by Riana Everly
Mr. Darcy blinked. “I see.” He clearly did, for there was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Elizabeth chose not to ask about this, but continued her tale.
“More importantly, young Samuel did not seem to understand things that were not said. If he were to misbehave, he did not understand gestures of reproof or angry voices. He did not react to the stern words, nor to the tone of voice used in issuing the reprimand. He did not seem to understand the relevance of an angry face, but would continue blithely on until he had to be punished quite severely for his misbehaviour. He could not read facial expressions or tone of voice, Mr. Darcy.” She looked up at her companion and noticed once more the flicker of awareness in his unusual green eyes. As he remained silent, she continued her story.
“After his sister was born, my aunt and uncle hired a new nursemaid for the boys. This lady was the one who beat him and locked him away. She claimed that that as well as being somehow demonic, Sammy was an idiot and unable to learn, despite him being able to read complicated material and memorise a great amount of information. She suggested he belonged in an institution. You can imagine how distraught my aunt and uncle were, for they saw the fierce intelligence in their son. She was soon dismissed. Fortunately, they soon found a new governess who was quite different. This lady, Miss Pierce, became Samuel’s staunchest ally. She knew of another young boy similar to Samuel, the charge of one of her friends, and she and her friend would discuss these boys in an attempt to learn how best to help them grow past their ever-increasing eccentricities.”
Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy very carefully. He gave no further indication of recognition, but nodded sagely, waiting for her to continue her recital. She tried to find another vignette with which she hoped to capture the forbidding man’s attention.
“By the time he was four, Samuel had developed a passion for tin soldiers. He would not play with them as most children do, however, but would line them up in endless rows, stretching from one room to another in the nursery. Did you ever do that with your toys, Mr. Darcy?”
Now Darcy blinked most disconcertedly and sputtered, “But… how did you know? I do not recall this, but my own nurse told me stories of how I would treat my own playthings thusly.”
“I suspected as much, sir, because the other boy Miss Pierce knew about did the same thing. Likewise, this boy - Henry, I believe is his name - would sit with his sisters in their schoolroom, but would not play with them as most children do. He would hover around them, but would not know how to engage them in a joint activity. And when Samuel was placed in a situation with other children, this is how he, too behaved. And he could not, without a great deal of anxiety, look at his playmates, parents or teacher in the eye for any length of time.”
“As did I,” Mr. Darcy volunteered. “My own nurse and governesses spent many, many hours instructing me on the necessity to maintain this eye contact. It is a habit somewhat ingrained in me, I believe, yet even now it is something I do only with difficulty.” Reluctantly he admitted, “It seems I have a lot in common with your cousin and his friend.”
“Indeed it does, sir.” Elizabeth tried to keep her voice gentle and comforting, wondering if her efforts were of any avail to Mr. Darcy. “But let me also tell you once more, sir, young Sammy is extremely smart. He learned to read before he was three years of age, for no sooner had he begun speaking at that age, than he would alarm my uncle by reading the newspaper and reciting at breakfast the results of the horse races. He never developed an interest in the races themselves, but was fascinated with the numbers and times, and with the betting that took place around these events. My uncle, as you might imagine, was not so pleased when his child - still in leading strings - began suggesting which horses had the best odds in that day’s races! He also has a ferocious proficiency with numbers, as well as a remarkable memory. And yet he still cannot understand a joke, or tell with ease when someone is happy, or angry, with his actions.”
“You might be describing me in my own childhood, Miss Bennet. I admit to being fascinated by your young cousin. But what can you mean by imparting this information to me?”
“May I ask you some rather personal questions, Mr. Darcy?”
He nodded but the look on his face suggested some reluctance.
“When you enter a room full of people, what is your reaction?”
Without thinking the man replied most strongly, “I hate it! I cringe at the noise and at the chaos, and I dread the thought of being forced into close physical proximity with people I do not know. Having strangers touch me causes the utmost anxiety in me. I dread that almost as much as having to try to engage these people in meaningless conversation.” He seemed comfortable with her own hand upon his arm, but she mentioned it not.
