“Elizabeth.” His other hand came up and covered one of hers so that they stood with their four hands clasped together. “You would tell me if . . . if you were unhappy?”
“Unhappy?” she repeated.
“Yes, if you . . . ,” he swallowed, “wished to cry off.”
Her eyes opened very wide indeed. “I would never do that.”
“I know, but . . .”
“I don’t,” she insisted. “I wouldn’t.” Then, as he seemed to struggle for what to say, she did something completely unexpected—quickly, almost furtively, she stood on her toes and kissed him. As his hands loosened in shock, she slipped away and, with a last shy, blushing glance over her shoulder, went back into the parlor.
Darcy stared after her, his heart pounding, wondering, as he always did, what it meant. Surely it was some reason for hope? Surely it showed that she was warming to him, that her heart was growing in affection, that perhaps she felt some genuine measure of tenderness? Suddenly he felt lighter than he had in days—weeks, perhaps—and he determined to set aside all his doubts, to shun the dark thoughts that had haunted him lately. He had the most worthy and beguiling woman in all of England for his bride, and in less than two weeks she would be his wife. That was something to rejoice over, and rejoice he would.
Smiling to himself, he rejoined the others in the parlor.
Engaged in helping Kitty to trim a hat the next day, Lizzy looked across the room to the corner where Mr. Darcy sat. He had developed the habit of bringing a book with him to Longbourn, and whenever Elizabeth was busy, he would retire to a chair to read. He and the Bennets had reached a comfortable medium wherein enough talking took place to satisfy everyone’s notions of politeness, but not enough to tax anyone’s good will.
Watching him, Elizabeth let her eyes linger over his form—the legs, which seemed almost too long for the small parlor, the broad, straight shoulders beneath his finely cut coat. His handsome face was in thoughtful stillness now, dark eyes focused on his page, dark hair falling across his forehead. Her eyes rested for a moment on the firm mouth, a trace of color in her cheeks as she remembered how he had kissed her. This is my husband, she thought. This was the man whose life, home, and bed she would share, whose children she would bear.
Then all at once his gaze lifted to meet hers, and to her surprise he colored faintly to find himself watched. Irresistibly amused by his discomfort—did he not watch her constantly?—Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow inquiringly at him. He pursed his lips slightly and refused to rise to her bait, returning his gaze determinedly to his book, but Elizabeth noted that his color did not recede for some time.
When Kitty’s hat was trimmed at last to her satisfaction, Elizabeth rose and announced that after sitting for so long she was eager to stretch her legs in the garden, and very prettily asked Mr. Darcy if he would care to accompany her. He agreed with alacrity, pocketing his book.
The day was very warm and bright, the familiar path dry. “Perhaps you ought to fetch your parasol,” observed Darcy mildly.
“No. However unfashionable it is, I like the sun.” She lifted her face. “I hope you will not mind too much if I end up acquiring a light tan. It happens nearly every summer.”
“I do not think it would materially decrease your charms in my eyes.”
“In which case I shall feel brave enough to point out that you are not wearing a hat either.”
“Yes. I do not really like hats.”
She blinked and smiled at this disarming confession. “Why ever not?”
He shrugged. “I do not particularly enjoy the feel of them.”
“You with your hats and me with my bonnets. We shall become very tan together then.”
“Together,” he repeated softly, his hand going out towards her. Elizabeth met it halfway with her own, responding to the familiar gesture without thought. His eyes brightened, and he pulled her closer as if he would take her in his arms, but she held back, glancing pointedly towards the windows.
Almost eagerly he led her off the path. The nearest discreet spot was against a wall of the house, under the low-hanging branches of a small tree. He did take her in his arms then, holding her close and looking at her upturned face, with its sun-warmed skin and bright eyes looking peacefully back at him. He bent his head, brushing noses, mingling breaths, enjoying the intimacy, her softness and sweetness and clean fragrance. She seemed so yielding in his arms. She shall be happy, he thought. We both shall be happy.
“It wasn’t stupid!” Lydia’s strident voice jolted them out of their serenity. They had forgotten that the window which stood open further down belonged to one of the girls’ sitting rooms; Lydia must have walked suddenly close to the window. “And I don’t know why you’re all acting so disapproving all of a sudden, as if he hadn’t been all our friend for months and months now! Lizzy liked him better than any of us, and if it wasn’t for that rich, dreary Mr. Darcy—”
Then there was Mary’s voice, quieter but still audible. She often sat near the window, where the light was the best. “Mr. Darcy rendered our family an inestimable service when he forced you to return—”
“Mary, if you lecture me one more time, I shall scream! And if you go on one more time about the service that Lizzy did by agreeing to marry him, then I’ll scream, too. I cannot see that she did us any favors at all by deciding to marry a man we all hate.”
Elizabeth, blushing in mortification, made some movement out of Darcy’s arms, murmuring something about the servants hearing.
