by Emma Crawley
“Do you not enjoy the theatre, sir?”
“No.”
My aunt looked a little wrong-footed. I turned to face him with annoyance, but something gave me pause. He did not appear as arrogant as I expected. Instead, he looked as though he were struggling. He clasped his hands, and his eyes cast about as though he searched for something else to say.
“I mean, it depends on the performance,” he said. “I am not an enthusiast of some newer works. But I like the comedies.”
Before I could prevent myself, I burst out laughing. I covered my mouth with my hand to master it, feeling a flush of guilt at the confused look in Mr Darcy’s eyes.
“Forgive me, sir. It is just I did not expect you to be a fan of comedies. I thought serious works were more your fare.”
“I have enough seriousness in my life. I am a master of many people and am also tasked with raising a young girl and all the challenges that come with it. Sometimes, I like to lose myself in amusing words for a while.” His eyes met mine. “I am a great enthusiast for wit. I have been known to lose my heart to someone clever who can make me smile and laugh and, perhaps, forget to take myself so seriously.”
“That is exactly what I think,” said Uncle Gardiner. “There is plenty of reason in the world to be grave and serious. One need only look at the papers and see accounts of the war. There is a luxury in being able to forget about it for a while and think of nothing but laughter.”
Mr Darcy was still looking at me. I dropped my gaze.
“True, sir. Great art will always have its place, but I like a comedy above anything.”
“Well, the play we will see is said to be very amusing,” said Aunt Gardiner. “Shall you be attending?”
“The Drury Lane theatre?”
“No, Covent Garden.”
I shot my aunt a warning look. What on earth was she doing? The look she gave me in return was filled with innocence.
“Ah, yes. I shall be there.”
I felt my heart sink. If I had to endure many more encounters with Mr Darcy, I would return to Longbourn at once.
After some time, the older guests prevailed on the young ladies in the room to perform at the pianoforte.
“Will you not play, Miss Bennet?” Mr Darcy asked. I turned my head slightly in his direction, but I did not look at him as Mrs Portland’s younger sister played a tune.
“Not if I can avoid it. I think there are enough young ladies here tonight who can keep everyone entertained.”
“But your music is the one I enjoy most. Evenings at Rosings would have been very dull without it.”
I gave a little laugh. “Not exactly high praise, sir. It would take little to make an evening at Rosings Park less dull.” Too late, I realised what I had said. I covered my mouth in horror. “Forgive me. That was rude. I should not have said…”
“I have always enjoyed your honesty. And you of all people cannot be charged with being rude to my aunt after how she has spoken to you. Besides, she receives nothing but flattery. It is good to hear from someone not in awe of her.”
“I can imagine there are few who do not dare pretend to be less than thrilled with her presence.”
“Absolutely not. Anne told me how you declined to give your age when she asked for it and how decidedly you gave your opinion when my aunt criticised your family for having your younger sisters out…” His voice trailed off, and an air of awkwardness stretched between us. After the behaviour of my family, I could not feel too offended at hearing them criticised. Perhaps if my youngest sisters had been kept at home more, they might be less ungovernable.
I turned back to enjoy the performance and clapped dutifully when it ended. Another young lady made her way to the pianoforte after first making the usual show of false modesty by affecting to decline it.
As I observed the situation, I noticed Mrs Portland watching me. She leaned toward a woman beside her, and they whispered together. Their eyes flickered in my direction. I shifted uncomfortably and tried to turn my attention back to the music. But it was difficult when I saw the lady on the other side join in the conversation. Her eyebrows shot up, and she raised her fan in such a way as left no doubt she was gossiping about someone in the room. And the way her eyes fixed on me left me in no doubt about who she gossiped. I discreetly brushed down my gown and put a hand to my hair, hoping to feel something out of place that would explain their attention. But my appearance seemed intact.
Mr Darcy leaned toward me to make another remark about the room. I nodded vaguely but was aware at once how their chatter stilled, and they watched us as avidly as hunters might watch their hounds dash into the undergrowth after a fox. A chill crept over me. I shifted, so I was turned away from Mr Darcy, hoping to signal to him to leave me alone. If my behaviour puzzled him, he did not show it. To my relief, he soon moved away. The women watched him, then glanced at me. Mrs Portland whispered something, and the other ladies pursed their lips and nodded.
My heart pounded. I felt my stomach roil. I gripped my hands to keep them steady and tried to look unaffected by their whispers. What were they saying? Had they learned something about the letter? Or was it merely London drawing room gossip? Weddings and engagements took up such a large amount of people’s attention that any conversation between a young man and a young woman could start people discussing the possibilities of a match between them. I had spent many a long evening at Longbourn listening to my mother and youngest sisters as they discussed the likelihood of a match between a young Lucas and a young Long after the two young people spent more time than usual talking to one another, or danced slightly more than was considered just friendly. I would never admit it, but Jane and I had also had many similar conversations. It was not to be wondered at when marriage was considered the highest achievement a woman could aspire to. Perhaps it was nothing more than that. If Mrs Portland was interested in Mr Darcy, it should not surprise me she might pay extra attention to whom he spoke with. Perhaps it was nothing more than idle gossip. There was no need to panic. If I were to spend some weeks in London, I would have to grow a thicker skin against this sort of thing. My dealings with Mr Darcy and that letter had left me feeling far more sensitive to such behaviour, that was all. There was nothing to be afraid of.
