Do You Love Me?
A Pride and Prejudice Variation
Laura Moretti
Edited by Cathleen Fairfax
Act One
Not One Word
Maybe it began when the fortune teller decided to read Elizabeth’s future.
Darcy was present, of course, among dozens of guests. He pretended to ignore the scene, but Elizabeth was by then accustomed to his silent presence and quite aware of his discreet attention – she knew he was listening.
The young seer, hired by Lady Saltridge for the entertainment of her friends, was smartly dressed and came from a respectable family of musicians. “The whole universe is but a melody,” she claimed, “and our future can be read in the Almighty’s notes.” Elizabeth did not believe a word of it, but when her turn came, she sat on the deep green armchair and amiably played along, so as not to disappoint their hostess.
The young woman took Elizabeth’s hands in hers. She closed her eyes and whispered: “I see blood on your dress.”
Elizabeth was surprised – she had expected the seer would begin with some safe generalities about her character. The other guests were ignoring the conversation; they had listened intently to the first readings, but their attention had begun to waver, and the gossip and pleasantries began again.
“Blood?” Elizabeth repeated politely.
“It is not yours. There is screaming... Not from you.”
“Well, that is a relief.”
“I see a beach, the sea – and guns – firing, and screaming, again – I do not know if it is the same day. You are wearing a light blue dress – the one stained – with the blood.”
“What a waste. Is it silk?”
The young woman opened her eyes and looked right at Elizabeth. She had a very intense stare.
“Pray, what is your name?” she asked.
“Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Do you think your life will always taste like this, Miss Bennet?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “I am not sure I comprehend your question.”
The seer smiled coldly. “London. Parties. Dinners. Luxurious drawing rooms. Endless conversations. Sophisticated, empty art critique. Friendship. Do you think your existence will always taste like this?”
It was an interesting question, and Elizabeth decided to give it some sincere thought.
“Alas, I fear it will,” she said, after a pause. “I am a paid companion, you see, and considering my situation, my future is determined by my circumstances.”
“You are wrong,” the woman declared. “All of this – these people, this luxury, this way of life – they will disappear, and soon.”
The woman’s voice was low, but an elderly couple conversing nearby interrupted their discussion and looked at the seer with surprise. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “It is a grim prediction.”
“Not that grim,” the woman explained, letting Elizabeth’s hands go. “It could be much worse. There could be so much more blood. The world will tilt but then it will right itself once more. Every future is changed by its past.”
“Indeed.” Elizabeth stood. “Thank you,” she said, with a kind smile. “Your conversation was very enlightening. I wish you good luck.”
Elizabeth meant it – it was not an easy life, she thought as she walked away, to live at the whim of those who were more fortunate than yourself, obligated to please and entertain constantly in order to survive.
She returned to her own seat – near Beatrice Moore and Amelia Bingley – they had some merry conversation and drank some tea. Elizabeth did not talk to Darcy, of course, and of course, he didn’t talk to her.
∞∞∞
Less than two years had passed since Fitzwilliam Darcy’s proposal of marriage had been harshly rejected by Elizabeth Bennet at Hunsford Parsonage. Elizabeth’s situation was very different now. She was in reduced circumstances, working as Miss Moore’s paid companion. Miss Moore was a friend of Mr. Bingley’s new wife, the beautiful Amelia, and Lady Saltridge, who was an acquaintance of both, had begun to organize Salons Littéraires in London… like the French, you know? There was a war, after all, and it was not going well. Were the English going to leave literary discourse to the enemy? No indeed!
So it was in that setting, one evening, that Darcy had seen Elizabeth again for the first time. She was sitting next to her charge and the two ladies were discussing books with one of the writers present.
Darcy stared at Elizabeth for a while. Then he recalled himself and discreetly asked Bingley about her. Why was Elizabeth not in Hertfordshire? Why was she here? Was she – Darcy slightly hesitated – was she married? Bingley, who had been happily reacquainted with Elizabeth for a month, answered Darcy’s inquiries. Elizabeth was not married, she was working as a companion for the Moore family – Beatrice Moore had very intellectual tastes – Elizabeth’s father was dead – there had been some money problems and a scandal surrounding one of the younger sisters – that was all Bingley knew, except for the fact that he quite liked Miss Elizabeth, found her as clever as ever, and was very happy that she was in their circles again.
Darcy did not speak to Elizabeth that night – not one word. It was not that he did not want to, or did not deign to, it was mostly due to embarrassment and circumstances. What do you say to a woman to whom you have proposed, claiming passionate love, after she has rejected you violently – saying that you were proud, haughty and highly disagreeable? Not much is possible, really.
So hours passed, that evening, while Darcy conversed with other people – at some point, Elizabeth must have spotted him, but she didn’t approach him. She must also have decided that avoidance was the best strategy.
∞∞∞
Or maybe it began when that writer – John Haynes – did a reading of his play.