“Even you cannot deny that Lizzy absolutely detested him, Jane, whatever she says now. Don’t you remember how she used to make fun of how pompous and disagreeable he is? If he hadn’t had so much money and if we hadn’t all needed money so badly, she would never have thought of marrying him!” Picking up pace, Elizabeth hurried desperately towards the window, but was still not fast enough. Lydia’s voice, carrying with such disastrous clarity, prattled on. “La, can you imagine Lizzy, who loves to dance and laugh, actually being happy with a man like Mr. Darcy? She’ll be bored to tears in less than a month.”
“We should be grateful to our sister for her sacrifice,” put in Mary again, apparently unable to help herself. “A sacrifice made on behalf of those one loves is a noble and beautiful thing.”
“Well, she needn’t have made it for my sake, since I intend to be married long before Papa—” She stopped abruptly as Elizabeth rounded the shutters, red faced and glaring. Lydia gasped, her eyes going wide, then she covered her mouth with her hand and began to laugh helplessly. Elizabeth, mortified beyond all thought, beyond anything which she had ever imagined it possible to be, shut her eyes. But what could she do? Jane, with a look of alarm, had come to pull Lydia away, shutting the window, but the damage was already done. Turning fearfully back towards Darcy, she saw that he was still standing where she had left him, in profile, head bent and very still. She walked tentatively towards him.
It had finally happened. She had worried about it excessively when they first arrived back in Hertfordshire, that someone would tell him how much she had truly disliked him. As the weeks went by, her anxiety faded, but she had reckoned without Lydia. Now it was all out, and she could only hope that he would not take it too seriously, considering the source.
As if feeling unworthy to approach him too closely, she stopped a few feet away. “It was only Lydia,” she tried. “You must not mind what she says. She’s still angry.”
“I know that,” he answered after a moment, his voice low, “and I would not, perhaps, but it’s true, is it not?” He raised his head and looked into her eyes. “It was my cousin who first said something of the sort, in London, but I disregarded him. I disregarded all of them because I could not, would not believe that you would accept an offer of marriage from a man you actively disliked—a man you,” his mouth twisted as if he had a bad taste, “detested.” Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears. “You cannot deny it, I see.” He turned away, slamming his hand against the brick wall. “They al
l knew it, did they not? Absolutely everyone knew that I was among the last men on earth you would ever wish to marry—everyone except me!” He drew his hand back slowly and stared down at the ground. “What a fool I was,” he whispered.
“Please don’t say that,” begged Elizabeth.
“How can I not, when it is so manifestly true?”
“But—”
“I was such a fool, Elizabeth, that I believed you—I imagined you to be wishing for my addresses, to be expecting them! Do you know . . . ,” he turned his head to look at her, his eyes full of self-scorn, “I actually thought that you wanted me, that you were attracted to me?”
She swallowed. “My manners must have been at fault.” He looked away and did not contradict it. She felt it like a slap. “I did not mean to lead you on—my spirits often lead me astray, but I would never consciously—”
“It’s not your fault,” he said roughly, turning around.
“I don’t feel that way anymore. Surely you know that I don’t feel that way. Your feelings have changed; cannot mine as well?”
“My feelings have changed concerning your family and situation, but not concerning you.”
“I told you I did not love you.”
“There is a large distance between not loving and detesting!” He made a futile, frustrated gesture that ended with rubbing his hand over the back of his head. He was struggling desperately for composure. “Why did you do it? Why did you say yes?”
“Because I realized that I had misunderstood you. I had always believed that you disliked me as much as I disliked you, so when I found out you loved me, it changed everything. I was able to see that you had good qualities I had not given you credit for. I did not detest you when I accepted you. I did not even dislike you, then, not really.”
A painful half-laugh was dragged from him. “Not really? Upon my word, Elizabeth, can you hear yourself? Do you have any idea what it is like to be in love—to be undyingly, painfully, violently in love with someone who—but what am I saying? Of course you don’t!” He turned back to the blankness of the wall, looking like he wished to strike it again but settling for leaning his forehead on his arm.
“I was foolish and blind,” said Elizabeth, trying desperately to explain. “You had wounded my vanity, then Mr. Wickham flattered me and told me terrible stories about you. It was my fault because I simply did not wish to like you.”
“Except it was not only that,” he answered, bitterly. “It was my own bad manners and pride that you abhorred, even before you found out that I had ruined your sister’s happiness, too.”
“But you have corrected those things.”
“In the last week I have tried. But what if I had not?”
“You were still a good man.” She spoke with conviction.
“But not one you could like.”
“I did like you,” she insisted. “I came to like you very much, even before . . . I do like you.” She stopped and drew a deep breath. Tears trailed slowly down her cheeks. “I am so sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “I am so truly sorry for my unjust, unkind opinion of you. I’m sorry for the things I believed about you. I’m sorry that I spoke those opinions so freely, with so little regard for prudence or delicacy. I have regretted it so many times since we came back here! You have proven me wrong so often!” She walked up closer to him, reaching out to touch his arm. “You have been the best of men, to me and my family,” she told him earnestly. “Even Lydia will someday understand how much she owes to you—how much we all owe—”
Darcy, whose mien had begun to soften, pulled back sharply. “Do not ever speak to me about what you owe me!”
His words hung between them.
