“Lucky for you, the encounter was brief.”
I could not take her meaning. Her words drew my brows together in confusion.
“But I would appreciate it if you did not repeat it.”
My face relaxed; she was merely concerned with proprieties. I could assure her on this point. While it had been my intent to leave Netherfield on the morrow—I knew I must revise my plan. No, it would be impossible to forsake her now.
“You are correct, for until I speak with your father, it would not be proper—”
“My father? There is no need for that, sir.”
“I did not think you were of age? Besides, you would wish for his blessing.”
She sputtered, and her reaction once again drew my brows together. I had known she was Mr. Bennet’s favorite. Even if she were of age, she could not have wished to marry without his approval.
Elizabeth seemed to regain a measure of composure, for her expression cleared and she stood taller. “You can hardly think that I am expecting you to marry me.”
So stunned by her words was I that I stepped back into the armchair near the fire. For most certainly I was expecting we should marry. If not because of our recent intimacies, for the fact that I loved her!
“Elizabeth, be reasonable. You must know marriage is—”
“Please do not make free with my name, sir. I would not require marriage of you, sir. I do not believe we were seen, nobody would require it of your honor, and I certainly would not wish to force you into a marriage with me.”
“Force me?” By all that was holy, I could not understand what was prompting such a speech from Elizabeth. I acknowledged I should not have used her name without permission—but surely by now we were beyond those formalities.
She crossed her arms and stared defiantly at me. “I am not tolerable enough to tempt you to make me your wife, sir.”
I scoffed at this and stalked towards her, secretly smug about the way she drew in sudden breath and backed against the companion chair to mine. I stopped only when she was trapped there between myself and the chair.
“I should think you would know you are more than tolerable and quite enough to tempt me, madam.” I pointedly looked to the wall with the secret door—the very wall where moments ago we were pressed against each other in a kiss most passionate.
Elizabeth met my eyes again, and all the fight had left her. Instead what brought me up short was the softness and defeat in her voice.
“But you do not even like me, sir.” I opened my mouth to protest immediately when her next words stopped me. “And I do not like you.”
I suppose the clock kept ticking. If pressed, I might have even been able to hear it where it sat upon the mantel only a short distance from us. But when Elizabeth uttered those words, I could not have been more lost to time. The words kept playing across the backs of my unseeing eyes, a jumble in my mind, echoing in a frequency I could not register. Soon the six words transformed themselves into recollection after recollection of our past interludes. Her time at Netherfield, the dinner at Lucas Lodge, our dance not an hour ago. It all looked so different under the lamp of those six words. So lost was I to my internal struggle that I did not realize that I was still in the same attitude as I was before her lips—her lips—ones whose joy I just discovered—uttered those six words. And I do not like you. Deliberately, I came to myself and withdrew from my position that had trapped Elizabeth to the chair.
What a beastly man I was! I looked about for some excuse, wishing there was some easy reason for the madness, to help explain and acquit myself of the brutality of my past assumption. Here I was profoundly overjoyed to spend this time with Elizabeth, readily expressing my love and desire for her, and all the while, it was not received with pleasure—but with . . .
I met Elizabeth’s eyes again and could see upon her expression that my own disturbance of mind was not as well hidden as I would have hoped. In fact, I detected a measure of pity and regret at her words. My stomach churned, and the taste in my mouth turned bitter. I neither wanted, nor needed, her pity. Fool man that I am.
I knew I should say something. And yet, what was there to say? I told her I loved her, and she had said she did not even like me.
But then I realized . . .
I had not told her I loved her. And I most certainly could not now. I could at least protect myself of that embarrassment. Instead, I turned around and walked to the hearth. My head bent to the fire now burning lower. Oddly enough, I thought that I ought to put another log on the fire.
A rustle of skirts behind me reminded me that I was not alone. I turned as Elizabeth approached me with the evident wish to say something. I straightened, prepared to allow her whatever justice she wished to mete out upon my head, for it was rightly deserved.
But then she must have changed her mind for her eyes could not reach mine, and instead said, “Good evening, sir.”
She turned toward the secret door and aligned herself back with it once again, her gaze meeting mine then. Though my mind protested mightily, self-preservation at the front, my heart beat so fiercely that I felt again as if I was coming up out of the water—needing the air that Elizabeth alone could give me.
“Wait! Please, just a moment more of your time.” My words broke into a whisper. My chest constricted as I held my breath waiting for her reply.
It was nearly too quiet to hear when it did come a moment later.
“I will be missed.”
Acknowledging this truth, still I pled. “Just a moment more, if you will.”
She barely nodded and stepped away from the door but hesitated. I hated that hesitation—hated that I had given her reason to pause.
“I promise you will be safe with me.” I did not wish to kiss her again, not if it meant the kiss would be repugnant to her. How I wished our kisses before were not stained with such. My eyes blinked for in my mind—the ever logical being that it was, until this point—so unwelcome a voice—reminded me that for a moment during our kiss in the alcove . . . my kiss was not repugnant. Warmth and hope spread through me as I allowed the memory of her reaction to fill me completely. She had responded to me—with passion! Elizabeth was not totally inclined to dislike me.