Darcy and Elizabeth had met five times already. Or, to be more precise, they had been in the same room five times, not talking to each other, but each extremely aware of the other’s presence.
That night, Lady Saltridge called for everybody’s attention. She introduced Mr. Haynes as her protégé and explained that the guests would have the honor of hearing him read his latest creation. Haynes had first called his play Not One Word, before changing the title to Do You Love Me? and it was a romance, a strange one. In the course of four acts, no romantic words were ever uttered between the hero and the heroine. Not once, in all the play. But of course, seduction was happening in other ways – that was the author’s intent at least.
So – yes – maybe that evening was when it really began.
∞∞∞
It was late, that pleasant hour when the party is winding down – servants had replenished the fire, which was burning high. Half of the guests had left and the others had clustered in intimate little groups. One of these groups huddled near the fireplace was composed of Elizabeth and her charge, Miss Moore, Darcy, Mr. Bingley and his wife… and Mr. Haynes, the writer, who was much funnier and charming in person than his writing could ever convey.
“I am a little wary,” Elizabeth had been saying, “of writers who profess beautifully, in a sonnet, that their soul is drowning in despair, and that existence has no meaning. Despite their protestations that life has nothing to offer, are they not striving for recognition? For success and happiness?”
Miss Moore began an interesting speech about symbolism. She spoke well, her beautiful, serious face was animated, and the men in the group looked at her with admiration – all of them except Darcy, who was sitting on a beige stool, listening to all while watching the fire.
Amelia Bingley answered, and after a pause, Darcy decided it was safe to talk.
“Of course, success and happiness are not similar,” he began – but even if he was quoting Elizabeth’s words, he was not spe
aking to her, not at all. He was talking to Amelia. He didn’t even look at Elizabeth. “Artists who are looking for fame do not want to be happy. They want to win the game,” he added, after some thought. “To earn more money, to be better renowned than other artists in their field. It is a matter of power, I believe.”
“Very true,” Mr. Haynes said. “Ladies have a tendency to think about happiness first while we gentlemen, as Mr. Darcy says, mostly seek dominance.”
“Then ladies are definitely wiser,” Elizabeth answered with a twinkle in her eyes, “and by choosing the right game to play, I feel like we’ve already won.”
Darcy smiled – he was looking at the carpet, but there it was, a real smile – full of amusement and admiration – Elizabeth saw it and was not displeased.
∞∞∞
Their little salons soon became a pleasant routine. Every Tuesday and Thursday evening, the Bingleys, Mr. Darcy, Miss Moore and Elizabeth enjoyed Lady Saltridge’s carefully prepared entertainment – they listened to the music, admired the paintings, uttered clever opinions about literature, and commented on their discoveries of the night. When the clock struck eleven, they gathered around the fireplace, with tea for the ladies and brandy for the gentlemen.
Darcy always sat a little apart, near the fire. If he spoke, it was mostly a reaction to something Elizabeth had said – and she answered in the same general way. But he never addressed her directly. And he never met her gaze.
Those indirect debates could last for quite a while, with the other participants completely unaware. Elizabeth found, at her own surprise, that she enjoyed that oblique game – wasn’t it clever of Darcy, she thought, to have discovered a way to slowly dispel the awkwardness between them? In fact, they all enjoyed each other’s company so much that Miss Moore and Mrs. Bingley tried to organize some other outings for their “Intellectual Club”. A visit to the British Museum was planned, then there was a dinner at Darcy’s house, hosted by Georgiana, Darcy’s sister, who although recently out, was too shy to attend Lady Saltridge’s soirées.
To that dinner, Miss Moore was to go, and of course, Elizabeth was invited too. Our heroine was not anticipating the event with pleasure. Conversing with Mr. Darcy in someone else’s drawing room was one thing; being a guest in his home, where, as the host, Mr. Darcy would be forced to speak directly to her, was quite another. Elizabeth could only foresee unease and embarrassment.
But when the evening finally came to pass, Darcy was absent, having been delayed in Pemberley by a barn fire and some problems with tenants. It had been a difficult year, with dreadful weather, and everywhere crops and harvests had suffered. Elizabeth was, at first secretly relieved. But then the strangest thing happened: during the course of the meal, she began to realize that she missed Darcy’s presence – or maybe the elevation he brought. He was the only one able hold his part in a debate, she thought, and he brought the most challenging views to a conversation.
The following Thursday Darcy was in Lady Saltridge’s drawing room again.
“I apologize to the present company for having missed my own dinner,” he said when they were all gathered around the fire. “I beg you all to forgive my misstep.”
“We are generous, and forgive we will,” said Amelia with grace. “And dear Georgiana was the consummate hostess – she is always so very charming.”
“I feel, though,” Miss Moore added with a smile, “that our intellectual circle is much less intellectual when you are not part of it, Mr. Darcy. We talked of balls and gowns for the majority of the meal.”
