Darcy wanted to chuckle, for the only one who seemed uncomfortable in their situation was Miss Caroline Bingley.
When Miss Elizabeth strolled next to her her, Darcy’s eyes followed each movement—the bend of her hip with each step, the extension of her foot, the slight swing of the arm not entangled with Miss Bingley’s, the movement of her gown. The candlelight from the wall sconces flicked flames in the curls of her hair as she walked away from him and highlighted the shadows and curves of her cheekbones and jaw as she drew near.
The desire to leap up and welcome her into his arms flooded him until his mouth dropped open and his fingers curled over the arm of the chair. Uncrossing his legs, he planted his feet firmly on the carpet. What was he about?
“Mr. Darcy, would you join us?” Miss Bingley inquired with a confidence of his ready agreement.
When her companion slightly tilted her head to the side, her eyes meeting his, he saw no welcome.
He had wanted to say ‘yes.’ Instead, he replied, “I shall not, for I can enjoy your activity much better from where I am seated.”
“Shocking!” Caroline Bingley would do anything to draw his attention. Again, he wondered at Bingley. When would he take his sister under control?
“Miss Bingley, I do not understand your amazement,” Miss Elizabeth patted her walking companion’s arm. “When has Mr. Darcy done anything other than his own desire? I cannot begin to imagine he would choose us over his book. After all, I believe he agrees there is no enjoyment greater than reading.”
Darcy snapped closed the book he had just selected from the small pile on the table next to his chair. Placing it back on the stack next to him, he said, “I find enjoyment in many things.”
“Such as?”
“Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy mentally retreated, choosing a defensive maneuver over the offensive. “Tell me, other than reading, what is your pleasure?”
“I dearly love a laugh,” was her immediate reply.
The ladies had stopped in front of him. Miss Bingley stepped towards him while the other took a small step back.
“I cannot consider that a weakness. However, it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule.” Darcy was cautious in his comment. He clearly comprehended Miss Elizabeth was his intellectual equal.
“Such as vanity and pride?” she asked.
“Pride, where there is a real superiority of mind will always be under good regulation.”
When she looked away to hide a smile, he reconsidered his words. Had he misspoke? No, he had not.
“You consider yourself without defect?”
“No, I do not,” said Darcy. “I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper can be too little yielding. My ability to hold onto resentment for the follies and vices of others is strong. My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.”
“That is a failing indeed!” cried Miss Elizabeth. “Nonetheless, I really cannot laugh at it. You are safe from me.” She returned to her chair. “Your defect is a propensity to hate everybody. I cannot compete with such a fault.”
“And yours…,” he replied with a smile, hearing the tease in her words. “…is willfully to misunderstand them.”
Tired of not being the center of attention, Miss Bingley called to her sister to open the pianoforte for the evening’s entertainment.
Darcy, after a few moments’ recollection, was not sorry for it. Miss Elizabeth Bennet had knocked him from his pedestal, and he was both perched precariously and teetering for a fall. He needed away from her.
If he was not careful, the danger of paying Miss Elizabeth too much attention would give her expectations he had no desire to fulfill. Like Miss Bingley would never be his bride, he would not willingly select the second Bennet daughter to be the next mistress of Pemberley. Where he found the exchange of lively conversation to be stimulating mentally, his heart was untouched. However, he could no longer vouch for hers.
After the Netherfield Ball
“I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”
- Elizabeth Bennet (Pride & Prejudice, Chapter XVIII, Volume I)
Never did Darcy allow himself more than one brandy before retiring for the night. On this night, he was on his third with no intention of stopping. The much anticipated opportunity to stand up with Miss Elizabeth at the ball had been a disaster.
He should have known.
The two weeks after the departure of Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth from Netherfield Park had accomplished much in the training of Bingley to take oversight over his estate. His sisters were frantically trying to arrange a ball he had dropped into their laps with little time to prepare. Unfazed by their constant complaints, the men hunted birds for the table, rode from fence line to fence line, and visited neighbors, including the Bennets.
One unpleasant note had occurred the day after the ladies left Bingley’s house. A quick ride into Meryton had found all five Bennet girls in the company of officers from the newly arrived militia. One of them was the notorious George Wickham.
Darcy’s ire instantly roused, he had ridden away from the happily gathered group.
Darcy had hoped he would not see the man again. Fortunately, until then he had not. Unfortunately, Miss Elizabeth had not only seen the miscreant, she had apparently listened to Wickham’s tales of woe against the Darcys of Pemberley.
Pulling his cravat loose, he yanked it from his neck.
How he loathed George Wickham. Darcy’s former friend had pulled his father’s attention away from his only son. He had torn the heart from his young sister’s chest when he abandoned her in Ramsgate to disappointed hopes. And he had slashed whatever good opinion Miss Elizabeth had held of Darcy.
The confrontation during their dance had been painful.
Sighing loudly, Darcy took another sip of his beverage of choice.