“Do you wish that I had not accepted you?” she asked at last, feeling strangely desolate.
His face softened a bit, and he reached out towards her, only to pull back. “No. But I told you once that I did not want your gratitude, and I tell you now that I do not want your sense of obligation or—heaven forbid!—your pity.”
“What do you want?”
He looked until her eyes fell. “You know what I want.” She could not answer, and he turned as if to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to Netherfield.”
“Will you not stay?”
He did not look at her. “No.”
“You cannot forgive me, then,” she whispered.
He sighed, his voice strained. “It’s not a matter of forgiveness, Elizabeth. Do you think I do not know my own part in creating your feelings? But you cannot expect me to be happy with such information.”
She walked around him and grasped his hand between her own. “Will you believe me when I say I look back on my early opinions of you with shame?”
He looked at her for several moments before answering that one. “Why should you be ashamed? In everything but Mr. Wickham you were right, after all.”
“No.” She spoke with conviction. “I was not right.”
“Justified, then.”
“Not that either.”
He smiled a slight, cheerless smile. “We will not quarrel over this. I am not angry at you, but I need . . .” He drew a ragged breath. “I need time. Please, Elizabeth, you must give me that.”
She drew back unhappily. Of course he did not want to be near her! He looked at her for another moment before walking back along the path to the house. She watched him go, feeling utterly wretched.
When Jane came out to find her a few minutes later, she was still crying—not in sobs, but a slow trickle that wouldn’t stop. Jane stopped short at seeing her. “Oh, Lizzy, he heard?”
“He heard it all, I am afraid.”
“Oh dear!” She sat down and placed a compassionate arm around her. “Was it so very bad?” Elizabeth nodded. “Was he—was he very angry?”
“At first, but—oh, Jane, it’s not his anger, but his unhappiness. He was so very unhappy.”
“Surely he knows that you do not feel that way anymore.”
“Yes. I told him so, and I do think he believes me, but . . . but it was like he did not feel he deserved to have me think better of him. Like he thought he deserved my censure.” The idea that Darcy, of all men, should feel unworthy made her sad, and guilty, and strangely afraid.
“I am sure that all will be right again soon,” ventured Jane. “He will see that it was only another misunderstanding.”
“But it isn’t a misunderstanding. Do you not see that? It’s understanding that’s the problem—a perfect understanding of how I despised him, of how I scorned him, of how prejudiced and deceitful and terrible I’ve actually been.” She wiped futilely at her eyes. “I would rather a thousand times that he were angry! It would be just anger, and I know that he would forgive me. But Jane, I’ve made him miserable! He said—he said . . .” Undyingly, painfully, violently . . . those were not happy descriptives. “He wanted to marry me because he believed it would make him happy,” she whispered. “But it hasn’t. It hasn’t made him happy at all, Jane, and it’s all my fault.”
Riding slowly back to Netherfield, Darcy tried to remember his lighthearted mood of the morning. He had decided that he was not going to worry any longer, but that was before Lydia Bennet’s crass, careless words revealed the true extent of the gulf that had always lain between them. A part of him wanted to be angry, thought he should be furious that Elizabeth had accepted him anyway and that she had not told him the real truth. Yes, she had said she did not love him, but that was all. Did she tell him that she despised the way he had treated her neighbors in Hertfordshire? Did she tell him that she was angry at him for taking Bingley away from her sister? Did she accuse him of mistreating Wickham? No! She had not done any of these things. She had concealed them in her heart and smiled and teased him and asked about visiting her relations. He had had no idea of the obstacles that lay before him, of the very real barriers that stood between him and her affections. He had thought that modesty, reticence, hurt pride, and, at the very most, indi
fference were his to conquer, while all the while her more substantial objections had gone unspoken.
So yes, there was a part of him that wanted to be angry. It had not been fair of her. But Darcy was no longer so ready to take offense as he once had been. If it had not been fair of her, it had been even less fair of him. He had known perfectly well what the pressures of her family situation were. Had he not counted on them? Had had not depended on the advantages which his wealth could offer her to make his suit acceptable? He had made no attempt to make himself personally acceptable to her prior to his proposal. He had not even tried to win her love. Why? Because he knew that he could get her without it. It was an ugly truth, but one he forced himself to face. He had hidden his regard, denied it, fought it, hated it, before finally giving in to it, and when he did, he used her lack of fortune to get him what he wanted. He had not courted the woman he loved openly, honorably, or properly, because he knew that if he proposed, she would have little choice but to accept.
Yet that was not all. He could, perhaps, have accepted that both his selfishness and her dislike were in the past now, but Lydia’s other words had cut deeply, too. As little as he liked giving weight to anything that foolish child said, the fact was that he had often thought, recently, how unlikely it seemed that he, in his reserve, could please a woman as lively and outgoing and social as Elizabeth. He had been trying to improve his manners, but he would never be the type of man who enjoyed large parties, who made friends easily or charmed new acquaintances. Compared with others, he would probably always seem dour, even stern. It seemed all too likely that he would bore her soon enough.
Unequal Affections: A Pride and Prejudice Retelling Page 31