time apart!...You speak of going to London, of leaving me behind again....”
He paused, struck suddenly by the meaning of the words; he had been so taken aback by her means of expressing them that he had not stopped to consider what they implied.
She had missed him.
She had wanted him to return.
Darcy turned his face into the pillow, his anger toward her ebbing away with every repetition of those phrases in his mind. She had not spoken with the indifference of a person untouched by deep and personal emotions; her disillusionment and ire had been genuine, just as her actions toward him had always been. This was not an idle dalliance to her either – this was as serious as any other courtship.
And he had hurt her.
It came to him, an epiphany of sorts: he had been so busy taking care not to get involved, or cause more heartache to himself, that he had not considered what the constant interactions and mild flirtation had been doing to Elizabeth as well. If he was so affected, why had he assumed that she would not be as well? She felt as deeply as he.
All this time, I scorned the pity of others – all the while pitying myself! I have been the worst sort of hypocrite, dwelling upon my difficulties while pushing away all manner of support from those I loved, always seeing the acceptance of assistance as a weakness on my part. How could I have behaved with such arrogance, such disdain for others? How could I have allowed myself to lose all faith in humanity, to err on the side of too much caution?
And not only have I erred there: have I not always claimed that I was the same as any other man, with the same mind and feelings? Yet I have, by my words and actions, gradually separated myself from the rest of my peers, thinking to protect my interests, but only distancing myself from any extensions of compassion or even friendship. Have I not declared myself different, even as I claimed I was an ordinary man?
So often did I listen and take to heart the words of people like Aunt Catherine, that I have truly come to view myself as something less than I am; by thinking myself unworthy of Elizabeth, am I not confirming my supposed inferiority? Why should I not be happy with her? Why should I feel my honor and hers tarnished by a union between us? Do I not believe myself capable of inspiring devotion and affection in any woman, let alone so very superior a woman as she?
Rising quickly from the bed, he moved to stand at the window, his thoughts whirling in such a haphazard manner that he wondered that he should be able to think at all. Why should he not have Elizabeth as his wife? What right had he to choose her own path for her? If she wished to be with him as much as he wanted her with him, what then allowed him to cut off their romance for her sake without her consent or knowledge?
I have spent so much time protecting myself from harm that I have neglected to see beyond to how I affect others. All the people close to me in my life have focused upon my welfare, my concerns, my life – is not Georgiana evidence enough of that? – and somehow I came to believe that I was the center of everything because of the very things that held me back; that my deafness entitled me to focus only on self-preservation, that my interests and needs came first. I did not bother to think of how Elizabeth might think of my leaving – I told myself that there was no possibility of her being able to return my feelings, deceiving myself and wronging her in the process.
How despicably have I acted! I, who have prided myself on independence; I, who have valued myself on my cleverness, who have often disdained the generous candor of my sister’s assistance, and gratified my vanity by supposing myself above my neighbors in understanding and ability even as they judged me lacking.
How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation. Were it my sight that was affected instead of my hearing, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But selfishness has been my folly – determined to prove myself equal to everyone else, and harboring feelings of unworthiness all the same, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away where the intentions of my fellow humans were concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself.
How differently did everything now appear! Elizabeth’s fondness for him, in light of all his defects of character and disposition, was seen in an entirely different manner. Her steadfast belief in his goodness and abilities, in proving of what importance he was to her, made her affection every moment more valuable.
He was tempted to rush over to the parsonage at once, to see her and apologize for the harm he had done her, to tell her what he understood at last – but it was growing late, and he knew that he did not dare to go out again, particularly when Lady Catherine was already surveying things so minutely. He did not care about her wrath himself, but she could make matters very uncomfortable for Elizabeth and the Collinses, so he reigned in his impulsiveness and attempted to fix his mind onto something else, if only to help pass the interminable hours left until morning.
Sitting down at the escritoire, he began to pen the long-neglected letter to Georgiana, but he did not attend to it well. Come dawn, he decided, he would rise early and and go straight to the parsonage – and settle matters with Elizabeth once and for all.
Posted on Friday, 1 February 2008
Having parted so unhappily with Darcy, Elizabeth was certain to find sleep elusive; the candlestick on her bedside table guttered out before she was able to close her eyes at last. Even then, her dreams were restless and filled with an unnamed and unknown apprehension, and she awoke that next morning feeling no more rested than she had been the night before.
