His Frozen Heart

by Christie Capps

  Disgusted with what Darcy felt was a supreme waste of time, he let Bingley know clearly that he would not stand up with a female who was not from the same elevated status as he was. When Bingley persisted, the explanation spewing from Darcy’s mouth was more direct than he should have said aloud in company.

  “She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.''

  “Darcy!” Bingley glanced to where she was seated. “She may have heard.”

  He could not regret the words for they stopped Bingley from harping on the necessity of mixing with the local society.

  After two more dances, he needed something to dull his senses. Darcy moved through the crowd to obtain a glass of punch. Standing close was the lady in yellow. Her back was to him, but she caught his attention when she laughed. It was not a restrained titter like he heard in London’s drawing rooms. Rather, it was a full-throated laugh from someone who was overcome with joy.

  Darcy had no intention of listening to their discussion. They were nothing to him.

  “Oh, Charlotte,” she spoke to her companion as she endeavored to calm herself. “I do believe my vanity will survive with no more than a passing bruise. For stubborn and ardently clinging to one’s opinion is the best proof of stupidity.”

  Her friend chuckled. “Are you speaking of yourself or him?”

  The lady shrugged and wandered back to the gossipy woman.

  Darcy was stunned. What female of his acquaintance quoted Michel de Montaigne? Good heavens! The man influenced Shakespeare and Descartes. Never in a million years would he have thought to find anyone in Hertfordshire familiar with a philosopher so obscure.

  He was intrigued. Finally, something about the assembly had caught his attention. Darcy’s curiosity was roused to the point it needed satisfied. Where had she learned de Montaigne?

  Counting to five so he did not appear eager, he followed her, standing close enough he rudely eavesdropped upon her conversation. Perhaps she had no clue of what she had been speaking. Maybe it was an anomaly, or that she had heard it from a gentleman acquaintance and repeated it without knowing the context.

  “Mama,” her soft tone was in contrast to the matron’s. “Do you see how well Clara Long looks this evening? The rose fabric and lace on her gown are lovely, are they not?”

  “Lizzy Bennet, who is Clara Long to any of you girls?” was her mother’s tart reply. “She is nothing to either Jane or Lydia. You are wasting your time cultivating friendships with the other ladies when there are two single men of wealth and fortune who are certainly looking for a wife.” The woman waved the fan she was holding dangerously close to her daughter’s face. “Pull your shoulders back and pinch some color into your cheeks, Lizzy.”

  Darcy’s mouth dropped open. The young lady had perfect posture. Her skin was healthy—the pink of her cheeks came naturally. No pinching was needed. Darcy failed to see why her mother had made the request.

  The insult to her own child was obvious. He leaned closer to see how the daughter responded—suspecting she would retaliate like a female cat with its claws drawn.

  “I have no interest in either gentlemen nor do they have interest in me.” Her words rang true. There was no hesitation, no quavering. “We have no knowledge of their characters, Mama.”

  “Oh, Lizzy, you know nothing of what I suffer.” The fan fluttered faster than a bird’s wings. “What is character compared to a comfortable carriage with fine horses, the current fashions dripping with lace, and enough jewels and pin money to see your future settled? Leave Clara Long be. She looks to melt into the paper covering the wall, she is so plain. You waste your time with her.”

  Her daughter stepped back from her parent, whispering below her breath.

  The music had stopped. Darcy heard. Glancing behind him, he felt for the solid wood of the wall. He was shaken, far more than he should have been. No, he was not physically overcome. Perplexed is what he was.

  He repeated the words he had heard her whisper in his own mind. No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted. His father used to tell him the same.

  Looking at the young woman as she walked in the direction of the lady with the rose-colored gown, Darcy realized several things. First, she was likely going to tell the one her mother viewed as a competitor how well she looked. This meant she was kind. Second, she quoted both de Montaigne and Aesop. Third, although she spoke Michel de Montaigne in English, she quoted Aesop in ancient Greek.

  For the rest of the evening, Darcy watched her like a hawk. He easily justified his actions by telling himself he was merely stifling boredom. In reality though, he gave serious consideration to comparing her with other females of his circle. Would any of them have sought out another, a possible competitor, to genuinely compliment them? To encourage them with a kind comment? To raise their value in their own eyes?

  His aunts Lady Catherine and Lady Matlock? No. Neither of them felt the need to come down off the pedestals they kept themselves on to elevate someone other than themselves or their own daughters. Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst? Never! They had not stopped speaking ill of the populace of Meryton since Bingley announced his plans to attend the assembly. Their nature was to criticize and find fault with every aspect of the people and the occasion. His sister? Until Ramsgate, he would have been confident in her kindness. Now that she was heartbroken and disappointed in Darcy? He could not, in truth, be assured her Christian graciousness was still intact.

  The lady in the rose gown, Miss Clara Long, smiled. Then she blushed as her eyes twinkled in the candlelight. When she walked away from the young woman who had extended the complement, she appeared taller and more confident. The friend, for she acted a friend, in the yellow gown returned to the chair close to where Darcy and Bingley had earlier stood.

