Inspiration

by Maria Grace

  He pulled back his shoulders and stood a little straighter. Somehow this, an unjust accusation, was easier to tolerate. “You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns.”

  “Who that knows what his misfortunes have been can help feeling an interest in him?”

  “His misfortunes!” He threw up an open hand. “Yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.”

  “And of your infliction. You have reduced him to his present state of poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life, of that independence which was no less his due than his dessert. You have done all this, and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and ridicule!”

  “And this,” he crossed the room with quick short steps, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps these offenses might have been overlooked had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed had I with greater policy concealed my struggles and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination—by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?” The words tumbled forth with venom equal to her own.

  Her features turned to ice: glittering, pristine, and sharp. “You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner. You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”

  The frost wind that carried her words tore the heat from his body and the air from his lungs. A more gentleman-like manner… The way those words reverberated through his being, he might never cease hearing them.

  “From the very beginning, from the first moment of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike. I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

  The last man … the last man …

  He silenced her with an upraised palm. “You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.” He stormed from the room and from the parsonage.

  How was it possible that his muse should have directed him so, to convince him of the one thing he needed like air, only to tear it away from him in one awful, dreadful, life-rending moment?

  What did she think of him?

  In truth some of it was just. He was ill-mannered and ill-spoken, even if truthful, in all his declarations to her. It sounded nothing like a marriage proposal should. But it had been honest and from the heart—was that not enough?

  His gut twisted hard as it always did when he tried to run from truth.

  No. No, it was not. Not in light of the way he had treated Bingley and his affections. If he dismissed his friend’s affections, did he deserve to have the fulfillment of his own? Of course not.

  But her accusations extended farther than Bingley. In all her considerations toward Wickham, she was in error, completely and totally. At least in that matter he could acquit himself.

  Should he, though? It would hardly change her feelings toward him.

  But that was not the point. If she had to dislike him—and nothing would ever change that—at least he could make certain it was for true faults of his own, not cleverly crafted lies.

  He stood in the middle of the road and exhaled a ragged breath. With it went all energy, all strength, all hope. Resignation filled the empty places, numb and cold.

  The sensation was not unfamiliar. It had held him together through the death of his mother, his father, and through Georgiana’s near compromise. It would hold him together now which was the best that he might hope for.

  He trudged back to Rosings Park. He had a letter to write.

  The next morning Darcy dragged himself out to the walk he knew Miss Elizabeth favored. No amount of sunshine or fair wind could add color to the grey bleakness that surrounded him. An hour and she did not appear. She must be somewhere. Surely, she would not keep to the parsonage when he desperately needed to encounter her in the woods.

  Where else might she go? The gates overlooking the park were pleasant this time of day. There was absolutely no reason he should go there, but he did. Naturally, she was not there, so he stalked the grove, striving to walk away the anxious energy that plucked at every nerve.

  Wait, could it be? No, surely his muse’s dying breaths taunted him with visions that would disappear. Yet it lingered and drew closer! It was!

  He held out the letter that he had spent the better part of the night writing and stepped toward her with all the strength he could muster. “I have been walking in the grove for some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honor of reading that letter?” With a slight bow, he turned away and rushed into the cover of the trees, the words he had written echoing in his mind:

  Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of it containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes, which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten, and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.

  His errand complete, he sought out his valet and his driver. They would be away from this dreadful place as soon as arrangements could be made, before the death of his muse made marriage to Anne seem like an appropriate punishment for his transgressions against Miss Elizabeth.

  Chapter 4

  Usually on the return journey to Pemberley, he took the opportunity to ride alongside the coach at least several hours a day. Little could compare to experiencing the countryside atop a fine horse. But he could find no such solace this time. The entire distance, some one hundred and eighty miles, was spent shuttered in the coach with the drapes drawn closed.

  How could he look out upon a landscape that had turned grey and drab? Even the sunshine lost its warmth, its life-giving essence and the wind all traces of hope. It was all gone.

  Behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner… the last man in the world…

  When he closed his eyes, he saw nothing. Absolutely nothing, and he probably never would again. Until that fateful interview, when he shut his eyes, images took shape: drawings, paintings, colors, and forms. Boredom had made little sense to him then; neither had loneliness. His muse had always stood sufficient company to stave off both.

  But now he was alone. More alone than he had ever been. Without his muse. Without her. Empty. Cold. Sterile.