“And yet you persevere.” This was a statement, not a question.
“I must. I was taught my obligations and the need to engage in societal affairs, as much as I might dread them. I find I manage somehow by withdrawing into myself, almost as if I build a wall around my consciousness to prevent the harshest of the sensations from assaulting me. I learned, partly by my own devices, partly from the relentless pressures on behalf of my parents, how to survive these events, how to give the appropriate responses to expected questions, how to bow and how to appear to be present. But all the while, my mind clamours for my body to leave the space, and I hide behind my protective wall.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “For a taciturn man, Mr. Darcy, you have spoken most eloquently just now. That protective wall hides the soul of a poet.”
“Words are not my enemy, Miss Bennet. Having to produce them without the opportunity to give each its due consideration is. I write much more gracefully and expressively than I speak. And yet, you still have not answered my question.”
“Nor have I finished asking my own! But fear not: I will relieve your curiosity. Some months after Miss Pierce began her tenure in the Gardiner nursery, my aunt and uncle invited me to stay with them for a time. Because my parents had no governess for us at home, my aunt thought I might benefit from a year in London and from any matters Miss Pierce might teach me. I found in her a friend more than a teacher, although I learned so very much from her as well, matters both intellectual and social. What I did learn most especially from her, however, was how she dealt with Samuel. She had a special talent for reaching him where others were unable, and it seemed I had some of that ability as well, for Sammy responded so very well to me. With Miss Pierce, we worked with him tirelessly, teaching him the skills that nature did not bestow upon him.”
Mr. Darcy nodded in approval and she went on with her speech.
“We realised that whereas I had to struggle with French grammar, the nuances of the subjunctive were second nature to my cousin. However, he could not discern by his mother’s scowl or crossed arms that she was upset that he had bitten the baby. But he is, as I mentioned, a prodigiously smart young boy, and we decided, Miss Pierce and I, that he could learn these skills, just as I learned French. It might take a great deal of time and effort, but we would succeed! And thus we devised a scheme for teaching him and we began our efforts.”
They were walking now down a laneway that led through the park of the far side of the hillock, towards some of the crofters’ cottages visible in the far distance, open fields on either side. The sun had begun to beat down quite strongly upon them, and Lizzy felt her head getting warm. She withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket to dab at the perspiration that was accumulating on her forehead. Mr. Darcy stared at her for a moment and then said, “I am sorry, Miss Elizabeth. I should have noticed the day was growing warm. Shall we return to the folly where it is cooler to continue our conversation? I admit I am most intrigued by all you have to say.”
“Thank you, sir. That would be a wise idea. It also demonstrates, to some degree, how I might help you.” Elizabeth caught herself too late. She had not thought to make her offer of assistance yet, before allowing the enigmatic Mr. Darcy to become more comfortable with her. It was, however, too l
ate to take back the words, and she dreaded his reaction, for he had most certainly heard them.
At her statement, Mr. Darcy most suddenly stopped walking, and Elizabeth could see him return to the taciturn and unapproachable man she had first encountered.
“Help me?” he asked, incredulous, and dropped her arm as he stepped backwards.
She had spoken; she had no choice now but to continue. “Yes, sir. I believe I have the means and experience with my cousin to help you.”
“You believe I am in need of help?” The voice grew stony.
“I believe I may assist you in being easier in society.” It was growing more and more difficult for Elizabeth to keep her voice friendly and even.
Darcy’s shoulders stiffened and his eyes grew cold. His interested and friendly demeanour from moments ago faded in an instant, to be replaced with the hauteur that had repelled all who had tried to befriend him.
“Thank you, Miss Elizabeth,” he intoned coldly, “but I do not believe I require the ‘help’ of one such as yourself.” His emphasis on the word “help” conveyed to her everything she needed to know of his opinion of the matter. He stepped back, bowed stiffly and managed a formal “madam,” before striding away without a backwards glance.
