Her engagement to Darcy, she saw with sudden clarity, had completely altered her standards in men. Learning to know him, to enjoy his company and appreciate his character—it had changed her. Though she had been too preoccupied to notice, Darcy had moved subtly from acceptable to desirable to . . . she heaved a surprised sigh . . . to ideal. Really, he was the ideal husband for her, able to balance her and complement her all at once, respectful of her intelligence, fond of her liveliness, neither intimidated nor attempting to intimidate. His gravity was the perfect balance to her levity. And he . . . he was, without a doubt, the best man she had ever known: the most upright, the most generous, the most conscientious and disciplined, the most intelligent and learned. The most handsome. And he had always been these things. He had not really needed her to improve him—not much, anyway. True, his manner may not have always been what it should, but neither had hers. She simply found it easier than he did to disguise displeasure under a laugh and a jest. Darcy had never, until recently, learned to conceal his disapprobation, and while that might not make him the most tactful of companions, it made him eminently trustworthy.
Did she want to marry him? Elizabeth had not asked herself that question since she accepted him. It was a moot point, and perhaps she had feared her own discontentment if she allowed herself to think too much about it. And yet she had wanted to accept him, wanted it more than she had been willing to admit at the time, for reasons which were not entirely clear. Practicality had played a role, as had vanity, but it was more than just that. It was Darcy himself, the force of his personality, the strength of his love.
It was like a story in a book—the rich, mysterious stranger falling in love with the poor country maiden. She, Elizabeth, had neither great beauty nor great talent, had poor connections and no money, and had lived her entire life within the same limited circle of society. Yet, somehow, there he was in the parsonage, tall and imposing and brilliant and arrogant, speaking agitated words of blunt passion, turning her world upside down. He had been an irresistible force, and he offered her too much, so in the end she took it. She had felt guilty, fascinated, anxious and thrilled and cautious and hopeful and fearful all at once. She had tried so hard to keep her equilibrium, to fight against his gravity, to make good decisions and do what was right, all while not losing herself. She had continued in her own complaisant superiority because it gave her a hold against him—she could see that now. It gave her strength, in those weeks when she was uncertain of his true character (and perhaps secretly uncertain of her own), to meet him every day and endure his intensity. But now there was no more uncertainty, and for his sake—for both their sakes—she could no longer afford reservations either.
Sitting there in the moonlight that night, she thought of Darcy’s quiet humor, his fascinating mind, his scrupulous sense of honor. She thought of the brother that he was, the master, the friend. She thought, the warm blood rising, of his lingering gazes, ardent words, and kisses. Darcy had always been a handsome man, but her early dislike had made her largely indifferent to his good looks. During their engagement her attraction to him had grown, slowly but surely, blossoming under more than just the magnetic pull of his eyes and the deep tones of his voice. Affinity, respect, and trust had all nurtured it, and as she grew more comfortable with him, and with what it was to be touched by a man, she had found herself enjoying his attentions, wishing for them, responding to them. She had found herself watching for his straight figure to ride down the driveway, found herself seeking his eyes, wishing for his praise, missing his company.
Did she want to marry him? Of course she did.
Below her, washed with silver light, the back gardens of Longbourn lay tidily set out in squares. Beyond them, she could just make out the fateful beech tree and, even further beyond, a glimmer of fields that would lead her, if she walked them, to his doorstep. She thought of how often he had come to her across them—how often he had come to her. Even before he proposed, he had come to the parsonage. After, he had come to Gracechurch Street. He had come to Hertfordshire. He had come to Longbourn, day after day, even when he detested most of its inhabitants. That was the way of it, in their society. The man had always to come to the woman, but still the fact remained that Darcy could have stayed in London; he could have hidden until the wedding, avoiding all the mortifications of her family and neighbors—but he had not. Instead, he had continued to come. He came, she knew, because he loved her.
