Elizabeth and Darcy- Ardently Yours

by Evangeline Wright

  Elizabeth laughed. “I believe you argue my own point, Mr. Darcy. Our situation is very different, of course—being five sisters close in age and moving as we do in limited society. Though I would never own to it in Lady Catherine’s hearing, Kitty and Lydia’s public conduct often causes me to question the wisdom of their early introduction. But certainly, you need have no similar concerns about Miss Darcy’s comportment. She is reported by all to be so accomplished and genteel.”

  “Too much so, I fear. Her temperament has always tended toward reserve, and the hardships of the past year seem to have increased her inclination toward solitude. I must fault my own indulgence in this matter, for I have been unwilling to press her into varied company. I share guardianship of my sister with Colonel Fitzwilliam, and I will rely upon his more sociable nature to ease her introduction. As for her accomplishment, I suppose you refer to Miss Bingley’s admiration of her skill at the pianoforte. It is true that my sister plays very well, but Miss Bingley could have little knowledge of it. Georgiana is exceedingly reluctant to admit any outside our family to the privilege of hearing her play.”

  Elizabeth was amazed that Mr. Darcy would confide in her such private thoughts and concerns. It seemed this simple stroll through the park had taken them further than either intended. She worried that at any moment he would remember himself and find cause to reject her anew for her impertinent interference. She could not bear to look at him, for fear of meeting a reproachful glare. No amount of witty retorts could mask her pain on this occasion, should he renew his censure.

  “It is not only Miss Bingley’s report that has formed my impression, I assure you. Your very gracious housekeeper acquainted me with Miss Darcy’s affinity for music some months ago. ‘She plays and sings all day long’—those were her words.”

  “Mrs. Reynolds is an exceptionally devoted servant of Pemberley.”

  “She is exceptionally devoted to you.” Elizabeth recalled the housekeeper’s glowing description of her master. At the time, her adulation seemed almost too much to believe, but by now Elizabeth had seen every word of her praise proved true in Mr. Darcy’s behavior.

  Their progress along the lane had slowed to a ponderous pace, and she stole a quick glance up at him to find his face still clouded with concern. Elizabeth could not comprehend her startlingly strong admiration of this man, which, if it continued to grow at such an alarming rate, would soon eclipse even Mrs. Reynolds’ steadfast devotion. Neither could she explain her desire to earn his approval, but if his regard for her amounted to a small fraction of the esteem in which she held him, she felt she would be satisfied. His friendship and good opinion were fast becoming requirements of her happiness, it seemed. But even these essentials were at present overshadowed by the need to ease his distress, as much as it lay within her power to do so.

  “If I may be so bold, Mr. Darcy, I believe you concern yourself too much on your sister’s account. She is still rather young and has suffered much—her reserve is understandable, and your patience with her commendable.” From his description, Elizabeth imagined Miss Darcy to be much like Jane—possessed of such sweet, inoffensive goodness that it might be mistaken for complacency. Jane should have benefited from a more sensitive guardian—one who did not force her into gentlemen’s notice or parade her about.

  “I have observed,” she continued slowly, “that great depth of feeling is often belied by a placid demeanor. There are some individuals so pure of spirit that their emotions cannot be alloyed with the cheaper element of public display. It is a virtue, not a failing. Perhaps it is to Miss Darcy’s credit, then, that she does not perform to strangers.”

  “Miss Bennet …” Mr. Darcy slowed to a halt, and Elizabeth felt her pulse stop likewise. It took all the strength of will she could muster simply to meet his countenance, but the look that awaited her there was one of such kindness and warmth, she felt she might never lack for courage again.

  “There is a path, just there—through the wood. It will lead us back toward the parsonage, but the ground is rather uneven. Perhaps you had better take my arm.”

  Elizabeth accepted both his arm and his overture in the friendly spirit she knew them to be offered. She knew she ought to be contented with this small truce and the easy amiability in which they now proceeded along the path. His friendship was more than she had dared expect and perhaps nothing greater than what she had earned. It was, however, far less than she desired.

