by Jennifer Joy
"I had thought Mr. Collins to have better taste in his choice of a wife. I will have to have a conversation with Mrs. Collins about the sort of friends she keeps and pray for her sake she improves upon better association."
Elizabeth took a deep breath to calm her pounding heart. It was just as Charlotte had predicted, and Charlotte's predictions were usually right. Elizabeth would not allow her friend to suffer because of her supposed impertinence. Not when Elizabeth would never spare another thought toward Rosings and its residents once she left Kent.
"Mrs. Collins can hardly be held accountable for my actions and the expectations of my family. I am certain I can extend my stay for two weeks more without causing inconvenience to my relatives in London and my father at Longbourn. More than two weeks, I cannot offer you."
That would be three weeks as Miss de Bourgh's guest at Rosings. Only one day in Mr. Darcy's company. It would not be easy, but Elizabeth felt confident she could manage.
Lady Catherine huffed, but she insisted no further.
Mr. Darcy stared at her as if attempting to solve a puzzle. She could have returned the same look to him had she wished it. The man was a puzzle to her too.
It was impossible to understand her. Miss Elizabeth had borne Aunt Catherine's insults with dignity, never returning insult for injury though Darcy knew her capable of insulting in such a manner the recipient of her ire would thank her for the compliment.
It was obvious she was not pleased to receive Anne's attention, or that of Aunt Catherine, and yet Darcy was certain she had agreed to extend her stay merely because he had attempted to speak for her. She would suffer from her own stubbornness.
But Darcy could think no less of her for it. He would have done the same. To have a choice taken away from him after it had been suggested he was incapable of making a good decision would have been such a blow to his pride, he would have acted exactly as she had.
He ought to have held his tongue. He could have spared her two additional weeks in a household that would only bare her faults and expose her to criticism at every turn. Aunt Catherine and Anne saw her as inferior, and nothing would change their opinion.
He knew how horrible that felt. She had enumerated his faults so clearly the day before, it had been impossible for him to ignore her claims. That was why he had written the letter — a letter he had yet to deliver.
Darcy did not understand Miss Elizabeth's reasons, but he had seen no suggestion of ambition in her manners. If he was correct in his estimation of her character — as he usually was — she sacrificed her own happiness for the benefit of another (Mrs. Collins' was his guess), a trustworthy trait, indeed, and one worthy of his confidence. He would give her the letter today.
Aunt Catherine dismissed them, and Mrs. Jenkinson met them in the entrance hall. She appeared to have been waiting for Miss Elizabeth.
The letter would have to wait. He could not be seen exchanging correspondence with an unmarried lady without compromising them both. Without losing a step, he bowed toward Mrs. Jenkinson and continued across the floor to the stairs.
Mrs. Jenkinson's threatening tone echoed over the marble. "You will not get away with it, miss," she hissed.
Chapter 11
Darcy glanced over his shoulder, one foot poised on the first step and the other turned toward the two ladies. He listened closely, but Elizabeth did not have the raised voice of one with impaired hearing. He could not hear her reply.
Mrs. Jenkinson scowled at her, and that was all the encouragement Darcy needed to intervene. He was half-way across the entrance hall when she must have seen his disapproving glower. Assuming a humble pose, she thought better of continuing her conversation with Miss Elizabeth.
Darcy heard the welcome sound of the housekeeper with her clanking keys before he saw her. Mrs. Beeton approached the two ladies with a large smile and eyes trained to miss no detail. "Miss Elizabeth, if it is agreeable to you, her ladyship has arranged for me to show you around the house and grounds," she said.
It was kind of Mrs. Beeton to give Aunt Catherine the credit for her thoughtfulness.
Miss Elizabeth looked grateful that it had been the housekeeper (and not him) who had come to her assistance. If only he could give her his letter….
Mrs. Jenkinson took advantage of the opportunity given her to retreat into the drawing room while Mrs. Beeton took Miss Elizabeth into her capable hands, giving Darcy a nod as they passed to signal she was in charge and all was well.
