“I was not out,” she said by way of explanation. “I seldom went anywhere for pleasure, and where I went, I was never without my governess.” She could not conceal her wistfulness as she said, “A great many things have changed between then and now, however.”
“Where is your governess?”
“Oh, she is at Longbourn. My stepmother called her back to give lessons to my sister Sarah.”
“And yet you opted to stay here?”
Elizabeth smiled wistfully. “We had not the power of choosing. It pleased Lady Sarah that we should stay.”
He seemed to sense that there was more Elizabeth was not saying on the matter. He frowned and remarked, “How odd.”
The lady only shrugged her shoulders. “We all have our odd whims,” she said.
“Have we indeed? I flatter myself I do not quite fit that description.”
At this, Elizabeth laughed.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, frowning, “but I am in earnest.”
“I am sure you are,” she said.
After a short interval, he said, “I do not believe we are well enough acquainted for you to make any surmise on the subject, either for or against what I have said.”
“I do not need to know you to know that you must, on some subject or other, have an odd whim. It is nothing to be ashamed of. People’s abnormalities, their quirks, their preferences—these are what make them interesting. We cannot all be the same, and we amuse each other by being our own selves. It is the greatest gift we give one another, I believe.”
“The gift of being odd?”
“Of being oneself,” she said, smiling. “You see? I am odd sometimes. I laugh about things nobody else laughs at.”
His own laugh seemed to surprise him, and he shook his head. “That I cannot dispute.”
“My laughter is not mocking,” she went on. “It is pure enjoyment. I long for everybody to enjoy themselves and their friends so much.”
“I enjoy a great many things without laughing,” he said. “I enjoy what is meritorious in its own right. Honesty. Principle. Charity.”
“Those are meritorious, indeed,” she replied, “but are you sure you enjoy them? Appreciation, even admiration I shall grant you, but enjoyment? How can one enjoy something as firm and immovable as honesty? Or derive joy from the guidepost that is principle? These are not joyous things, sir, though they are certainly good.”
As he listened to her, his eyes locked on hers. How beautiful those eyes were, when he came to truly look at them. That he had expected little interest in the conversation with her, little intellect and less sense, and that all his expectations had now been totally upended, did not admit of a doubt. Though he had only come to ask her to dance out of a sense of charity toward his cousin’s friend, whose discomfort with that rascal Viscount was obvious, he began to feel that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was a woman whom he would not be sorry to dance with again.
“Perhaps,” he began, “perhaps my understanding of the word ‘enjoyment’ has been faulty.”
She looked at him quizzically before breaking into a wide smile. “Why, have you agreed with something I have said?”
He laughed again, shaking his head. “Do not act so surprised. I am not so thoroughly disagreeable.”
She could not think of any fair reply that could meet the level of kindness he was currently showing her, and therefore she did not immediately answer.
Perceiving her silence but not fully understanding its cause, Mr. Darcy said, “I hope you will not continue to hold against me the things I said when I met you first.”
Elizabeth was so surprised that she laughed. “Good heavens! What makes you think of that now?”
“My wish of availing myself of the opportunity to explain myself,” he replied, “for so far I have found no suitable occasion for doing so.”
“We have met repeatedly since then,” Elizabeth returned, “and not dancing!”
“Nonetheless,” he said—but no explanation for this point followed. Instead, he began by saying, “I have never thought ill of you. I have not known you well enough to form any opinion.”
“Is it merely your policy, then, to insult young ladies you do not know?” she asked.
“You must know that it is not,” he replied. “As I have told you before, your sister had just refused my friend’s proposal. What could I do except distract him with whatever better perspective there could be in the case? I could not claim you were not beautiful girls. I would not lie. What else could I say but what was before me?”
Flattered with his personal compliments, Elizabeth looked away so that she could smile unseen by him.
“Nevertheless, I sincerely apologize, Miss Bennet.” He looked around at her until he met her eye, then smiled in a conciliatory way. “Shall we not be friends?”
“I shall consider it,” Elizabeth said.
“You shall consider it?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, “for the power of choosing lies with the man, but of refusal, with the woman.”
They moved past each other in the dance, and for a moment, conversation was impossible. When they were near each other again, he said, “Your memory is impeccable.”
“It was scarcely a month ago!” she replied. “Besides, who would forget being humiliated in the presence of a close friend?”
This was saying rather more than the truth, both about the humiliation and the friendship. His words had stung, but Elizabeth had not thought highly enough of him to be terribly bothered. However, Mr. Darcy said with perfect politeness, “I am sorry, Miss Bennet.”
She ducked her head again, now perfectly unable to conceal her smile. To have a person once say such horrid things about her apologize, and even wish to dance with her, was quite a change.
Still thoughtful on the subject, Mr. Darcy’s next words were, “I was conscious, I suppose, of having done wrong by insulting you in the first place.”
