“My love, are you absolutely certain? Three days ago, I was the last man in the world whom you could be prevailed upon to marry. If you need more time, Elizabeth, I could… I would wait”—he amended, if only to be truthful.
Her hand came up to stroke his face.
“I think I have already learnt everything I needed to.” Then she glanced up and laughed through her tears. “Besides, it seems we have little choice in the matter, and a lengthy and decorous courtship is no longer an option.”
“Oh?”
Puzzled, he followed her gaze and they stood cheek to cheek to look up together in the direction she had indicated. Laughter rumbled in his chest. Despite the swirls of mist shrouding the house, he could easily spot Fitzwilliam watching them from what must have been the drawing room windows. Two frames to the left, in the music room most likely, there was Anne watching them as well. Fitzwilliam gave him a mock salute, then had a cheerful bow for his future cousin. Anne was grinning widely—unheard-of for her—and, when spotted, she gave them an impudent little wave, then vanished from her post. Fitzwilliam was more laggard in showing the same courtesy, but at long last he did. Darcy chuckled and was about to seal his most public betrothal with another kiss when movement at one of the windows above the piano nobile chanced to catch his eye. He squinted for a better look, only to discover Mrs. Jenkinson, her impassive countenance altered beyond recognition into wicked, positively vicious glee. She did not school her features into a different sentiment, nor showed any remorse at being found there, but merely walked away—and, throwing his head back, Darcy burst into unholy laughter.
“What amuses you so, my love?” Elizabeth asked, and the breathtakingly exquisite novelty of the appellation made this completely the wrong time for Darcy to explain how he had suddenly learnt that the quiet Mrs. Jenkinson was in Anne’s full confidence about her matrimonial intentions, or rather lack thereof, and also that she heartily detested Lady Catherine.
So, he only said, “Come,” and taking her hand, he led his future wife away from the house and from prying eyes.
“Where are we going?” he heard her ask as they were losing themselves deeper and deeper into the misty garden.
He turned to her and squeezed her hand.
“Do you trust me?”
“Implicitly,” Elizabeth replied with an impish little smile and a look of such warmth that he was filled anew with love for her, and a boundless joy his heart could scarce encompass.
She did trust him. She had just entrusted him with her heart and her future. Thus, out of character as it might have been for the solemn young master of Pemberley, particularly in the manicured gardens of Rosings, Darcy lifted his future bride to twirl her in a playful circle, before leading her into an alcove so abundant in greenery as to ensure they had all the privacy a newly-engaged couple might have ever hoped for.
He did not dwell on entertaining thoughts, such as how little he had imagined in his boyhood, when he had first discovered this alcove’s uses in hiding him from Lady Catherine and her minions, that twenty years later it would shelter him and the woman he adored. Or what Lady Catherine might say if she ever heard of the practical uses he had just found for her pretentious topiary. He would amuse Elizabeth with those notions later. For now, the warmth of her embrace and the intoxicating thrill of her kisses was sufficient inducement to forget a vast deal more than Lady Catherine and her mist-shrouded garden.
By the time they felt compelled to return to the house lest Fitzwilliam and Anne no longer be able to prevent Her Ladyship from sending out a search party led by Mr. Collins, spears of cheerful sunlight were already piercing the suffocating mist that had been hanging for too long over Rosings.
Joana Starnes lives in the south of England with her family. Over the years, she has swapped several hats—physician, lecturer, clinical data analyst—but feels most comfortable in a bonnet. She has been living in Georgian England for decades in her imagination and plans to continue in that vein till she lays hands on a time machine. She is the author of seven Austen-inspired novels: From This Day Forward ~ The Darcys of Pemberley, The Subsequent Proposal, The Second Chance, The Falmouth Connection, The Unthinkable Triangle, Miss Darcy’s Companion, and Mr Bennet’s Dutiful Daughter. You can connect with Joana through her website www.joanastarnes.co.uk and on Facebook via her timeline and her author page, All Roads Lead to Pemberley.
Clandestiny
KaraLynne Mackrory
Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immoveable from surprise.
Chapter XLIII.
Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?”
It took quite an estimable degree of effort but I managed to keep my expression to a raised brow. What was Miss Elizabeth about? Though her own admixture of pertness and challenge was, as always, entirely bewitching, I had begun to suspect tonight’s performance contained a bit more of an edge. Her sharp tongue, delightful as it was, was aimed with precision at myself. The dance afforded me a moment’s reflection after my riposte, as the ladies performed a fleuret, allowing me the pleasure of seeing Elizabeth truly glide through the movement, the ribbons hanging down from her bodice the length of the gown accenting her trim waist, before she again placed her delicate hand upon my own gloved one.
I kept my gaze forward, as was proper for the dance, but could not help noticing the twitch of her lips as she then answered my question.
“Both,” replied Elizabeth archly, “for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition; unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.”
Clever girl. Clever, teasing girl. It was all that I could do not to tug on the four fingers within my own and prompt her to stumble into my own unsocial arms, the amazement of the whole room be damned. She was like a heady drink I could not seem to refuse. Even now as she smugly arched her brow at me, her neck curving up to my inspection as she anticipated my reply—God in Heaven, but she was temptation personified!