The evening could not end soon enough. Finally, my aunt glanced in my direction. I gave her a look that told her I was eager to leave.
“If you would rather stay, I can make my own way home,” I told her. “I am sure Jane is ready to depart, so I will not be alone. We can take a servant, and the maid said she would stay awake to see to us when we arrive. You need not cut your own evening short if you would rather spend time with your old friend.”
“I am afraid she is indeed an old friend,” said my aunt. She looked across the room where Mrs Portland laughed up in Mr Darcy’s face and laid a hand on his arm. “She has changed entirely. Her marriage has given her an altogether different air, and between you and me, I am not sure I like it. She used to be so witty and charming. Now, she is…” She sighed. “I am ready to leave, my dear. I will tell Edward.”
I nodded vaguely. I noticed some prints in a little cabinet near the wall and wandered across to examine them as I waited for our departure. From under my lashes, I could observe Mrs Portland and Mr Darcy together. She beamed up at him, making sure she displayed her dimples as charmingly as possible. Her laugh was tinkling, and her eyes shone. She looked charming in a way I found particularly aggravating. Mr Darcy smiled politely, but I could not work out his demeanour. At the dinner table, he did not seem all that taken with her. But if he were not taken now, he appeared at least to be tolerating her with more grace than he had shown earlier. With a sinking feeling, I recalled her husband had been beside her at the table. Was that why he had declined from tolerating her flirtatiousness beforehand? Because he did not wish to cause trouble with her husband and not because he did not care for her?
Mrs Portland fluttered her fan in a way that made me want to snatch it out of her hand. S
he looked ridiculous with her prancing and preening…no. My heart sank. She did not look ridiculous. She looked young and pretty and charming. The sort of young woman who could make a man like Mr Portland lose his head and ask for her hand even if she was from an obscure background. What hope did I have against a woman like that…
What was I doing? Why was I so put out by her behaviour toward Mr Darcy? I did not want him. He could be nothing to me. But I could not look away. Even as Mrs Portland leaned up to whisper something in his ear with a confiding air. Mr Darcy’s face cleared and his expression became bland. His eyes flicked toward me, and his demeanour became at once stiff and forbidden. He moved away from Mrs Portland and shook his head. His face was like granite, cold and forbidding. He said something to her and whatever it was made her glance across at me with a triumphant smile. I flinched when I realised she had seen me watching them and turned around to see if the servants were returning with our coats and bonnets. I hurried toward the footman when I saw him and rushed out the door ahead of my family.
The carriage ride home was silent. My aunt and uncle were tired, and Jane was lost in her thoughts, leaving me to ponder the events of the evening. Although I knew I should have been far more troubled by Mrs Portland and her odd behaviour, all I could see was her hand on Mr Darcy’s arm and his smile as he looked down at her.
14
The next few days passed quietly. Jane and I took the children to a small park near our aunt’s house, and for a few hours, I could forget the night before. The sun burned down, soon tiring the children out and Jane did not look much better. We walked back to the house, tired and happy.
When we entered the foyer, I glanced toward the table in the hall where my aunt and uncle kept their cards and notices. A part of me was expecting to see something there from Mr Darcy — some intention of calling or something about the planned trip to the theatre.
There was nothing there. I looked at the empty silver dish for a moment.
“Are you expecting something?” Jane asked as she removed her spencer.
“Pardon? Oh, no. Not at all. I just thought — I thought Charlotte might have written. She said she would follow up with a letter.”
“Well, it has only been a few days. I am sure she shall write to you soon.” Jane removed her hat and adjusted her hair in the mirror. The reflection of her eyes watched me. “Are you sure everything is as it should be? You and Charlotte did not part on bad terms?”
“Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“It is just that I cannot shake the feeling there is more to your leaving Kent early than a desire to see me. If I am wrong, I beg your pardon. But I know you, Lizzy. I know when something worries you.”
I smiled and kissed her cheek. “You are the dearest, sweetest sister in the world.”
“You did not answer my question,” Jane called after me as I muttered an excuse about needing a book and fled to the library to prevent further inquiry.
I found I was too restless to sit inside the house all day. As soon as Jane and my aunt had settled down with their needlework, I retrieved my bonnet again and left the house. Though London was unbearably hot at this time of the year, I thought there might be a cool breeze by the river. I had to cover my nose with my handkerchief as the ripe smells of London carried to my nose. Men on the ships called to one another as I passed by. I walked as far as the Tower and stood outside the walls, admiring the mighty fortress that had stood for centuries and would continue there long after I was gone. Something about its permanency was soothing. To it, I was just passing through, and all my concerns were nothing and would not matter in years to come. Feeling somewhat refreshed by the thought, I continued.
I walked down close by the river where the breeze could ruffle my hair and cool my neck. There were few people around to see me, so I removed my bonnet and used it to fan my face as I walked — finally, a chance to be free.