“And food,” added Elizabeth merrily. “Food and wine were both principal topics.”
“As they should be!” cried Bingley.
“Elizabeth tried to get our opinions on the last exhibition,” Miss Moore added, “but as you were not here to contradict her, Mr. Darcy, she had to drop the subject and join us in our intense discussion of ragout.”
Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth were both silent after that – so Miss Moore had noticed their little game, Elizabeth thought. Of course she knew her friend meant nothing by mentioning the fact – in truth, there was nothing to “mean” – nothing to hide – it had no significance – Mr. Darcy was wordlessly watching the fire.
He followed the conversation, though, and he was definitely listening when Mr. Haynes, the writer, having finished his third brandy, leaned toward Elizabeth and said, in a stage whisper,
“Captain Tilney is staring at you again, Miss Bennet. You wouldn’t believe me earlier when I told you he was besotted, but it seems you underestimate the power of your charms.”
“I am sure you are mistaken, Mr. Haynes,” Elizabeth answered. “And Captain Tilney is not someone I would wish to know better anyway.”
“Oh, Elizabeth is so delightful, of course, she is turning heads everywhere,” Miss Moore added with feeling – she loved her friend and wanted to paint her in the best light, but she only succeeded to embarrass Elizabeth more.
Indeed, the comment was untrue. Elizabeth had her share of male attention, but as soon as the men learned of her status and lack of dowry, those same attentions turned elsewhere. And Elizabeth also knew that Miss Moore’s flattering comment was bound to attract Amelia Bingley’s disapproval – thus she was not surprised when that lady commented,
“You should be more careful, Miss Bennet. For someone in your situation, flirting can easily be misconstrued.”
“Very true, Mrs. Bingley,” Elizabeth answered, hoping the topic would be put to an end. But it was not. The following Tuesday, romance became the main topic of conversation again.
Was love, should love be an “ever-fixed mark?” The opinions diverged. Bingley and his wife sang the praises of constancy in marriage, of course. But Miss Moore redirected the debate: her wish was to discuss devotion to a beloved when happiness was impossible. Was such unrequited love admirable?
“Constancy, when love is hopeless, is supposed to be very romantic,” she stated, “but without the expectation of a happy result – is such a love wise? Imagine that the one you love will never return your affection – what do you think, Mr. Darcy?” Miss Moore asked, turning to him, for no other reason than that he was sitting beside her and, at some point during her speech, had put his glass down on the table with a bit more energy than the task deserved.
The gentleman stood up, rather brutally.
“I would not know,” he said coldly, before walking away to the other side of the room – certainly to ask a servant for more tea. When he came back, Mr. Helmut May, an older, very nice, very clever painter from Prussia, who had recently joined the group, turned to Elizabeth,
“What about you, Miss Bennet? You always seem happy, and make fun of everyone – but I cannot but wonder, has your heart ever been touched?”
Elizabeth colored. “It has not, sir.” She felt flustered, for some mysterious reason, and stammered, “but I certainly hope – I mean, the opportunity may not present itself, but I am a loyal enough friend, that…” She paused, to regain her countenance. “I don’t express myself well,” she said with a smile. “I hope – that when I am in love, if I ever am, I will be constant and true.”
“What would it need to melt that iced heart of yours?” said Mr. Haynes, who was, again, at his third glass of wine. He put his hand on his chest, a little theatrically. “Tell me, oh lovely Miss Bennet! I would do anything.”
Everybody laughed – except Darcy – Elizabeth was vexed – and she was not the only one whose mood was souring. “Sometimes ladies must hide their emotions,” Elizabeth answered, trying to subtly change the topic. “The rules of society have us keep our distance even when we would prefer to be more open.”
“Really?” Darcy asked, grimly. “We want to think that reserve is the sign of a good education, but in truth…” He paused, and there was a strange harshness in his voice. “Maybe some people are just incapable of love or passion.”
Was that meant for her, Elizabeth wondered. Was Darcy alluding to her cold refusal to his ardent and
insulting proposal? Amelia said something about womanly discretion, which gave Elizabeth the opportunity to reply,
“You are very right, Mrs. Bingley. Women, especially, have to be prudent.”
“Women do have to be prudent,” Darcy replied instantly, “but still, they play seduction games whenever they can.” (He was talking to Amelia, of course. He was not even looking at Elizabeth.) ”Then,” he added coldly, “they pretend to be surprised when a man shows emotion and is caught in their trap – while all their tactics have led to this end.”
Oh, there was anger there. And yes, Darcy was definitely alluding to their situation, or what he thought their situation had been – a flash of irritation passed in Elizabeth’s eyes, and she looked away – but she couldn’t withdraw discreetly from the discussion, because like a panther, Amelia Bingley chose that opportunity to strike,
Do You Love Me Page 1
