“You truly believe I dislike you, don’t you? That is the only reason you could think I would suggest a dance with the intention of mocking you,” he stated heatedly. He was clearly unwilling to let the topic lie.
She sighed. “Mr. Darcy, I apologize, truly. If you say you like me well enough, very well, I shall believe you. Does that ease your mind?”
He sat up indignantly and nearly spluttered. “Ease my mind! Miss Bennet,” he huffed and ran his hand through his hair.
She felt mildly amused that she had managed to ruffle the unflappable Mr. Darcy, but her amusement was short lived.
“Forgive me, Mr. Darcy. I am in a queer mood tonight. Please, forget I said anything at all.”
He looked at her, features set in stone and eyes dark and alive with some great feeling, though she could not say what it was. Finally, she broke the silence. Why not? It was not as if he would remember the conversation later. What could the proprieties matter in a case such as hers?
“I truly am sorry for upsetting you. But you have not behaved as a person who likes me. You stare at me, ignore me, and argue with me every time I see you. What did you suppose I would think?”
“How could I stare at you and ignore you at the same time?”
She huffed. “Before I left Netherfield, we sat in this very library for a half hour together, and you said not a word to me.”
“You said nothing to me, either.”
“And you argued with me every time I saw you while I was in residence.”
“I thought our conversations to be stimulating debates. My apologies if I distressed you.”
“You did not distress me!” she cried, finally roused from her ennui. “You only confirmed my previous opinion of you!”
“And what opinion is that, Miss Bennet?”
“That you are prideful and above your company.”
He laughed derisively. “And these faults are great indeed! Forgive me if I have not wished to ingratiate myself with every member of the four and twenty families in the neighborhood. I had not thought a person’s garrulousness a good indicator of his pride, but perhaps I have been mistaken.” He spoke with evident sarcasm and she was indignant at his cavalier response.
“Pride it may not indicate but disdain it certainly does!” He turned his head away, unable to truly deny her accusation and she lifted her chin triumphantly. “You cannot deny it, I see.”
He whipped his head towards her and she leaned back from the force of his glare.
“What do you wish from me, Miss Bennet? Do you want me to say I am above the gentlemen farmers and elevated shopkeepers of Meryton? That I could buy and sell this entire town in an instant? That I am the grandson and nephew of an earl, the great-grandson of a marquess, and the son of the largest landholder in Derbyshire? Is that what you wish? For me to give you more ammunition to hurl at me? More pride to accuse me of? I may not be as affable as Bingley, or as friendly with all manner of people as you seem to be, but I am an honest man, and a fair master, and I do not neglect my familial duties as so many others seem to do.” He looked at her pointedly and she understood he referenced her father in his final statement.
She flushed in anger and humiliation.
“You may be fair and honest, Mr. Darcy, and perhaps a great many other laudable qualities, but before today, I never saw kindness in you. And that is a very great failing indeed.” She stood and moved towards the door. “Please excuse me,” she called over her shoulder as she marched through the door.
And she was gone.
Darcy stared after her with his mouth agape and his mind reeling.
Chapter 8
In Which Elizabeth Has a Crisis of Conscience
Elizabeth arose the next morning with a headache and a knot in her stomach. She was first and foremost a lady, a gentleman’s daughter, and she had not been brought up to be deliberately rude. She disliked quarreling, a fact many would be surprised to hear of her. She enjoyed a good debate, that was true, but a debate was a discussion of ideas. It sometimes became heated and occasionally evolved into an argument, but it was an argument over an idea, a theory, a hypothetical situation. It was not about her personally, nor about her opponent.
Her quarrel with Mr. Darcy had been as personal as it was possible to be. She had insulted him and been insulted in turn. She was ashamed of her behavior—it was unladylike and beneath her and she had no excuse but that she was so very tired—of the day, the ball, the endless mundanity of it all. But she should not have said what she did, especially when he had been so kind to her.