He had come to her in other ways. He had come to her with his heart—with his caresses—with his love. Perhaps it had been selfish in the beginning; perhaps then he had visited her, touched her, spoken to her merely because he wanted it. Yet she marveled, now, that he had been so open with her for so long, that he had told her he loved her so many times while knowing she would not answer in kind. She could just glimpse, a bit, how much courage it had taken, how much—yes, humility. How much strength of character. He had always, always come, and he always would, because he was honorable, he was generous, he was faithful.
Elizabeth leaned her warm cheek against the cool glass and laid her hand against it too, watching her fingertips flatten. It was time . . . everything in her hummed it, even as her heart skittered around uncertainly . . . it was time for her to go to him.
Going to him was not a particularly definite phrase, thought Elizabeth crossly the next morning, as she frowned at her reflection in the mirror, pushing at ringlets and pinching her cheeks. Anyone standing nearby might have heard her mutter something about being absurd, but she still sat before her glass for far longer than usual. She wore a morning gown Darcy had once complimented, changed the lace three times before becoming satisfied, and even bit her lips to make them redder. There was no actual point to all of this, as far as she knew; the man who had fallen in love with her after she walked three miles in the mud would hardly be deterred by a misplaced curl or the wrong lace now, but she could not help it. She needed so badly, this morning, to please.
She waited by the window for him, looking down the drive. Her stomach clenched, her palms grew damp, and her heart raced. She thought every moment that he would appear, and imagined a thousand times how he would look, what he would say, and how she would try to get him alone. What she would do then she could not think. But when a horse finally came trotting down the driveway, it was black, not grey. Mr. Bingley was alone. Her heart sank.
Mr. Bingley came in, giving an easy excuse for his friend, but she felt his eyes resting on her with particular seriousness. She approached him. “Did—Mr. Darcy send a message for me?”
He shook his head. “Only his regrets.”
Only his regrets. Oh, Fitzwilliam, she thought, what have I done to you? “Is he well?”
Mr. Bingley hesitated, unable to voice a polite lie to her entreating eyes. “He is . . . struggling.”
She nodded quickly and looked away, holding back sudden tears. He touched her arm lightly, compassionately. “He will return to Longbourn soon, I am sure. He will be well; he simply needs a little time.”
Time. He had asked her for it the day before, but now she could hardly bear the idea of going another day without seeing him. Everything inside of her cried that he did not need time, he needed her. “How much time?”
“I’m afraid I cannot say, but he does not mean to abandon you until the wedding.”
“Has he . . .” A sudden thought occurred to her. “Has he been drinking?” she almost whispered, casting a glance towards her mother, half a room away.
Bingley looked surprised. “No, it’s not that. He doesn’t, you know—drink to excess, I mean.”
She did not think he did, but was still relieved to know that she had not driven him to that. Her resolution of the night before echoed through her mind, and she knew, all at once, what she needed to do. “Mr. Bingley, in your opinion would it do him good to see me?”
“In my opinion, yes.”
“Then I shall go to him,” she said decidedly.
“Go to him?” Bingled repeated.
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“Yes, directly.”
Caught by surprise, he mumbled something about a carriage, but she had turned away. “Mama, I’m going for a walk.”
“A walk?” repeated Mrs. Bennet. “But you’ve already had one today, Lizzy. And if Mr. Darcy is not to come today, I simply must have you visit Mrs. Walton about that rose silk gown with the silver ribbons; I do not think it fits you properly across the—,” she remembered Mr. Bingley’s presence just in time and lowered her voice, “bust.”
“I am perfectly happy with the way it fits, and I am determined to take in the view from the mount one last time,” she insisted, already moving towards the door. “I may be gone some time.”
“Oh, well, if you must go, perhaps Jane and Mr. Bingley would like to walk with you.”
Both immediately demurred, and she made good her escape before her mother could find another excuse or companion for her.