All may be well in the entrance hall, but it would not be well for Richard as soon as Darcy found him. He would strangle the lout.
Darcy found the ingrate penning a letter in his bedchamber.
"Aunt Catherine did not send for me," Darcy said as he crossed the room and stood by the window near the writing desk, giving Richard his sternest look — the same one he had given Mrs. Jenkinson moments ago.
Richard grinned. "I never said she did. That you assumed so is hardly my fault."
How many times had he used the same argument to get out of scrapes when they were growing up?
Darcy crossed his arms. "You allowed me to believe a lie. You could have corrected me."
Richard poured sand over his letter. "And allow you to miss an opportunity to see the one lady to make you smile? I think not."
Darcy opened his mouth to object, but Richard interrupted him. "I saw it with my own eyes, Darcy. Do not attempt to deny it."
Unable to contradict the truth of which Richard so painfully reminded him, Darcy said, "I wish you would not involve yourself in affairs of no concern to you."
He could never tell Richard how deeply he had been cut by that particular lady. Nor could Darcy tell him how the sight of her squeezed his heart and wrenched his gut because he did not know how to stop admiring her. Oh, if only he could stop! If only he had never met her. It was the cruelest punishment he had ever endured to see her and know how she held him in contempt.
And yet, he held an inkling of hope. He had no right to it nor any reason on which to found it, but his mind could not triumph over his obstinate heart. It refused to give up.
Richard poured off the sand and folded the letter, standing with a lighthearted laugh. "You look like the devil." He clapped Darcy on the shoulder, adding, "Believe me, if I did not feel my interference was necessary for your future happiness, I would not bother. But you are my favorite cousin and my closest friend, and I will see you happy yet."
Richard was worse than his own heart — unwilling to listen to reason. He was also a much better friend than Darcy deserved.
Glancing at the letter on the table, Darcy said, "Promise me not to involve Georgiana. I will not allow her hopes to rise only to be dashed in disappointment. You know how dearly she wishes for a sister."
Guilt consumed Darcy, adding to his wounded pride and making him utterly wretched. As much as he had tried to gain the favor of his parents, he had at least benefited from their presence in his life. Georgiana, on the other hand, had never known their mother. And their father could not look at her without being reminded of the wife he had lost. Darcy blamed himself for her loneliness. He had not known how to give her what she had so desperately needed. He had given her the governess most highly-recommended to him and sent her to the school the daughters of the finest families attended. But he had failed to give her what she most needed, making her vulnerable … and exposing her to Wickham's false promises and empty hopes.
Darcy shook his head. Regretting the past would do nothing to change what had happened. All he could do was learn from it and avoid repeating the same mistake again. Georgiana was safe with their aunt Lady Matlock.
Richard's smile faded. "I would no sooner disappoint her than I would you. Call me a romantic fool, but I want to see you settled and content."
"And you are certain Miss Elizabeth is the one to make me happy?" Darcy scoffed.
Richard chuckled and shook his head. "Never before have I known a lady to be so completely suited to you than Miss Bennet. Both
of you are so much alike. I must assume that if she can make you happy, then you will make her happy too." Richard looked at him gravely. "You must make her happy, Darcy. Shower her with gifts and poetry if you must. Find out what pleases her most and do it every day."
Richard made it sound easy. Darcy had thought he knew how to make a young lady — to make her — happy. What did she want that he could not provide? His Pemberley estate was envied by his peers, he had a healthy income and the respect of his tenants, he could give her every comfort a lady could possibly wish for … and she had refused it. She had refused him.
His need for her to understand he was innocent of the injustices she believed against him far outweighed the risk he took in sharing the truth with her. He had to give her the letter. It was imperative she read it.
Squeezing Richard's shoulder — as bothersome as he was, his heart was bigger than all of Pemberley — Darcy excused himself to search for Elizabeth.
Richard shouted after him, "Go after her, man! Do not rest until you have won her heart!"