Elizabeth tilted her head to the side and looked at him inquisitively, and a smile appeared on Mr. Darcy’s lips as he looked at her. “Your knowledge of having been wrong made you repeat the same wrong?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, “and all the more passionately. Does not a man, when he is wrong, work twice as hard to convince himself he is right? To know one is wrong, to admit being wrong—that is far more difficult than repeating a wrong. It is what a weak mind would do, and I am ashamed to say it is what I did.”
Elizabeth was so surprised as to be disarmed by his honesty. “Yet today, you own it all. What has changed?” she asked.
He opened his mouth as though to answer her before, abruptly to both partners who had not been paying half as much attention to the dance as to each other, the music stopped. The dancers applauded, and the couples around them dispersed. Neither Mr. Darcy nor Elizabeth wished to leave one another then, however. Their conversation—at least to Elizabeth—was too interesting. She was gratified when he led her to another part of the room, where he turned to her with what appeared to be a total change of subject.
“This has been a year I would like never to have repeated,” he said.
“Why?” Elizabeth asked—for who could resist inquiring after such a statement?
Mr. Darcy replied, “I am very sorry to say it began with the death of my father. He became ill in January, and died so suddenly that I was not able to return from Oxford in time to see him alive.”
“How awful!” Elizabeth cried. She, too, had had the pain of losing a parent—but at least she had been home to kiss her mother when the awful loss had taken place.
“His loss was not as painful for me,” Mr. Darcy replied, “as for my sister.” Elizabeth raised her eyebrows in question and Mr. Darcy clarified. “My sister, Georgiana. She was but eleven years old when he passed, and her mother died still sooner. Now she has nobody in the world but me—and who am I to raise a child up to womanhood?”
“I suppose she has a governess?” Elizabeth asked, thinking of her own dear Miss Watson.
“Yes,” he replied, “a woman introduced to us by a family friend. Mrs. Younge keeps Georgiana with her in London, and I try to see her as often as I can. I am her guardian, you see.” He sighed. “I do not wish to bore you with the minutia of my life. I am sure you think my complaints small and foolish, compared to true hardship.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Indeed, you mistake me. Please do not take my silence for a lack of interest, or lack of caring. I have lost a parent, as well. I know better than anyone—” She paused, sensing that Mr. Darcy was not finished speaking, and that he seemed almost brimming with things he wanted to say. “You may tell me anything you wish.”
In as quiet a tone as the noisy room would allow, he said, “You must think me odd. It is only that I have nobody else to confide in. I should not say I have even you to confide in; we are practically strangers. Sometimes, however, it is easier to tell a stranger.”
Elizabeth was riveted by these words, and her eyes, bright and intelligent, held his gaze for such a long time that for a moment, she thought he would not speak. But then, in a voice still softer, he said, “Managing our estate—I mean, my estate—it is much…different than I thought it would be. I am afraid that I am not doing it as well as my father.” He shook his head. “No, that is already decided. I know I am not doing it as well as him, but I fear I am doing poorly. I fear I am failing.”
“I am sure you are not!” Elizabeth cried, though she had no reason in the world to think so. “Everybody feels uncertain when they try something new.”
He smiled sadly and said, “Ah, but I have evidence of my failures. I see all my faults unfolding around me in the mistakes I make.”
“What do you mean?”
Again, he held her gaze a long time, and when he spoke, it was with gentleness that made her lean toward him to hear his words, though they were almost too soft to make out.
“I have failed to provide a clergyman for the parish,” he said. “My father had promised it to a family friend, but that gentleman has refused it, and I—like a fool—did not see it coming. I was caught totally off-guard and had very few resources designated for such a possibility. I fear the village will think me incompetent; I fear they will not trust my judgment.”
“But you can hardly be blamed for such a circumstance. Did your father foresee it?”
“He is far too amiable a man to think ill of anybody.”
“I do not think foreseeing such an event necessitates thinking ill of the gentleman. There is no moral fault in wanting to take a better living, though I am sorry it inconvenienced you. We all know what it is to wish for—nay, to require a better way of life.”
Mr. Darcy looked confused for a second, and Elizabeth began to amuse herself that perhaps he, of all people, had no reason to require a better way of life, or even to understand the plight of those less privileged. Then—recognizing what she meant—he clarified, “There was no better living, Miss Bennet. Only the hope of a very different style of living. He was meant to be a clergyman; he wished to study the law. However, based on what little I have heard of him lately, I now have reason to suspect he is doing neither. I have never thought him principled enough for the post my father intended him to fill, yet I always thought better of him than what he has now proven himself to be.”
Elizabeth had not much interest in what this man was doing—he sounded like a scoundrel—but it was clear that Mr. Darcy was quite affected by it. With all the sympathy of an innocent, she asked, “I imagine his rejecting the living caused you some trouble. Were you able to fill his post on a temporary basis?”
“Yes,” Mr. Darcy said, “indeed, I have found someone to accept the post, but at a fraction of its worth, as I compensated Mr. Wickham from what would have been his own salary.” He sighed. “In other words, he received five years of the income intended for him, free of charge and free of obligation. But at least now I can be rid of him once and for all. In a year, I will be able to supply the difference from my own income, and all will be well again. Moreover, I am sure you do not care to hear the details of this.” He tried to smile and added in a lighter tone, “What an inappropriate topic to share with an acquaintance one hardly knows!”