  Surely, he would never create again. How could he hold a brush or crayon or pencil now? The only image he could call upon was that look she had given him when she crushed his fondest dream. Though her justice was incomplete and not all her accusations were true, there was enough righteousness in them that he could not bear to hear them again.

  Perhaps it would be b
etter this way. He would miss the ecstasy of the creative impulses, but being free of its torment was no small thing. The relief might be worth the dull dreariness that was his world now.

  At least there would be peace. At least after a fashion.

  Would it be so bad to live as other men did? They survived it well enough. Certainly, he could learn, too. He had to.

  Pemberley, as always, welcomed him with open arms. She was never so happy as when her only son was in residence. Or at least Mrs. Reynolds told him so when he returned. It was difficult to argue with her kindly smile.

  He dove into the work of the estate with a fervor that rivaled some of his most creative periods. Perhaps his beloved estate would take the place of his muse, soothing his soul with useful, if mundane, employ.

  Fitzwilliam and Georgiana both insisted that he was working too hard. But how could they understand? While Georgiana was indeed proficient on her instrument, she was proficient, not inspired. It was work and effort for her, not the joyous release that it might have been. She did not repine her situation, not knowing her art in any other way. If she had, she would have understood Darcy’s aching need to fill the vacancy in his being with busyness.

  ∞∞∞

  As spring melted into summer, the work of the estate lessened, settling into a bland routine that he could manage far too easily. Boredom, with its bleak mendacity that muddled activity with productivity, settled in.

  Then the letters began. The dreadful, awful, tempting letters.

  The first one came at the beginning of June. Followed by another a fortnight later. Then they arrived weekly. By the final week of July, the missives were coming daily. All droning the same ghastly message.

  Aunt Catherine’s precise, angular hand reminded him of his duty to his family, the brilliance of the match, the necessity of an heir—all leading to the same horrible conclusion. He must marry Anne.

  As her demands became more frantic, more insistent, more guilt-inducing, his better sense began to wear away, tempted to silence the droning voice in his head. In a moment of clear-headedness, or was it desperation?—it was difficult to tell anymore, but whatever it was—he felt the determination to thwart Aunt Catherine more strongly than he had felt anything in months.

  How ironic that once he should feel again, the feelings would be more torment. But the relief of renewed sensibilities forbade him from turning his back on it. Instead, he crafted his bastion against Aunt Catherine’s plague.

  The small room off Pemberley’s gallery had been the storage room for most of his works. His ego did not permit him to litter all of Pemberley’s walls with art of his own making. The place usually remained locked and off limits to even the servants.

  Since he would never paint again, he turned it into a shrine to what might have been. On the walls, he hung the finished canvases revealing his study of the nymph whose face was Miss Elizabeth’s. On easels and stands rested the unfinished pieces and sketches that would now remain incomplete, a tribute to the price a vengeful muse might exact. Yes, it was a painful place, to be sure, but it was a place in which he could feel again. And those sensations would provide him a sure guard against a moment of weakness that might trap him in Aunt Catherine’s web.

  At the beginning of August, a different sort of letter arrived. Bingley invited him to meet him and his sisters in Derby to enjoy the theater there. From there, with Darcy’s permission of course, the party might return with Darcy to Pemberley to enjoy a summer house party there.

  Darcy was on the verge of refusing when yet another missive arrived from Aunt Catherine. A little time away from her constant missives could hardly be a bad thing. Moreover, Georgiana’s spirits seemed a bit low, and this sort of diversion would do her well. So they went off with instructions to Mrs. Reynolds that they would return in a week.

  Although Bingley’s company and all the activity that accompanied him were distracting, mere distraction was not enough. Bingley’s presence, even here away from Hertfordshire, served to remind him too much of her. A day before the week was complete, he had to leave, excusing himself with the promise that he was ensuring Pemberley would be ready to receive them when they arrived.

  Yes, it was a lie, but surely it was a harmless one. Far less damaging than explaining that he could no longer tolerate company. Even Bingley’s equanimity could not withstand such honesty.

  ∞∞∞

  The weather proved fine and his horse in high spirits, so the ride back was pleasant and even a mite engaging. Wait. Was that the river that ran the length of Pemberley? Why had he chosen that route? When had he chosen that route? How had he become so distracted? How long had it been since that had happened, and why was it happening now?

  Uneasiness—or was it anticipation?—with all the requisite sensations coursed through his limbs. Bah! He could not ride in such a state.

