by J. L. Ashton
Ah, Mary…she remained the inscrutable sister, though somehow different than she had been mere weeks ago. Then, she had seemed desirous of Mr. Collins’s affections. but now she appeared to view him with some disdain as well. Or perhaps it was merely clarity; Elizabeth could not be certain. It shamed her to admit that her middle sister had always bewildered and wearied her. She had tried to determine the direction of her sister’s feelings, but her enquiries to Mary regarding her distraught letter to Gracechurch Street were met with a shrug and a solemn recitation of Proverbs 16:28. “A froward man soweth strife, and a whisperer separateth chief friends.”
Does Mary know her own heart, or is she as confused as I had been? Mr. Collins is certainly no equal to Mr. Darcy, yet both are men and equally vexing. I shall ask Kitty. Of late, she seems to notice everything.
At least, her youngest sister was constant. Lydia the Stalwart continued to be ever amused by everything around her; she would feel the absence of Mr. Collins’s daily displays of folly.
Kitty, though, had changed, proving herself especially devoted since Elizabeth’s return to Longbourn. She had drawn closer with silly but well-intentioned offers to protect her sister from their cousin. The girl might have read too many novels, but at least she had some sense of the current situation. Elizabeth watched Kitty stir her tea in a thoughtful manner. What is she thinking? How could a drawing of animals best capture this tableau? A weasel, some chickens, a goose, an owl, a hound, and a pacing cat?
Sighing, she pulled her eyes away from the table and looked longingly at the window. It was a sunny morning. She wondered that no note had arrived from Netherfield.
Will he come today? Or have I frightened him away with my vehement stupidity and misplaced anger? What happened to his face? Did someone strike him?
After weeks of confusion over her friendship with Mr. Darcy, three days of frustration with her cousin, and one perplexing conversation that had prompted an odd estrangement from her favourite sister, Elizabeth longed to see the man himself.
The time she had spent with Mr. Darcy had been brief, but their friendship proved more genuine, interesting, and stimulating than any she had known before—just as he had said it was for him. Few men would tolerate, nay encourage, a self-taught country girl to converse about books and debate ideas. Yet, Mr. Darcy respected her enough to engage with her and to pursue her company for conversation.
In the aftermath of his declaration, their oft-heated conversation, his confession at Darcy House, and then his heartfelt letter, Elizabeth recognised that she more than knew the man; she liked and admired him as well. And though she had but one happy model with which to compare, she suspected she could love him, and he her, as a man and a woman might love each other. Someday, she would laugh at her denials to Aunt Gardiner, but that was far in the future. She and this man had much ground to cover, and this first meeting would tell her whether his feelings remained ardent.
***
The ride to Longbourn took a forever minute. Darcy wished to race to the Bennet home yet worried over his reception there. The townspeople had spent weeks pondering lies and half-truths about him, and they had spent the last day determining the origins of a one-inch cut on his cheekbone. How confined were the interests of these people to spend their time dwelling on his dull business. His? Did they mistake him for a Beau Brummel? His clothing was tailored from the finest cloth, but he was no dandy, and he certainly did not share that man’s love of the Prince Regent or his propensity for lascivious behaviour.
Why did Bingley not write and tell him the stories that had circulated about his comportment and the slurs cast upon not only his reputation but also Elizabeth’s? Yes, the man’s handwriting skills were woefully unequal to his education, but he should have put aside his lovemaking and made the effort.
The shopkeepers and door dwellers of Meryton unspooled nefarious opinions and cruel falsehoods about a young lady who had grown up among them, smiled at them, and cared for them. But rather than protect her good name, they sullied her reputation by misjudging her kindness and intelligence.
How much had Elizabeth been tormented by the whisperers and their sly looks? Had she been able to withstand three days in a house with her horrid cousin? One night at Hunsford with Anne and her goatish beloved had nearly killed Richard’s will to live. And he was a battle-hardened soldier.
Richard can lie in bed and imagine his “perfect woman.” He does not have an Elizabeth Bennet to think and dream about. And there is all the difference.
Darcy, followed by Bingley, walked to Longbourn’s front door. His hand nearly trembled as he raised it to the knocker. Had Longbourn always had twisted vines growing up around its doorframe? Was a basket of squashes customarily sitting on the path? Had Elizabeth heard all the ridiculous rumours about him? Was she exhausted from defending his name and character, and did she suffer from the insults to her own?
Is she angry over all the distress I have caused her? Angry with me?
All of his questions and worries faded when the parlour door opened and Darcy saw the face of the woman he loved. She is so beautiful. He took a quick, shaky breath. She did not look vexed or angry; she did not appear displeased with his presence. He sighed in relief. In fact, she looked pleased, nay happy, to see him.
***
She was.
“Good morning,” she breathed. “You are here.”
“As soon as I was able,” Darcy replied, his voice rough. He returned her small smile with one of his own. “Good morning.”