A quick glance in the looking glass confirmed that her looks corresponded with her temper: heavily shadowed eyes and a pallid complexion did nothing to hide the tense pull of her lips or the lines between her brows. She did the best she could to conceal it, going so far as to apply a sprinkling of rice powder in the hopes of covering the rings below her eyes. Not wanting to be subjected to Polly’s impertinent prying, she dressed by herself and with little care before going downstairs to breakfast.
Steeling herself for Charlotte’s suspicious looks, Elizabeth stepped inside the dining parlor to find the family already at the table. She murmured a reply to her friend’s greeting and took her place next to Maria. The selection spread out before her wasn’t at all tempting – she was too upset to think of food, but she took a small portion anyway to stave off any inquiries about her health. Toying with the hash on her plate, she became aware of an unnatural silence in the room, and she glanced up.
Mr. Collins was eyeing her warily, as if he expected her to fling herself on him again in a teary assault. Elizabeth found her first smile at this thought; she had quite shocked her poor cousin yesterday. Once he had recovered from the unanticipated attack, he had patted her awkwardly on the back before hollering for Charlotte to come down to attend them. The instant his wife had appeared, the clergyman had peeled Elizabeth’s fingers from his lapel and hurried back into his study, clearly relieved to hand the weeping girl over to someone else.
Charlotte’s reaction had been considerably more collected – she ushered her friend upstairs and called for a cold compress and some steaming herbal tea; once above-stairs, she had fussed over Elizabeth and seen her tucked comfortably into bed with a rather banal novel and a tray of biscuits. With a few gentle, well-chosen words of encouragement, she had then left her guest in peace.
Not for the first time did Elizabeth marvel at her friend’s quick perception, nor feel profound gratitude for it. It seemed queer that such small kindnesses could raise her spirits, but they did, and she was able to dry her tears and spend a few hours in almost-tranquil solitude. Only during the night had her anxieties come back to press about her, and they seemed determined to keep her company throughout the morning as well.
Nevertheless, she could do nothing for it. She half-hoped, half-feared to see him again, for feelings of the severest shame oppressed her. Scarcely could she believe that she had dared to speak so impudently to him, and with such a tone! It was worse than any of her prior improprieties – heaven knew there had been too many to think of – and even Lydia’s most offensive speeches seemed blameless compared to her own.
She believed that she had damaged her rapport with Darcy permanently. It seemed impossible that a man who had borne so much criticism in the past would allow himself to be trampled upon by her too; she was certain that she must have offended him beyond what he could tolerate – a belief, truth be told, that reflected well on neither of them.
There was, of course, that defiant, independent part of her nature that insisted that he would do better to listen and heed her words, that she had done no wrong by pointing out the certain evils of his past behavior – and that if he would not credit what she said, then he was hardly a man she might suppose herself to be reasonably happy with. In a marriage, one person ought not have to do all the changing for the other; and she had always been determined to avoid that sort of union. Under her father’s tutelage, she had been taught to value herself for who she was, not for what she was; she ought to have the right to preserve her individuality, even in a state of unification like wedlock.
Had Elizabeth’s opinion of matrimony been all drawn from her own family, she could not have formed a very pleasing picture of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance of good humor which youth and beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had, very early in their marriage, put an end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had vanished forever; and all his views of domestic happiness were overthrown.
Yet it had been equally his fault – it had always been an unequal marriage; he considered himself the superior in understanding and temperament (which, to some extent, was admittedly true) and had not even considered the notion of bending in any of his ways in order to accommodate Mrs. Bennet. All the improvement, all the endeavors to elevate her mind and taste, must be on her side; he would not forfeit his own time or exert any particular effort to see to her education. Affection and support on his part might have softened her character and given some correctness to her manners, and helped guide the two youngest of his daughters.
But it had not been so, and Elizabeth and her sisters were left to see the results of their parents’ implacable refusal to give way every once in awhile. With such a picture before her, she saw dangerous parallels in Darcy’s behavior as well as her own, and spent at least an hour fretting about it. His deafness might make her apt to accede to his wishes, not out of a desire to do so, but rather because she might feel herself cruel and unfair to deny him anything, particularly after he had lived such a difficult life. Would it always be up to her to bend to him? She hoped not, thought not – but the possibility would always be there. It was already, in some ways, an unequal union....but whether the scales were tipped for her advantage or his was less certain.
“Have some coffee, Eliza.” Charlotte’s offer intruded on her thoughts. Elizabeth was aware of the gentle sympathy in her friend’s voice, and absently thrust her cup in the direction of the kettle with a mumbled word of thanks.