I indicated she seat herself, and I took the companion seat with careful composure. I did not want my sudden hope to register in my mannerisms and frighten her away. For a moment, I contemplated my next words. When I had asked her to stay a moment, it was an impulse—a desperate plea—of the moment, and I knew that this was all I could afford to ask of her. A moment. With that I knew now was not the time to hedge around. It was time to be plain.
“You have made your opinion of me clear, but I begin to realize I had not the same opportunity. Please allow me to do so now.” Elizabeth simply raised her brow by way of answer. “From almost the beginning of our acquaintance, I have found myself in the possession of a most ardent admiration for you. You say you do not like me but I can assure you, Miss Elizabeth, that you have been most dear to me. I have admired you from afar, though. I—”
“Sir—”
“Please, a moment more.” When my eyes met hers, she must have seen something of my profound feelings, for her expression softened and she nodded her assent.
“In truth, I came to love you. You see, I have never wooed a woman before. It is clear now to me that I do not know how to please a woman worthy of being pleased.” I held her eyes as I said this and would not allow my uncertainty to look away. “I have not wooed you well enough, it seems, and I would very much wish to. Could you . . . would it be too much to ask you to tell me where I have erred?”
Clearly, I had embarrassed Elizabeth but I could not care. I needed to know what it was she held against me—for I could not make her love me if I did not know what offenses I had given her.
After a few silent moments, wherein I began to despair I would hear anything at all from her, she smiled somewhat kindly at me, her lips perking up in that delightfully pert manner I adored. My heart so
ared.
“Shall I list them in alphabetical order, or would you prefer chronological, sir?”
I could not help it; I laughed quietly at her playful manner, and a welcome release of tension in my shoulders slipped away. It was one of the reasons I loved her: her wonderful way of easing my way conversationally. Without thought, I shifted forward on my chair and availed myself of her hand. It was only after I felt her soft skin against mine that I realized I had once again acted so unguardedly and in a bold manner. I kept my eyes down, not wishing to see her playful smile turn to a frown.
But she did not pull her hand away. Instead she began to speak in hushed tones—almost apologetic in expression—of the offenses I had caused her. She spoke of the Meryton assembly, and I knew mortification and misery at the sound of my own words upon her lips—at once realizing her allusion to them earlier. She spoke of my general disdain for the feelings of others; she spoke of conceit and pride and judgment of her neighbors and of her family. Though I knew every word she spoke was the unvarnished truth, and I felt the weight of each offense upon my heart—I marveled at the kindness in the way she expressed them. She did not speak them to lash out or rebuke me. Her gentleness worked much better and proved to me all the more of her worth. I knew it must not be at all comfortable for her to sit with me in the near darkness of an empty room, her hand in mine, and speak of my manifold disgraces.
When she finished, there was a poignant silence. My shame was profound, and I brought her hand up to my face and kissed it gently. Whispering into the suppleness of her skin, I implored, “Is there anything that can atone? I know nothing can . . . I am grieved.”
She made some noise to protest but I could not let her absolve me so easily. Looking up into her eyes, I was surprised to note they glistened slightly.
“I am everything you said and more. Pride has been my friend and prejudice my means. It is no wonder you do not like me.”
My head bobbed in acceptance as I reverently placed her hand once again upon her knee. Rubbing my own hands on my legs, I stood and turned my back to her as I once again stared unseeingly at the dying fire.
A rustle of skirts again prompted me to speak, though this time I did not turn around to witness her escape. “Thank you for your time, Eliz . . . Miss Elizabeth.” I anticipated another spell of disgust at my inability to properly address her even then.
“Considering our recent encounter, sir, perhaps Elizabeth would not be too forward.”
Her words were spoken again with such a playful voice that I could hardly believe my ears. She was not granting me permission to address her so, was she? I spun around in my disbelief and saw that she had not retreated to the secret door as I expected. Instead she had stepped closer to me.
My heart did not even dare to beat when she reached for my hand and held it of her own accord.
“You have been kind enough to hear me and have granted me the trust of the honest feelings of your heart, sir.”
“Fitzwilliam,” I whispered unthinkingly. If I were dreaming this pardoning angel before me, I might as well have the pleasure of my name upon her lips.
“Fitzwilliam,” she said with a smile. “In return, I ought to be more honest with mine.”
What she could mean I dared not try to guess. She looked down then at my signet ring on my finger. Her dark auburn curls blocked my view of her face as she ran her finger along the Darcy crest engraved there. The feeling was too much, and yet her words pulled me from drowning in emotions. A good thing too, for I might have once again presumed upon her in a like manner as I did in the alcove.
“I said, I did not like you. And I cannot take back those words. You have not been the easiest person to admire—but we have addressed this. Please, no apologies. I have my own to speak.”
“Elizabeth?”
