He did not reply, but she saw there was a frown in his eyes and a familiar flicker of pain.
“You are not happy. Will you not tell me why?”
Now at last he turned away, jerking a shoulder. “Can you not guess?”
She swallowed. “It’s because of what happened this morning with Mr. Wickham, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. You must forgive me if I do not find it so easy to forget.”
“Do you not believe me, then?” she asked, stung. “You don’t accept that I told you the truth?”
“I accept that you told me the truth as you believe it, but perhaps you are not aware of the extent of your attachment to Mr. Wickham.”
She was indignant. “I know the state of my own heart, sir!”
“Do you?” Still he stared off at the tree line. “I have always thought so, but now I am not so certain.”
“Well, I am!” She walked around him and placed both hands on his arm where it crossed his chest, forcing him to meet her eyes. “There is no one else,” she told him earnestly. “There is no other man that I want to marry, no other that I think of.”
“Do you think of me, Elizabeth,” he demanded, “when I am not before you or troubling you? Do you look for me, wonder about me, dream of me at night?”
“Of course,” she murmured.
“What kinds of dreams are they?” he pressed her, capturing her hands in his. “How do you see me?”
Her eyes shifted. “Dreams are rarely rational, sir. You know that.”
“Yet they can be revealing. I think it was when I began to dream of you that I realized I was falling in love.”
“I dreamed of old Mr. Fraser who keeps the bookstore the other night—does that mean that I’m in love with him?” she tried in vain to lighten the mood.
“It was the nature of the dreams,” he insisted, bending closer. “Dreams in which I—” He broke off abruptly and stepped away, running a frustrated hand through his hair.
“In which you . . . ,” she prompted, unable to quell her curiosity.
“In which I loved you,” he said finally. “I dreamed that I loved you. My heart knew the truth before my mind did.”
There were very few nights now that Elizabeth’s dreams did not include Darcy, but she could not say, even to herself, what they portended. They were always so jumbled and contradictory, all but snatches disappearing as soon as she woke. “I think I dreamed that we were walking around a very large house arguing,” she offered timidly. “I don’t remember what about. I also dreamed that we were in the apple orchard, and you were helping me pick apples. You appear to be very adept at climbing trees in my dreams.”
He was obliged to smile at that. “I was once, when I was a boy,” he acknowledged. He came back and took her hand again, caressing it rather fervently. “At least we were together, then.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “We are always together.”
“Do you . . . ,” he hesitated but went on as if compelled, “do you ever dream of him?”
She had recently, but the dreams were never comfortable or easy. “As I might dream of any other acquaintance.”
His mouth tightened. “He is not any other acquaintance, Elizabeth.”
“He is to me,” she insisted. “Please, will you not believe me? Mr. Wickham paid me some attention when he first came to Hertfordshire, but never with any indication of more serious feelings. I enjoyed his company, but when he began instead to pay attention to Miss King, it did not concern me.” She smiled coaxingly at him. “I felt not the smallest part of resentment towards him or jealousy towards her. Is that not the greatest proof of indifference possible? If I had cherished lover-like feelings for him, I would surely have thought him a cad and her a coquette, but I did not. Truly, I had nothing but goodwill towards them both.”
His face softened at her persuasions, and he slipped one arm about her. “You are forgetting to take your own good nature into account. Your generosity is capable of much more than that, I am sure.”
She shook her head. “You are quite wrong. I am sure that I am capable of the fiercest jealousy imaginable if given sufficient provocation.”
“Is that so?” With his free hand he began to trace her right eyebrow. “And what would you consider sufficient provocation?”
“Is it your intention to supply it, sir?”
“Not at all. Lizzy,”—she knew from this rare use of the diminutive that his mood had improved—“you must know that you will never have cause to be jealous over my affections. But . . .” He looked suddenly vulnerable, “I would, I admit it, like to know that you could be jealous.”
“If you left off paying attention to me and instead turned that formidable stare on another woman?” She pursed her lips. “I believe I would be sufficiently hurt and angry,” she said honestly.
Yes, but why? He searched her eyes for the answer but did not find it.
“Perhaps we should go in,” she suggested softly.
He nodded, but as she began to draw away he retained her. Raising her hand to his lips, he pressed a passionate kiss on it. Then leaning forward, he kissed her very gently but with undeniable possessiveness. This time, she felt it down to her toes. “Always remember whom you belong to, Elizabeth,” he said quietly.
She swallowed. “I am not likely to ever forget it, sir.”
Chapter Sixteen
Elizabeth had to laugh one day when Mr. Darcy found her and Jane poring over patterns for lace caps. He was confused at first, wondering why they were looking at caps for Mrs. Bennet. When Elizabeth, with a smirk, informed him that they were for her, he looked in turns surprised, pleased, appalled, and bemused, while his gaze darted from the drawings to her soft waves. “You are too young for a cap,” he said finally.
Her smile widened. “I believe the accepted reason for a woman to wear a cap, my dear sir, is to indicate to the world that she is no longer in the market for a husband. Surely you must approve of that.”
“You are no longer in the market for a husband now,” he pointed out. “Yet you wear no cap.”