I stooped to gather some pebbles and flung them out over the water. My father taught me how to skip stones when I was a little girl, but it was much harder to do in a wide, busy river.
I moved further down toward the docks to watch the men heave their loads and to observe passengers boarding ships to travel to new worlds. Parents hugged young men and women, tears filling their eyes. Sometimes, a young person would walk toward the ship, only to turn around and catch their parents into their arms again. I observed the young women in particular. Several of them were younger than me. How courageous of them to strike out on their own, to look for a new life so far from everything they had ever known.
A little further along, I saw some men in uniform boarding a ship that would take them to Portsmouth before travelling to France. Their appearances put me in mind of Wickham. Though I suspected Wickham would never endanger himself by putting himself in a situation where he might encounter actual war. He was far too sly for that.
I strolled a little closer, irresistibly drawn to the sight of so many men and women boarding ships that would take them to either the other side of the world or war. How many of them would return? How many of those young men and women were looking upon their parents’ faces for the last time?
I was so focused on them; I did not hear the shout until it was too late. A group of men were carrying heavy boxes. They obscured their view, and they did not see me until they had collided with me. I stumbled and tried to catch my balance, but as I did so, my heel caught in my skirts. Grasping wildly at empty air, I hit the dark, cold water with a shock.
I could see nothing as I twisted and turned. My fingers groped blindly as my lungs tightened and a pressure built in my chest, making me feel like I could burst. I did not know which way was up. I tried to kick my legs but my sodden skirts wrapped around them, dragging me down even further. My panic built. How could it happen like this? After all my worries for the future, it turned out none of it mattered as I was destined to meet my end here in this cold and dirt because of a stupid accident.
Jane’s face flashed before my eyes and oddly, Mr Darcy’s. Why should Mr Darcy’s face flash before my eyes?
Air. For the first time, I realised my face was above water. I gasped and gulped the air greedily as my fingers groped the hard shoulder of the man whose arms were around me, holding me tightly.
“Breathe, Miss Bennet. I have you. Do not struggle.”
Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I thought it remarkable that I should imagine Mr Darcy saving me, that whoever held me now, I should have pictured his face. But the voice was deep and authoritative, flooding me with a reassurance that all would be well while this man was by my side. Following his instructions, I allowed myself to go limp in his arms. Other men were around us now, swimming anxiously beside us and helping the man who held me as we made our way to the river bank. Eager hands reached out to pull me up. Someone turned me on my front and made to cough as dirty river water spewed from my mouth. When it was all gone, someone wrapped a blanket around me. I barely registered the crowd that had gathered as I began to cry weakly.
“Out of the way,” that same deep voice ordered. I looked up to see the man who had saved me. How odd he should still wear Mr Darcy’s face. Clearly, my mind had not fully recovered from my shock. Mr Darcy’s face was wild with worry. He was soaked through, his hair plastered to his head. He must have discarded his coat and cravat before diving in. The crowd made way for him with a murmur. He knelt beside me and took my face in his hands.
“Miss Bennet, look at me. Are you injured? Are you hurt anywhere?”
I tried to answer, but all I could do was cry. I had no energy left for anything else. I felt mortified that I would weep so when I always prided myself on not giving way to tears, but I could not help it. Mr Darcy, or the man who wore his face, spoke my name a few more times before muttering something and pulling me into his arms in front of everyone.
“You are safe now. You are safe. I have you,” he murmured over and over again. I leaned against his warm chest and clutched his arm as I gave myself over t
o sobbing. As he whispered to me, I could feel his lips hovering just around my forehead, almost as though he would kiss me. He stroked my wet hair back from my face, and I heard him thank someone who brought more blankets and brandy. I was dimly aware that a blanket had been placed around him. He pressed a bottle of brandy to my lips. Years of manners almost made me recoil at the thought of drinking strong spirits from a bottle, but he insisted, and I took it. My body flooded with warmth. The sobs finally subsided, and I sighed and rested against him, loathe to move just yet. I was not removed from those warm, strong arms until a man identifying himself as a ship’s physician came to examine me. He bid me rise to my feet and checked me over.
“Nothing is broken or even bruised from what I see,” he declared. “The greatest danger to you is that you might grow ill from swallowing the water. I shall give you something for that, and I will order your husband to watch over you for a few days to make sure no symptoms will develop.”
“I am not her husband,” said the man who wore Mr Darcy’s face. Another young lady came toward me, her face sympathetic as she replaced my wet blanket with a new one and rubbed my arms to keep the heat in my body.
“You poor girl,” she said gently. “What a terrifying thing. I should not wonder you are crying. I think I would be even worse.”
I allowed myself a small smile. The girl was younger than me, probably around my sister, Lydia’s age. She was well-dressed, and I could tell by her gown she had not been preparing to start a new life abroad.
“I think I shall cry even harder once I am home,” I confessed. “What a stupid thing to do. Gaping around on a dock with so much happening.” I shook my head.
“It could have happened to any of us,” said the girl in a soft voice. “I was also distracted by saying goodbye to my cousin. Perhaps if some men had been carrying packages near me, it might have been I who fell in. And I might not have been so fortunate.”