Chapter Three
A Second Chance
Elizabeth stood where he had left her, amazed and mortified at his sudden change of mood and his abrupt and unqualified refusal to even consider what she might have to offer him. She had not expected his immediate and undying gratitude, or his complete unquestioning acceptance of her assistance, but to be so completely shut down and so insulted in the process had her on the verge of tears, and she stormed off down the path through the trees. “One such as I?” she asked the air around her incredulously as she marched. “One such as I?” Then, overwhelmed by a sudden rush of anger, she spat, “Oh, odious man! I was right the first time. Whatever else he might have to manage in his life, he is insufferable!” She snorted in a most unladylike manner as she turned to march back to the folly.
“Odious? Insufferable?” A voice came from behind a small copse of trees. “You can only be talking about my cousin.” Two coat tails emerged from the trees, followed by the rest of Colonel Fitzwilliam, as he attempted to extricate his hound from whatever was buried in the pile of leaves and twigs the animal had found. “Come, Barghest,” he commanded the dog, “Leave off! Come. Sit!” Having at last dragged the hound onto the path, he tied its lead to a tree and performed a gallant bow to Elizabeth, excusing his state of disarray and his uncommon entrance.
“We were taking some air when this hellhound smelled something in the wood and tore off, pulling me after him. I believe it is the remains of a squirrel or some other poor creature in that pile. We strive to be better gentlemen than you see before you, despite appearances. Is that not so, Barghest?” he demanded of his dog. The dog did not reply, but Elizabeth made the appropriate responses.
“I must apologise for my rudeness, but I could help but overhearing your angry words,” the colonel continued. “What has my odious and insufferable cousin done now? He has a particular talent for vexing and annoying all who would befriend him with an ill-chosen word or an arrogant sneer. He is a good man, despite his hopeless manners. I shall not ask you to forgive whatever he said to you, but perhaps you might consider his unusual nature.”
He offered his arm to Elizabeth, smiling his radiant smile at her. “Were you returning to the folly?” He glanced along the path to where the elaborate structure perched atop the hillock in the distance. “Please, allow us to escort you thither.” He gestured to the hound, now lying calmly under the shade of a tree.
“Thank you, sirs,” Elizabeth curtseyed to the dog and then to the colonel.
“Dare I ask, Miss Bennet,” the colonel asked as they walked, “what my cousin did say to upset you so? Perhaps these are ruffled feathers I may be able to smooth.”
“Alas, sir, I only offered him some history from my own family and a suggestion leading from that. More I dare not say, for I would not break Mr. Darcy’s confidence, no matter that he did not demand I keep it. If you would know the nature of our disagreement—if such it was—I would importune you to ask him yourself, for this matter relates to him and not to me.”
With all the social graces that his cousin lacked, Colonel Fitzwilliam quickly changed the subject to one more suitable for walking on a lovely spring day with a handsome young woman, and the morning’s exercise concluded much more pleasantly than it had begun. But still, Elizabeth could not get Mr. Darcy and his similarity to her cousin from her mind, nor her conviction that, should he allow it, she might be of great assistance to him.
When she returned to the parsonage, Mr. Collins was out calling on some parishioners, but Charlotte was at home, writing letters in her sunny parlour. Spying her friend, she invited her to join her in the comfortable space. “Lizzy, where have you been? The sun is high already and you cannot have broken your fast. Let me call for some tea and bread.”
This Charlotte did, and the two women sat in pleasant conversation. If Elizabeth had, for a time, resented her friend for making the choice to marry Mr. Collins, she saw now that Charlotte was not unhappy. Her friend had wed a man Elizabeth could not respect, and was committed to a lifetime suffering his inanities, but Charlotte had profited from the arrangement, and had a comfortable home and the prospects of a family and security, which she had not enjoyed before. Although it could never have been Lizzy’s choice, it had not been a bad one for her friend. She sighed something to that effect and was surprised when Charlotte chose that direction in their conversation.