The remainder of the breakfast hour passed by uneventfully; Mr. Collins finished first and hastened off to his study (Elizabeth supposed he was made nervous by her company, and wished to escape before her next fit), and as soon as she was done, she decided that a walk would be more beneficial than sitting inside with nothing to occupy herself.
It was a mild day, so she made free to wander farther than the garden, carefully avoiding the path to the hedgerow. Meandering in the yard, she immersed herself in contemplation; several times she nearly started back up the road to Rosings, half-convinced that she ought to apologize to him, before she regained her senses and reminded herself that she would likely be thrown from the premises before she even saw Darcy.
After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. The three weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of someone coming down the lane.
A flutter of anxiety assailed her – she hardly knew which way to look, and was nearly prepared to turn and dodge into the wood to avoid him (for that tall, spare figure dressed in black could not be anyone but him), but he was close enough to have already seen her; she could not, without insulting him further, flee from the scene, and so she braced herself for whatever might pass between them and waited for him to approach.
Darcy stopped directly before her, so relieved to find her that he stood for some moments silent, searching her wan, distressed countenance. He had been prepared to demand entry into the parsonage house in search of her, if he had to, so it was pleasant to see that such a confrontation would not be necessary. He watched as one eyebrow lifted impudently, as if questioning his presence on the Collinses’ property, and he felt, strangely, like laughing at this display of spirit when she was obviously so worried.
“I have b-been walking in the g-grove some t-t-time in the hope of meeting you,” he said, in a tone which was neither inhospitable nor particularly cordial, but in which she could detect some bit of uneasiness. “We p-parted... unhappily...yesterday, and I would ask th-that you d-do me the honor of l-listening t-to my explanations, th-though I hardly d-deserve the indulgence. Will you allow me th-that, Elizabeth?”
She was too surprised by his application to take note of his bold address. “I should be ashamed if I were so ungenerous as to deny you such a simple request.”
Had she not spoken so seriously, Darcy might have thought the reply flippant. “Will you w-walk with me, Miss B-Bennet? It is a long t-tale to t-tell.”
“Good. The longer it is, the more I may be able to understand.” She took his arm after only a brief hesitation, and he led her over to the gate, where there was a stile for her to sit on. He declined a seat next to her, instead choosing to pace back and forth before her, trying to arrange his thoughts sensibly.
“Wh-when I left London....no, no, I must st-start sooner. Miss B-Bennet, when I received th-that missive from my uncle, in the m-middle of the night, I was very reluctant t-to leave Hertfordshire. Only my c-cousin’s health and the d-disorder of my family c-could have d-drawn me away; I st-tayed in T-Town b-because my aunt and uncle wished for our at-tendance – it was a very uncertain t-time for us all, not knowing whether Edmund m-might live or d-die. I c-cannot b-blame myself for having d-done this much – I know enough of your ch-character to be sure th-that you would have d-done the same had it b-been one of your relations to s-suffer.
“My other actions, however, I c-cannot reflect on with satisfaction.” He directed his earnest gaze at her for the first time. “I wronged you, and you were r-right to c-call me out on my b-behavior. I left Hertfordshire b-because of necessity, but I st-tayed away b-because of my own fears.”
“Fears?” Elizabeth’s implacable expression immediately softened with concern. “Did someone say something? Do not tell me you were threatened?”
“No, no, not b-by your neighbors – by you.” Before she could exclaim at this, he went on, “I had not b-been in Hertfordshire many months b-before I b-began to d-discover my p-partiality for certain c-company.” He held her gaze, and steeled himself for her reaction, be it astonishment or rejection. “My attachment t-to you, ma’am, b-became so great as t-to make any separation unb-bearable, even though I imp-posed such a separation upon myself and upon you.”
He saw her eyes widen and her cheeks fill with sudden color; it was not a very reassuring response. “You c-cannot be ignorant of what I sp-speak, Miss B-Bennet. I found myself b-becoming ever more....attached....to you as t-time went on, and I b-began to realize that...” He cut himself off, afraid of saying too much. “I d-did not b-believe th-that my...attachment...was reciprocated, and I was eager t-to save myself the p-pain. I d-did not consider what effect my d-departure to P-Pemberley might have on you. It was unforgivable s-selfish of me.
“Only wh-when you sp-spoke t-to me yesterday d-did I realize th-that my actions had hurt you – it was the l-last thing I ever wished t-to do, b-believe me. Your words m-made me re-evaluate matters. I only hope...I c-can only p-pray th-that you might find it in you t-to c-consider this, as p-paltry an excuse as it is.” Still she said nothing, and beginning to fear that he was indeed past forgiveness, he hastened to clear his conscience and retreat. “I wish you every happiness, Miss B-Bennet, I truly d-do, and th-that you might always b-be so b-blessed.” He bowed gracefully, and turned.