  Darcy commended himself on his restraint. It was no small triumph of sense over sentiment that he had offered Miss Elizabeth Bennet only his arm, when the force of passion would have had him adding his heart and hand into the bargain.

  His eyes went to where her gloved hand lay lightly on his sleeve. The weight of her touch was barely perceptible against his arm, but he felt its heavy consequence in the core of his being. He could not recall conversing so freely and naturally with any other lady of his acquaintance—in truth, with any other person. It was all too easy to imagine walking on with her thus forever.

  But these were ridiculous notions, he chided himself. She was only here at Rosings—with him—at her manipulative mother’s behest. Miss Bennet had made it only too obvious that she held him in no special regard, and had she not just stated plainly that she would not wish a loveless match upon a friend? Clearly, nothing less than truest affection would persuade her to marriage. Her integrity was both admirable and agonizing.

  Even if she favored him, Darcy admonished himself, it was absurd to entertain thoughts of an alliance with such a family. Fine eyes and lively spirit notwithstanding, her low connections, lack of fortune, and indecorous relations ought to provide sufficient inducement to banish all matrimonial nonsense from his mind. And so they might – but what powerful persuasion should dislodge her from his heart?

  The following morning Elizabeth wandered in the grove for some time, hoping to meet with Mr. Darcy again. At length a gentleman did appear, but it was Colonel Fitzwilliam who joined her and not his cousin.

  If she could not talk with Mr. Darcy, however, it seemed she could not help but talk about him, and Colonel Fitzwilliam was only too happy to bolster her positive impressions with his own humorous anecdotes. Elizabeth was not surprised to hear the colonel describe his cousin as a most loyal friend.

  “To be certain,” she agreed. “He takes great care of Mr. Bingley, for one.”

  “Ah, yes. Mr. Bingley. I believe my cousin has only recently rescued that gentleman from a most imprudent association.”

  “Indeed?”

  Elizabeth supposed that Colonel Fitzwilliam referred to some financial dealing or a matter of estate business. It was easy to imagine Mr. Darcy giving his subtle guidance to Mr. Bingley on such matters, much as she had witnessed when the poacher was apprehended at Netherfield.

  While she had become accustomed to hearing reports that praised his generosity, she was not yet inured to their gratifying effect. She therefore enjoined the colonel to further explain the particulars of Mr. Bingley’s most recent scrape.

  To her dismay, the details of the matter were not at all what she had surmised.

  Chapter Seven

  Hunsford Parsonage

  That evening, desperate to avoid another invitation to Rosings, Elizabeth pleaded a headache. She could not bear the prospect of facing Mr. Darcy—not after her conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam that afternoon. Mr. Collins took no pains to hide his displeasure with Elizabeth’s ill-timed indisposition; for if her ladyship desired cards, the tables would now be uneven. At length, however, Charlotte’s gentle prodding and the imminent prospect of a tardy arrival persuaded him to leave her behind.

  At last alone with her thoughts, Elizabeth brought out all of Jane’s letters from London and set herself to examining each one closely. Aside from the portions that detailed Miss Bingley’s cold treatment, there was no complaint or expression of actual suffering within in their pages. There was, however, a decided want of Jane’s usual cheerful manner, and the more Elizabeth
read, the more she was convinced that her sister had been wounded deeply indeed. Jane had dared to love and dared to hope, and the happiness she and Mr. Bingley deserved had been cruelly denied them by two interfering individuals. Miss Bingley’s conduct Elizabeth had long despised, but only today had she learned of another’s complicity in Jane’s maltreatment. In seeking to tout his cousin’s capacity for loyal friendship, Colonel Fitzwilliam had unwittingly implicated him in the infliction of Jane’s suffering. Elizabeth was left to contend with a bitter realization: the source of her dearest sister’s pain was none other than Mr. Darcy.