What was she about though, to be flirting so, in full view of the room? I began to suspect the warmth climbing up my neck to be less from the exertions of the dance and more from the ministrations of a certain lady’s carefully, though publicly, performed allurements. I experienced a moment’s pang for this most certain evidence of her raised expectations—ones I absolutely could not fulfill—before I stamped them from my consciousness. This was to be a onetime indulgence. One dance—before adding the healing balm of many miles between this siren and myself as I left Netherfield on the morrow.
“This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure,” said I. “How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say.” I paused, pleased with the stirring of something in her regard at my words. “You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”
She made her reply, though it was, to my disappointment, a conciliating statement to end the debate. We resumed our attention upon the dance, though it was not long before I soon began to crave her attention again. I was like a jealous animal finding her consideration not upon myself but on the dance. I watched her from the edge of my vision, begging her in my thoughts to speak again. This need to engage with her had built since her stay at Netherfield to nurse Miss Bennet, and I had not got the better of it, as evidenced by the building pressure in my chest. It felt similar to when my cousin Richard and I would go diving at Black Moss Pot in the Lake District. My lungs felt apt to burst, the pressure building as I kicked off the rock at the bottom and raised my head to watch the water’s surface come closer. Up and up I rose, with each foot’s ascent bringing more pressure upon my lungs for air until, with a burst of energy, I expelled my breath as the water broke across my face.
I had to speak then if she would not. I had to ha
ve that breath of air that her attention gave me. I could no longer countenance her studied attentiveness on the backs of the dancers ahead of us.
With a rush of words that sounded to my ears like a burst through the surface, I called forth her eyes to mine with, “Do you often walk to Meryton?”
She considered me for a moment before answering, and her eyes upon mine were like great gulps of air to my hypoxemic soul. I trampled down that voice in my mind that registered the suffocation I would feel when I left.
She spoke then and I was very nearly too caught up in the pleasure of the sound to register its meaning. Something about a new acquaintance. I forced my mind to shift from the pleasure of memorizing her countenance to reflect upon our last meeting in Meryton.
Chest constricting again, this time having nothing to do with Elizabeth’s allure, the heat rising up my neck now spoke not of her tempting presence but of the dawning realization of her allusion to him. I shuddered as anger rippled through my frame, my manifold effort to disguise my reaction to her words barely succeeding. God, do not let me hear his name pass her lips, I pled in a silent prayer. To have him in Meryton, of all places, was a cruel twist of fate, and I had once again an admixture of pain, anger, and betrayal swirling in my gut at the remembrance of seeing him beside her on the streets of this insignificant town. Of seeing him smiling cavalierly at me as he tipped his hat, as if he had not attempted to shatter my world some months back.
I happened to glance at Elizabeth then; the question in her eyes was not enough to pull me from the black anger within. However, the slightest of a pinch about her eyes settled me enough to prepare a controlled response. She glanced briefly to our clasped hands, and it was then that I realized my grip had become quite firm. Immediately, I lessened the pressure upon her small fingers, remorse flowing into the arterial pathways wherein the anger and hate had traversed. It was enough for me to reply with tolerable control.
“Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends—whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain.”
I was pleased with my response. It spoke the truth without betraying the agitated state of my mind. Elizabeth seemed to digest it with some measure of incredulity. What poison could the scoundrel have administered to her in such a short acquaintance?
“He has been so unlucky as to lose your friendship,” Elizabeth replied with emphasis, and I felt my jaw clench painfully. “and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life.”
Though I wished most of all to change the topic, at once regretting and condemning this addiction I have for her attention that prompted me to speak at all, I could not allow such a statement to go unanswered. Wickham, how even his name upon my thoughts was vile, did not deserve her sympathy. I could not stand the thought of it. Drawing a deep breath, I prepared to warn her when we were interrupted by that circus master of a man, Sir William.
Our dance being interrupted to hear him speak nonsense was at once a distasteful reminder of the backward manners of this little hamlet—a welcome reminder. A quick assessment of Elizabeth revealed she too was displeased by the interruption. The side of my mouth quirked up slightly into a smile as I saw that, despite our previous topic, she did not wish to be kept from her dance with me. It was attuned exactly to be the antidote I needed to eradicate the toxin Wickham was to my sensibilities. I took pleasure in watching as her cheeks, pinked already from our exertions, warmed further at something Sir William said, her eyes dropping to the tips of her dancing slippers. My eyes followed to her toes only briefly before my ears, curious as to what could prompt Elizabeth’s blush, attuned to Sir William’s droning again.
Much to my surprise he was alluding, quite astoundingly, to the possibility of a marriage. Surely not! I could not have been so transparent as that. But no, he was speaking of Bingley and Miss Bennet. The relief that coursed through me then was great, even if it brought with it a stain of disappointment. My eyes followed to the subjects in question. I saw my friend standing nearby the fair Miss Bennet in what was clearly a proprietary manner. My eyes narrowed at the impression that, if Sir William was bold enough to voice, was surely on the minds of every attendant at this ball.
