The 26th of November, a Pride and Prejudice Comedy of Farcical Proportions

by Elizabeth Adams

  “I wonder if the weather will hold,” he said finally.

  “I do not know. It would make your trip to Town easier if it were fine.”

  He looked at her in some surprise and she said, “Come now, Mr. Darcy. It is obvious you wish to leave Hertfordshire as soon as possible. I imagine you only stayed as long as you did for the ball.” She tried to keep her tone light but she suspected she failed rather dreadfully.

  He looked at her, his heart in his eyes, and said, “Would that I could stay, Miss Elizabeth.”

  She swallowed and nodded shakily. “I know. You must do your duty. Don’t worry, Mr. Darcy. I understand.” She looked down and back up swiftly. “I will not hold it against you.”

  He looked at her sadly and gifted her with one of his rare smiles. “I have very much enjoyed making your acquaintance, Miss Bennet.”

  “And I yours, Mr. Darcy.”

  They stared at each other silently for a painfully long moment. Somehow his hand found its way to hers and squeezed her fingers tightly.

  “I shall never see you again, shall I?” she asked softly.

  He swallowed thickly and took a shaky breath, unable to speak.

  Knowing it may be her last chance to do so, she reached up and touched his face. She traced her fingers along his jaw, and her hand cupped his cheek. She lifted onto her toes and kissed his face, just to the side of his mouth, close enough to feel his breath hitch, and lingered there for a moment before lowering her heels, removing her hand, and stepping away from him.

  She watched him silently, green eyes meeting brown. He looked utterly stricken, as if he had lost someone very dear to him, and she felt the compliment of his affection, unspoken though it was.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Darcy.”

  He bowed deeply, and she turned and ran before he had straightened.

  Chapter 14

  To Know Herself

  Elizabeth awoke the next morning not caring what day it was. Tuesday, Wednesday, what difference did it make? Mr. Darcy would leave regardless, and she would be alone, and they would never know what might have been. Jane would marry Bingley and she would remain at Longbourn, alone, forever. She put her pillow over her head and went back to sleep.

  She eventually woke and prepared for the day. Why had she tried so hard to fix things? Clearly, focusing on enjoying herself at the ball had been a better plan than anything else she had tried. She was tired of trying to fix Jane’s life, fix Lydia’s behavior, fix Mary’s manners, fix her father’s indolence, fix her mother’s vulgarity. It was exhausting! Why could she not fix her own life? She had done everything in her power to take care of everyone else, and in some ways, she had been successful. Her mother had been nearly quiet for an entire evening, Lydia had actually appeared thoughtful, and Mr. Bingley had proposed to Jane twice. Really, she was very good at arranging things. If only fate would recognize her talents and let her be!

  Feeling a sudden urge to walk, she put on her half boots and made for the garden. In her angry swishing of a long twig, she accidentally knocked the blossom off the last remaining dahlia, its bright petals falling to the ground in a pink swirl. She was so frustrated she wanted to cry. Was life not difficult enough? She had to compound it by destroying the only flower left in the entire garden? She sat down on the nearest bench and wept from sheer exhaustion.

  Finally, after a good cry and feeling thoroughly sorry for herself, she knew it was time to face the true source of her distress: her affection for Mr. Darcy.

  She knew not why it took her so long to understand her own feelings, nor why she had had such a difficult time accepting them. Perhaps it was because Mr. Darcy had called her tolerable and not handsome enough, or perhaps it was because she took a perverse pride in seeing how well she tempted him after all. Regardless, she was now in a wretched state, for she held Mr. Darcy very dear, and she was sure she would call it love if she but let herself believe it to be possible. She knew he held her in similar affection, but his duty was to marry wealth and connections, and she brought neither. Regardless of how he felt for her, he would not offer for her. It was best to try to forget him and move forward with her life.

  If only doing what was best did not make her feel so very wretched.

