The callers who eagerly flocked to Longbourn agog to see the great man and his chosen bride together were largely disappointed. Nothing made him more willing to share Mr. Bennet’s solitude than the sound of a carriage or the sight of bonnets in the driveway, or else he would spirit Elizabeth out the back door with him, which, it must be admitted, she did not mind so very much, seeing as she rather dreaded those calls herself. When an encounter could not be avoided, he said as little as civility allowed (and sometimes rather less), usually taking up his stance behind Elizabeth’s chair and relying on her to make conversation. Darcy thought himself remarkably long-suffering.
Elizabeth had spent a lifetime overlooking her father’s indifference to her sisters out of gratitude for his affection for herself; she did not find it so easy with her betrothed. It smarted that he preferred evenings alone to enduring her family, that he would make no effort to be cordial. Yet the seemingly tacit agreement between Darcy and her family to ignore each other was peaceful, at least, and demanded little of her. She did enjoy the time they spent together when they were undisturbed. Never one to remain unhappy over what she could not change, she laid her resentment aside as best she could. They had little enough time until the wedding, when it would no longer matter. As long as Darcy would not interfere in her relationship with her family, she told herself that she would be content.
Mrs. Bennet was chattering on to Elizabeth about something—Darcy wasn’t paying attention—when he unceremoniously interrupted her to say, “Madam, do you have a music room?”
She blinked. “Yes. Yes, indeed, we have a fine music room.”
“I feel a strong desire to hear Miss Elizabeth play. Do you think I might prevail upon her to do so for me?”
“Why, of course!” She gestured to Elizabeth, who stood up immediately. “Go, Lizzy, take Mr. Darcy to the music room and play for him.”
Mary also stood up. “I shall go with you. I have several pieces I need to practice.”
“Mary!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Mr. Darcy wants to hear Lizzy play, not you. You stay here, I insist.”
Mary frowned but obeyed, and Elizabeth took Darcy to the music room, which actually contained little more than a piano, a piano stool, and a single chair set in the corner. Entering after her, Darcy carefully pulled the door almost shut, leaving it only slightly open as a concession to propriety. Lizzy seated herself at the piano stool. “Well, sir? What would you have me play?”
“As you like,” he answered, walking slowly around the piano.
Elizabeth looked at him, shrugged, and began to play the piece which happened to rest on the music stand in front of her. Fixing his eyes on her face, Darcy took up an initial position against the wall to her left. It wasn’t long, though, before he moved forward to stand next to the piano itself. He remained there for perhaps two minutes before changing to the other side. It was now becoming clear to Elizabeth that his purpose in bringing her here this morning had not been so much to listen to her play as to admire her as she played. A slight blush rose in her cheeks, and she fought to suppress a laugh. Her piece came to an end; one glance at the gentleman’s unwavering gaze suggested to her that he was not yet finished with his observation of her, and she began to play again, this time from memory.
Sure enough, Mr. Darcy soon began to pace in a slow circle around the piano, pausing often, his eyes never straying from her form. At length he made his way behind her; he watched her from first one side and then the other and moved gradually forward until he stood just behind her, at her shoulder. She could feel his presence looming over her. It was the most unnerving inspection she had ever had to endure, and if it were not for the fact that she was so accustomed, by now, to his watching her, she did not know if she would have been able to make it through without faltering. She was amused at the same time because he was so bold and undisguised in his purpose.
She did falter and missed a note when she felt his fingers in the hair at her neck. Biting her lip, she continued determinedly. His touches were feather light, fingering her curls, brushing her skin. They went on for some time as she stumbled through the remainder of her piece, coming at last to a weak ending. As the last note died away, his hand curled around her neck, tender but compelling. “Elizabeth,” he said, his voice rather thick.
Elizabeth sat perfectly still, looking straight ahead, her hands still on the keys, as he moved to her side and dropped to his knees. One hand went to either side of her head; he held her, turned her. She shut her eyes and waited. He had kissed her only twice before, very briefly. This time, having begun, he did not seem inclined to stop. He kissed her repeatedly: warm, gentle kisses that grew slowly more passionate. Elizabeth’s hands went up to grip his forearms lightly; she sat still, neither rejecting nor reciprocating, her mouth soft beneath his, letting the sensations of this still new and strange activity wash over her.
It was fortunate that Mary’s rather heavy step could be heard clearly in the hall; he leapt to his feet and went to the window, breathing unevenly. Elizabeth began to play the first thing that came to her mind, and not very well. “Oh,” said Mary, entering the room, “I beg your pardon. I thought you were gone. Shall you be much longer?”
Giving up the attempt, Elizabeth glanced at Mr. Darcy’s back. “Only a few more minutes, I think, Mary.”
Looking between the two, she glared rather disapprovingly, but thankfully said nothing, and walked out. Silence fell over the room, filled only with their breathing. Blushing, Elizabeth stared at her hands in her lap. At length Darcy straightened and went to offer her his hand. “Come,” he said. “Let us go out to the garden.”