When she had decided to go to Darcy she had never imagined a tramp across physical fields, but Elizabeth did not hesitate as she put on her sturdiest walking shoes and gathered her things. It was not proper, of course, for her to go to Netherfield unescorted—or really proper for her to go at all, seeing as it was currently a bachelor residence, but she would not think of that. They were to be married in only eight days; what could it matter now? It was not right that she should sit here all day while Darcy was brooding alone in that big house, loving her and wanting her, while yet suffering from that love. She did not know what would happen once she got there but only knew, with absolute certainty, that she had to go.
It was the first day of June, warm and bright, with just enough of a breeze to not be oppressive. Elizabeth tied her bonnet strings, took a deep breath, and lifted her skirts as she set out, once again, to walk to Netherfield.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Elizabeth never forgot that walk across warm fields in the bright sun. She knew who she was walking towards, but not what.
Standing in the wide hallway while she let her breathing die down and her flushed cheeks cool, she addressed Netherfield’s startled butler. “I came to see Mr. Darcy.”
He hesitated. “I believe he is in the billiards room, madam. If you would like to wait in the parlor—”
“That will not be necessary. Can you direct me to him?”
After another small hesitation, he showed her to the door, bowed, and left.
The door of the billiards room was halfway open, and she could hear the click of balls against each other. She rather wondered that, of all things, her intended should be playing at billiards while she sat at Longbourn without him, but she supposed one must do something when one is alone in a large house all day. She pushed gently on the door, and it swung open on well-oiled hinges, just enough to let her enter.
It was obvious that Darcy was deeply preoccupied. He was in his shirtsleeves, his hair a little rumpled, his face tired and set in grim lines. He leaned over the table, dispatching balls to their pockets with mechanical precision, so focused on his own thoughts that he did not even notice her entrance. She watched him for some minutes, admiring his skill and the long, lean lines of his form, while a new possessiveness rose in her.
Some slight movement caught Darcy’s eye, and his gaze flicked toward the door. The next moment he had snapped upright, astonished and discomposed. “Elizabeth!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”
She was looking at him in a way he had not seen before; he could not, in that moment, place in what way it was different, just that it was. Then suddenly she smiled, and that, too, was different. “What am I doing here?” she repeated, walking into the room. “Why, I’ve come to find my missing bridegroom, of course.”
He turned his face away. “Forgive me,” he said stiffly.
Approaching the table in a leisurely fashion, she placed her hand over one of the balls, rolling it slowly beneath her palm as she came around the corner towards him. Her eyes gleamed, and she looked at him under her lashes so alluringly, with a glance that was shy and coquettish at the same time. “Why, Mr. Darcy, I might begin to think that you prefer billiards to me.”
Darcy gripped the billiards cue tightly, jamming it into the floor as if to steady himself.
She drew closer, the teasing fading as she studied his face, close enough that he could take her in his arms. “You have not been sleeping well,” she said softly.
He swallowed. “No.” He could not lie to her.
Then she reached one hand up, stretching to touch him, caressing his cheek with soft, warm, wondering fingers. Darcy closed his eyes and almost sagged against the touch. He expected it to disappear at any moment; she would retreat into shyness again and leave him bereft. But Elizabeth did not draw back. Her fingers explored his face cautiously, following its contours as unconsciously he bent his head lower towards her: up the line of his jaw, his strong cheekbones, to his temple and forehead.
Why was she touching him? Was it pity, curiosity, affection? He cared, but he could not, would not pull away. It was impossible to pull away from her, to tear his heart from his body, to unmesh the fabric of their now-intertwined lives. Darcy knew, in those moments while her fingertips burned their gentle fire across his face, that he could bear his anxieties, bear his longing, bear the pain of unrequited love, just to have her near and to have the hope of her affection. He would devote himself to making her happy, to ensuring that she would not regret her decision. What was done could not be undone, and perhaps she would not be unhappy after all. Perhaps, in time—
“Fitzwilliam.”
