“You hid it? How was such a disguise to be carried out?”
“Perhaps conceal is too strong a term. Let us say I chose not to reveal the intelligence. Whatever the expression, it was beneath me.” He paused as a servant swung the door aside and lowered the steps. “So you see, Fitzwilliam, there is no misunderstanding, and thus no room for forgiveness, just my arrogance, conceit and selfish disdain of the feelings of others.”
Darcy swallowed on the bitter taste in his mouth; then, as he stepped from the dimness of the carriage out into bright sunlight, he whispered under his breath, “I could not have put it better myself, Elizabeth.”
~o0o~
Conscious of a desire to occupy her thoughts, lest they stray where she wished they would not, Elizabeth had turned her steps towards the church and had enjoyed no little time wending her way around the gravestones where they nestled cosseted by long grasses and wild flowers. She had taken much enjoyment from the cheerful birdsong and the beauty of the churchyard and had soon begun to feel the benefit of the fresh air.
Despite its lingering on the edges of her subconscious, she determined not to allow her dream any consequence. Her common sense assured her it was merely a trick played upon her mind born of the myriad singular events of the past few days. It was a common enough truth that dreams could take on a sense of the ridiculous, and she knew from personal experience that no matter its intensity on waking, the substance would soon fade like any other, so that come another day she would be hard pressed to recall its constituents.
After all, had she not, some years hence, suffered a recurring dream that Mama was a hen and they, her brood, all chicks? Admittedly, Jane had sported the finest golden feathers of them all, and Mary’s beak had been permanently buried in a suitably tiny book – and she, Elizabeth, had repeatedly engaged in a quarrel with a passing swan – but clearly it had meant nothing, and the only reason she could still recall it was because she had been meticulous in keeping her journal at the time.
Thus it was that she knew her dream of Mr Darcy to be all a piece of nonsense, and she was quite resolute that she would pay it no further mind.
Having explored the outside to her satisfaction, she considered entering the church but the fairness of the day was too strong an inducement. Instead, she set off along the lane, unconscious of where her feet led her.
Unbidden, as she walked, a sudden vision of Mr Darcy’s face as he expressed his feelings for her passed through her mind, and she felt her cheeks wash with colour as her step faltered. How could he admire her so? She had treated him with the utmost disdain since his arrival in Hertfordshire, believing without hesitation his maligned character and given no quarter over his protection of his friend’s well-being. Further, she had persisted in her flippant manner throughout his stay in Kent, paid him no credence for offering his heart and his hand to her, and despised him for his honesty of address, when it spoke nothing but what she had long acknowledged regarding her own family’s failings.
Agitated, Elizabeth increased her pace and, almost breaking into a run, she soon found herself skirting the woodlands of Rosings Park until, out of breath, she had to pause, resting her hands on her hips as she took in some welcome air. Did Mr Darcy relish his escape from a woman who had thrown his heart and his hand back at him with such cruelty, and furthermore, a woman whom, she suspected, he believed enamoured of a man whose very name was abhorrent to him?
She sighed, struggling to suppress the feeling of unease that such thoughts engendered. Then, Elizabeth straightened up and, seeing where her feet had led her, she accepted the inevitable and turned her steps towards the stone path that led to the copse of birch trees.
~o0o~
Having completed her morning duties, Charlotte decided to follow the example indicated by her friend. A period of time passed in fresh air seemed an attractive proposition and as Mr Collins had removed to his study to make notes for that evening’s prayer meeting, she felt quite at liberty to claim the garden for her own.
Conscious of the warmth of the sun upon her neck, Charlotte paused and looked about before heading for an old wooden bench tucked against the beech hedge that separated the lawn from the kitchen garden. With a sigh of contentment she seated herself and looked around, enjoying the pleasant vista of the parsonage, its aged and golden stone a true compliment to the verdant lawns and box hedges that encircled it.
