by AmyJ
Elizabeth laughed. "Certainly not!" she replied with feeling that even surprised her. Her discomfort was compounded by the manner in which Darcy's eyes
grew wide. "I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!" she blurted out, trying to dispel the awkward moment.
"I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love."
"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away." This was all said with her eyes firmly fixed on the sampler she had once again taken up.
Darcy only smiled, not quite trusting his tongue. Her reaction had given him hope. He was desperate to inform her that his love was able to withstand much more than poetry. Unable to find the words, and unwilling to risk such a
chance, he simply opened the volume and began reading. He would consider
her expressions in depth, later.
The remainder of the day passed with the two betrothed reading passages of Scott and exchanging a combination of serious debate and light banter.
Unaware of the passage of time, it was with some surprise when Mr. Linnell
declared the light too poor to continue. "We shall begin again tomorrow, the same time," he said.
Automatically, Darcy and Elizabeth stood, as the man left. Neither was quite ready for the day to end, and unsure what to say, they simply stared at each other.
"How long do you imagine this shall take?" Elizabeth stammered.
"It takes about a week, depending on the artist."
"Shall you come every day and entertain me?" She dropped her eyes to the floor, feeling suddenly shy. Her heart beat rapidly in her chest, inexplicably hoping he would say yes.
Darcy bowed gallantly, dispelling the intimate air that had engulfed them. "If that is your wish, my lady. What shall it be tomorrow? Piquet or Wordsworth?"
Elizabeth laughed. "Are those my only choices? I was so hoping for charades, or perhaps you could play for me." Darcy arched a brow in her direction, causing Elizabeth to laugh some more.
"Whatever the lady wishes," he reiterated, punctuating it with a kiss on her hand. "However, I must warn you, I am ill prepared for any great
performances."
Elizabeth flushed. "Very well, then Wordsworth it shall be."
After seeing him to the door, she escaped to her room to prepare for dinner.
The next two days progressed much as the first. Georgiana accompanied Darcy on one of the afternoons, and Lady Matlock and Lady Fitzwilliam joined them on occasion. In general, however, the engaged couple were left to entertain one another.
The fourth morning, and what would be the final day of sitting, Elizabeth sat at the vanity, impatient for her maid to complete her hair. She had expected to feel relieved -- as she would finally be free to take walks and leave the confines of the room -- but grateful, could not describe her mood.
The moment her maid had declared her ready, she hurried downstairs to wait.
She felt like a child on her birthday, expecting a pony. Mr. Linnell was punctual as usual, but there was no sign of anyone else. Dutifully, Elizabeth took her place on the sofa, but could not help jumping at the sound of every carriage or horse that passed the house.
"Miss Bennet, you must sit still. I can not capture the shadows properly if you do not." Hearing the annoyance in the man's voice, Elizabeth turned an
apologetic smile and resumed the rehearsed pose. With nothing else to do, her mind wandered.
Where was Darcy? She was certain he intended to visit. Surely, he would have sent a note if he could not. She heard another carriage roll by the house, but it did not stop. Disappointed, she sighed softly, and then scolded herself,
realizing how ridiculous she was being. He would arrive when he was able.
Besides, they were only friends. He had no obligation to be with her. Still, she could not help the feeling of loneliness that persisted.
She had rationalized her loneliness was due to boredom, and had settled on the idea that business had kept him away when she heard a commotion at the front entrance. It took all her power to remain seated and not to leap from her seat.
Finally, she heard the sound she had waited an eternity to hear. He had come!
Unable to help herself, she stood, waiting to greet him.
"Elizabeth," he said in a rush, as he entered the room. "I apologize. I was unavoidably delayed." He handed her a small nosegay of carnations and
violets.
"Think nothing on it, Fitzwilliam," she replied, with more nonchalance than she felt. A brilliant smile lit her entire being. There was an exchange of
pleasantries and explanations, and then, after apologizing to Mr. Linnell for the interruption, the two took their usual seats.
Friday, things returned to normal. With Mr. Linnell no longer requiring her presence, Lady Matlock insisted on resuming Elizabeth's previous activities in earnest. The first item on the agenda was the dinner in London she was to host as Mrs. Darcy.
An intense few days passed as Lady Matlock and Elizabeth discussed at great length the china, the silver, the crystal, the flowers, the linens, and the place cards to be used.
Elizabeth sat at the table, overlooking the invite list she and Lady Matlock had drawn up. She had been left to make the seating arrangements. It had seemed simple enough at first, but she was now on the third iteration.
Each time she had thought everyone well placed, Lady Matlock had found
something to criticize. "You can not seat the Fullers next to the Wadners. I am certain I told you how ill Mr. Wadner treated the Fuller daughter." She shook her head, much like a disappointed parent might. "It is not just idle gossip that is discussed in drawing rooms." There was an underlying sneer in her tone. "If you do not remember these things, you will spend your evening mediating
between families, instead of entertaining guests."