  Elizabeth prepared for that night’s ball with no agenda. She would dance, she would have a good time, but she would not try to accomplish anything. It never worked, anyhow. She went through all the usual motions of greeting the hosts and saying hello to her friends. She danced the first with Mr. Collins and the second with Captain Carter. The third she sat out to talk to Charlotte. Mr. Darcy requested the fourth, as she knew he would.

  She accepted, though she had been tempted to refuse. It was so disheartening, standing across from the man one wished one had an understanding with, night after night, with nary a reprieve. She nearly laughed at the irony. She hoped for a future with him, one where they might live together and see each other every day. Did she not see him every day as it was? A nearly hysterical laugh escaped her.

  Mr. Darcy quirked an eyebrow, but he was too much a gentleman to call out her odd behavior. He was gallant and polite, and they danced quietly. Afterward, he offered to get her some punch. She thanked him, and they stood side by side sipping their drinks, watching the partygoers.

  “Are you well, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked quietly.

  She turned to face him but made no answer.

  “You do not seem yourself this evening,” he added softly.

  She sighed and fought the urge to begin cackling hysterically in the middle of the ballroom. “I am well in body, though slightly worn in spirits. Thank you for asking.”

  “Is there anything I may do for you?”

  It was terribly unfair that his voice should be so exactly pitched to bring her comfort and inspire trust.

  “I do not believe there is, though I would like to get out of this room. It is stuffy,” she said.

  He immediately took her by the elbow and led her out of the ballroom, across the hall and down a small corridor that she knew led to the library.

  “You will not be disturbed here.”

  He led her to the sofa by the window and she thanked him for his thoughtfulness. He seemed as if he had something to say to her but could not make himself say the words. Or perhaps she was imagining things.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then said, “May I bring you anything?”

  “No, I am quite well.”

  After several more rather painful minutes passed in awkwardness, she broke the silence. “Is there something on your mind, Mr. Darcy?”

  He looked startled at the sound of her voice. “Yes. No. That is, I wanted to tell you Miss Elizabeth, that I have quite enjoyed making your acquaintance.”

  “As I have enjoyed coming to know you.”

  He looked at her oddly. “Thank you. I am very glad we met.”

  “As am I.” She smiled in a reassuring manner. “Goodbye, Mr. Darcy.”

  He seemed surprised that she understood his intentions, and then relieved. “Goodbye, my dear Miss Elizabeth.”

  He bowed, she nodded, and he left. She waited until she heard his footsteps receding down the corridor and then she leapt up and began to pace the length of the room.

  Oh, how tempted she had been! She had wanted to ask him to pretend there was no tomorrow, to live today as if it were their last day on earth, to have no secrets from each other, to bare their hearts. But she could not. All this stress was making her dramatic. She was sure that she never would have considered such a thing a month ago. Was it the repetition causing the change in her character or the ball itself? If the ball was to blame, that would explain why women who were overly social were also somewhat histrionic.

  Shaking off the ridiculous idea, she returned her thoughts to the issue at hand: how she was to get through this and additional balls without saying something embarrassingly inappropriate to Mr. Darcy, or worse, throwing herself into his arms like a pathetic heroine in a melodramatic no
vel. She knew it was silly, but she desperately wanted to hear him say how he felt about her. She had seen it in his eyes, and felt his fingers squeeze her hand, and he had shown her in a dozen little ways, but she wanted to hear the words. An admission of affection, of love, of attraction even. She wanted something!

  It would be such a relief to hear it, and another to unburden her own heart. She longed to tell him how her opinion of him had changed, and how sorry she was for doubting his goodness for so long. She wanted to beg him not to forget her too quickly.

  She bit her lip and looked about the dark library, feeling all the ridiculousness of her position. “Stop mooning about, Lizzy! That’s enough now,” she scolded herself.

  Her eyes lit on a small writing desk against the far wall and suddenly, she had an idea.