She wondered where Elizabeth had walked, and how long it would be before she returned, for this was their last day together, and Charlotte new full well how much she would miss her friend’s company come the morrow. Still, Elizabeth would no doubt soon be regaling her with letters full of the pleasures of Town, even more so now, in the enhanced company of Mr Nicholas Harington.
Such a recollection reminded Charlotte of the post that had been handed to her earlier, and slipping a hand into her pocket she withdrew the letters. Recognising the familiar hand of her sister, Maria, on one, she then glanced at the second letter – the hand was neat and clearly feminine and addressed to Elizabeth but the postmark was unfamiliar. Charlotte mused on who the sender might be as she tucked it safely back into her pocket, then turned her attention to her own correspondence. She would enjoy the solitude of this beautiful morning and read Maria’s news from home; doubtless Elizabeth would soon satisfy her friend’s curiosity as to who her correspondent was, and where in the country lay the place of its origin, ‘Lambton’.
Chapter Sixteen
Darcy stared up at the sign of the coaching inn on the outskirts of Bromley, shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun. Thankful for the opportunity to escape the confines of the carriage, as much to avoid his cousin’s voracious interest as to take some air and stretch his legs, he welcomed the break in their journey.
He glanced over towards his carriage where his men still tended to the horses and his cousin had emerged to accept a draught of ale from a servant, then turned his back and walked across a small area of common land, stopping at one point to break off three long stalks of wild grass before heading for a nearby stand of young trees.
Resting his back against a relatively sturdy looking trunk, he placed one foot on an old stump close by and, running his hand along the length of the recently plucked stems to even them, he stripped the feathery heads with one sweep of his fingers and tied them at one end with the ease of familiarity. For a moment his gaze rested unseeingly upon his hand and its contents, then Darcy blinked suddenly and stared at the reeds as if he had only just realised he held them. “Old habits die hard,” he murmured under his breath, and accepting the inevitable settled himself more comfortably against the trunk and began to plait the reeds neatly along their length.
It was an old trait of his, yet one he had not practiced since a lad. In an attempt to still the agitation of his hands when experiencing emotion – be it anxiety or anger – he had long perfected the talent of plaiting wild grass stems as a way of occupying his constantly flexing fingers and, as such, had found himself soothed by the activity.
His task complete, Darcy held the slender stick up for inspection, his gaze narrowed as he assessed whether or not he still held his boyhood propensity for neatness, but his eye became distracted by movement across the road, and he lowered his hand, sighing impatiently. Who did he try to fool? No childish means for easing his spirits was proof against his present circumstances.
Casting the newly formed stick aside, he reached into his pocket for his hip flask. He took a mouthful of cognac, the liquid burning a slow trail down his throat, easing the rising tightness in his throat, an all too familiar sensation in recent days; then he dropped the flask back into his pocket. His cousin’s persistence in drawing his confidence had been a sore trial to him, and his own growing comprehension of the veracity of Elizabeth’s assessment of his character haunted him.
He closed his eyes, trying to prevent the memory from surfacing once more, but his lowered lids merely provided a backdrop for Elizabeth’s angry face as the reverberation of her d
amning words began their relentless echo through his mind:
‘…from the first moment of my acquaintance with you…’
Darcy’s eyes flew open. In his despair he had been consumed by her accusations; yet now he began to ponder upon the significance of these words. Memories of the Meryton assembly swept through his mind; that she had overheard his unthinking remark to Bingley he had long suspected, yet he had dismissed it with little regard for the implications. Recalling his demeanour throughout that evening, the reluctance with which he had attended all or any of the social occasions at which he had encountered Elizabeth thereafter, culminating in the ball at Netherfield, the feeling of unease that had filtered through him earlier returned with a vengeance.
That he had barely tolerated the local populace, he had made no effort to conceal. Nor had he made any attempt to respond to their overtures, even whilst partaking of their generous hospitality, something that must have been blatantly obvious to any who deigned to notice – and Darcy finally understood with piercing clarity that Elizabeth had.