Elizabeth smiled. If anyone knew what it was to need somebody to talk to, somebody to listen, but to feel like there was nobody, it was her. “I do not mind,” she said. “I am sorry that you have had so many hardships.”
“I have not deluded myself into believing such things are hardships, Miss Bennet,” he said, “though you are kind not to laugh at them. I know you must think me too much advantaged in every respect to complain about anything.”
It was too true to argue with, in light of what she had thought only minutes before, and she blushed and looked away.
“I only meant to explain that, if I have been in an ill temper at times of late, it is not entirely without cause.”
She lifted her face again to meet his eye and said with graciousness that was only fractionally in jest, “Very well, sir. I will forgive your comments, inappropriate as they were. I will put them down to a bad temper that was out of character and will hopefully never return, as I am sure your days will be brighter now that these trials have passed.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling, and Elizabeth flattered herself that her sense of humor entertained him. She was rather used to being the sister less preferred by most gentlemen, having always dwelt in Jane’s shadow and being thought almost as pretty, almost as charming, but twice as intelligent—to most men, a decided flaw. Though Jane was always with Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy seemed only interested in knowing Elizabeth better. It was highly flattering. Indeed, Elizabeth grew more pleased with him every time they met. She had expected very little pleasure from the dance, besides escaping a most awkward interaction with her cousin. Instead, she had found much: intrigue, interest, laughter, surprise. Though she had many dancing partners that evening, she found it truly difficult to focus her mind away from the first. If somebody had told her that she would end her evening thinking about Mr. Darcy and wondering when she would see him again, she never would have believed it.
CHAPTER 13
__________
The morning after the ball, Elizabeth had the good fortune of finding her sister alone in the upstairs library. Having longed to restore the good footing of openness and understanding between them for some time, and moreover being eager to open a discussion in which Elizabeth herself might have an opportunity to share matters of her own heart, she approached Jane with eagerness. “Why,” Elizabeth said, “have we never seen Mr. Dixon? I must confess, for a time I believed that there was something more serious between you than there was.”
Elizabeth laughed to herself, but Jane stood up abruptly and moved away from her sister, stationing herself near an open window where she could look down at the street below.
“Jane?” Elizabeth said. “I was only joking. You know that I would never presume anything—”
“You were not wrong,” Jane replied. Her gaze remained fixed out the window, and Elizabeth began to feel the same fluttery, nervous feeling she had had the morning after Jane’s received Mr. Pembroke’s proposals.
“What do you mean?”
Jane sighed. “You will know before long, I suspect. Everybody will know.”
“Will know what? Jane, come now. We do not have secrets from each other.”
Elizabeth said this because she wished it to be true, more than because it was. Elizabeth had more of an open heart herself. Having never been in love, she had nothing to conceal from her sister except those occasional thoughts which she knew Jane would not appreciate hearing about—resentment, anger, or disapproval of others. Jane, who was inclined to approve of everybody, never liked hearing Elizabeth’s opinions on such matters as those, but on topics of friendships, accomplishments, wishes, and plans, there was nothing Elizabeth could keep from her sister—nothing she wished to conceal.
Jane, however, was more reserved. Elizabeth sometimes thought that her siste
r would not wish to hold back from her but did so out of embarrassment. She seemed sometimes to wish she could live her life completely unobserved. It was so foreign an idea to Elizabeth, who never could feel intimidated by any audience, that she could not understand her sister at all. She loved her, but she did not understand her mind. Therefore, Jane’s next words were particularly shocking to her sister—shocking and even hurtful, for Elizabeth had never suspected the truth.
“We were engaged,” Jane said simply, staring at a bustling road below. “For about a fortnight. But we are so no longer.”
Her sister’s voice was melancholy; there was an air of heavy disappointment in her posture, but Elizabeth could not find the emotional reserves to comfort her sister. She was almost overpowered by surprise. All she could say was, “What?”
“He asked me at the party at Mr. Gingham’s house, when we were staying in Gracechurch Street. He said he would ask our father, but he wanted my answer first.”
“Good heavens,” Elizabeth said. “And you accepted him?”
“I did,” Jane answered.
Elizabeth wanted to say, “But you hardly know him, Jane!” However, such an admonition seemed unnecessary now. Jane had said they were no longer engaged, which meant there was more to tell. Knowing her sister would speak when she was ready, Elizabeth forced her mouth closed, staring at her hands as she listened for Jane to say anything that would justify her behavior, both in accepting the man, and in concealing that she had done so.
“Our uncle thinks well of him, so I let myself believe—” Finally she looked at her sister, whose eyes were still wide open. “Do not be so surprised, Lizzy. What else would justify my actions toward him except an engagement?”
Elizabeth could not argue with that; indeed, she had at times been shocked by the lack of discretion Jane had shown. Now, all seemed to make sense—and yet, nothing made any sense at all. “What happened, then?” she asked.
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