Salutations mixed with warmth, curiosity, and suspicion welcomed the visitors. Elizabeth disregarded the sharp-eyed look Jane gave her when she eagerly greeted Mr. Darcy. Mr. Bennet remained ensconced in his study, while Mrs. Bennet and Mr. Collins lacked expression beyond furrowed brows and stammered effusions. The sisters exchanged a look, and at Elizabeth’s pronouncement that they must enjoy the fine weather before any afternoon storms arrived, they swiftly ushered the two men out the door and on a walk down the lane. In their rush, neither sister remembered her gloves nor observed that, a few minutes later, Mr. Collins and Mary followed them from the house with Kitty lagging behind.
The group smiled and waved when Mr. Parker and his wife drove past in their curricle. A moment later, they nodded to Mr. Little astride his horse. “Word of your arrival at Longbourn will spread quickly, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said quietly.
“As I had hoped,” he replied, his voice laden with meaning.
Elizabeth felt the knot of tension that had settled in her stomach and weighed upon her heart these past weeks lift up and float away. She looked up at him and smiled, forgetting everything around them.
***
Bingley, intent on his errand, soon hurried Jane away. So absorbed were they on the words they needed to say that neither Darcy nor Elizabeth noticed nor cared where their own wanderings took them. Although Elizabeth had walked this path hundreds of times, she managed to stumble on a forgotten tree root. Darcy steadied her when she fell against him, and her grip on his arm tightened; he did not loosen his hold even when the path ahead appeared clear.
“Georgiana is at Netherfield?” was her first question once they cleared a small embankment.
At his nod, she continued. “Why did she not accompany you?”
“She hopes to see you and your sister for tea today at Netherfield. I was not certain of my reception by your family”—Darcy glanced at her and saw her face fall—“given the endless gossip.”
“Yes, some of my family members have been less than intelligent in their understanding or circumspect with their opinions.”
“Please, they are blameless. Much, perhaps all, fault for the gossip lies with me.” Darcy’s relentless head shaking loosened his hat, and before it could topple to the ground, he pulled it off and gripped it in his hands. “It is just, um, I was not certain whether Mr. Collins wo
uld be with your family. I do not wish for my sister to make his acquaintance, not at this time.”
Elizabeth grimaced. “You are a clever man, Mr. Darcy. None of us wished for his acquaintance, let alone to maintain it. I have made it my business to avoid him since my return home.”
Darcy heard more than exasperation in her tone. “Has he said something to you? Does he concern you?” When she remained silent, he tried again. “Why is he here and not at his parsonage?”
She coloured. “He will return there after choosing a wife, presumably from amongst me and my sisters.”
“He has announced his intentions?”
“Oh, he never ceases practising the art of conversation. I never quit my efforts to avoid it.”
Darcy was caught between horror and hysterical laughter. “He has determined you as the object of his pursuit?”
“He believes he must rescue my tattered reputation and utilise my knowledge of the estate to restore the lustre of Longbourn.”
“He says this to you?!”
“No, but I hear murmurings. My father laughs at him while my mother and Jane see value in his reasoning.”
Darcy froze. “Jane? Your sister?”
“She has tired of the talk swirling around you and our friendship.” Elizabeth said quietly. Darcy could hear the trembling beneath her words. “Mr. Bingley has withheld his proposal until your arrival, and it has bred some impatience in her and my mother.”
The angel was impatient and aimed her frustration at her favourite sister and closest friend? Things have been awful here, indeed. Darcy could kick himself for his thickheaded behaviour, but if he injured himself, he was likely to start a new round of taradiddle about his wounds.
What a thankless place this is!
Darcy looked around for a log or a rock on which they could sit. They needed to talk, just the two of them. A thankless, seatless place.
Elizabeth touched his arm and gestured towards a rough wooden bench ahead.
“Mr. Goulding built benches here and in the meadow nearer his house so his mother could rest on her rambles. She was a great walker too in her day.”
They sat, and with their heights more evenly matched, she turned and looked closely at him. Frowning, her hand rose and her fingers fluttered but did not touch his face. Unconsciously, he leaned towards her, yearning for her caress.
“Your face?” she said softly. “There have been many theories. I hope you were not attacked by books or highwaymen or pirates.”
Darcy sighed and smiled at her sheepishly. “Nor an angry cow or jealous lover.” He paused and shook his head. “School friends who yawned at my dull attention to my studies would laugh to know I have become the most interesting man in England, at least to the people of Meryton.”
Elizabeth bit back a laugh. “I found the suggestion of a mad goat to be a most plausible suggestion.”
“You are not far off.” He leaned forward, his arms on his knees. His fingers worried the band on his hat. “Lady Catherine was angry, as usual, and refused to listen to reason.”
“She struck you?” Elizabeth paled, seemingly horrified by his disclosure.
He nodded.
“You wrote of her stubbornness,” Elizabeth said softly. “She blames you for the choices her daughter has made? Does she also hold you responsible for the lies they both have told?”
His shoulders slumped.
“My aunt is the great and all-knowing mistress of Rosings—or was, I should say. Under the law and the terms of my late uncle’s will, the house and estate pass into Anne’s hands. As to the rumours, Lord Matlock has concocted a fairly plausible story for Anne’s ‘rise from the dead,’ her marriage, and her child.” Darcy laughed bitterly. “We are a ridiculous lot.”