  ~

  It had taken her more than an hour, but she had finally written a letter she was mostly happy with. Now to deliver it. She made it upstairs to the family wing without being seen, but she was not sure which bedroom was Mr. Darcy’s. She only knew he was on this corridor because she had seen him leaving it when she stayed at Netherfield nursing Jane.

  She crept to the first door and listened for movement. It would be disastrous to walk in on a servant turning down the bed. She knew the room to her left was Louisa’s. She imagined the room next to it, or possibly across from it, belonged to Mr. Hurst. She would be very surprised if they shared a room. She opened the door across the hall and looked inside. It was dark and still, with only a little light shining in from the window. She had only gone a few steps when she realized she was in Caroline Bingley’s room. She could smell her perfume quite clearly.

  She resisted the urge to play some sort of joke on Caroline (if she’d had a frog handy, she couldn’t honestly say she wouldn’t have put it in Miss Bingley’s bed), and left the room as quietly as she’d come in. She tried the room next to it. She thought it would be like Miss Bingley to place Darcy so near herself, but surely her brother and Mrs. Hurst would have objected. The rooms were designed enfilade, each room connecting to the one next to it. Miss Bingley was a bit desperate, but Elizabeth didn’t think she would put herself in a situation that may call her reputation into question.

  Sure enough, the next room belonged to Mr. Bingley. She recognized his walking stick in the corner, and it didn’t smell like Mr. Darcy. The one across the hall she thought likely to be Mr. Hurst’s as it was next to Louisa’s, so she skipped it. There were two rooms remaining at the end of the hall with a window between them, thankfully adding some light to the corridor. She looked out the window and thought the better view would be the room on her right, next to Mr. Bingley’s. Surely Caroline would have insisted Darcy have the best room. She listened carefully at the door, and hearing nothing, she opened it slowly.

  A few steps into the room and she knew she had guessed correctly. Whatever scent Mr. Darcy used was present here, though not nearly as strongly as Caroline’s perfume had been in her room. There was a small writing table in the corner, and on it a traveling desk set. Perfect! She would place her letter on it and—she stopped. He would not look at his desk set before he went to bed, and the letter would be gone in the morning along with all memory of today. She turned and saw the grand bed with its damask cover and heavy curtains. She would have to place the letter there, on his pillow, to be certain he found it before he went to sleep.

  She approached the bed slowly, mindful of creaking floorboards and the fact that she was alone in a man’s bedroom for the first time in her entire life. If she were caught here, her reputation would be in tatters. For the rest of the night anyway. Elizabeth huffed. The bed was not yet turned down. His valet would come to turn down the bed, see the letter, and her plan would be in jeopardy. She had no idea what the valet would do with it. He might put it with Darcy’s other correspondence. He might simply hand it to his master or put it back where he found it. He could think it was from Caroline, due to its location and mode of delivery, and throw it in the fire or not give it to Darcy for days or even weeks!

  Her imagination was clearly too accustomed to designing grand schemes to think clearly. She took a deep breath and shook off her silliness. The way forward was clear. She would turn down the bed herself. The valet would come in to do it and think the ‘tween stairs maid had done it. If the maid usually did it, she would think the valet had done it. It was unlikely anyone would raise a fuss over someone else doing their job. Once she had the coverlet and linen turned down and sufficiently straight, she fluffed the pillows up and laid them flat on the bed. Which pillow did he sleep on? She thought to put the letter under the pillow to avoid someone else finding it and disposing of it, but he might not find it there.

  Finally, she decided to place it vertically between the two pillows. It was fairly likely the person in the bed would notice it, but not a person who just gave the bed a cursory glance. She stood back and looked at the arrangement and thought it was as good as she could do under the circumstances. Satisfied she had accomplished her mission, she crept back out of the room and down the corridor to the stairs, then back to the ballroom.

  There was only one dance left. She cajoled her father into dancing it with her, and she ended the evening laughing with the one who had taught her to laugh at herself—and everyone else—and not to take life too seriously. He had his faults, but she loved her father dearly. It was the perfect way to end the night.

