Beginning , Section II

Part Eight: Close Your Eyes and Think of England

Posted on Wednesday, 14 April 2004

After her conference with Sir William, Elizabeth returned to her room, locking the door to any potential distractions, and lie down upon the bed, for she knew she must spend the next few hours in deep reflection.

How wrong she could be about people! She, who had prided herself upon her shrewd and dispassionate insights into the human character -- only to be proven so very wrong in at least two instances: the first of which, she was glad to find herself not so wretched-feeling as to miss the humor of it; the second, she could only count herself lucky that the man’s own mercenary tendencies had prevented him from further entangling and harming her. And yet she’d had the audacity to accuse Mr. Darcy of disproportionate pride.

Ashamed and miserable, Elizabeth buried her face in her pillow, then straightened up, pushing her hair away from her damp, hot face. Yes, it was an unattractive piece of self-awareness, but not one she could afford to hide from herself, for her own sake... and perhaps for more.

William Lucas was so much more than the dim, affable buffoon she had thought him for her twenty years. If it were only that, she could smile at the complexities of the human character and etch a point under Jane’s name. A more acute pain was the realization she had been so mislead by Mr. Wickham. Though she had initially protested against the Colonel’s allegations of Wickham’s atrocious misdeeds, cool logic and her faith in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s veracity eventually won out. Elizabeth found it more difficult to reconcile herself to a completely different picture of Mr. Darcy’s character, imputing Fitzwilliam’s warm defense to the bond of two cousins who’d grown up together.

But now as she thought about it, she had been wrong about so much else; therefore, why not Mr. Darcy as well? His actions regarding Georgiana’s intended elopement more than proved he was a kind and devoted brother, and showed him to possess a great deal more forgiveness and tolerance for the foibles of those he cared for than Elizabeth could have ever imagined before this new enlightenment.

Mr. Bingley might be careless and overly eager to please and be pleased, but he was not a fool, and he had been Mr. Darcy’s closest friend for years. Colonel Fitzwilliam (and she believed she could yet trust her assessment of him, as it had never been colored been false tales, rash prejudices, or injured dignity; on the contrary, her better sense had done battle with her initial distrust of him, as the cousin of Mr. Darcy, and won) was a man of great integrity and little sentimentality; and he recognized an intrinsic value in his cousin which superceded mere familial ties.

Despite this awakening, she still found it impossible to forgive Mr. Darcy completely on one point: his interference with the happiness of Jane and Mr. Bingley. To be fair, after a good deal of thought and internal dueling of her emotions, she could now trust in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s firm opinion that Darcy was sincere in his desire to protect his friend. It may not have been his only motivation, but she did believe it was his strongest. Elizabeth rose from her bed and drew a sheet of paper from the desk. That she would assist them had never a question in her mind.

It would be good to get away from Somersetshire, Captain Wentworth mused, locking his trunk. Just the other morning Sophie had remarked upon himself and young Louisa Musgrove in a way he found rather alarming. Surely people didn’t really think… But Sophie clearly did, and he knew no one more astute.

He detested Bath, however. The crowds and the showiness and the social tedium… He grimaced, contemptuous of those whose highest motivations were the dictates of fashion and the caprices of society’s opinions. At least there was a large population of naval men in Bath, though generally somewhat older than himself. The Admiral would enjoy that, and it made it all the easier to excuse this visit as strictly one of pleasure. He wondered, with a pang of guilt, how Sophie would fare, then scorned his worries. Sophie had never failed to find herself happy wherever she went with the Admiral. At the very least, his straightforward sister would be quite a match for the Bath society Grand Dames. That ought to prove amusing.

There was one other aspect he dreaded as well; the reason being that the principle object of investigation was rather too close for comfort -- in more than one way -- to a prior attachment.

Prior. Previous. Pre-present. Past. And therefore no reason to be feeling these scruples, the Captain told himself, resolving to dismiss the subject from his mind. And dismiss it he did, for immediately after this thought, he slammed the lid of the trunk down upon his thumb, and let loose a truly naval stream of profanity.