She let out a heavy sigh. What was wrong with her? Why could she not
accomplish such a small task? How she longed for a return of the ease of the previous days. What she had expected to be days of mindless sitting, flew by in
the blink of an eye. Darcy had played the role of suitor and entertainer well; but he was not here now.
She stared blankly at the seating arrangements in front of her, willing a suitable grouping to appear. Once she was finished, perhaps Lady Matlock would
approve of a trip to Arryndale to practice the pianoforte. She always felt better after some time with the Darcys.
After the issue of her debut dinner was closed, Elizabeth spent much of her time practicing the many arts she had yet to master. To that end, she sat at a writing desk in one of Lady Matlock's smaller parlours. She had been at the desk for an hour, and her fingers were stained with ink.
Another piece of crumpled paper went by the wayside with an unladylike grunt of frustration. Carefully, she began again with a fresh sheet, tracing the letters out, one by one, making certain they did not run together, just as Lady Matlock had instructed. So engrossed was she, that she forgot Darcy was to fetch her for an afternoon on the promenade; nor did she hear him enter the room.
"What has you so enthralled today, Elizabeth?" he asked, intrigued by the studious look on her face.
Elizabeth blushed, and did her best to quickly cover the well inked paper and broken quills. "Oh, nothing. Just writing." She stood in front of the desk, attempting to obfuscate Darcy's view of the desk. "Forgive me, I lost track of the time. I need but a moment to ready myself."
Darcy nodded. As she left the room, he could not help a curious glance at the covered papers. He would have simply walked away, but his attention was
captured by a particular scrawling.
Curiosity overtook any misgivings he might have about invading her privacy, and he picked up the page. Over and over she had scrawled her name -- well, her future name -- ‘Elizabeth Darcy' and ‘Mr
s. Fitzwilliam Darcy.' He could not help the broad smile that split his face. After passing a dreamy moment, the other ink scratching came into focus. It appeared as though she had been
practicing her letters.
Realizing she would return at any moment, he folded the piece of paper and
stuffed it into his pocket for safe keeping.
Elizabeth did return soon. Not wishing to discuss anything within earshot of his aunt, he led her outside to the waiting carriage.
"Will you tell me now, what had you so engrossed you nearly missed our outing?" His tone was light.
"Truly, Fitzwilliam. It was nothing. Only some scribbles."
Sensing something was not right, Darcy pressed her. "Scribbles? I must be a frightfully poor suitor if you resort to such dissembling. I must own I am all
anticipation to learn what had captured your attention so fully. Might you share it with me? It might prove useful to me in the future."
Elizabeth turned away for a moment. Realizing he was not likely to relent in his questioning, she daringly, she stuck out her chin. "Very well, if you must know, I was practicing my letters." She schooled her tone to hide her
embarrassment.
"Your letters? I was certain you learned to both read and write ages ago."
"Is there anything wrong with practicing my letters? Did you not know all accomplished young ladies are judged by their writing?" She arched her brow in challenge, causing Darcy to chuckle.
"No, I was not aware of that."
"Well, then, I have let you in on one of our secrets."
Darcy studied her for a moment, knowing she was not speaking the truth. "I will have to speak with Mrs. Annesley then. It seems she has been neglectful in the area, as I have not seen Georgiana practice her letters since she was ten."
"Yes, well, Georgiana is a very accomplished young lady."
"I see. Only very accomplished young ladies do not have to practice writing?"
He grinned. "Then I suspect that this shall be the last time you shall feel such a need."
Elizabeth could not help the blush that formed in her cheeks. "I can hardly be considered accomplished, Fitzwilliam."
"I have long considered you one of the most accomplished ladies of my
acquaintance, Elizabeth."
The blush that had only been present in her cheeks, overtook the rest of her being, and she had to look away.
After taking a moment to enjoy her bloom, Darcy roughly cleared his throat
and began to discuss places they might visit that day. He would think more on this later. Elizabeth was not one to resort to such an activity without prompting.
She was more likely to bury her nose in a book, or even needlework. Perhaps his aunt could shed some light on the situation.
That night, Elizabeth sat curled up on a chaise, making mental notes of all that had to be done on the morrow. There would be the day's table settings and
dinner to plan. She needed to practice the pianoforte, but that would have to wait one more day, until she could go to Arryndale. The language master would arrive at eleven to assist her with enunciations. In the afternoon, however, she was to go to Gracechurch Street for a long overdue visit to her aunt. She smiled at that thought. It would be good to be back in the bosom of her family, safe from prying eyes and judgemental remarks.
No one in Cheapside would tell her she did not walk as a lady, or that she smiled too much, or that she wrote ill. There, she did not have concern herself over her skill with charcoal, or matching table linens with china patterns.
Though she enjoyed the diversions of London, she would easily trade them for her little Meryton. She missed Jane, her father, and the familiar paths of home.
How she longed for a rush of the fresh, clean air in her lungs, and to hear the morning song of the birds from her window. There, she could be just Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, not the future Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy.