What a queer creature she was! She argued with and insulted a man who went out of his way to achieve her comfort and was perfectly polite to men who did nothing for her but offer a dance. She may not like Mr. Darcy very much, but he did not deserve such vitriol from her.
She replayed their argument in her mind and was struck anew by Mr. Darcy’s astonishment when she told him she knew he did not like her. He had truly been shocked and denied it vehemently. Could it be? Did he truly like her?
Elizabeth had been forced to reexamine her opinion of many people of late. Her father’s indolence had never been as irksome to her as it was now that she had daily reminders in the form of her sisters’ wild behavior. Her mother’s comportment had always been humiliating, but now it seemed to have a new ability to destroy. She had thought Mr. Bingley all affability and good cheer, but she was beginning to find his lack of conviction to be something of a serious character flaw. Mr. Wickham, once so charming, appeared more cowardly each time she entered Netherfield and he was not within. Perversely, she viewed his lack of attendance as a form of abandonment of herself. He had made himself a friend, charmed his way into her good graces, and colored her picture of Mr. Darcy’s character, only to leave her to face that disagreeable man on her own.
Her mind turned again to Mr. Darcy and his odd behavior of late. Since this whole debacle began, she had alternately manipulated him, enjoyed his company, and been angered by him. She hardly knew what to think now. She recalled what an agreeable dance partner he was, and how he could tell a story in a surprisingly engrossing manner. Then she remembered how he had looked down his nose at everyone in the county and not danced with anyone but Bingley’s sisters and herself. This memory was followed by his solicitousness towards her last night and his genuine concern for her wellbeing. She could not make him out. It was most vexing!
And of course, she could not forget her own terrible behavior. She was truly ashamed, and though she knew Mr. Darcy would not recall it and that alone rendered an apology unnecessary and likely very strange to the gentleman, she felt she had to make it up to him somehow, for her own conscience if nothing else.
That evening, Elizabeth entered Netherfield with a plan unlike any she had had before. Her goal this night was not to end her relentless repetition of Tuesdays, but to ease her conscience.
She looked for Mr. Darcy when she entered, but he was not in the entryway nor in the ballroom itself. She spoke to Charlotte, then suffered through her dance with Mr. Collins. As he had done every ball to date, Mr. Darcy watched from the side with an expression she had once thought was disdain and dark amusement at her predicament, but now that she was coming to know him better, she wondered at it. If she were to do him the honor of believing he knew his own mind, she must believe that he did in fact like her. She could not fathom why he would—she had done nothing to please him and everything to vex him the entirety of their acquaintance, but perhaps that was the draw. Constant fawning would wear on any sensible person. Or mayhap he was simply too conceited to realize she disliked him. Regardless of his reason for watching her, watch her he did. And for the first time, she decided to use it to her advantage.
At the next turn, when she faced a wall containing no one but gossiping matrons in chairs and Mr. Darcy, she looked him directly in the eye and made a face of great forbearance, then rolled her eyes in the direction of Mr. Collins. She was pleased to see Mr. Darcy start at her silent communication, a
nd as he stalked about the periphery of the room in accordance with her movement down the dance, she continued her little show of faces and expressions and the occasionally mouthed word. She was pleased to see Mr. Darcy fight a smile more than once, and he even enacted a little brow play of his own.
She was asked for the next by Captain Carter. Elizabeth looked down the line and noticed Darcy standing up with Miss Bingley. That lady looked duly impressed with herself and her partner. Elizabeth couldn’t help the knowing smirk she sent his way when she tripped past him. She was shocked into missing a step when he gave her a look that could only be described as longsuffering. Her mouth opened wide and her brows rose, and Mr. Darcy grinned at her, for a quick moment only, and it was gone by the time he turned back to face his partner. A tiny laugh escaped her on a rush of air and she clasped hands with Captain Carter in jovial spirits.
So Mr. Darcy wanted to play. Very well. She would play.