His last comment made her pause. “My -- my charms?” Under the veil of lashes, clear, quizzical eyes looked up at him with an expression of… well, not exactly innocence, but something very akin to it.

Henry chuckled. “Certainly.”

Momentarily disconcerted, Mara took a step back, then regarded him saucily. “I’ll have you know it wasn’t the first time I’ve extracted myself from an undesired proposal…” a small smile played on her lips, “from a love-struck suitor…”

“Off with you, vile temptress,” Henry aired. “As a member of the cloth perhaps I ought not associate with you, lest your wanton depravity corrupt me.”

“You are calling me a wanton woman?” Mara demanded, realizing too late she was sitting on the back of a sofa with her legs crossed high… and deciding she didn’t care.

“I hardly know what I can call you.”

“A Henry without words?” Mara teased. “Some little affliction indeed!”

“I do not recall saying myself without words; if I remember correctly, I stated I did not know what I could call you.”

“Why?”

“That may or may not be fit for the ears of a lady.”

“But I want to know!” Mara dangled a slipper on her foot. “And it seems you do not believe it indubitable that I am indeed a lady.”

Henry gave her a look of real respect. “Congratulations, Miss Margaret, you have succeeded in concocting a tangle of language quite equal to one of my own.”

“I learned from the master.”

“That you did. To think of it… When I was your age, I was educating you in history and maths.”

“And English composition.”

“Naturally. Your father chose a good tutor, did he not?”

Mara slid off the couch and left the room with a laugh. “Really Mr. Tilney… I thought you were above trawling for compliments.”

“Are you?”

“You are very brave to ask that.”

“I have another brave thing to ask you…”

“I hope to hear you say you are joking, Knightley. I have been in the company of the man for months; he is a perfect fool.”

George Knightley listened to the contemptuous laugh with a frown and shook his head. “I shall not deny that you are a good judge of character, Fitzwilliam, but your assessment of the merits and abilities of others is frequently overly harsh. This instance would be no small exception.” He paused to take a drink. “However, you are little to be blamed in this case; everyone was meant to be taken in.”

Darcy’s expression darkened. He, “taken in” by a simple country squire? He didn’t like the way that sounded.

“I believe you know Miss Elizabeth Bennet; what do you think of her?”

“Pardon?”

“Your cousin remarked that you seemed quite taken with her at Rosings…” Knightley trailed off, comprehended his mistake from a moment’s glance at Darcy, and swiftly executed a graceful conversational bootleg turn, veering back to more innocuous subjects before Darcy descended into one of his trademark sulks.

An irate, sulky Darcy would only compound his worries; what with Edmund’s seemingly harmless but rather inexplicable (now that he thought of it) departure for Bath; the nearly perpetual necessity of soothing down Mr. Woodhouse’s fretful paranoia; Edward’s discovery of the thrill-inducing joys of criminal delinquency; the continued absence of Tilney and Fitzwilliam, still lollygagging in Oxfordshire; and his dread that Emma’s insatiable curiosity had been piqued by both the investigation and one Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.

Oh damn. Glancing out the window, he espied Ferrars ambling down the road decked out in muted greens and browns like a bloody shrubbery.

“What?” Margaret exploded. “Do you take me for a bloody strumpet?”

“I don’t, but a passing listener who happened to overhear the shouting and the language might easily mistake you for one,” Henry replied dryly.

“I was taught well,” she spat back.

“Let’s not tell your father of that lesson.”

“Or of this one? Don’t tell me he instructed you to do this as well.”

“No.” He smirked. “He merely gave me a great deal of discretion.”

She glared at him petulantly from under lowered lashes. He took a step toward her. “You told me you wanted to be a part of this. Everyone who is must do what he or she can. So please… do it for this, and your father,” he looked her straight in the eyes, “and just a little bit for me.”