She sighed heavily, considering not for the first time, the imprudence of the match. The more she thought on the past few weeks, the more she came to
understand she simply was not cut out to be a woman of high society. Darcy
could certainly find a more accomplished woman, with a substantial dowry and connections that would not be considered a disgrace.
By breaking the engagement now, in spite of the scandal which would follow, she would spare them disappointment in the future, would she not? After all, sooner or later, Fitzwilliam would learn what a mistake he had made. Surely, Fitzwilliam would understand her misgivings, she reasoned.
Oh, he might attempt to deny it at first, but sooner or later, he would have to face the truth; she was no proper Mistress of Pemberley. If they married, little by little, they would grow apart. He would spend more time in London, or
away on business. In his loneliness and regret, he would seek comfort in the arms of another woman, and take a mistress. Eventually, there would nothing left between them; even their friendship would be gone. They would be as two strangers passing in the night, and merry days, like the ones they passed while Mr. Linnell captured her likeness, would be but a memory.
An unconscious tear rolled down her cheek.
Dreamily she remembered how the time had flown by, and the feeling of
disappointment she had felt when Mr. Linnell announced he was finished each day. And then, when she learned Mr. Linnell had finished earlier than expected, how she wanted to protest. She wanted to holler at him, make him understand that his efficiency was robbing her of another day of bliss.
Her thoughts turned sharply. Bliss? When had time with Fitzwilliam
become that? They were friends. Time spent together was fun... amusing...
enjoyable... definitely not blissful. It was no crime to enjoy time spent with a friend. Fitzwilliam was... well... a friend. A close friend... that she... well...
She forced her thoughts back to the issue at hand. Should she break the
engagement? How could she let Fitzwilliam do something that would make
him miserable for the rest of his life? On the other hand, if she broke the engagement now, he might become angry, and never speak to her again. An
unfamiliar, almost suffocating pain once again gripped her chest.
Could she give up him up for the sake of his happiness? Instantly, tears returned, and a few managed to escape. Over the last few weeks, she had
become used to his company, nay, had relied upon it. His confident, strong
manner coupled with his quiet assurances. During bleak moments, she
imagined his friendly face, urging her on. In her moments of woolgathering, she remembered his humorous anecdotes or conversations they had shared.
She sighed wistfully, as his rich, warm laugh echoed in her ears. How she
loved the way his brows shot upward as she teased him or professed opinions not her own. And the way his whole face lit up when he smiled. He was very
handsome at those times. She had even grown to love the menacing glare that spoke of his unease.
Her eyes widened, and jaw dropped realizing the direction of her thoughts.
"No... no... no!" she whispered. She clapped both hands over her mouth to silence the protestations. Perhaps she could take the thought back. But, like a thick fog, the idea hung in the air.
She screwed her eyes shut, and then opened them again, hoping to prove
herself dreaming. She was not.
Slowly, cautiously, she said the word, "love." An inner warmth began to glow, and a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "I love Fitzwilliam," she mouthed, not daring to give the words sound. A giggle escaped. She said the words again, this time as a barely audible whisper. Another mirthful giggle broke loose, and she closed her hand over mouth before it became a bubbling joviality within her breast. It was true! She was in love. She breathed out a deep sigh and
basked in the idyllic moment.
It did not take her long to sober though. How had it happened? She and
Fitzwilliam were supposed to be just friends! When had it turned to love?
There were supposed to be warning signs, painted in big letters - Turn this way for love! How had she missed them? More importantly, what should she do
now?
She could not walk away from him. Somehow, he had become a part of her.
Leaving now would be akin to death. She had but one choice -- to become
worthy of him!
With new resolve, she vowed to be more diligent in her studies. Even after she returned to Longbourn, even after they were married, she would continue until she became worthy of the Darcy name. She would not give him reason to
regret their marriage, and perhaps somehow, along the way, he might even
return the sentiments.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Elizabeth yawned and stretched. The sounds of the city below spoke of the hour, but her lids were not ready to welcome the morning. It took but a moment to recall the cause for her drowsiness, and a sleepy smile peeked out. The
image of her betrothed filled her heart and mind, and a warm tingle coursed through her. She released a giggle into her pillow.
A knock on the door finally forced her from her imaginings. Expecting her
maid, Penny, she threw back the covers; back to reality. Then, remembering her resolve, she jumped from the bed with new vigour. It was time to become Mrs.
Fitzwilliam Darcy, Mistress of Pemberley.
After a tiring morning of lessons, Elizabeth climbed the steps to her aunt and uncle's home on Gracechurch Street. The familiar noise and pervasive aroma of the area worked to ease the tension of the last few weeks from her. Here, she was just Elizabeth Bennet of Longbourn, not Elizabeth Bennet, the soon to be Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy. She hoped the visit would rejuvenate her spirits so she could brave her remaining time at Lanelle House.
Not wholly unexpected, her aunt answered the door and immediately drew her
into a warm embrace. Realizing how devoid of such tender feeling her time
with Lady Matlock had been, she clung to her aunt, drawing both strength and comfort.