  He delivered his horse to the stable and continued on foot. What instructions did Mrs. Reynolds need to prepare for Bingley’s party tomorrow? Pray the party did not expect him to host good dinners and large parties on their behalf. Bingley certainly would not, but his sisters? They just might.

  Perhaps it would be wise to craft an appropriate response just in case. He rubbed his fist along his stubbled chin.

  “Mr. Darcy!”

  Their eyes met.

  He staggered back as though he had run headlong into a wall. She blushed.

  It was her. It was Miss Elizabeth.

  Here. At Pemberley.

  His mouth went dry and wooly; his feet rooted in place, his lungs barely responded to his command to breathe.

  She pressed her hand to her chest, eyes darting to look anywhere but at him. “Pray excuse me, sir. The housekeeper said that you were away from the house and would not return from some time.”

  “I have returned a day earlier than anticipated.”

  Her jaw hung agape as though at a loss for what to say.

  “Are your family well?” Not an original question but they were words, and he could say them; that was miracle enough.

  “Yes, they are, thank you.” Perhaps it was just in her surprise that she had forgotten her earlier feelings toward him, but her voice held no disdain. He probably should not hope.

  “And how do you find Pemberley? Is it to your liking?” He stared at her face, willing himself to listen as he never had before.

  “I can hardly think anyone upon visiting it could find fault with it.” Her voice held the promise of a smile.

  Was it possible? How could that be?

  “I am pleased to hear it. Your good opinion is well worth the earning. Would you introduce me to your party?” He gestured to the man and woman who stood just behind her, beneath the shade of his favorite tree.

  “Of course.” She beckoned them near. “May I present the Gardiners, my aunt and uncle from Gracechurch Street.” She emphasized the last words, asking a question that dare not be spoken.

  “I am delighted to make your acquaintance.” He bowed and beckoned to the gardener who had been standing in the shadows, watching the entire affair. “Pray take them around the grounds and show them the best views. You will excuse me.” He bowed again and strode away.

  Truly, he did not want to leave, but he had to. If he had any hope of ever breathing or thinking again, he had to.

  What was she doing here? He was never to see her again. Was that not what his muse had insisted? Yes, that is how it had been.

  Her laugh rang through the trees some distance behind him.

  At least, he though it had. But she was here! He stared into the sky. His knees threatened to melt beneath him. Had the color just returned to the world? It had—that wonderous shade of blue had not been there earlier.

  One did not waste such an opportunity! He had to show her—for he certainly could not say the words—how desperately he longed for redemption. The quest could not wait a moment longer.

  Where would the gardener have taken them? Blast it all! He should never have left them. Of course, th
e woods near the river: his favorite spot for fishing. That had to be it. He broke into a run.

  Yes, there they were. He could just make them out at the bridge near the coppiced woods. He slowed to a brisk walk; it would not do to run at them. How easily that could be misconstrued. Besides, he needed just a moment to capture the image in his mind, just in case his muse permitted him to commit it to paper: the dappled sunlight across the bridge framed her against the river’s sparkling currents.

  “Miss Bennet,” he stopped near her and bowed. Hopefully she would not detect him still panting. “I pray you will forgive my prior departure. That business is now complete, though. Might I join your party on your walk?”

  She stammered a bit, high color in her cheeks, but eventually managed to express an affirmative. He might have apologized for interrupting and excused himself had not a pretty smile accompanied her words.

  Mr. Gardiner trundled over and immediately took over the conversation. Well-dressed and with a confident bearing, he was certainly a relation for whom Miss Elizabeth need not blush. How quickly men of good sense and breeding made themselves known. His position in trade notwithstanding, he was both.

  From the corner of his eye, Darcy could just make out a dimple in Miss Elizabeth’s cheek. Perhaps, with a very little effort, he could encourage that expression.

  “Do you care for fishing, sir?”

  Mr. Gardiner stood a little straighter, his eyes twinkling much like Miss Elizabeth’s did when pleased. “I do indeed, sir, when I have the opportunity, of course. With most of our time spent in London, I fear I do not often have the chance.”

  “You must take it whilst you are here, then. I insist. I imagine you have not brought tackle of your own, so you must use some of mine. I will have it no other way.”

  Mrs. Gardiner approached Miss Elizabeth and looped her arm in her niece’s. She whispered something in Miss Elizabeth’s ear.

  “I cannot say. I am all astonishment,” Miss Elizabeth whispered back.

  Astonishment? That was probably a good thing, all told.