Elizabeth opened the velvet cloth. The multiple sparkling colours and gleaming gold danced before her, but she was unmoved. “Jane, is there any of this you would care to keep for yourself? Should we select some small thing for each of my sisters and our mother? Charlotte? Georgiana?” Elizabeth sighed with distaste. “Take anything you wish.”
The four women stared at the pile and were of one mind.
“You are most kind, Lizzy, but I think not,” said Charlotte.
“Indeed, Lizzy. It is yours to keep or sell. I have my memories of my cousin. I do not need a jewel for remembrance.” Georgiana smiled and turned back to watch the packing of the trunks. She espoused a method of folding gowns that she considered much more efficient than the dictates of her late aunt.
Jane spoke quietly yet with great conviction. “I could never wear any of it, Lizzy, knowing how near these brought us to losing you forever. And I should not like to think of you remembering that day whenever you saw a broach or ring upon me, our sisters, or our mother.”
“I want none of it either.” She thought of her pink diamond ring. It will suffice. “We shall take it all to London and sell it at the jewellers to whom our Uncle Gardiner extends his custom.”
Sunday, 26 April 1812, Rosings
“My cousin Darcy is an awful object, is he not, Miss Elizabeth?”
The Hunsford crowd dined at Rosings and was now spending the gentle spring evening together. Mr. Bennet had been left alone in the library, and the ladies and younger men were in the larger drawing room. At Georgiana’s suggestion, all the ladies brought handiwork to occupy them for an evening of conversation.
The topic at dinner had been the travel many expected to be undertaking in the near future. In the morning, Bingley would send word to open Netherfield. Mr. Bennet would write to his wife with Jane’s happy news, and he was feeling rather complaisant that he would not yet be at Longbourn when Mrs. Bennet received it. Mr. Bennet and his two eldest daughters would stop in London to visit Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner for a few days and see to the disposal of the de Bourgh jewels.
Darcy had silently vowed to remain in London as long as Elizabeth was in town before travelling with his sister and cousin to Pemberley for the planting. They would return to Hertfordshire for the wedding, for Charles had made an elaborate toast to Darcy during the betrothal celebration, insisting Darcy stand up with him.
Charlotte had promised Jane she would go to Meryton for the wedding before deciding where to settle. Colonel Fitzwilliam had almost immediately stated his hope that, although he had not such intimacy with Bingley as Darcy had, he might be invited to the wedding.
Elizabeth now considered what the colonel was saying of his cousin but did not raise her eyes from her work. “I would not say so, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Neither awful nor awesome, though at present, mightily bored.” At last, she looked at Darcy and said merrily, “If you would care for it, sir, I shall shoulder the burden of instructing you in embroidery. Once the fingers take up the pattern, it frees the mind wonderfully to wander where it will.”
Darcy studied her, basking in her gay countenance. I know where my mind would wander… Darcy thought, coveting the exposed skin at the base of her throat. Was there an enticing little mole upon the point of one collarbone? He licked his lips before realising he was staring at Elizabeth in a most impolite manner.
The colonel smiled at her. “I see you still use comedy as a defence, Miss Elizabeth.”
Darcy was moved to her protection. “And more apt and clever satires are rarely created.”
Elizabeth felt all the force of the compliment. “Indeed, sir, I would not wish to be considered a miracle of learning. I have no desire to be astonishing.”
Darcy’s head bobbed with a chuckle. “Again, madam, you express sentiments which are not your own. You astonish me rather constantly, and I begin to wonder whether it is by design.”
Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile from him, only to have it beheld by her sister.
Jane cleared her throat daintily. “Are we teasing Lizzy? Surely that sport would ease anyone’s boredom of a Sunday evening, Mr. Darcy!”
The idea of spending each and every one of his future Sunday afternoons, evenings and nights, pestering, annoying, and generally making a nuisance of himself to Elizabeth Bennet robbed Darcy of a response. It was his turn to blush and look away.
Chapter 19
Highly Satisfactory Explanations
24 March 1812
I have eavesdropped upon a most instructional conversation between my cousins Darcy and Alexander. Mama grouses that they spend too much time in the billiard room, but I adore it as a place where they quite mistakenly assume themselves sub rosa. I position myself at the hinges, and the gaps allow me, upon occasion, to see the countenance of one or the other, a further amusement.
Upon their arrival yesterday, they were, as one would expect, almost immediately beset upon by the vicar, and Darcy, in a most interesting contrivance that gave the appearance of nonchalance while pushing Alex into motion, made to return Mr. Collins’s call instantly.
When they returned, they adjourned to the billiards room, where their sole topic was EB. I was not surprised to hear Alex singing her praises as quite the most likely marriage prospect either had seen in an age. Darcy was quick to cry him off with the recitation, rather well practiced, I thought, of her poor connections and lack of dowry. This reduced Alex to an exaggeration of sighing and fussing, all the while teasing Darcy that he need have no such scruples, at least as to dowry. The following exchange proved the most intriguing:
“She describes you as her severest critic.”
“If the lady has a fault, it is putting excessive faith in her first impressions. She takes delight in misreading me.”