Still she kept her expression from me. I waited, though I could not fathom for what she had to apologize.
“The truth is that I do admire you. I have struggled with my admiration though. I liked you against my will, against my reason, and even against my character at times.”
Here she kissed my hand, and the shock sent such a thrill of joy through me that I could not be offended by the scruples that had long prevented her forming any serious design on me. It was not as if I had not had my own.
“I fought my admiration for your intellect, and for my attraction to your person, for I knew I was beneath you. Your inability to hide your knowledge of this disparity in our stations helped me to dislike you. For it only confirmed my own thoughts on the matter. You might say it comforted my wounded pride.”
I could not allow her to go on. “Let us speak no further of our past. Neither of us can be truly proud of our actions with regards to the other. I do not deserve any admiration from you, Elizabeth . . . but I hope you will allow me to try to be worthy of it from this day forward.”
Finally, she raised her eyes to mine. The last of my shattered heart began to piece itself back. She nodded and said to me the most beautiful words. “I should like to start anew.”
My hand lifted and pushed aside a curl. I marveled that it was as silky as her dress. My eyes were drawn to her face as she closed her eyes at my caress and leaned her cheek into my hand.
That madness inside me, that I knew was no madness at all but the sanest of all feelings—a love and desire for Elizabeth most profound—surged in me again and I could not breathe.
“I promised not to kiss you again,” I whispered. It was a plea to her. Despite all that she had confessed, that I had confessed, I could not dare assume that I had any right to kiss her. I needed her to step away, for I knew I did not possess the will to remove myself. I hoped she would understand my plea, for I was not so noble as to clarify if there was a chance she would remain otherwise.
She did not open her eyes, but a smile touched her lips. I swallowed, for the temptation was great and I was only a man.
“That was quite foolish of you,” she whispered, her eyes still closed. “Yet, I fear I must correct you. You promised I would be safe with you. You made no direct promise not to—”
I did not let her finish—for another word would have been too much. With relish, I bent my head to her lips and claimed them with my own. Whatever magic had wound its ways around us then, I did not care to disturb. Elizabeth was with me, in my arms again—willingly—and I was determined not to lose this again. It was because of this that I slowed my kiss once more, reluctantly breaking our connection. I could not bear it if I frightened her with too ardent an expression of my love.
“Will you permit me to court you, Elizabeth? Properly, as you deserve.”
“Yes.”
My joy was such that I could not help a wide smile breaking forth on my face as I bent to place a quick kiss upon her lips again. With a sigh, I knew I ought to let her go. Taking her hand in mine, I thought to walk her back to the secret door.
“I ought to let you leave now, though I do not wish it.”
Elizabeth did not respond. Her countenance was downcast. It should not have brought me happiness to see her saddened too, but it did. Her next words could not have surprised me more though.
“Fitzwilliam, I have seen a new side of you this evening, and I begin to fear that I owe you another apology.”
I lifted her face to mine with a finger, knowing nothing she could ever do would dispel the joy I felt at that moment.
“I believed a man, a man of a very short acquaintance, over a man of far greater consequence and goodness—not to mention of a longer standing acquaintance, because one flattered me and one did not.”
Her reference was clear. But I did not wish to think about Wickham, and I certainly did not wish to have him spoil our moment. It gratified me that she thought me the better man—my pride still a long-time friend.
“He is not to be trusted, Elizabeth. That is all I will say now, for you really will be missed if you do not go. But if it pleases you, I would like to call upon you tomorrow. I should like to ask your fath
er for his blessing on our courtship, and I should like to share with you my history with that man. For now, hear this. Think no more on your previous judgment of either of us. Let us begin again, as you said.”
Elizabeth nodded and smiled at me, and I thought then that I would do anything for the rest of my life if I could see that smile every day.
She stepped up against the wall, and I moved in front of her. I allowed my finger to run gently down the length of her cheek before bowing low to her for the second time that evening.
“Until tomorrow, my love.”
“Until tomorrow.”
With a push of her hand upon the lever, a familiar whoosh and whine of the hinge, she was gone. I stood looking at the wall for a full minute, a smile upon my face. I had but dragged my eyes away when the door sprang around again and Elizabeth’s arms were around me, her face buried in my neck. My arms did not stay stunned at my side for long—they came up quickly to hold her to me. If there was a better feeling in the world than this, I had not known it.
She giggled, the warmth of her breath upon my neck sending a jolt straight to my heart.
She slowly released her arms and slid them down me, my arms still about her.
“I only wanted to say goodbye again.”
Her blush was endearing, and any words I had stuck in my throat. Instead, I bent to kiss her chastely on the lips once more and rest our heads together.
“Go, you beautiful girl. Go before I cannot let you leave. I will see you tomorrow.”
Elizabeth stepped away from me again, and I regretted the distance immediately. With a smile and a little wave, she pressed the lever and once again was swept around to the other side. I bit my lip, a smile threatening to split my face in half. Stepping forward, I leant my head against the wall, somehow knowing she was still there.
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 13