“Mr. Darcy!” She slid from the stile and reached out to grasp his arm. “Please, wait.” Her touch was enough to draw his attention, and he felt a shock to see her smiling, though her eyes were damp. “I do.”
He was too flustered to think straight. “You do what?”
She laughed. “I do accept your apology, sir. I could hardly resist one so eloquently worded and delivered. And...and I should like you to know that your attachment is returned in full measure.”
Her declaration seemed to throw him into temporary immobility, and his next action, when he did recover himself enough, surprised her all the more for it. Darcy stepped forward, and the next instant she found both her hands enfolded by his. It was the first time he had touched her so impulsively, so intimately, and she received the gesture for what it was: a silent confirmation of his own feelings.
These thoughts would occur to her later – at the moment, with his warm flesh in such close contact with hers, she could not think at all. His hands had always held a particular fascination for her, ever since she had watched them move in an elegant waltz before the fireplace that evening back at Netherfield; long-fingered, narrow and strong, they were as beautiful to her as the finely-cut features of his face – if something so ordinary as hands could be termed ‘beautiful’ – and she had always observed their effortless motions with the pleasure of an artist gazing at a masterfully-executed sculpture.
Elizabeth gazed up at him, wide-eyed with wonder, and Darcy’s last vestiges of restraint shattered. He felt himself pulling her close, felt the graceful curve and dip of her back against his fingers. She willingly stepped into his embrace, resting her head sweetly on his shoulder. Her soft weight against him, the floral scent of her hair, and the trusting ease with which she nestled close to him filled his heart with such a powerful rush of emotion as to make his chest physically ache with the joy of it. It was wonderful and new, for he had never before held a woman who was not his sister or a relation.
Impulsively he pressed a kiss into the sun-warmed brightness of her hair, and he felt her arms tighten around his waist. They stayed in that position for some moments, content with the simplicity of it. There was no overwhelming force of passion, no demand, no awkwardness – only the tenderest affection.
“I do believe we understand each other, Mr. Darcy,” she said at length, with a spark of the mischief he loved so well.
“I d-daresay we d-do,” he murmured, regretfully drawing away lest he forget himself.
“My father....?”
“We sh-shall worry about th-that when we c-come to it.” He threaded her arm through his, covering her hand with his own. “Th-there are many th-things we still must d-discuss – b-but I c-cannot b-bear to d-deal with them t-today.”
She voiced her eager agreement, and they walked round of the park again, delighting in their newfound ease; after a half-hour’s animated conversation, she felt bold enough to tease him about their quarrel. “I probably should not ask, but I am quite curious to know what you really thought of my speech yesterday.”
“It t-taught me t-to hope,” said he, “as I had sc-carcely ever allowed myself t-to hope b-before. I knew enough of your d-d-disposition t-to be certain th-that, had you b-been absolutely, irrevocably indifferent t-to me, you would n-not have viewed my leaving with any f-feelings of regret; and you c-certainly would not have rep-proached me so s-soundly for it.”
Elizabeth colored and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know enough now of my frankness to understand it. I am such a horrendously outspoken creature that I could have no scruple in abusing you so abominably to your face.”
“What d-did you s-s-say of me th-that I did not d-deserve? For though your ac-cusations were formed on mistaken p-premises, my b-behavior to you at the t-time merited the severest reproof. It was unp-pardonable. I cannot think of it without ab-bhorrence.”
“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that winter,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved in civility.”
“I c-cannot b-be so easily reconciled t-to myself. The recollection of what I d-did, of my c-conduct, my manners, my st-tubborn silence d-during the whole of it, is now – and has b-been many months – inexpressibly p-painful to me, even b-before I knew the extent of the d-damage d-done. Your reproof, so well ap-plied, I shall never f-forget. You know not, you c-can scarcely c-conceive, how it t-tortured me – though last night, I confess, it t-took quite some t-time b-before I was reasonable enough t-to allow its justice.”
“I was certainly very far from expecting my words to make so strong an impression; I was so angry I was insensible to what I said. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way.”
“I c-can easily b-b-believe it. You thought me then d-devoid of every p-proper feeling, I am sure you d-did, c-considering the c-callous nature of my abandonment. The t-turn of your c-countenance I shall never forget, as you t-told me that you had t-to wait at home until I saw fit t-to grace you with my p-presence again. I d-did not realize until then how high-handedly I had acted t-t-toward you.”