Gripped by the dawning realisation that there was even more behind Elizabeth’s dislike of him than he had originally surmised, Darcy straightened up and began to stride quickly back towards the inn. He could not think upon this now; he had only just begun to accept his own culpability over Bingley’s present unhappiness. Anything further he felt ill-equipped to handle.
“Darcy! Come on, man!” His cousin hailed him, and Darcy looked over towards the carriage. Lifting a hand in acknowledgement, he paused near the door to the inn and took a draught of water from a servant before walking over to where his equipage tarried.
The journey resumed, and in an attempt to dissuade his cousin from further plaguing him, Darcy expressed his intention of resting his eyes, citing a disturbed night. Knowing that Fitzwilliam could hardly be surprised to hear that Darcy had not slept well, he was confident that the move would guarantee him some peace. Yet his success at silencing the Colonel’s voice was hard bought, for the ones inside his head were more difficult to quieten. Thankfully, the weariness born of his lack of repose in recent nights and the movement of the carriage did lull him into a somewhat somnolent state; yet his mind was not at rest.
~o0o~
Having twice circled the copse, Elizabeth paused for a moment to gather her thoughts. It was all very well determining not to allow her dream any purchase, but she struggled yet to account for her inability to dismiss Mr Darcy himself from her mind.
As her steps led her once more past the stone bench where she had been seated on Sunday, she ceased her pacing and looked about the shaded enclosure. Perhaps it was the revelation of the depth of Mr Darcy’s admiration for her; yet the shock of finding herself in his arms so soon after, and all the inherent sensations that had been aroused by such intimate contact were equally disturbing.
Shaking her head at the direction of her thoughts, Elizabeth contemplated the bench before laying her shawl out on it and sitting down. For a moment, she attempted to enjoy the peaceful scene, but the confusion of her thoughts soon came flooding back. Mr Darcy… how was it that she felt so piqued that just at a time when she felt the urge to discover more about the man, he had conveniently removed himself from her acquaintance? ‘But I thought I did not like him…’
‘Not did not like, Lizzy, would not. You would not allow him to be anything but disagreeable. Slighted by his insult of you and unimpressed by his unsocial, taciturn air you allowed your vanity to rule your common sense. Before now, you did not even perceive the man himself.’
Pushing away this uncomfortable notion, Elizabeth stood up, retrieving her shawl and giving it a shake before fastening it about her waist and turning to walk down the path towards the park.
Instead of judging Mr Darcy, she now wished she had been given more time to appreciate him, and finally she accepted the truth she had battled these past four and twenty hours. She did quite like him. She was intrigued by the man, and now she could only regret that she would never know him further, never fully understand him, nor why he had developed such a depth of feeling for her.
Elizabeth emerged from the path deep in thought, but conscious of the position of the sun that hinted at the morning’s progression, she quickened her pace, making her way up the bank of grass. Yet, with her eyes cast down to ensure a safe foothold, she could not fail to discern the wheel ruts cut into the turf, nor the dried out wheals of mud where the horses’ hooves had dug into the hillside to retain some purchase. Acknowledging to herself that relegating Sunday’s events to a distant memory was far from happening, she followed the trail of her curricle ride with Mr Darcy all the way back to Hunsford.
~o0o~
As the small towns that populate the outskirts of any large city gave way to busier thoroughfares, and the associated disturbance and noise penetrated the carriage, Darcy stirred in his corner and opened his eyes, blinking a couple of times as he sat up straighter against the cushions. Somehow he felt even wearier than when his lids had dropped, but he was thankful for the release from his thoughts.
In his drowsy state, his sub-conscious had taken full control of his senses, and a myriad of memories from his stay in Hertfordshire passed through his mind, culminating in a recollection of the ball at Netherfield where, struggling with the onslaught of unprecedented feelings towards Elizabeth – and railing against Wickham’s presence in the neighbourhood – he had witnessed a display of coarse manners and inappropriate conduct from several members of the Bennet family.