Their little game continued through the third set. She danced with Mr. Goulding and he with Mrs. Hurst. At one point, he blew across the feathers adorning Mrs. Hurst’s head until they danced and quivered to the music. Elizabeth could not restrain her laugh and her partner smiled proudly, thinking himself the cause of her good cheer. Mr. Darcy looked inordinately pleased with himself by the end of the dance and made his way toward Elizabeth with an expression that could almost be called a smile.
“Miss Bennet, would you do me the honor of dancing the next?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Darcy.”
He bowed very correctly and left her to await the beginning of the dance.
“Eliza, if I didn’t know better, I would say you want to dance with Mr. Darcy,” said Charlotte.
“I do. He is a good dancer and a tolerable conversationalist. There are worse partners.” She couldn’t help sneaking a look at Mr. Collins, which Charlotte ignored.
“I am all astonishment! I thought you quite disliked him,” replied her friend.
Elizabeth looked thoughtful for a moment. “I have come to reconsider a great many things of late,” she said.
“Well I am glad to hear it. It would not do to slight Mr. Darcy for a man a tenth of his consequence.” Elizabeth looked at her in confusion and Charlotte clarified, “I speak of Mr. Wickham, of course. You must have reconsidered indeed if you need such a reminder.”
Elizabeth gave her an eloquent look and Charlotte smiled in the superior way she had been doing since they were children.
“You know I did not believe Mr. Wickham’s story from the first,” Charlotte said matter-of-factly. “Such a thing would be very hard to accomplish, and what would be Mr. Darcy’s motive for denying his father’s wishes? If the living was mentioned in the will, Mr. Wickham would have had legal recourse. If it was only conditional, I daresay he did not meet the conditions. He has not taken orders, has he? Is he a curate? No! Of course, no rational man would give him a living! Besides,” she added with a glint in her eye, “he is entirely too charming to be a vicar.”
Elizabeth thought over her friend’s statement for a moment. She had great respect for Charlotte’s mind and good sense, and now that she no longer viewed Mr. Wickham as a paragon of masculine virtue, she could see the logic in her friend’s statements.
“He did share his history with me on very short acquaintance,” said Elizabeth thoughtfully.
“Is that not proof in itself that something is amiss? Can you imagine anyone else you know sharing such personal details of themselves in such a way?” chided Charlotte.
Elizabeth ignored the urge to defend Mr. Wickham, which must be said was significantly less powerful than it had been only a few days ago, and thought about what her friend had said. It had been odd of Wickham to do such a thing, and he had said he could do nothing to harm the son for love of the father. But he had harmed Mr. Darcy in her eyes if in no other way. Harmed him quite thoroughly.
She was a little taken aback at her own conclusions and decided to stop thinking of it altogether for the moment. Mr. Darcy came to claim her hand, Charlotte winked at her in what was a disturbingly accurate imitation of Mrs. Bennet, and Elizabeth threw herself into the dance.
“Are you enjoying the ball, Mr. Darcy?”
“Yes, much more than I expected I would,” he replied.
She smiled and turned about with the man next to Mr. Darcy, then waited as he did the same with the lady next to her.
“So is it true that you detest balls?”
“Detest is a strong word.” She smiled at his response and circled behind him. He watched her path over his shoulder and around to the other side. “Let us say I prefer other forms of entertainment.”
“You seemed to be enjoying yourself quite well before our dance.” She gave him an impish smile and they joined hands as they sashayed down the line.
“If you truly wish to know something I detest, I will tell you.”
She looked at him expectantly. “Go on. I am all agog to hear your answer.”
He gave her a small smile and said, “Feathers.”
Elizabeth couldn’t stop the bark of laughter that leapt out of her mouth, and more than one fellow dancer thought it odd that Mr. Darcy should have made her laugh.
“Will you tell me why you detest such innocuous adornments as feathers?” she asked.
“I’m sure you have noticed I am not a short man,” he said seriously.