“Oh! Do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you that I am most heartily ashamed of it. You must learn to forget, for I soon shall.”
“Your retrospection must b-be so t-totally void of reproach, th-that the c-contentment arising from them is not of d-determined effort, b-but what is much b-better, of innocence. B-but with me, it is not so. P-Painful recollections will int-trude which c-cannot, which ought not, t-to be rep-pelled. I have been a selfish b-being all my life, in p-practice, though not in p-principle.
“As a ch-child I was t-taught what was right, b-b-but I was not t-taught to correct my t-temper. I was given good p-principles, but left to follow them in p-pride and c-conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only ch-child), I was spoilt b-by my p-parents, who allowed, encouraged, almost t-taught me t-to be s-s-selfish and overbearing; t-to care for none b-beyond my own family circle; t-to th-think meanly of all the rest of the world; t-to wish at least t-to think meanly of their s-sense and worth c-compared with my own, even though I d-despised them for d-doing the same to me. Such I was, from eight t-to eight and t-twenty; and such I might still have b-been but for you.” He looked up at her, with such a warm glow in his eyes as to make her blush. “What d-do I not owe you? You t-taught me a lesson, hard indeed at f-first, b-but most advantageous. B-By you, I was p-properly humbled. I came t-to you without a doubt of my being forgiven for my ill b-behavior. You showed me how insufficient were all my p-pretensions to p-please a woman worthy of being p-pleased.”
“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should welcome you back with no questions?”
He shrugged helplessly. “Not ent-tirely without question, but I certainly d-did not expect t-to be reprimanded so soundly. What will you th-think of my f-foolishness? I b-believed you t-to b-be quite d-disinterested, and only sup-posed that I should b-be the one h-hurt at the end.”
“My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally I assure you, to give you such an idea of my indifference. I never meant to deceive you so, but my spirits might often lead me wrong. Your motives, however, misguided, are understandable – and I railed at you so! How you must have hated me!”
“Hate you! I was angry p-perhaps at f-first, b-b-but my anger soon b-began t-to t-take a p-proper direction.”
“I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, during our quarrel; you looked so dreadfully cold that I was certain I had offended you beyond reparation. You blamed me for speaking so boldly to you?”
“No ind-deed; at first I f-felt nothing b-but surprise.”
She laughed, a little nervously. “Your surprise could not have been greater than my own! I had no intention of saying anything at all. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary notice, and I confess that I did not expect to receive any more attention from you than might be deemed appropriate for such a slight acquaintance.”
“My object,” replied Darcy, smiling at her fondly, “must now b-be t-to show you, b-by every civility in my p-power, th-that I will not f-forget the lessons learned; and I h-hope t-to obtain your f-forgiveness, t-to lessen your ill op-pinion, b-by letting you see th-that your reproofs have b-been attended t-to.”
After a pause, he then told her of Georgiana’s delight in her acquaintance, and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption; and assured her that he would soon bring his sister back to Netherfield so that they all might be together again.
“She must be quite lonely for you, to be in London all this time.”
“Will you th-think p-poorly of me if I say th-that I hope she is? I miss her d-dreadfully, and I should b-be p-put out to d-discover th-that she d-did not miss me at all with the d-diversions of Town life t-to occupy her t-time. B-but no, you are right; I have not b-been c-considerate to Georgiana’s wishes either – yet further p-proof of my selfishness.”
“This will not do! If you intend to castigate yourself so constantly, I shall truly regret having said anything to you at all. It will not do to have you forever guilty about something.”
After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that it was time to be at home. They parted reluctantly, and though Darcy was not yet so bold as to kiss her cheek, he bestowed that gallant favor on her palm, and Elizabeth felt herself rather cheated – although she quickly realized that it was really quite remarkably stupid to be jealous of one’s own hand.
She laughed aloud at the notion, and bid him goodbye before turning down the lane to the parsonage, aware that Darcy was, as had been his habit, waiting by the gate to watch her leave. Only when she was certain of being out of sight did she give in to the urge to run down the path, bursting with newfound enthusiasm.
Rushing past Polly, up the stairs, and into her bedchamber, Elizabeth went directly to the small escritoire in the corner to pen a quick, gleeful note to Jane; only when she had signed her name with a flourish did she sit back and look over the words. Somehow the new understanding she had reached with Darcy – as imbued with a dreamlike aura as it was – seemed more real and more wonderfully shocking when it was put down, permanently recorded, in indelible black ink.