That night, Elizabeth sat before her dressing table mirror and pulled down her hair, spreading it about her shoulders. Like most women of her day, she had cropped her locks when she came to adulthood, cutting them off below her shoulders. They curled there rather nicely; pretty hair, if not remarkable in any way. She began to search through it, looking for some in a location where it would not be missed.
During one of her conversations with Georgiana the girl had let slip the fact that her brother’s twenty-eighth birthday was soon to be upon him. Ever since then, Elizabeth had been trying to think of an appropriate gift to give him. It was not an easy task; her means were rather limited, his not at all. What could he possibly desire that he did not have already? And whatever it was, however should she know it, even supposing she could find it or afford it? If she had had more time, she might have tried to embroider a handkerchief for him, but there had simply been no opportunity. She had all but given it up.
After his behavior that day though, and the way he had touched her hair with such seeming fascination, she had decided to resort to a simple, time-honored tradition. She would give him some of her hair. It was, after all, all she had, and it would be better than nothing. Locating a particularly nice, thick curl right in the middle of her mane, she separated the strands. It was more customary only to give a single curl than the entire lock, but she was determined to be generous and snipped it off near her scalp. She held it up: it fell in a long, lazy spiral before executing a neat curl at the end. Elizabeth tied off the top with a bit of ribbon, and taking one of her own handkerchiefs with her initials embroidered on the corner, she dampened it with a touch of her scent and carefully wrapped up the coil of hair. She blushed a bit, slightly embarrassed at her own romanticism. She truly did not know how he would receive them. He did not strike her as the sentimental type, and perhaps her tokens would not matter much to him, but she hoped at least that the fact of her giving them would mean something. She was well aware of how little she was bringing to him, in contrast to how much he was bringing her. Even if it was only a gesture, her giving him these things should at least tell him that she was trying—that she was sincere. If only he wouldn’t look at her with a condescending smile or seem amused or indifferent.
The handkerchief was itself wrapped in some tissue paper and set on her dresser. Looking at it, she remembered how he had kissed her ear
lier—and how afterwards he had retreated back into his reserve and made only polite conversation with her as they strolled in the garden. He was such a difficult man, and such a complicated one. She thought she was slowly learning to read him, but there was still so much that went on behind his eyes that she could not guess. She had to admit that the study was an interesting one; had she not herself said that the most intricate characters were the most interesting? Now she would have a lifetime to study one intricate character. It was a great relief to her that she did not, despite everything, regret her choice to accept him. She did not love him, but she felt drawn to him, and being loved by him was rather pleasant. Someday soon, if he kissed her again as he had kissed her that day, she might kiss him back, when it was no longer so strange.
The next day being Sunday, they made their first public appearance together in church. Darcy bore the inquisitive stares with an indifference achieved by long practice, while Elizabeth kept her head high and tried to pretend that she did not hear the whispers as they entered. Emerging afterwards, they waded through their multitudinous well-wishers as quickly as possible and took off for home, everyone walking but Mr. and Mrs. Bennet and Mary. It would have been a very pleasant stroll, had it not been for Kitty and Lydia, who giggled and remarked loudly on the young men they had seen staring at them during the service.
Once they arrived back, Darcy excused himself, pleading many letters of business too long delayed. He had not been to Pemberley in months now and was concerned that he had been gone too long. They would go right after they married, but in the meantime, there were tenants’ disputes, questions of breeding and planting, and many things Elizabeth did not fully understand. What she did understand was that he was a careful landlord and a conscientious master. His approach to estate management was obviously much more proactive than her father’s own laid-back one. Her respect for him increased.
Monday was Darcy’s birthday. Elizabeth had deliberately avoided telling her mother, as she felt that he would be mostly appalled by notice from her on the subject, but had consulted with Jane as to the best way to extract him from Longbourn itself and provide him with quiet and rational conversation. Jane agreed readily to accompany them on a long walk and to conveniently lose herself.
This plan met with no opposition from any quarter. Mrs. Bennet was all smiles when it was proposed, and Mr. Darcy, who had arrived with eyes for no one but Elizabeth, was only all too grateful to acquiesce. They started out with the two ladies on each side of the gentleman, taking paths that led them towards Oakham Mount. Elizabeth was pleased to see that Darcy seemed relaxed and happy. He talked easily in the ladies’ company, and she did everything in her power to further conversation between him and Jane. It was her hope that he would soon value Jane as he ought and so repent of his interference in his friend’s affairs. She had yet to broach the subject with him directly; it was just too delicate. They had been getting along well since the fight over the hair combs, and until their relationship was on firmer footing, she did not want to disturb the peace.
At length they came out on the summit of the Mount and stood admiring the view. “I would like to gather some lavender from that patch on the hillside, Lizzy,” said Jane after a few minutes, lifting the basket she had brought.
“Of course.”
She hesitated. “There are some other plants about that I want for the still room. Shall you mind waiting?”
“Not at all,” smiled Elizabeth, and watched her go affectionately. Before she even looked away, she felt Mr. Darcy move closer to her and reach for her hand.
“Does your family ever call you anything but Lizzy?” he asked.
“Rarely. My father used to call me Elizabeth sometimes when he was displeased with me.” They were still standing side-by-side, looking out over the prospect below.
“I hope you do not think I call you Elizabeth because I am displeased.”