He had waited with eager anticipation for her to be free of her ungainly first partner so he could approach her with his invitation. With no doubt of her ready acceptance, he had stood before her, his hand extended. As she lightly touched his palm with her gloved fingers, a shiver of something he had never recalled experiencing before shot up his arm into the depths of his chest.
His heart, that frozen organ he had feared would never beat properly again, pulsed in a rapid rhythm that made it difficult to take in his next breath.
Who was this woman and what was she doing to him?
He smiled, then looked to the floor to make certain his feet were still touching the wooden surface for he felt lighter than air.
Then, she spoke. Her words ripped through him faster than the charged current had done.
Blast that Wickham!
Nonetheless, while her unfair accusations during their set robbed him of joy, it was the one in the early hours of the next morning as the ball was ending that shot fear through his soul.
“Mr. Darcy, are you to remain in Hertfordshire until the festal season?”
Her question was bold. He was surprised since their conversation during the dance had not gone well. Her ire appeared to have been as stirred as his.
However, out of politeness, Darcy sought an answer. His plans had been to stay at Netherfield Park another month before returning to London to spend the holidays with Georgiana. Never had he been a man to reveal his schedule to anyone outside of those who would be personally impacted by his decisions. Yet, he did not hesitate to respond.
“I will be leaving in four weeks.” Twenty-eight days. Six hundred and seventy-two hours. Before he could calculate the minutes, she inquired, stopping his brain from its mathematical spin.
“Will Mr. Bingley and his family celebrate Christmas in our shire?”
“I have no knowledge of him doing anything else.”
“I see,” she hesitated. “I would imagine the hills of Derbyshire heavily laden with snowfall is a sight to behold. There would be nothing like an evergreen tree caped in white
and streams weaving like dark ribbons on a light fabric to delight the senses.”
He sucked in his breath. She was hoping for an invitation to Pemberley? He was sorry to disappoint.
“I will be at Darcy House in London with my sister. She is studying with several masters and does not want to miss any lessons by traveling north.”
Miss Elizabeth nodded in understanding.
“You are kindness itself for considering her preferences.”
What did she know of Georgiana? What had Wickham told her?
Where the fast beating of his chest at the beginning of their dance together had been pleasurable, the tightness now squeezing his insides was painful.
“You have heard of my sister?” Even he heard the wariness in his tone.
“I have,” she looked in straight in the eye. “Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst have been generous in their praise of Miss Darcy.”
Her words were inoffensive and true. He had heard Miss Bingley proclaim Georgiana’s talents numerous times. Miss Elizabeth’s tone was kindly and her smile unaffected. Certainly, Wickham had said nothing about the failed elopement. His sister’s reputation was intact.
The relief he felt was tremendous, moving him to continue engaging the young lady he was standing alongside.
“Will you be celebrating at Longbourn?”
Miss Elizabeth’s attention had gone back to the dancers where Bingley was again standing up with Miss Bennet. As she watched the movements, her body gently swayed to the music, her smile growing with each second her eldest sister spent with his friend. She seemed startled at his question.
“Yes, sir,” she gazed back at him. “Our relatives from London will travel to Hertfordshire for the week.”
“Will you return with them to town?” Why in the world had he asked that? Did he want her in London? Of course not!
“I have no plans to do so at this time.”
“I see. Do you spend much time in London?”
Now, he had her full attention. Her voice was sharper than he had expected.
“Both Jane and I have stayed at the home of my aunt and uncle in Cheapside. While there we visit museums, shops, the theater, and whatever happens to pique our interests. Our relatives are the best of people. Nevertheless, we have no arrangements to leave Longbourn.”
Was that wistfulness? Was she hoping for an invitation, a guarantee they would further the acquaintance after he leaves? Surely, she would not be so bold.
Darcy admitted to some confusion. Where her words during their dance had been challenging, bordering on insulting, now, they were conciliatory, almost friendly, as if their earlier conversation had not taken place.
Yet, he could not repine. When he left in December, he would miss their lively exchanges. He would miss observing her diverting responses to the insults of Miss Bingley with dignity and poise. He would miss the sparkle of her eyes and the…
Oh, good heavens! She was attempting to ingratiate herself into his company. Next, she would ask to meet his sister. Then, she would be constantly underfoot, hoping for his attentions until she wore him down and he proposed.
Excusing himself quickly, he retired from the ball. The danger was real. He had created expectations in a female uniquely unqualified to be the next mistress of Pemberley. Quick action would be required to extract himself safely from her grasp. He needed to leave for London immediately!
Did he even want to? Of course, he did.
Rosings Park
“My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.”
- Elizabeth Bennet (Pride & Prejudice, Chapter VIII, Volume II)
One hundred and twenty-seven days later, Darcy finally understood that the pleasant conversation in the ballroom was, in truth, a disaster. What he had taken for interest on her part in inquiring about his and Bingley’s plans was, in fact, an interrogation by a skilled, ruthless investigator.
“Mr. Darcy, are you to remain in Hertfordshire until the festal season?”