“I had noticed,” she replied, equally serious.
“When worn by a woman shorter than myself—”
“Which is every woman,” she interrupted.
“Very nearly. When said woman stands near me, as in a dance, the feathers tickle my face. I dislike it.”
He said the last so solemnly, with such a look upon his face that it was all she could do not to burst into laughter in the middle of the ballroom.
“Very well, Mr. Darcy, you win. I cannot argue with your reasoning.”
He rewarded her with another of his almost smiles and she returned it brightly. When the dance was through, he led her near the punch table and brought her a drink.
“Mr. Darcy, there is something I would like to discuss with you, of a private nature,” Elizabeth said so quietly he had to lean down to hear her. “I know it is untoward, but could you meet me in the library in ten minutes? I mean you no harm,” she added with a smile.
He looked at her in surprise, then nodded slowly.
She thanked him for the dance and the refreshment and sauntered off, stopping to speak to an acquaintance before making her way to the library. When she finally entered the room, Mr. Darcy was already standing beside the fireplace, idly poking at the newly lit logs.
She closed the door softly behind her and stepped into the center of the room, still several steps away from him. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Darcy. I know this must seem rather strange to you.”
“You certainly have my attention, Miss Bennet,” he replied.
She watched him carefully, thinking his posture looked slightly rigid, and his expression was curious, but she could not say whether or not he was suspicious of her motives.
“I wanted to inform you of a rumor that is being spread about you.”
His brows rose instantly. Clearly, whatever he had expected her to say, that had not been it. “May I ask the source of this rumor?”
“Mr. George Wickham, though I believe you suspected that.”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, it is not the first time he has slandered me.”
“Is there any truth to it?” she asked.
“That depends on what he told you. I find that the most convincing lies are those planted with a seed of truth.”
“He told me he was promised a living in your father’s will but you denied it to him out of jealousy and got away with it due to a technicality with the wording.”
“Very succinctly put, Miss Bennet.”
She nodded her thanks.
“Do you imagine me the type of man who would deny his own father’s will? For that matter, is it likely that
I was the only man executing the will? There were others involved; I could not have cheated had I wanted to.”
“So there is no truth to it?” she asked keenly.
“Please sit down, Miss Bennet. I shall tell you the truth.”
She sat on the sofa near the fireplace and he remained standing, the poker still in his hand, occasionally jabbing at the fire.
“I shall try to be as brief as possible. George Wickham is the son of Pemberley’s former steward, a man well respected by myself and my excellent father. When Mr. Wickham Sr. died, my father took on the care of young Wickham. He clothed him, educated him, gave him every advantage. My father was very fond of George. He was a beguiling child and our fathers were trusted friends.”
Elizabeth relaxed into the cushions, enjoying the restful atmosphere of the library and the sonorous voice of Mr. Darcy as he told her his history. She could not pinpoint what exactly struck her as different from Mr. Wickham’s recitation, but she felt no response was required of her in Mr. Darcy’s telling, other than a confirmation of having heard him. Mr. Wickham had wanted constant assurances from his listener—his was a decidedly less relaxing form of discourse.
“George and I were childhood playmates; my father sent him to school with me and we remained friends of a sort for many years. As time went on, it became clear to me that George was not taking his studies seriously. My father had hoped he would go into the church and take on one of the livings in his gift. He intended for George to have a steady income and a home nearby. Being of an age with George, I knew he ought not to be a clergyman, but I did not tell my father of his dissipation. Would to god that I had.” He turned away and stabbed at the fire vigorously.
“My father died just after I finished at Cambridge. George had stopped attending after he realized the Darcy name would not buy him good marks in classes he rarely attended. My father’s will expressed a wish that George take orders if he desired, and when he was ready and a living came available, George would have it. My father’s actual wording stated that he wished me to consider George for a living.”
The 26th of November, a Pride and Prejudice Comedy of Farcical Proportions Page 6