She stayed for some moments at the desk, lovingly re-reading the brief paragraphs explaining her present situation; and, recollecting herself to some degree, she slipped the note into a book where it might not be prematurely discovered, and she moved away to stand by the window; her thoughts were instantly consumed with him.
Suspecting that it would be so for many months to come, she accepted her perpetual distraction with good grace; the thrill she received when she remembered his small, one-sided smile and the gentle strength of his embrace made her realize, with amusement and some dismay, that she was in very great danger of becoming absolutely silly over him.
Darcy was fortunate enough to spend most of the day in that state of bemused joy which Elizabeth’s surprising revelations had sent him into; and, impatient to see her again, and hardly able to credit the events of the morning, he planned to call at the parsonage for afternoon tea, and he had ridden over as soon as the hour would allow it. No sooner had he stepped inside the door and handed his hat to the Collinses’ maidservant than a messenger came upon him with a note. A quick perusal of it revealed its contents to be a curt demand from his aunt to wait upon him immediately at the house.
He could not refuse – Lady Catherine’s tone was always decisive but guarded about subject matter, and so he could not know whether something serious had occurred, or whether it was a mere trifle. With a silent oath, he took his hat back and followed the footman down the road to Rosings Park.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had just emerged from the billiards room, and immediately saw that his cousin was in a temper; a peculiar sort of cold impassivity always overtook his countenance when he was angry.
“Darcy?” He stepped into the man’s path to get his attention. “What is it?”
“Aunt C-Catherine has an unc-canny ability for choosing the worst p-possible moments to issue her b-blasted s-summons,” he snapped, looking impatiently around the hall.
Fitzwilliam stared at him for a moment and then smiled toothily. “What a lather it’s gotten you into, Darcy. Ah! You were at the parsonage with Miss Bennet, weren’t you? What, did our aunt’s note interrupt your lovemaking?”
Darcy glared at him so fiercely that the colonel burst into laughter. “It did! My poor cousin, thwarted even in secrecy!”
“Excuse me, sir.” A footman came up to take his coat. “I believe Lady Catherine is waiting for you in the Gold Parlor, Mr. Darcy.”
“Th-thank you.” Darcy scowled once more at his cousin for good measure before going to discover what matter his aunt believed important enough to call him away in such a manner. His temper was not settled enough for any great altercation with her, so he hoped fervently that this message indicated no such invitation for an argument. He knew he could not keep calm if she chose to provoke him, and he in turn would not be able to hold his tongue when it was prudent. If only she had sent the note just a half-hour later!
He entered the parlor to find his aunt standing before one of the windows, looking out over the lawn. Her hands were clasped tightly behind her back, and her back was perfectly straight, shoulders square; she heard his footsteps, but waited a few more moments before turning around. The look on her face immediately made him wonder if something dreadful really had happened, but her next words eliminated that possibility.
“You can be at no loss, Nephew, to understand the reason for my summons. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why.”
Darcy looked at her with unaffected astonishment, and no small amount of trepidation. “Ind-deed, you are mistaken, madam. I am not at all able t-to account f-for the honor.”
“Darcy,” replied Her Ladyship, in an angry tone, “you ought to know that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere you may choose to be, you shall not find me so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it.” Her eyes, mere slits of dark suspicion, swept over him, and he resisted the urge to direct his gaze at the floor instead like a scolded child.
“A report of a most alarming nature reached me this very morning, and I instantly resolved on calling you here, that I might make my sentiments known to you.”
Darcy knew, even before she continued, what she meant to say, and he felt a moment’s sharp anxiety – Elizabeth!
Almost as if she understood his thoughts, his aunt spoke with great relish. “One of my footmen caught you in an indiscretion of the worst kind; he brought the news to me at once, as he was instructed. You and Miss Elizabeth Bennet! – the both of you involved in the most deceitful sort of conduct. While partaking of the generosity of my home and hospitality, you have been leaving the house on spurious business to arrange clandestine meetings with Miss Bennet.”
“If you b-believed....you s-sent a f-footman t-to follow me?” said Darcy, coloring with astonishment and disdain. “As if I were s-some sort of c-common f-footpad? I wonder you took the t-trouble, b-both t-to the servant and yourself.”
“It was my intention to see this affair cut short.” Lady Catherine made a grand gesture. “Miss Bennet was far too friendly with you when she dined with us; I began to suspect some improper involvement, and set out to put a halt to it in its infancy.”