  Mr. Darcy—the man she had held in high esteem even before their acquaintance, and toward whom she had harbored the beginnings of a tender affection. While her family and neighbors had marked him as proud and haughty, Elizabeth had foolishly believed herself in possession of an intimate knowledge of his character. Blinded by her own feelings, she had excused his every proud mannerism and given him the benefit of every doubt.

  Mr. Darcy’s desire to distance himself from the Bennet family could scarcely be condemned, she had reasoned, given their continual displays of impropriety in his presence. Although his disdain for her family had pained her, Elizabeth had been heretofore disinclined to fault him for it. That is, until this afternoon, when Colonel Fitzwilliam revealed to her Mr. Darcy’s efforts to separate Jane and Mr. Bingley, and worse—his shameful boasting of the misery he had been able to inflict upon them!

  Lydia and Kitty’s silly displays notwithstanding, surely anyone, no matter how casually acquainted, could observe that dear, sweet Jane represented all that was proper and good in the Bennet family. And Mr. Bingley—if Elizabeth had ever met a more affable and unassuming gentleman, she could not remember him. How could Mr. Darcy, knowing the goodness of these two souls, inflict upon them this most acute suffering?

  Elizabeth tried to believe that Colonel Fitzwilliam might have been mistaken. Perhaps Mr. Darcy’s reservations about her family might have merely encouraged Mr. Bingley to accept a course of action he had already been inclined to follow. But no, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s account must be true. What motive would he have to exaggerate his cousin’s satisfaction at such a “triumph,” as he called it? If Mr. Darcy believed himself to be acting in the best of intentions for his friend, why should his cousin report that he “congratulated himself” at that same friend’s agony?

  Elizabeth was faced with the conclusion that her estimation of Mr. Darcy had been conceived in error, bred in continued misunderstanding, and clouded by her own imprudent emotions. How foolish she had been! Her grip on Jane’s letters tightened until it threatened to tear the paper on which they were written. In her current state, nothing would have done so well as a good brisk walk through the park to vent her anger, but, given the late hour and her feigned illness, she would have to content herself with a good cry in the safety of her room. It would be the last evening she humbled herself so for Mr. Darcy’s sake. Once her emotions were purged, she told herself, she would resolve to forget that gentleman immediately.

  Just as she made up her mind to retire to her chamber and welcome the tears that were already stinging her eyes, the doorbell gave her a start. She imagined it might be Colonel Fitzwilliam come to call; she had been unable to completely mask her distress with him earlier, and he had expressed concern for her well-being. Elizabeth quickly stood up and paced the room, smoothing her dress with her hands and biting her lip mightily to stem her tears. It would not do to let him see her so upset and thus be confronted with inconvenient questions.

  To Elizabeth’s utter amazement, it was not Colonel Fitzwilliam who entered the room, but Mr. Darcy! He immediately inquired after her health, and having received Elizabeth’s curt assurance that she was indeed well, began to pace about the room. She watched him, surprised at this uncharacteristic behavior, but could not bring herself to break the silence. Whatever he has come here to say, she thought, I dare not attempt to guess. Clearly I have been blind, and he is as much a stranger to me now as he was the evening we were introduced at Meryton.

  After a silence of a few minutes, Mr. Darcy seemed to come to a decision. He ceased his agitated pacing and came towards her with an earnest and intense look that rendered Elizabeth breathless.

  “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

  Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She found herself incapable of thought, much less speech. Her silence was evidently taken as encouragement, and Mr. Darcy began an avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her.

  Mr. Darcy loves me! It cannot be true! Elizabeth’s heart leapt at the knowledge, and she immediately realized the impossibility of her earlier resolution to banish him from her thoughts. As much as her mind bade her remember dear Jane’s misery, her blood betrayed her completely. It suffused through all her limbs with rapidity, and she felt a warmth unlike any sensation she had ever experienced. As he made his declarations of love, an ardent expression transformed Mr. Darcy’s normally composed features. It was all Elizabeth could do to keep herself from throwing herself into his arms and ceasing his seemingly endless converse with her lips.

  The blood thundering in Elizabeth’s ears began to slow, however, and she became once again sensible of the meaning of her suitor’s addresses. To her revulsion, she realized that even as he plied her with words of love, he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride.