Shifting his position, Darcy frowned at the memory. Prevalent in his mind was Mrs Bennet, her piercing voice lauding her daughter’s good fortune and the benefit it would be for her family by raising them into similar company. Yet once more he recognised his failing. In his disdain for the local populace he had somehow managed to forget that he held the society in Town in equal regard.
Long before he had ventured forth into society, his father had cautioned him to be wary of the scheming mamas of the ton. What was their desire, but to make a good match for their daughters? What was he, Fitzwilliam Darcy, to them but a name synonymous with his estate, an estate that bespoke wealth, heritage and status? Wherein lay the difference between Mrs Bennet’s desire to improve her family’s lot and that of this society?
Darcy’s gaze drifted to the slumbering form of his cousin on the opposite bench, before he lowered his eyes to the floor. With unbearable clarity, the difference became obvious: Mrs Bennet’s purpose, vulgar though the expression of it was, at least had some basis in honesty. There was naught of disguise about her, whilst the ladies of the ton, mothers and daughters alike, were practised in concealing those very same intentions.
Darcy shuddered as the depth of his self-inflicted blindness struck him, and he whispered, “You hypocrite.”
“What? Did you say something?”
He looked up, realising that his cousin had awakened. “No. No, I did not. I was thinking aloud, nothing more.”
Turning his head to look out of the window once more, Darcy hoped that Fitzwilliam would accept he had no wish to be swept into conversation, and for a while silence reigned in the coach as the conveyance made its slow way through the congestion of the London streets, heading for the quieter thoroughfares of Mayfair.
They were but minutes now from arriving at Darcy’s town house, and though, judging by the hour, his sister would yet be engrossed in her lessons, it would not be long before they were in company. In this matter, his cousin had the right of it: nothing of his present melancholy must be evident.
Unbidden came the memory of the Colonel’s words from the previous evening, of the irony that Wickham had managed to influence so easily both Georgiana and Elizabeth. Darcy grew cold at the thought of what might have been for either of them. If there was one thing he could be thankful for in all this misfortune it was that Elizabeth no longer stood any risk of being duped by that villain.
“Darce? Come man, you must rally, for you are as stony-faced as a marble bust and almos
t as pale.”
Darcy threw Fitzwilliam a look of frustration. “You goad me beyond my endurance at times, Cousin.”
“I aim to please, as you well comprehend.”
Darcy blew out a resigned breath. “I am not ignorant to the service you have rendered these past four and twenty hours.”
The Colonel looked somewhat discomfited and fidgeted with his cuffs for a moment, not meeting Darcy’s eye; then, he raised an unusually solemn visage to his cousin. “You are as a brother to me, Darcy. But above all else, you are my friend, and I would not see you suffer in silence, however much you might think it preferable.”
Darcy forced a weak smile before turning once more to the window, albeit he failed to recognise aught outside the carriage.
“I would not see you suffer in silence.” What had he done to his own friend – to Charles Bingley?
~o0o~
Having enjoyed the opportunity to read her sister’s letter in peace, Charlotte had returned to the house, a little concerned over the length of Elizabeth’s absence. It was thus with no little sensation of relief that she finally espied her friend in the road outside the parsonage, and she hurried out of the door and down the path towards where she stood, staring at the ground as if in intense reflection.
“Lizzy?”
Elizabeth started as she addressed her, and Charlotte realised her suspicion was not far from the truth.
“Dear Charlotte! Forgive me, I have been gone far too long, but it is hard to forsake such a beautiful morning.”
Observing Elizabeth’s uncharacteristically flustered demeanour as she turned to greet her, Charlotte’s eyes narrowed for a moment, her gaze drifting briefly to the patch of disturbed ground that had appeared to capture her friend’s attention; then, unable to account for such an absurd interest, and apportioning Elizabeth’s enhanced cheek colour to her recent extended bout of exercise, Charlotte shrugged the thought aside.
A Fair Prospect Page 13