“Your c-claims are rather ext-traordinary, Aunt. I wonder th-that you d-did not mention it t-t-to me first t-to gain a c-confirmation of it b-before you put your h-household to such an inconvenience; if, indeed, such meetings b-between Miss B-Bennet and myself have t-taken place.”
She snorted loudly, startling the butler standing post by the door. “If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Do you not know that such a report will soon be spread abroad, if it already has not?”
“I never heard th-that it was.”
A look of contempt was his reply. “And can you likewise declare that there is no foundation for it?”
“I have never p-pretended to p-possess equal frankness with you, Aunt. You may ask questions which I shall not ch-choose t-t-to answer. Miss B-Bennet’s b-business must b-be her own. I have no c-cause t-to interfere – nor have you.”
Her cheeks reddened. “This is not to be borne! Darcy, I insist on being satisfied. Have you been in her company, unattended, all these mornings?”
“You have ap-parently already d-determined what I h-have or haven’t b-been d-doing this week, so I s-see little reason for you t-to inquire into the m-matter.” Darcy felt all the impertinence of her prying, but his aunt’s insolence was nothing compared to the fact that he and Elizabeth had indeed been seen together – as innocent as their meetings had been – and there was a good deal of uncertainty about the ramifications. He did not know yet what course of action Lady Catherine would take, nor how far her outrage would induce her to attempt to sabotage the accord between them.
“Have you no sense of your obligation to me?” she snapped, her patience clearly gone. “I am almost the nearest relation you have in the world and am entitled to know all your dearest concerns.”
“B-But you are not ent-titled t-to know Miss B-Bennet’s; nor will such b-behavior as this ever induce me t-to be explicit about what I d-do have knowledge of.”
Her eyes widened at the vehemence in his voice. “Let me be rightly understood. This...dalliance...which you have the presumption to engage yourself in, cannot continue. No, never – I forbid it. Now what have you to say?”
“Only th-this: you s-seem utterly d-determined t-t-to insult my honor, as well as Miss B-Bennet’s. It is c-certainly no d-dalliance. I will not h-hear you sp-peak such imp-precations against her.”
Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment. “And what else, pray, could it be? If you cannot control yourself for so short a while, I shall have to intervene. I care not what bit of skirt you keep upon the side, but I will not have you disgracing this home or the de Bourgh name.” Something he had said seemed to strike her, and she stopped, her face going pale and then filling with a renewed flush of anger. “No! No, you cannot mean — do you dare mean to say that your intentions toward this woman...?”
“If I d-do harbor any int-tentions t-toward Miss B-Bennet, or any other woman, you would h-hardly b-be the one I would inf-form first.”
“Intentions! – toward a young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family? Do you pay no regard to the wishes of your relations? To your duty? Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy?”
“I d-daresay not. But what is all th-this to me? You have never reg-garded me as a p-part of this family b-before now; your rep-putation has always remained uns-soiled by your c-connection t-to me. I d-doubt that the addition of another niece will d-do it any harm. Why sh-should I not act ind-dependently in th-this matter, as I was forced long ago t-to do in all m-manner of things?”
“Because honor, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it! Yes, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by th-this family, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us. You will be censured, slighted, and despised.”
He laughed outright. “Is th-that all? When have I not b-been t-treated thus b-by you?”
The look of the deepest offense overspread her features, and for some moments she was so taken aback as to not find her voice.
“These are heavy misfortunes,” Darcy continued, unable to halt his words, “b-but the husband of a superior w-woman like Miss B-Bennet must have such extraordinary s-sources of happiness n-necessarily attached t-t-to his situation, that he c-could, upon the whole, have no c-cause to rep-pine.”
“Obstinate, foolish man! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude for my attentions to you? Is nothing due to me on that score? You are to understand, Darcy, that I called this conference with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person’s whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.”
“Th-that will make your situation at p-present more p-pitiable, b-but it will have no effect on me.”
She slammed the gold-tipped edge of her cane upon the floor. “I will not be interrupted! Hear me in silence. You dare seek to impose upon us the upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or fortune. Is this to be endured? But it must not, shall not be. If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to disgrace yourself by forging a connection out of the sphere in which you have been brought up.”
“In marrying a w-woman of Miss B-Bennet’s standing, I sh-should not c-consider myself as making an alliance out of th-that sphere. I am a g-gentleman, she is a g-gentleman’s d-daughter – so far we are equal.”
“True,” she said grudgingly, “but who was her mother? Who are her uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition. A tradesman, to be allowed into Pemberley’s gates? The very shades of that great house would rebel against such an outrage!”