“Not at all. I always assumed you prefer it.”
“Yes.” His eyes scanned the horizon. “I may call you Lizzy sometime though,” he added inconsequentially.
“What does your sister call you?” she asked with genuine curiosity.
“Brother.” His lips twitched as he said it, and she laughed.
“And of course you never address her as anything but ‘sister’! How beautifully simple when there are just the two of you. Every family should have exactly one son and one daughter, and then we would virtually do away with the need for Christian names at all!”
“My Christian name is Fitzwilliam, you know.” He turned his eyes on her.
“Yes, I believe I have heard it mentioned once or twice.”
He put a finger under her chin and turned her face up where he could see it fully. “It would make me very happy if you were to call me by it sometimes, when we are alone.”
She blushed and nodded. “I will try,” she whispered. He let her go. “Come,” she said impulsively, and led him down the side of the slope a little way to a large rock often used as a seat. He followed her quite willingly. “I must tell you, sir,” she told him archly, “that I have uncovered a dark secret of yours.”
His brows rose. “A dark secret?” he repeated, amused and entirely pleased to be the object of her teasing. “I think you must have been listening to perjurious sources, Miss Bennet.”
His words brought Wickham to mind uncomfortably, but she replied lightly, “On the contrary, my source was none other than Miss Darcy herself. You shall not accuse your own sister of lying, shall you?”
“I would never dream of it.” He smiled at her. “My secret must be dark indeed.”
“Perhaps not so very dark,” she admitted, “but you certainly seem to have made a great secret of it.”
“Acquit me, madam! I have not designed to keep any secrets from you.”
She gave him an eloquent raised eyebrow at that. What was he but one bundle of closely held information? They had seated themselves by now, her gloved hand still held securely in his. “Well, Mr. . . . Fitzwilliam, what your sister told me is that today,” she gave him her sauciest smile, “is the anniversary of your birth.”
He seemed nothing less than delighted at both her use of his name and her information. “You are correct: She did not lie,” he affirmed gravely, but with eyes very bright and happy. “But I believe I am a little too old for birthday fetes.”
“What? Not even a favorite dinner or a special desert?”
“When I was a child, the cook at Pemberley would make me sugar cakes on my birthday every year,” he answered with a bit of a reminiscent smile. “Even when she retired, she continued the practice, but she passed away some years ago, and our new cook, while excellent, does not make them as she did.”
This glimpse of his childhood pleased Elizabeth very much. “Well, at Longbourn birthdays are never allowed to pass unacknowledged. I did not think,” she hurried to add, as his eyes seemed to widen in alarm, “that you would wish for a celebration, and, alas! I have no sugar cakes, but I did wish to give you something.”
“Elizabeth . . . ,” he murmured, pressing her hand.
“Therein I found quite a dilemma! It is not very easy to find something to give a man who apparently has everything already.”
“I hope you know that was not necessary.”
“I thought it was,” she said firmly. “And I hope you mean what you say, because . . .” She blushed self-consciously. His eyes widened, and a definite look of curiosity overtook him. “I finally settled on something that I do know for a fact you do not yet own, and, while I did not strictly purchase it, was indisputably mine to give.” She pulled the small tissue-wrapped package out of her reticule.
Darcy took it from her carefully, his eyes moving back and forth from her face to it. Still retaining his grip on her hand, he placed the gift on his knee and gently peeled back the tissue paper. When he saw the white linen with her initials on it, his face softened immediately. “Yours?” he asked, touching it.
“There’s something els
e inside it,” she said, feeling suddenly very nervous.
Again with a careful, delicate touch he unfolded it. She heard him draw in a quick breath, and for an unguarded moment many emotions played across his face as he looked at the silky coil nestled in its handkerchief. His eyes moved quickly back and forth between it and her; he touched it tentatively, then slowly lifted it, watching it unfurl. “So much,” he murmured, looking back at her head again as if trying to find the spot from which it had been taken.
“I have plenty more,” she said with a twisted smile.
For a long moment he sat there still, watching it gleam in the sunlight. Then he very carefully replaced it and wrapped the handkerchief back around it. His face was again unreadable; Elizabeth wondered if she had made a mistake. Then he lifted her hand and kissed it, turned it over, and kissed it again. “Thank you—my dearest Lizzy,” he said, his voice husky. She watched him tuck the handkerchief into the inner pocket of his coat and smiled self-consciously.
After a charged pause, he cleared his throat. “You have reminded me of my obligations; I do not know when your birthday is.”
“It is next month,” she admitted. “On the seventeenth.”
“And how old will you be?”
“I obtain my majority, sir: I shall be one and twenty.”
His face changed yet again in some uninterpretable fashion she could not follow. She once had thought him expressionless; now there were too many expressions, albeit subtle ones. They flickered in his eyes and the lines about his mouth, in the crease of his forehead and the tensing of his jaw. She had never looked closely enough at him to notice it before. Now she saw them, but she could not read them or tell what he was thinking or how he felt. He had gone from seeming emotionless and inscrutable to filled with emotions but still inscrutable.
Unequal Affections: A Pride and Prejudice Retelling Page 17