Stepping into the hall and closing the door to prevent others from hearing Richard's vain cheer, Darcy heard the slow, mournful notes of Mrs. Collins practicing on Mrs. Jenkinson's pianoforte. Mrs. Collins had the distinct ability to make any song sound like a dirge. He did not need to peek into the room to know Mrs. Jenkinson would be sleeping in the chair by the instrument, lulled into slumber by the melancholy tune.
Not much time had passed since he had left Elizabeth with Mrs. Beeton, and he had a good idea what Elizabeth would wish to see first. He made his way to the library, knowing it to be her favorite room in any house. It was his too.
Miss Lucas read in a monotone from a tome while Anne warmed herself in a window seat. Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen.
Charging down the corridor before Anne could ask him why he appeared so agitated, he searched through the ballroom, the portrait room, the billiard room, the Baroque suite of rooms Uncle Lewis' ancestors had remodeled to receive Queen Elizabeth. He stopped counting the rooms when he had searched through twenty and walked down the endless halls in the wings of Rosings.
Darcy had been certain he would find Elizabeth, but when over an hour had passed and his damp shirt stuck to his back from running the length and breadth of Aunt Catherine's extensive home, he finally found her and Mrs. Beeton when he paused in frustration by one of the many windows adorning the corridors. Completely unaware he had been frantically searching Rosings, they walked tranquilly across the landscaped courtyard toward the conservatory.
Were it not such an undignified gesture, Darcy would have smacked his forehead. Elizabeth's love of the out of doors, her humiliating reception by Aunt Catherine, and her desire not to see him would naturally encourage her to inquire about the garden buildings away from the house.
Weaving through the corridor and down the stairs, glancing out of every window pane so as not to lose them, he set foot on the courtyard just as they entered the warm glass house. He groaned. He was already sticky from his search. He would not gain her favor if he smelled offensive and his face shone like Mr. Collins' under a layer of sweat.
Darcy slowed his pace, holding his arms out for the wind to dry his skin. Should he have taken the time to change his shirt and coat? Bending his neck, he sniffed and decided it absolutely necessary for him to stand by a bloomed lily or some shrubbery equally potent.
With a plan and a purpose, he crossed the courtyard, his eyes intent on the conservatory's open glass doors. A row of potted palms with thick leaves separated him from her. She stood below the peak of the domed iron and glass roof where a fountain trickled water from a vase held up by Venus, adding calm and humidity to the serene setting.
Darcy was about to move forward when, with a gleeful smile and a captivating laugh, Elizabeth raised her palms to the ceiling and twirled in a circle. The ribbons of her bonnet swirled loosely around her, and when she flung her head back, it flew off to land at Darcy's feet. She did not stop twirling — for which Darcy was grateful. She looked so happy. The sight of him would have put a damper on her joy.
Mrs. Beeton saw him then, showing with a glance at Elizabeth's bonnet and a raised eyebrow that she expected him to return it to its owner.
Very well, Mrs. Beeton, thought Darcy, acknowledging her unspoken petition with a nod.
Mrs. Beeton smiled, telling Elizabeth about how one of Sir Lewis' ancestors had designed the building in homage to her favorite pet canary and how his family had always had a special talent for gardening. She drew Elizabeth deeper into the building, far enough that Darcy could fetch the bonnet without being seen.
The straw was warm from her. A simple arrangement of rosettes on the side was the only adornment. Darcy breathed in their scent, her rosewater tormenting his senses and filling him with sweet melancholy.
Lowering the bonnet a safe distance from his nose, he stepped forward as a servant rushed into the giant birdcage.
"Miss Bennet," the maid called, "Miss de Bourgh wishes to see you now."
Mrs. Beeton said, "You must not keep her waiting. Any time you wish to see more of the grounds, it would be my honor to show you, Miss Bennet. I can arrange for the gardener to accompany us … or perhaps Mr. Darcy would wish to join us next time?" She looked pointedly at Darcy, who now stood in open view in front of the palms, holding Elizabeth's bonnet.
Elizabeth's smile faded when she saw him, and he briefly considered retreating behind the palms just to see the contented glow return to her face.