Elizabeth shook her head sadly. “You have had much to do these past weeks.”
“Yes, and much more to tell you,” Darcy agreed quietly. He straightened and turned to her. “You read my letter? Did it explain my actions, my mistakes?”
Elizabeth laid her hand on his arm. “What mistakes? You took responsibility when others did not…”
His heart pounding, he looked at her with eyes full of emotion. “My mistakes affecting you, Elizabeth. I was so occupied with my own thoughts and the actions of my family that I failed to see how you might be touched.”
He looked down at the mossy soil beneath their feet and let out an exasperated sigh.
“I was stupid.”
The sound of Elizabeth’s tinkling laughter filled his ears. “Stupid? Well, then stupid men who are kind, witty, and well-read are the only ones worth knowing.”
His head shot up, and he stared at her, amazed. “You are remarkable. Simply astonishing.”
“And you are quite generous with your indulgence for my conversation as well with your bestowal of compliments,” she said lightly. “Such sentiments would prove a lively topic for debate among those who know me.”
Her words coaxed a soft, tender smile from him. “Your value is not up for debate. But I do wish to apologise for any distress I have caused, knowingly or not.”
“All is well,” she replied softly.
Darcy dropped his hat and took her hand; with his other hand, he gently traced her fingers, so small and delicate in his. He could feel her shiver as she looked down at his motions before her attention shifted and she found his eyes intent on hers. They held a steady gaze while their fingers continued to play.
“Yet I hurt you. I beg your forgiveness.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” she insisted. “You meant well.”
“I did mean well, poorly though I might have shown it.” His voice was less than steady. “You are well?”
“I am,” she whispered. Her eyes fell away from his and she stared at their entwined hands.
Darcy was no less affected. “I have worried,” he said gently. “The gossip here, made worse by my thoughtlessness, has been difficult for you.”
“Interesting and frustrating, but not too difficult,” she replied, before adding in a light-hearted voice, “Of course, I have not had to dance with Mr. Collins since my return home; I simply elude him at every turn.”
He stared at her, astonished. “You can laugh at all of this?”
His fingers slowed and clasped hers tightly. He wished to kiss them, but he had learned to move slowly; he would wait for Elizabeth to show her feelings.
“I must laugh,” she said. “As injurious as some of the gossip has been, it was short-lived and, truly, rather absurd.” She shook her head. “Yet I do not understand some of it.”
“Elizabeth, please tell me if my presence offends you.” At her look of surprise and the forceful shake of her head, Darcy continued. “Are you pleased I am here? You did not anticipate my…my declaration at your aunt’s home.”
“It took me by surprise,” she said softly, “but I no longer find your words unwelcome.”
Darcy eyes lit up.
“I do appreciate that you came here with Georgiana.” She smiled at him, the first look of pure happiness he had seen since he arrived. He returned it and finally brought her fingers to his lips. Elizabeth closed her eyes.
“My uncle’s goals do not match mine,” he whispered. “There is nothing for me at Marlbourn.”
“No?”
“Only here, Elizabeth. Only here.”
They sat quietly, caught in the other’s gaze.
She yet has summer freckles.
His hair is freshly shorn.
She should wear blue every day.
Does he always wear black?
Her lips look so soft.
His eyes are so dark.
Their unspoken ruminations caused each of them to lean with slow intent towards the other. Elizabeth’s hand rose to his cheek, and she
gently touched the mark left by his aunt. He trembled, and she blushed at the intimacy permitted by her lack of gloves.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not at all.”
“A badge of valour for your cousin to envy.”
“Richard envies other things far more.” Darcy swallowed. Their faces were mere inches apart. “Elizabeth, may I be the man to rescue you from your cousin?”
“Yes,” she breathed, a small smile playing on her lips. “I would like that very much, Mr. Darcy.”
Oh, he could not bear formality and manners. Not when she smiled that way.
“Elizabeth…may I kiss you?”
“Please…”
Her hand fluttered from his cheek and fell to his shoulder. Darcy’s fingers tenderly smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear as he drew her face towards his. There was but a whisper of distance between them when he tilted his head to one side and gently pressed his mouth to hers. Her lips were soft, full, and welcoming. He pulled away briefly, opened his eyes to glimpse the glow on her face, and returned his mouth to hers. She shifted a bit, and her fingers slid from his shoulder to his neck. As she tightened her grip, he pulled her closer and opened his lips. Someone moaned, though neither was ready to claim it.
Slowly, achingly, their eyes still closed, they pulled apart. Darcy shook off his stupor and gazed upon her face.
She is so beautiful.
Oh. Oh. That was lovely.
With his fingertips, Darcy softly traced her face, from her temple to her chin. How he wished to kiss her again. To marry her. Instead, he asked, “You are well?”
Elizabeth opened her eyes and gave him a shy smile. “Oh yes, very well. I was thinking of a poem.”
At his confused expression, Elizabeth squeezed his hand. “I was thinking that I now disagree with Donne’s premise: ‘More than kisses, letters mingle souls.’ I treasure your letter, but I think I might prefer the kisses.”