“Whatever her c-connections may b-b-be, if I d-do not object to th-them, they c-can be nothing t-to you.”
Her eyes flashed. “Tell me once and for all, have you made any hasty promises to this woman?”
Though Darcy, seething with indignation to hear such foul maledictions against his Elizabeth, would not for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine have answered this question, he could not but say, after a moment’s deliberation, “I am not.”
Lady Catherine let out a dramatic sigh of relief, her eyes closing as she reclined slowly onto a nearby chair. “And will you promise me never to enter into such an engagement?”
“I will make no p-promise of the k-kind.”
Her eyes flew open, even as she came to her feet in a rush of satin and lace. “You...how dare you...to make such an....I....” She gritted her teeth. “How dare you defy me in so deliberate a manner! I will not stand for it. Do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede; I shall not let this go until you have given me the assurance I require.”
“And I certainly never shall g-give it. I am not t-to b-be intimidated int-to anything s-so wholly unreasonable. I must b-beg, th-therefore, t-to b-be importuned no farther on the subject.” He turned to leave, knowing that he would not be able to hold on to his composure for much longer if she continued in this vein.
“Not so hasty! Is such a girl to be my nephew’s wife? Heaven and earth! Of what are you thinking?” She whirled on him. “To disgrace yourself by philandering, making yourself vulnerable to this disgusting entrapment by marriage – and not any girl, but a girl wholly without fortune or family connections! I had not thought it possible, even from you!”
“Even f-from me!”
“Your tendency to such behavior is nothing surprising,” she said coldly. “Like a brute animal you have no control over yourself, and Miss Elizabeth Bennet is exploiting your weakness for her own gain.”
His voice shook with repressed fury. “And th-this is your op-pinion of me? Th-this is the estimation in which you hold me? I th-thank you for explaining it so f-fully. My d-defects, according to this c-calculation, are great ind-deed. B-But I shall not h-hear you sp-peaking of Miss B-Bennet with such d-disrespect; she is no f-fortune hunter.”
“Not a fortune hunter? There can be no other explanation for her attaching herself in this sort of union.” Her lip curled. “Why else would a woman throw herself away in such a manner for you?”
Darcy had believed himself immune to injury at his aunt’s hands – he had thought years of abuse had hardened him to any insult – but her words cut deeply. “You c-can now have nothing f-farther t-to say t-to me,” he resentfully answered. “You have insulted me – and Miss B-Bennet – in every p-possible way. I must b-beg to return to my ch-chambers.”
He rose as he spoke, having every intention of going above-stairs and leaving her to stew in her own unpleasantness. Lady Catherine, however, stepped in front of him, blocking the path to the door. Her countenance was awash with such an amazing array of rage, disgust, and contempt as had never been seen before, and she gestured angrily at him, demanding that he stop and attend her.
“You have no regard, then, for the honor and credit of your family? Unfeeling, selfish boy! Do you not consider that a connection with her must disgrace us in the eyes of everybody?”
“Aunt C-Catherine, I have nothing f-farther t-t-to say. You know my sentiments.”
“You are then resolved to have her?”
“I have s-said no s-such thing. I am only resolved t-to act in th-that manner which will, in my own op-pinion, c-constitute my happiness without reference t-to you.”
“You refuse, then, to oblige me? You refuse to obey the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude? You are determined to ruin your family in the opinion of their peers, and make them the contempt of the world!”
“Neither d-duty, nor honour, nor g-gratitude,” replied Darcy, “have any p-possible c-claim on me in the p-present instance. No p-principle of mine would b-be violated b-by such a union. And with regard t-to the resentment of my f-family, or the indignation of the world, if the f-former were excited b-by my marrying her, it would not g-give me one moment’s c-concern – and the world in g-general has already p-proved t-to b-b-be generous with its scorn. I need not f-fear it.”
“And this is your final resolution?”
“Yes.”
She slapped him. The sting of her palm against his cheek faded quickly enough, but a heavy silence, in many ways more final and terrible, filled the parlor; she drew back, trembling, and wiped her hand against her skirt with great dignity. “So be it,” she said lowly, lifting her head. “I shall know how to act.”
In a moment she was at the door, gracefully sailing through it, only to pause in the threshold and look back at him. “I expect you to have your things packed within the hour, for you leave this house tonight – and I shall never welcome you back again.”
Lady Catherine presented him with her back, nodded curtly to the butler, and disappeared down the darkened hallway, leaving her nephew standing alone by the window.
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two