“Technicalities, Mr. Darcy. You are stalling for time so that you can think of a rebuttal.”
He smiled. “I already have my rebuttal. The world will have other ways of knowing you are not available.”
“Such as?”
“Such as your position on my arm.”
She exchanged a laughing glance with her sister. “And shall there ever be a time when I am released from your arm?”
“Certainly—when you are alone with a group of women,” he retorted. The women both laughed, and he smiled again, but when they turned to bend over the book, he laid his hand on his betrothed’s shoulder. “Order what you like, Elizabeth, but I do not promise to let you wear them.”
“We will see, Mr. Darcy,” she replied with a challenging quirk to her eyebrow. “I would be willing to bet that the first time some gentleman offers to help me with a book in the library, you’ll order me to wear them.”
“My dear, you’ll have no cause to visit libraries. Bookstores, yes, but I cannot imagine why you think I’d let you go to a bookstore without me. If I ever do, then I will certainly let you wear a cap—and send a footman to assist you.”
Elizabeth was opening her mouth to make some further retort when Mrs. Bennet came into the room. Immediately, Darcy withdrew his hand from her and stepped back, the laughter in his eyes dying.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy, there you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet. “You will be joining us for dinner before the party this evening, won’t you?” There was to be a party celebrating their engagement.
Darcy nodded but did not reply.
“Lizzy tells me that you are fond of lamb, and cook says she has got a very nice cut.” Still no reply. “Do you care for anything now? A light collation—”
“I do not require anything, thank you.” His tone did not sound grateful.
Mrs. Bennet’s smile wavered just for a moment before she turned to Jane with an inquiry about a flower arra
ngement. Elizabeth’s eyes had fallen to the table during this exchange, and she bit her lip. Jane went to assist her mother, leaving them momentarily alone.
“I hope we may not expect the entire country at this party,” remarked Darcy, fiddling with his cuffs. “Your drawing rooms will hardly contain them.”
“Only such members of local society as we commonly visit with.”
“Yes—four and twenty families.” His lip curled. “I remember.”
“I’m sure you have attended many larger gatherings.”
“In London, of course. But it’s hardly the same.”
“I do not see why.”
“I dislike large parties among the best of society, but in country neighborhoods such as this it is a compounded evil. There never seems any way to exclude the less refined elements.”
Elizabeth found herself unconsciously gripping the catalogue page until it began to crumple. Carefully, she released and smoothed it. “Do you consider refinement the primary determiner of worth, then?”
“Worth? No, but I do consider it a primary requirement for good company.” He gave her a slight smile. “Do not you?”
She gave him an even slighter smile. “I believe that my opinion on the value of refinement continues to change.”
His brows rose, but then Lydia came into the room. Flouncing past them with exaggerated dignity, she settled herself into a chair and began to read a novel. Her presence reminded Elizabeth of how grateful she was to Darcy for his assistance with her, and then she thought about Wickham and felt guilty. The last thing she wanted to do was to quarrel with him now, but—she looked at his proud form and sighed.
She felt sometimes like there were two men inhabiting her intended’s body. She understood, now, how it was possible that he could be everything Mr. Bingley had claimed at the same time that he was going around offending all of Hertfordshire. No, she did not understand it, but she knew it was so. She knew that to those he loved or was responsible for, he was all that was good—but to the rest, he was cool at best, rude at worst. On the rare occasions that they were among her neighbors, he was still exactly the same as he had been on his first foray into Hertfordshire. She knew he was capable of more—she had seen him among his peers in London. She had reminded herself many times that she had known what he was like when she accepted him and had no right to complain, but that did not make it any easier to bear in real life—and that had been before she learned how affable and pleasing he really could be when he chose. It was not lack of ability that hampered him, simply lack of effort.
Mr. Darcy’s attempts to depress familiarity had worked very well over the last two weeks. Whereas the voluble Mr. Bingley had been invited everywhere and dragged his friend with him, Mr. Darcy on his own was another matter. No one had known quite what to do; he was staying at Netherfield, but it wasn’t his house; he was known to the neighborhood but not settling there; he called at Longbourn but nowhere else; should they call, should they invite him? Would he come, and did they want him to? It was a subject much debated. In the end a much embarrassed Elizabeth had indicated to a few people that Mr. Darcy preferred small family parties to larger gatherings, and everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. Notwithstanding the community’s burning curiosity about the couple, no one but the most good-natured could feel that his cold silences would contribute much to any evening’s comfort.
Aware of the neighborhood’s general opinion, Elizabeth struggled with mortification over it. When she accepted Darcy, her greatest fear had been of finding herself isolated from others by his reserve and disapproval. It wasn’t an insurmountable problem, but still it was painful that, in these last few weeks she would spend here, she could not mix freely with people she had known all her life without being afraid that somebody was going to end up offended. She felt culpable both ways—for exposing Darcy to her neighbors’ countrified ways and for exposing her neighbors to Darcy’s dislike. If she spent very much time making calls without Darcy, he began to grow impatient for her company, but making calls with him was out of the question. It was the same at home. She knew her family had exposed themselves to him in all kinds of ways that deserved his disapprobation, but they were not always terrible. Her mother, in particular, had made every possible effort of hospitality, but that did not soften his manner to her. His dislike was set and certain and unyielding. The only way to keep him happy was to get him alone, which meant that she sometimes saw very little of the others except Jane. Her mother deserved greater attention than she was giving her, what with wedding clothes and the wedding breakfast and the engagement party. Elizabeth felt she should be helping her more than she was, but it was, again, impossible whenever Darcy was at Longbourn, and he was every day at Longbourn.