  She caught Mr. Darcy watching them from the side with an odd expression on his face, and she could not help nodding his direction with a sweet smile. When her father teased her about smiling at Mr. Darcy just because he had finally decided to dance with her, she was able to reply honestly, “He is amiable Father, truly. You do not know him. Let us not judge before we know him as more than a passing acquaintance.”

  Mr. Bennet raised his brows. “Very well, Lizzy. I bow to your superior judgment,” he teased. Lord love him, but her father would never change.

  ~

  The next morning Elizabeth woke so early the sun was barely shining through the slit in the curtains. Pleased to have some time to herself, she dressed quickly and slipped out for a walk, a hot muffin pilfered from the kitchen in her pocket. She went halfway to Oakham Mount before turning back. She would have liked to go farther, but her mother would rise soon and wonder where she was.

  She couldn’t stop thinking of the letter she had written to Mr. Darcy. She knew it by heart, having written several versions before deciding on the one she would deliver. She recited it in her mind, wondering if he had found it, and what he had thought when he read it. Was he scandalized? Horrified? Flattered? Frightened?

  She would never know, but she had felt better for writing it, and better still for delivering it to his keeping. It felt right somehow for him to know how she felt. She couldn’t explain it, she simply felt how very important it had been to unburden herself, to tell him of her heart. She smiled when she thought of it.

  Dear Mr. Darcy,

  Please forgive my impropriety in writing this letter, but I could not bring myself to say the words to you in person. I know this will make little sense to you, and indeed, you may even now be wondering if I am a little mad, but I simply must tell you.

  You have become very dear to me. As a valued friend, as a pleasant dance partner, and as a man. I am sorry that circumstances are such that we will never be able to deepen our friendship or discover if this attraction between us could lead to something more fulfilling.

  You will leave Hertfordshire soon, and I will likely never see you again. I must ask you to do something for me. As you are an honorable gentleman, I know you will consider my request seriously, and I pray you will take it to heart.

  Please be careful, my friend. Do not get caught up in some matron’s schemes, or bow to the pressure of society or even your family. You are a good man, a worthy man, and you deserve a wife who will appreciate and value you, not one who simply wishes to add your family name and estate to her list of recent acquisitions. Guard yo
ur heart—protect it fiercely—as I would do if I had the privilege.

  You will live long in my memory as the first gentleman of my acquaintance. It has been an honor getting to know you these past weeks. I am touched that you have shared as much of yourself with me as you have. I know this makes little sense to you—please do not try to understand it, for it cannot be understood. I doubt you will even recall this letter in the morning. Put it from your mind.

  Suffice it to say that I am honored by your trust and bewildered and honored again by your affection. It is not unrequited.

  Take care, my dear Mr. Darcy. May God bless you.

  Your Elizabeth

  She sighed. It was far from perfect, but it had been honest, and that was what she most wanted it to be. It little mattered, anyhow. She would see him again at the ball tonight and it would be as if it never happened, as if their conversations and looks and stolen touches were all in her imagination.

  She had made it back to the garden near the house now. She looked around at the dormant rose bushes and wondered if she would ever see them in bloom again. She walked past the bare dahlias and made her way toward the back door. She stopped. She turned slowly, an eerie feeling creeping over her. She stole back toward the flower bed and looked at the dahlias. They were a hardy flower, always blooming into late autumn, occasionally into early winter. She had noticed a late-blooming dahlia nearly every day of the curse. The stems were bare now. She looked to the ground, and there were the pink petals she had knocked over yesterday, still strewn at her feet.

  She stared in shock for a few moments, then turned and ran into the house like her boots were on fire. She burst into the kitchen, startling a maid into dropping a bowl on the stone floor.

  “What day is it?” Elizabeth cried. Two maids and Cook looked at her as if she were deranged.