“I made my choice, Lizzy,” she explained. “I knew what sort of a man he was, and saw that for all his faults, he was not a bad person. He has never been cruel or cross, and indeed, whilst he does not love me—nor I him—I feel appreciated and cherished, and there is a comfort in that which I cannot express in words. It is true that he often says things I wish he would not, but all his lack of sense and elegance cannot detract from his innate good nature and decency. Sometimes what we see on the outside disguises the truth that lies buried deeper down.”
This gave Elizabeth great pause to think. Colonel Fitzwilliam had said something rather similar about Mr. Darcy just that morning, imploring her to see beyond the rough surface to the diamond that lay beneath. Could it be so? Was that rude and curt dismissal she had suffered at his denial merely one more reflection of his inability to sense what was appropriate in conversation? It had seemed so very deliberate and pointedly personal, but was that the true intention behind those cruel words? Or was this yet another example of his great discomfort at confronting new experiences and ideas?
The ladies finished their tea and turned to their separate tasks. Charlotte had some correspondence to complete, and Lizzy had promised to sew a doll’s dress for one of the youngsters of the parish. Her thoughts returned again and again to the enigma that was Mr. Darcy when the door to the morning room flew open and Mr. Collins burst through, all in a fluster and waving a sheet of paper wildly through the air.
“Charlotte my dear! Cousin Elizabeth! An invitation! It arrived only now from Rosings. Lady Catherine has invited us all for tea only this moment! Hurry, for we shall be late!”
Charlotte leapt from her seat and began to put away her letters and papers.
“Is the invitation for today?” Elizabeth had to ask. “Surely Lady Catherine cannot expect you to be available for tea at her whim! Do you not have other tasks that need to be done? Parishioners who are awaiting your visit, or your duties in the schoolroom? And Charlotte has a house to manage, which cannot always be interrupted by her ladyship’s demands!”
Charlotte stopped her sorting to turn to her friend. “But Lizzy, it is often like this. Lady Catherine cannot imagine that we have any duties more pressing than to attend her. She is our patroness, and our comfort depends upon her goodwill. My letters can wait. What will you wear? Oh, I must find Maria! Where can that girl have gone?”
Elizabeth looked down upon her dress, which she had worn that morning for her ill-fated walk. It was suitable for the fields and laneways of the area, but not for tea in a grand house. “I have not so many fine frocks with me, but I am certain I can find something suitable. Please excuse me.” She gave a resigned sigh and returned to her bedroom to change.
The party from the Hunsford parsonage might be expected at once, but no carriage was put at their disposal and they were obliged to walk the short distance to the great house. Maria chattered on about whether there might be apple tarts or fruit bread, and Mr. Collins fussed over his coat, asking Charlotte again and again whether or not there were flecks of lint on the back, although uncaring of the detail that the coat was out of fashion by five years at least. For her part, Lizzy was concerned more for whom she might meet once seated in whichever grand room the Lady chose for her guests.
Would the colonel and Mr. Darcy be expected to entertain their aunt’s guests at tea? Or would they be able to claim prior commitments that might excuse them from such a frivolous event? At the thought of Mr. Darcy and his curt words that very morning, Elizabeth’s mood soured. How could she feign polite words and exchange pleasantries with a man who had so cruelly called her “one such as yourself?” Even a man with Mr. Darcy’s social difficulties must know how insulting those words were. Would he have the gall to face her again after such abuse? She could well accept the notion of aiding a man with no ability to understand unspoken meanings, but a man with no conscience? That was impossible!
Suddenly the very notion of setting foot inside Rosings was horrifying and she wondered if she ought to beg off now, before the party arrived. Charlotte could claim some minor ailment on the part of her friend, surely! But Mr. Collins would disapprove, and whilst she cared little for his opinion, he would not hold it close to his chest, but would announce it widely, and Lizzy could not conscience bringing Lady Catherine’s wrath down upon Charlotte in any manner. Further, if Mr. Darcy were present, the colonel would almost certainly be as well, and his company was pleasant enough that she might, for his sake, abide his cousin’s. Thus, with a deep breath, she steeled herself for the encounter and forced her feet to move one before the other until they arrived at their destination.