The first guests began to arrive shortly after dinner. Elizabeth had successfully battled her mother for the exclusion of the militia officers; only Colonel Forster and his wife were invited. Darcy stood stiffly beside her as they approached. “Miss Bennet! Mr. Darcy! What a pleasure to see you again and under such circumstances,” said the colonel.
Mrs. Forster giggled. “You took us vastly by surprise, Miss Lizzy!”
“How do you do?” asked Elizabeth politely. “Are you excited about your move to Brighton?”
“Oh, yes, but we shall miss Hertfordshire, too!” answered the colonel for them both. They spoke for a few moments more, during which Darcy tendered no more than a word or two.
Mrs. Long appeared next. Elizabeth exchanged warm greetings before reintroducing her to her betrothed, who merely nodded and said, “Madam.”
“You must be so pleased in your choice of a bride, Mr. Darcy! Why, ever since she was a girl, she was always the cleverest little thing. My nieces, as much as I love them, never could match her for wit, I’m afraid, nor for beauty either.”
His expression remained discouraging. “Indeed?”
Elizabeth diverted Mrs. Long’s attention to herself. Guests continued to arrive and offer their greetings and congratulations, and Darcy continued to respond in a haughty and monosyllabic manner. The more profuse the congratulations, the more offended he appeared, and when Sir William Lucas told him that he was carrying off the jewel of Hertfordshire, he actually shrugged in his face. Elizabeth made up for his moroseness with an almost frantic gaiety; she laughed and chattered and teased; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled, she looked the very picture of the excited bride but for the aloof and unyielding man at her side. By the time they were released from their guest-welcoming duties, she felt nearly exhausted from her efforts, while Darcy wasted no time in retreating to the wall. Those who were intrepid enough to approach him there received little notice for their pains; his replies were curt rather than civil, designed to deflect their interest and send them elsewhere.
Although she (like Hertfordshire) had not expected much better, Elizabeth still burned with humiliation at his behavior. His warm words and soft touches seemed almost insulting now. Did he really not think that she would care? That as long as he was affectionate to her, she would not mind how he treated her neighbors—her community—her friends? Could he not pretend, for one evening, to be moderately pleased—could he not make the effort of just a few hours, for her sake, to exhibit ordinary and everyday politeness at their engagement party? He had done it at the Forsythes’ dinner, and yet who were they to him? She was certain that he did not know many of the people there so very well; the only real difference was their stations in life. In his opinion, it was very clear, the society there had been worth his civility, while the society here, despite its ties to and claims on her, simply was not. As the evening wore on and his behavior persisted—and her neighbors’ knowing looks, pitying or malicious as the case might be, grew more pointed—she grew steadily more humiliated and, with it, more angry.
She was in conversation with Lady Lucas, answering her inquiries about Charlotte’s life, when he caught her eye and sent her an appealing look that could only be taken as a request for her company. He was the last
person present she wished to talk to at that moment, but she excused herself and made her way across the room to him. Perhaps she could prevail upon him to actually make conversation with someone.
Darcy, watching her approach with thankfulness, took stock of her appearance. She was lovely tonight, and her eyes had that sparkle that thrilled him—but this time, informed by closer acquaintance, he saw further. There was tension in her form, and her lips were compressed together ever so slightly. As his eyes returned to hers, for the first time he realized just what that sparkle actually was: It was anger. Elizabeth was angry—very angry, he decided. He wondered who could have angered her so, and looked around the room suspiciously. But when he looked at her the third time, the truth struck him with powerful effect: She was angry at him.
Had she always been angry at him when she looked so?
When she came to stand before him, he opened his mouth, closed it again, then abruptly put his hand under her elbow and said, “Come.” She went with him silently out into the hallway, where they could have relative privacy. Leading her to a quiet corner, he said directly, “You are angry with me.”
Elizabeth’s brows arched. “I, sir?”
“Yes.” When she did not reply, he sighed impatiently. “Do not dissemble, Elizabeth; I despise it. If you are angry, you had much better say so.”
His words only made her angrier, as she thought of all the times he had dissembled about his feelings. “I am amazed, your lordship,” she replied in a heavily sarcastic tone, “that you should take note of my anger. You have certainly never done so before!”
Now it was he who had anger descend, black as thunder on his brow, mingled with surprise. “And what, madam, does that—!” He bit back his words, glancing at the other people loitering here and there in the hall, and lowered his voice. “This is neither the time nor the place for this, clearly, but I take leave to say that that remark was highly uncalled for, and when I see you tomorrow, you shall explain yourself!”
Unequal Affections: A Pride and Prejudice Retelling Page 23