  Her mother had called her Lizzy. Lizzy was far too inelegant a name for someone familiar with ancient literature and languages. Elizabeth, most likely.

  When her friend joined her, Darcy realized he could hear bits of their conversation from where he was standing.

  Good heavens! If he could hear them, surely Miss Elizabeth had heard the harsh words he had uttered to Bingley about her. In fact, Bingley had indicated she might. Where he had passed his insult off as being appropriate to his station compared to hers, he had to admit the limits of his kindness were far inferior to hers.

  Amazed, Darcy gave serious thought to what had happened. For the rest of the time at the assembly he became a studier of character. By the time the evening ended, he had witnessed several humanitarian acts of generosity and empathy by many in attendance.

  Miss Bingley had been wrong. Their country neighbors had not treated their new neighbors in the manner the newcomers, including himself, had treated them.

  Darcy was embarrassed. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” was a proverb he had cut his milk teeth on. He never should have spoken harshly against an unprotected female. Had a man done such to Georgiana, Darcy would have called him out.

  In his chambers that night—with his door firmly secured against a possible interloper—he considered the woman in the yellow gown. For a certainty, he was not attracted to her. She was not of the haute ton. Nevertheless, she was a lady of intelligence, an unexpected find in the county.

  Tossing back the brandy his valet had poured before retiring for the night, Darcy decided not to think on her anymore. He had more pressing matters to spend his waking hours upon.

  If only he was able to control his dreams.

  Lucas Lodge

  “He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.'' – Elizabeth Bennet (Pride & Prejudice, Chapter IV, Volume I)

  Darcy had mixed feelings about attending a soiree in the home of Sir William Lucas. His inclination was to stay behind t
o enjoy the meager offerings in Netherfield’s library. Yet, the promise of furthering his investigation of the lady in yellow intrigued him.

  What a funny sort of female she was in an odd sort of way. Hardly noticeable.

  Additionally, Bingley had extracted a promise from his sister that she would behave with dignity and decorum.

  Darcy wanted to snort when he had heard.

  Caroline Bingley would be another female Darcy would ignore.

  True to form, Bingley had identified Miss Jane Bennet as the current bearer of the title of angel. He swore his full devotion to a woman he had known less than a week. Darcy longed to roll his eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. Bingley was a good man, an amiable fellow who had a serious weakness where beautiful females were concerned. And Miss Bennet was beautiful, though she smiled too much. At least her teeth were straight, and none were missing, so Bingley had that in his favor.

  Nonetheless, it was not her who had caught Darcy’s eye.

  Bingley said the lady in yellow was Jane Bennet’s next youngest sister. Despite having the same parentage, the two females were as unalike as day was to night.

  Possibly, Miss Elizabeth was a blue-stocking, a female who militantly traveled where other ladies avoided, libraries and bookrooms. No, she was not militant. She was kind. It was this mixture that interested him. His resolve that evening was to observe her, to study her contact with others. To see if she deposited any other gems of wisdom and knowledge. He easily admitted to himself that he was not attracted to the dark-haired lady with the yellow dress in a romantic sort of way.

  It was only mild curiosity, of course. It would help him pass the time until they could return to Netherfield Park. And it would benefit Georgiana for him to note the activities of an intelligent female in country society. After all, the Darcys’ primary home was in Derbyshire, a wilder, more isolated northern county. Eventually, Georgiana would marry. Then her responsibility would be to run a similar estate with her husband while rearing children blessed with a keen sense of understanding. As an unattached man, Darcy needed all the help he could get without asking someone, as if he was deficient in knowledge. Never!

  With this goal in mind, he stepped into the carriage for the trip to Meryton where the Lucas family lived. He had a purpose, a mission. Darcy only hoped the two eldest Miss Bennets would be in attendance. If not, he would do as always, stand aloof so no one would approach.

  Not long after arriving at Lucas Lodge, Darcy had opportunity to discover more about Miss Elizabeth. Sir William Lucas, their host, bade her stop for conversation while he was standing next to Darcy.

  “Miss Elizabeth, you are looking well this evening,” the older man bowed. “Have you been introduced to Mr. Darcy?”

  She looked Darcy directly in the eye. Miss Elizabeth was a bold one.

  He swallowed, hoping against hope it was not a gulp. Her eyes were the color of rich chocolate. And autumn. And the fields after they had been plowed.

  Darcy wanted to scoff. No sane woman wanted to hear her eyes compared to dirt. However, to him, the smell of freshly turned earth, the dark brown of healthy soil was the most valuable asset belonging to Pemberley. It sustained hundreds, fed herds and flocks, and was the true source of his wealth.

  Her lashes were long and black, the tips on the bottom row touched her cheeks. Amber and gold flecks dotted her iris. The whites were pure as snow. Her brows were arched. Despite one lifting in inquiry, he could not look away.

  “I know who he is, Sir William.” Dipping into a curtsey, Miss Elizabeth returned her gaze to his face.

  Was she examining him as closely as he had done her? He was not sure. Nor was he certain how he felt about her surveying him with the same measure his cook would use to select a cut of meat at the butcher’s shop.