“Oh? She seemed to know the mention of her elder sister’s presence in London would silence you, Darcy, when you finally condescended to speak. Are you and the sister at outs?”
“No! No, indeed. I hardly know the sisters except by observation. But I can never be in company with Miss Elizabeth without being grieved to the soul by a thousand fond recollections.”
I was able to see Alex stare outright at our cousin, astonished at the revelation, I am sure. I know I was. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, a charming boy now grown conceited, arrogant, disdainful, and burdened, has developed a tender regard for a poorly connected gentleman’s daughter from a middling estate in a backward county—a clever, spirited, well-mannered lady with nothing to recommended her but herself. Were I a man, I would find her wit, face, and figure irresistible.
My breast fills with hope. Please, Darcy, fall in love with her, so blind in love you will not overthink yourself. You need a lady such as she to make a proper man of you. And if your affections are known to be fixed elsewhere, my freedom will be that much easier to obtain. —A de B
Monday, 27 April 1812
Darcy wandered the woods of Rosings, lost in thought. Elizabeth seemed to be friendlier of late with no ill effects from her near courtship by Colonel Fitzwilliam or from his defection to Jane. She watched the star-crossed machinations of Jane, Bingley, the colonel, and Charlotte Collins with the same detached amusement as did Darcy.
And yet, Bingley would persist on opining Elizabeth was lovelorn, and Alexander said the same. The two men, his dearest companions, were sure of what they saw. Charlotte Collins perhaps knew the truth, for her looks and manner often implied so if Darcy could muster the courage to ask her. No one could or would give an accurate accounting of the heart of Elizabeth Bennet. Perhaps I should speak to Mr. Bennet. I should ask permission to court her before they take their leave.
Although he knew Georgiana to be healing from Ramsgate, the violence of so many deaths was simply too much for her gentle nature to bear, and it was time to withdraw to the safety and serenity of Pemberley. At dinner the previous evening, Georgiana ins
isted they return to London instead for Darcy to partake in the last weeks of the Season, but he wanted none of it. The balls, receptions, and frivolous entertainments held even less allure than usual, for he realised the events at Rosings would give others leave to slight him. He knew he would not meet a lady in town who would view with enjoyment the absurdities to be witnessed therein. He knew he would not find the next mistress of Pemberley in London. She was here in Hunsford. Why pretend otherwise?
Georgiana pleased him by requesting to commence a correspondence with Elizabeth, and Darcy was quick to allow it. Until Elizabeth revealed her heart’s preferences, or she was truly betrothed to another, he would dream if not hope. Perhaps Georgiana could be persuaded to invite her new friend to Pemberley for a few weeks, or even a month, in the summer. Darcy shook his head. Too much could happen between now and then; the past weeks are proof of that.
He sighed. Elizabeth Bennet…had she come to care for him in a way that might develop into affection? He thought of Elizabeth’s fine eyes at Anne’s memorial as she silently asked him how he fared. He would take to his grave the smile she wore when Bingley arrived—a smile she had turned to him as they stood at their separate windows—enhanced by her shining tears of relief. Again, her tempting lips had formed a silent benediction, her thanks. After his aunt’s burial, when he looked at all the players in the interlaced love triangles, only Elizabeth appeared surprisingly unconcerned. When he met her beautiful eyes, she was already gazing at him and asked in a whisper, “You will be my ally in this?” When her smile gained radiance as he nodded, he had turned away, fearful of revealing too much. He would be her ally in anything, forever.
Elizabeth sat on the beech stump reading, for perhaps the hundredth time, the letter Darcy had written her in the night after his proposal. She was in much the same position she had assumed when opening it for the first time, but her feelings were now completely the opposite. The letter, read first in anger and under the assumption it had been written with that same emotion, she now believed was as much a declaration of love as the words Darcy had spoken, and was, in most ways, much more eloquent.
How could I have been so blind? Only a man violently in love—a good man called upon to defend himself for love—could have written such a letter, which now, with the hindsight of multiple readings, she had come to regard as beseeching her to understand him, to bless him with kindness, to not think ill of him as her father had suggested. The letter confirmed the passion of which he had spoken in his proposal. This she now desired—a man who would feel a naturally flowing passion for her.
Her eyes stung, as they often did as she reread his heartfelt words, and she started to cry. She had squandered her chance and feared she would never stop mourning him, the Darcy who wrote this beloved letter, the Darcy who smiled so winningly in the Rosings portrait and had twice smiled in such a way at her. The little pink diamond winked at her, the token of a betrothal that did not and might never exist. Still and all, she was his.
The grove where Darcy and Elizabeth had walked several times prior to his misbegotten proposal was a place Darcy assiduously avoided. He now understood his presence had been a source of annoyance. He confined his riding to the east side of the park and, if on foot, stayed at the fringes of the meadows and pastures where he could be seen by any lady fond of walking who might wish to avoid him. Today he was distracted by his debate—should he pay a call on Mr. Bennet this morning?—and did not notice he was walking towards the bowered lane until he heard a woman softly crying.