He opened his eyes to find her even nearer, looking directly up into his eyes, her own filled with reflected sunshine from the window. She had such beautiful eyes.
He had such beautiful eyes. How had she never noticed how beautiful they were?—dark and rich and powerful; compelling eyes, tender eyes, rimmed with surprisingly delicate lashes; her lover’s eyes. She looked at him, at his familiar, comely, unhappy face, and all at once stood on her tiptoes, slipped her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his.
Darcy gasped slightly, his arms going around her as the billiards cue clattered ungracefully against the table and to the floor. He held her fiercely, kissed her, and felt her kissing him back. “Elizabeth,” he breathed against her mouth, and her lips curved upward against his. He kissed her again, and Elizabeth felt herself grow flushed and liquid in his embrace. He was not strange now, his mouth and arms and nearness were familiar; more, they were dear. They were . . . she pressed herself a little closer, hands curling around his collar . . . they were love and security; they were long talks and burning looks; they were faithfulness and selflessness, honor and probity. Everything that he had been to her, everything that he was, best of men, most difficult, most good, most intriguing and maddening and trustworthy and desirable of men—all those things in that moment united in that one long kiss in the checkered sunlight by the green felted table.
When they parted at last, Elizabeth buried her warm face against his starched cravat, vaguely aware that the arms around her were trembling. He held her very tightly, breathing against her ear, unwilling or unable to speak. She turned her cheek against him and said in a low voice, “Fitzwilliam, I’m sorry.”
It took a moment before Darcy could control his voice enough to ask, “For what, my darling?”
“For everything I’ve done to you—everything I’ve put you through.”
“You’ve made me a better man.”
She shook her head slightly. “Impossible.”
He closed his eyes, surprise and happiness and confusion producing a choking laugh. “Do not tell me you have forgotten all my faults so quickly.”
“I don’t believe you ever had any.”
He shook his head, smoothing his hands down her back. “If you start to lie to me now, Elizabeth, I shall never believe anything you say.”
“You have not changed in essentials,” insisted Elizabeth, lifting her head a little. “You are the same man you always were—but w
hich I could not see.”
“You are wrong.” He brought his right hand up to caress her cheek. “I was a selfish being before I met and loved you—after, even. I am ashamed to say it, but I loved you very selfishly in the beginning. Even when I proposed to you, I did not think of your feelings; if I had, I would never have spoken to you as I did.”
“It was not, perhaps, very politic,” she admitted with a smile, “but it was not so very bad.”
“It was and you know it.”
She had to laugh at that, still with her other cheek resting against him. “You have very kindly turned the conversation from my faults, but I know they have been many. I never meant to make you unhappy, but I have, many times.”
There was a short silence, and Darcy spoke in a slightly more constrained tone. “Any unhappiness has been my own fault, not yours. I am far more concerned that I will make you unhappy. I fear it, Elizabeth, as I have never feared anything before. It is a fear—,” his voice grew muffled as he buried his face in her hair, “it is a fear that I do not know how to overcome.”
So they were finally speaking truthfully—finally saying the things that could not be said. Elizabeth stayed where she was for a moment, contemplating his words, weighing her response. She had said the wrong thing so very many times; she had to say the right one now. With one hand she touched the fabric of his waistcoat, tracing its subtle design. “If you cannot overcome it,” she finally whispered, “can I?”
A dozen quick, strong beats of his heart went by, and then, “I—I don’t think I understand.”
“I . . .” She swallowed and, knowing that the words were not only right, they were true, she went on so quietly he barely heard her. “I think I love you.”
She felt his body freeze; the muscles in his arms stiffened; the fingers at the base of her neck went slack; even his breathing seemed to stop, all but the erratic pounding of that heart. The silence and stillness lasted so long that she began to grow anxious, and when he finally spoke, his voice sounded strange and uncertain. “You . . . think?”
Unequal Affections: A Pride and Prejudice Retelling Page 33