“Will Mr. Bingley and his family celebrate Christmas in our shire?”
“I would imagine the hills of Derbyshire heavily laden with snowfall is a sight to behold.”
“We have no arrangements to leave Longbourn.”
Seemingly innocent questions and comments phrased to draw him into revealing what he normally kept to himself so she could avoid him, not spend more time with him. Of course, Bingley was welcome. Darcy was not.
She was sly. She was wily. She was a raving harridan.
Darcy kicked a pebble as he marched from Hunsford cottage to his aunt’s estate of Rosings Park. When the rock skidded off into the grass alongside the road, his ire increased as he had desperately wanted to kick it again. Hard!
The four months he had been away from Miss Elizabeth’s company had been a time of serious mental exertion for Darcy. Each time he thought of her, he would force himself to think on something else. Yet, the task was impossible. If he was able to control his dreams of her during his waking hours, the dark hours of the night welcomed her into his heart with no restraint.
He absolutely had not loved her. He could not. It was impossible.
Then, he saw her in Kent and his traitorous heart finally convinced him he had only been fooling himself. He was completely in love with the idea of having Elizabeth Bennet for his wife.
Like a military officer in the manner of his cousin Richard, Darcy plotted and strategized his approach. He first needed the opportunity to determine if he should propose courtship or marriage, then locate a romantic setting to make an offer that would bring her the greatest happiness.
What had started as a pleasant surprise, spying her alone on one of the garden paths in her yellow dress the color of the water lilies, had turned into a fiasco unlike anything he had ever encountered before. When she had told him her favorite walking route, he had been gleeful. She wanted him to meet her in private. Hah! She had not wanted him there at all.
His chest hurt.
He had wanted…oh, Lord…he had thought she wanted…Blast!
How many times had he practiced the words? Twice. He had practiced his failed proposal two times. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” What in heaven’s sake had she found so offensive? He loved her. Was that not good enough for her?
Well, no more. He was done with her—completely and irrevocably finished with Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Ha! Her middle name was probably Jezebel or some other hateful, scheming…
Inhaling sharply, he stopped in his tracks.
She had cried. No, not the kind of tears where she had hidden her face in her hands. Rather, the tears streamed from her eyes as she glared at him. Each droplet forced from an anger she was barely able to control. Not at first. Oh, no! Not until he reminded her of the inferiority and impropriety of her family did the first hint of moisture appear.
Then, she struck back quicker than a viper after its prey. “I have never desired your good opinion…”
Never? Not even during the days she had cared for her sister at Bingley’s estate? How could he have misread her to this measure? Never? Not even once?
He had been so sure—so certain of her response that he had suffered the sweetest dreams during the many nights after they had wandered the trails and paths of Rosings Park together. Dreams of working together, raising a family, guiding Georgiana through her presentation and seeing her off together when she wed.
Nightmares, all of them.
Alone on the gravel driveway in the darkness of night, the only sound to break the silence were the frogs croaking next to the pond and his pounding heart, Darcy fought to make some sense of his failure and her harsh words which were running over and over in his mind.
“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.”
“You could not have made me the offer of your hand
in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”
He was furious. How dare she? He had offered her everything she could never achieve on her own. From the time he had arrived upon this earth and the midwife had announced he was a son, he had been chased by mothers and daughters until his whole life he seemed to be running. Of all the females he could have selected to be Mrs. Darcy, she should have been the last one he asked. Yet, she was the only one he wanted…
Wickham? And, Bingley? These concerns overrode her sense of awe at his offer? How dare she throw the sad story George Wickham told and retold in Darcy’s face? Had he not suffered enough at the hands of that rake? And, separating Bingley from her eldest sister? Of course, he had encouraged his friend to depart Netherfield Park. Why would he not? Miss Jane Bennet gave no indication she had a personal attachment to Bingley.
Would he had been as kind to himself as he had been to his friend.
Darcy rubbed his chest.
Dropping his chin, he forced himself to ponder a future without her. His heart, that treacherous organ with what felt like lightning bolts shooting through it, had failed him. The subtle thawing of his frozen, frigid internal ticker had been for naught. Wishing he had never started on this journey of a thousand steps, Darcy returned to Rosings to suffer his pain…alone.
Early the next morning, Darcy wandered the grove in hopes of seeing her again. Not that his hopes were joyous. He knew the sight of her would renew the agony he had struggled with during the hours he placed word after painful word on the parchment to enlighten Miss Elizabeth as to the motives behind his actions.
His first sight of her robbed him of his breath. When she looked like she would turn and run, he hailed her, his voice easily traveling the distance in the stillness of the morning.
“Miss Elizabeth, will you do me the honor of reading this letter?” He thrust the envelope at her, afraid she would refuse.
He looked at her, truly looked. Dark shadows lurked under her eyes. The sparkling liveliness he had assumed he would see was replaced with red-rimmed eyes and a pinched look about her mouth. He, Fitzwilliam Darcy, had done this to her.
His Frozen Heart Page 5