With nothing left to do but hold out her bonnet, he said, "This fell," as if she did not already know it had fallen. He pinched his eyes together in an effort to keep some of his wits about him. When he opened them, the corner of her lips twitched and he added, "to the ground." He clamped his mouth shut, deciding it best not to speak anymore.
"How fortunate of a place for it to fall. It would be horribly inconvenient to fetch it from a gable or a rooftop." She reached forward, her fingers brushing against his so that she pulled her hand back as if he had burned her.
He grasped for her bonnet before it fell to the ground again — no easy task with her standing so close, the beauty of the finest blooms paling in comparison to her beauty and the perfume he would forever remember as hers scrambling his senses so that he fumbled like a fool.
He caught the bonnet, enclosing his hand around the brim firmly and holding it out to her again … only to see that he had crushed her rosettes and part of the brim in his overly enthusiastic grip.
"I apologize," he said, tugging on the flimsy straw in an attempt to straighten what he had mangled and managing to make it worse.
Chapter 12
Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy's clumsy fingers pluck and pull in a vain attempt to straighten the crushed straw of her bonnet. He did not look so high and mighty fumbling the delicate rosettes between his strong hands. Elizabeth had not noticed before, but Mr. Darcy did not have the smooth, pale hands of a gentleman unaccustomed to physical labor. Hmm, odd he did not think himself above such things, but his tanned skin and the callouses snagging and scratching against the brim of her bonnet suggested differently.
When the bunch of rosettes gave up its fight against Mr. Darcy's ministrations and fell to the floor in crumpled defeat, laughter bubbled from her throat of its own accord.
His cheeks colored and his wide shoulders slumped under the weight of undeniable failure. It should have tempered her laughter. She was not so cruel as to humiliate him more than she already had, but the image of Mr. Darcy knocked off his pedestal of pride by an old, straw bonnet was one she would not soon forget. She tried to close her mouth and smother her giggle, but ended up coughing for her effort.
Mrs. Beeton, who stood beside her, lifted her hands to cover her smile.
The maid looked firmly at the floor, clasping her hands together and pinching her lips lest she do something so inappropriate as show her humor at the ridiculous situation before them.
Elizabeth doubted laughter was often h
eard in the grand halls and opulent rooms of Rosings. It was not a place of cheer, but of triumph, power, and control — much too dignified for laughter.
Mr. Darcy held her bonnet out to her with his head bowed. "My apologies, Miss Elizabeth," he said in such a grave tone Elizabeth had to wonder if he believed he had destroyed her only bonnet.
He took himself much too seriously to be so distressed over a bit of straw. "I see that trimming bonnets is not one of your many talents, Mr. Darcy," she said, rescuing her bonnet from his grip.
He challenged her unfavorable opinion of him with a hearty peal of laughter such as she had not believed him capable of producing.
Elizabeth had been ready to follow the now impatient maid to Miss de Bourgh, but the rich baritone bellow drew her in like a flower facing the sun. She stared at a man more handsome than the finely crafted marble statues of Greek gods scattered over the grand house. At any other time, she would have rolled her eyes at herself for making such a comparison. She fanned her face. The heat must have overwhelmed her.
Mr. Darcy held his large hands before him, the hair curling at his neck and forehead clinging to his damp skin just as his coat clung snugly over his wide shoulders. Elizabeth recognized the need to look away. It was foolish to think one laugh capable of changing the character of a hateful man. Even the villains in the novels she read laughed. Not like Mr. Darcy did, but that was beside the point. He had wronged Mr. Wickham and separated Mr. Bingley from Jane — offenses not easily excused.
Catching her breath, she forced her jaw up and turned her attention to the maid who waited not-so-patiently for her on the other side of the glass doors. Elizabeth needed to leave before she had another complimentary thought toward the undeserving Mr. Darcy.
His laughter was soon replaced with such an awkward awareness of his display of happiness, she wanted to reassure him that laughing at one's mistakes was often the fastest way to rid oneself of the embarrassment experienced by making a misstep publicly. But how could she comfort a man she had vowed to hate? Confused by the contrary insights he displayed, she bobbed a curtsy. He looked as relieved to watch her go as she felt in departing.