Darcy approached the sound of tears, the mossy ground muffling his advance. He wondered who it could be. He knew well the sound of his sister’s tears, and it was not Georgiana. And although he believed he should avoid the heartrending sound, he could not. When he was close enough to see the back of Elizabeth Bennet bending over a letter, her other hand dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, he was arrested.
Clearly, the unworthy cur—whoever he was—had jilted her, and she was crying over his betrayal. Darcy was instantly livid with the bastard who would cast her hard-won love so incautiously aside. To earn her love would be a grand thing indeed. What scoundrel would have the temerity to disregard her affection? He noticed the twinkle of the ring upon her finger, just as Colonel Fitzwilliam and Bingley had said. They were not mistaken. His heart sank into his Hessians.
Elizabeth stuffed her handkerchief into her pocket, not noticing she had dropped a page of the letter. It wafted silently to the ground. She sighed and sat upright, straightening her shoulders. She must accept he was leaving for Pemberley, and she was unlikely to ever see him this intimately, and for such an extended a period of time, ever again. How he must be champing at the bit to escape so callused a harridan as myself. She shook her head. I was pitiless, cruel. He has done everything he could to make his wrongs right. What have I done to correct mine? Nothing…exactly nothing.
“This poor letter is all of him I am ever likely to possess—proof I am the most ungrateful girl under God’s creation,” she castigated herself vociferously. “To make such a good man defend himself…and I called him arrogant!” She carefully folded the pages, drew out a ribbon, removed her ring, and slid it in place. When binding the letter, she realised the first page was missing.
Elizabeth stood, looking around fretfully. She picked up her bonnet, but she was turned away from the sheet lying in the grass.
Unthinkingly, Darcy rushed forward. “Miss Bennet! You have dropped a page of your letter.” He swept it up and held it out to her. Now that he had overheard her pain, he would offer any comfort she might allow.
She looked discomposed. “Mr. Darcy!” When she reached for the page, she saw her hand was trembling but could not control herself. Here I have always thought trembling an affectation, but I seem to be doing so, and I cannot stop. Did he hear me speak?
As Darcy held out the page, he glanced at the writing. It was narrowly written with even lettering. That is my hand! He pulled the sheet away as Elizabeth grabbed for it. He read his words with amazement. “Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you.” He looked at her distressed face. His mind was whirling.
Elizabeth dropped her hand and looked down. Never had she felt more exposed.
“My letter…” Darcy whispered. “Why have you kept it? You should burn it.” He turned the page over, noticing the paper showed evidence of being much handled and well creased.
“No!” She snatched it from his hand in a panic. “How else…” She stopped herself from saying more. How else am I to know you once loved me? What other proof do I have that it was not just a dream?
“How else…?” Darcy stepped closer, encouraging her to finish her query.
Tears reappeared in her eyes, and she looked over his shoulder into the trees, eyelids fluttering impatiently to halt the flow. She was determined not to speak as she believed it would only lead to further embarrassment.
Is this the letter she has been seen to be reading? My letter? Has she regrets of me? Am I the cad who does not see she loves him? Does she cry over me?
“Miss Bennet…” He produced a handkerchief from his frock coat under his linen duster. “Please.” He offered it to her, assuming the one stuffed into her pocket was sodden.
When she did not take it, even though fat tears were sliding down each side of her nose, he turned mischievous. “You may certainly have this one to keep with the letter, something more of me…”
“Oh!” She looked at his spreading smile, which was so rarely bestowed on anyone. It was the countenance of a man looking with fondness upon someone he loved. He had heard. Would the smile turn mocking? She was cross and nervous and suddenly dizzy. She dropped her bonnet and turned abruptly away, sitting without grace upon the stump. “Wretched man!”
Elizabeth r
ealised with a jolt that she had spoken the same words about the same man and had sat on the same stump once before, only now the man could hear her. “Are you happy to know that my feelings for you make me miserable? That we are now equals? We have, quite separately it seems, managed to hold each other in an affectionate regard just when the other could not reciprocate.”
“Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy’s smile turned inquisitive.
“Must I say it?” She stood from the stump, facing away from him. “I love Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she said in a forthright voice. Then more loudly, “I love Fitzwilliam Darcy!” She gathered a deeper breath and stood to shout with great force and anger, “I love Fitzwilliam Darcy!” She cried to the heavens as if it would cast the feelings from her heart and soul.
Darcy stood behind her, his bare hands clutching her upper arms. To provide counterpoint to her frustrated exclamations, he whispered, with his lips at her ear, “I love Elizabeth Bennet.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, resting a hand on each of his as he pulled her back against his coat, and she sobbed in disbelief. When she could manage it, she murmured, “But how can you?”
He kissed the crown of her head. “I know not. There is no earthly reason why I would still love a vexing, cruel, heartless vixen, a creature who has never shown a moment’s kindness to anyone, least of all me, but there it is.”
He was teasing her! It all became too funny, and she began to laugh through her tears.
“Since the death of your poor cousin, does it not seem, Mr. Darcy, as if you and I, and our families and friends, are trapped somehow in a particularly amateurish and rather ghoulish production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
A Will of Iron Page 21