  “You must realize that my attachment to you goes against every expectation of my relations and peers and, I must add, against my own better judgment. It was clear from our earliest acquaintance that your family sought to elevate their position by bringing about our union. Despite my desire to avoid such base scheming, and your own obvious indifference toward me, it was not a matter of weeks before my admiration for you began to cloud my judgment. This admiration soon deepened into a passionate regard despite my every intention to the contrary. Your charms, however unwillingly bestowed, have now irrevocably ensnared my heart. I beg you to relieve my suffering and consent to be my wife.”

  Elizabeth’s elation at Mr. Darcy’s first blunt declaration of love could not have been more fleeting. Indeed, as she listened to the remainder of his suit, her blush of passion soon deepened to a color of acute embarrassment, and as he finally finished, her face burned with indignation. How dare he insinuate that she had courted his attentions through the scheming of her family? That she had sought to ensnare him with her charms? And this was his opinion of her!

  “In cases such as this,” she ventured in halting tones, willing her voice to remain calm, “I believe the established mode is to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed. If I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot, Mr. Darcy. As much as I welcome your good opinion, I have never sought any such advances. I am sorry to occasion you pain. I can only hope that, now that you have unburdened yourself of such clearly distasteful sentiments, your unclouded judgment may assist you in overcoming them.”

  Now it was Mr. Darcy’s turn to express astonishment. Elizabeth watched him struggle at length to master his emotions. Truly, he appeared quite pale, and for a moment she felt concerned for his health. Foolish girl, she chided herself. He has insulted you and your family in every way possible, and you still cannot help but concern yourself with his well-being?

  At last, he spoke. “Is this, then, all the answer I am to receive? May I ask why, with so little attempt at civility, I am thus rejected? But it is of little consequence.” The bitterness in his voice and thinly veiled anger it betrayed spurred Elizabeth to action. Unwise as it might be, she could not help but take full advantage of this opening in which to vent her own accusations against him.

  “You may ask, sir, for I believe it to be of great consequence. But I might ask you why you came here to tell me that you loved me against your will, against your judgment, and even against your character? That you came in sur
render to this long-planned scheme between my inferior relations and myself to ensnare you? Surely this is an excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil.”

  Mr. Darcy looked as if he might speak, but Elizabeth would not give him the opportunity. If she relinquished the floor now, she might never gather the nerve to speak further.

  “Mr. Darcy, until today I believed that we had forged a friendship of sorts, despite our tendency to spar and disagree. I foolishly believed myself to discern a goodness and decency beneath your proud manner, and—even more foolishly, it seems—I hoped that you had formed a similarly favorable opinion of my own disposition. You must believe me, Mr. Darcy, when I say I had not the slightest idea of the admiration you expressed tonight. I believed myself only the recipient of some measure of hard-won respect on your part, and I felt fortunate enough to call you friend, with no hopes of a deeper attachment.

  “I now realize how utterly I have deceived myself. If the tender feelings you expressed earlier had been in the smallest way motivated by a true understanding of my own character, you could not possibly believe me capable of employing art or scheme to catch a husband, to—how did you phrase it—‘elevate my position?’ Admittedly, my mother’s preoccupation with securing her daughters’ futures is often improperly displayed, but neither the desires nor designs of my mother have ever ruled my conduct, else you should have greeted me in this house as ‘Mrs. Collins’ this evening.”

  At this admission, Mr. Darcy’s eyes grew wide, but he kept silent and sank into a nearby armchair. It was now Elizabeth’s turn to pace the room.

  “But you mistake me, Mr. Darcy, if I give the impression that the manner of your addresses was the cause for my refusal. The offense caused by your accusations has only served to spare me any hesitation I might have felt in wounding your feelings, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner. For as much as you have misunderstood my own character, Mr. Darcy, I have just this afternoon learned to what extent my own estimation of yours was so ill-judged. I have far better reason to refuse you, you know I have.”