  Yes, she was as bold as brass. But was it based on intelligence or pure brashness? He determined to find out.

  “Miss Elizabeth, I wondered if I might ask you a question about Meryton,” was his first volley.

  “You may.” She was politeness itself.

  “Is there a bookseller you favor?”

  “There is.”

  “Which section do you find most interesting?” Here is where most females failed. If they read at all they tended to favor gothic novels, fashion plates, or the gossip section of the circulating paper.

  “The one to the far left when you enter the door,” she had no hesitation with her reply.

  He barely contained his laughter.

  Her eyes squinted. Her head tipped to the side. “Why do you ask? Is there a section or an author you prefer, Mr. Darcy? Perhaps the Sporting or the Gentlemen’s Magazine?”

  Well done! He bowed to her quickness.

  As she had done, he replied with a question of his own. “Perhaps your choice is La Belle Assemblée, or Bell’s Court & Fashionable Magazine Addressed Particularly to the Ladies?” This time it was he who lifted his brow.

  She gave an unladylike snort.

  Darcy could not contain his chuckle.

  “Sir, my goal in reading is both for the improvement of my mind and the pure enjoyment gained from an intense period of time spent with the written word.” The corner of her mouth lifted slightly. “The section to the far left in the bookstore contains shelves of books filled with history, philosophy, and science. There is not one novel to be found in this bookcase.”

  “Where would they be housed?” He simply could not help himself. She was too witty by half.

  “Why, sir, they would be where every lady would look, next to the mirror on the wall by the front counter.” Miss Elizabeth’s smile was coated in glee. “I am quite familiar with this section too. Do we have this in common?”

  “We do.”

  She was delightful.

  To put her even further to the test, he quoted, “Thus we both should gain our prize: I to laugh, and you grow wise.”

  “Jonathan Swift’s ‘An Epistle to a Lady.’”

  She was correct, and he was flummoxed. He was ready to ask if she had opportunity to read Gulliver’s Travels when Sir William drew their attention to the room. Furniture was being pushed back, carpets were being rolled, and another Bennet sister was doing finger movements on the pianoforte readying herself to perform. Dancing was to be the entertainment for the evening.

  He groaned. Then he realized he could extend their conversation if he stood up with her. Darcy requested to be allowed the honor of her hand, but in vain.

  Miss Elizabeth quickly replied, “While I thank you for the compliment, I have no intentions of dancing this evening. My time will be better spent in conversation with my friends.”

  Sir William attempted to shake her purpose. He, too, failed. Miss Elizabeth bobbed a curtsey and removed herself from their company.

  At first, Darcy felt the fool. He had never before been refused a dance. Then, he had to exercise self-control to keep from smiling. Miss Elizabeth Bennet had, over the course of two interchanges, proved herself to be kind, intelligent, courageous, and stubborn. Not once had she attempted to deliberately catch his attention or seek him out. Not once had she batted her impressive eyelashes or pursed her lips as he had seen Miss Bingley do many times, apparently thinking it made her more attractive. No, Miss Elizabeth did nothing to draw his focus to her character or her form.

  As he watched her walk away, Miss Bingley approached. “I can guess the subject of your reverie.”

  “I should imagine not.” How dare she presume to know his thoughts!

  “You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner—in such society; and indeed, I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity and yet the noise; the nothingness and yet the self-importance of all these people! Pray, might I hear your strictures on them?”

  “Your conjecture is entirely wrong, I assure you.”

  The pleasure Darcy was feeling at his next comment was at Miss Bingley’s expense. He could foretell her reactions in advance like he
knew the ending to one of Georgiana’s novels. “I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”

  Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face and desired to be told which lady had inspired such reflections. Darcy replied with great intrepidity, “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

  “Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favorite? And pray, when am I to wish you joy?”

  He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to entertain herself in this manner. While she spoke at length about the lack of quality in the evening’s attendees, Darcy paid her little attention. As far as he was concerned, this sealed her future. For a certainty, she would never be welcomed at any of his houses, despite what discipline she received from her brother. Darcy looked away from her and stepped from her side. He would consider her no more.

  Instead, his mind truly was more agreeably engaged.

  By the time the Bingley’s party returned to Netherfield, Darcy had no reason to repine.

  Throughout the evening, he had analyzed Miss Elizabeth like an entomologist studied an arthropod. While she was certainly different than most females of his acquaintance, he convinced himself it was in relief from the incessant boredom that plagued him at social occasions that explained his focus upon her actions. He had absolutely no interest in pursuing her for any other reason. Why, he scoffed at the idea he had any romantic inclination towards her at all.

  Whatever his reasoning, the evening had passed far quicker than he had imagined when they had left Netherfield.

  He chuckled to himself. Their brief conversation had been delightful. Although he often read The Sporting Magazine, he never picked up a copy of the Gentlemen’s Magazine. Why would he? He had been raised from birth to be a gentleman. He had no need to follow fashions set by Lord Byron, a rake of the first order. He did not desire the approbation of his peers.