I felt her eyes upon me then, and I hoped that my concerns on the match did not show. It would not do to be so public about them. I did not wish to embarrass my friend nor the lady by being so blatant. I turned slowly to meet her scrutiny, confused by the darkened look in her eyes.
Sir William left us and we haltingly resumed what was left of our dance. Elizabeth was no longer the spritely, engaging partner of before the interruption, nor was she the impassioned defender of Wi—him, thank God in Heaven.
It should have troubled me to have been prevented from warning her regarding my former friend, but I could not find it in me to feel anything but relief to have had the topic dropped so ceremoniously. I could not like giving him anymore of my time with her. But, though we attempted further discourse, it was for naught. I was not so entirely master of myself to propose new topics for conversation, and she did not seem inclined to offer either.
I half-heartedly suggested books, to which she archly replied it to be preposterous. I felt a tinge of affection for her further weave itself into my heart at her attempt at playfulness and at her avowal that a discussion of books was impossible in a ballroom. The only remaining pleasure I took in our dance was then to have her claim a wish to understand my character.
The moment came when the orchestra rested and she boldly faced me full on. Her shoulders were square and pressed back, giving her figure the full benefit of a woman’s beauty. Desire slinked up from my feet, consuming me as it burned a path through my whole body. It was torture. It was pleasure. But alas, reason surfaced and I could acknowledge: it was not for me. I hardly remember my reply, though it contained something of a warning to not sketch my character yet, plus a vague implication of future opportunities providing better results—although I knew it to be a lie. There was no future for us, no chance for better understanding. Though it felt like a pervasive ache in my chest to accept, this was my last evening with her.
Of a sudden, I could take no more and felt the urgent need for solitude and distance. I bowed to her deeply, for I could not do otherwise to her—to the Elizabeth of my heart. I left her with her relations and began to stalk around the outside of the room, hoping that this agitation and unrest of my heart would slack with the distance, with the familiar.
I had only accepted that I could not regain my equilibrium in company and needed the refuge of my private study, a small room encapsulated at the end of the corridor that Bingley had granted for my personal use, when I was accosted again. This time by a stout clergyman I had never seen before.
He began, much to my surprise, to introduce himself. It was the most disgraceful display of manners I had ever been so unfortunate to witness in all my seven and twenty years. My shock became my ally for it kept me from displaying equally distasteful manners in the form of a severe cut to this presumptuous oaf.
I registered that he spoke of my aunt Catherine, his benefactress it seemed. That explained, perhaps, his wish to speak to me but did not account for his lack of proper introduction. I regained enough of my countenance to attempt to excuse myself twice but to no avail. So great was my agitation now that I could scarcely have held back the sharp retort and set down that was at once on the edge of my tongue when the little man again stunned me by uttering her name.
“ . . . your dance with Miss Elizabeth, my fair cousin . . . ” He buzzed on; his words once again lost to my thoughts.
Mr. Collins. His name. A cousin of Miss Elizabeth? My eyes instinctively searched the room for her. My heart stumbled a few beats as they connected with the steady gaze of Elizabeth, looking directly at me. Our eyes seemed locked for a moment and I could see within hers mortification and a building fire. The mortification I could understand—for her relations were truly awful. But the fire—the anger—I could not. M
y legs, of their own accord, stepped towards her when she broke eye contact and, with a dip of her head, she began towards the ballroom’s exit.
“You’ll excuse me, sir.” I tossed back at the parson as I began my circulatory pursuit of Elizabeth. What madness had consumed me, I know not, but I was compelled to go after her. My heart racing, I was nearly upon her. Alas, the last I saw was her long, lavender ribbon slip through the door before it closed behind her.
When I reached the doors, some impulse stopped me. My hand was raised and pressed against the grain of the wood, though my legs would not go further. My heart began to beat fiercely at the manner in which I had nearly lost myself. Coolly, I turned around, and it was confirmed that at least the boorish parson had registered my single-minded pursuit of Elizabeth, for his eyes were upon me. I could not go to her now, not just for her reputation—it censured every logical thought my poor, addlepated mind could throw out in the fight against my heart.
Instead, though the desire to escape to my study once again gripped me so fiercely I could hardly think of anything else, I backed against the wall near the exit for a few minutes. I would make my own exit soon enough, though not so close to Elizabeth’s as to cause suspicion.
When enough time had elapsed, I slipped out of the ballroom; the coolness of the hallway compared to the hot press of bodies within was a sudden surprise. To my surprise, Elizabeth had not gone far, or I had not waited as long as I had suspected, because I witnessed that same fluttering ribbon following her again around the right side of the large staircase, down the corridor that led to the ladies’ retirement room.
Though temptation once again flared inside me, reason had enough of my mind to allow me to choose wisely—and take the corridor to the left of the staircase instead and all the way back to the dark wooden door to my refuge.
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 11