by Riana Everly
So it was true! Elizabeth found the room beginning to swirl around her, and she had to fight to regain her balance. She felt the pulse in her neck throbbing as her head grew light. The heat from the fireplace burned into her back whilst the cool air from the window by which they stood assailed her with its icy touch. It is just that I shall miss working with him, she repeated to herself. He is becoming a friend, and once he marries, our acquaintance and our lessons must end. That is all. That is all. She was concentrating so intensely on maintaining her balance and breathing that she was scarcely aware that Mr. Darcy was still speaking.
“Are you certain that you are well, Elizabeth? You really have become quite pale. Come, you must sit, and I shall call for some wine!” He summoned a serving girl and requested a glass to be brought over immediately. “Here, please drink. You are not well at all!”
“Forgive me for my weakness, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth managed at last. “I am indeed well. I was merely caught unaware…” She turned aside to stop tears from forming in her eyes. “I must wish you…” she stopped again to breathe back the tears.
“Caught unaware? Everybody knows that Aunt Catherine hopes that Anne and I will marry. But she is the only one who will not acknowledge that neither one of us wishes it. She is destined to be most sorely disappointed. She will not listen to us, but in time, events will necessarily occur to convince her of the futility of her schemes.”
At once, the looming darkness lifted and blood flowed back through Elizabeth’s veins. She fell back into the chair as she stared up at her concerned companion. “You are not marrying Anne?”
“No, no indeed! It would be fair to neither of us, since we do not love each other that way. Our union would merely unite two estates, and not two hearts. As much as I have difficulties in deciphering the emotions of others, I feel my own quite acutely, and could not sanction a marriage where there is no affection. I know these are almost expected amongst my class, but such would be like deceit for me, and I abhor deceptions.”
“So you have told me.” She struggled up from her chair and blinked away the last of the tears. She would have to examine the wave of emotions later on, but right now she must present a pleasant and calm social face. Indeed, she must adopt a facade as impenetrable as the one Mr. Darcy so often employed, albeit that hers was one of genial interest and companionship rather than stony aloofness. “Your aunt is watching us, and more guests have arrived. I hope we shall talk later, at which time you may apprise me of your progress this evening.”
Darcy took her hand and bowed deeply over it before bestowing a kiss on her gloved fingertips.
“Indeed, I look forward to it. Madam.” As they had been speaking the room had become quite filled with the invited guests, and Lady Catherine was now glaring at her nephew, an expression which even he had little difficulty deciphering. “I see that I have duties to fulfil. Pray excuse me.” He executed a perfect bow and walked off to discharge his social obligations whilst Elizabeth looked on as her turbulent emotions began to settle.
“Are you well, Miss Bennet… Elizabeth?” Colonel Fitzwilliam walked up to her and gave a perfunctory bow before adding one of his accustomed good-humoured grins. “You look somewhat unsteady. Is the room too warm, perhaps? My aunt insisted on a roaring blaze, despite the temperate weather. A good fire will call attention to the fireplace, for the chimney-piece alone cost—”
“Over eight hundred pounds!” Elizabeth finished for him with a laugh. “Oh, how many times have I heard my cousin wax poetic upon said fireplace? He must surely have regaled the whole village of Meryton with intimate descriptions of every room in this grand house!” Relieved to have something else on which to think, she curtsied to the colonel and greeted him properly. “Colonel Fitzwilliam—Richard—how do you do this evening, sir? I hope your day was spent more profitably than leading your poor cousin through one ordeal after another.”
“Oh, Anne enjoys your lessons very much,” he joked, “and they are no ordeal to her at all. Poor Darcy, on the other hand…”
“You always lighten my mood, Richard! Yes, I am well. I was merely overcome by a moment of disorientation. A sip of wine has revived me quite well.” She gestured to the room, which was beginning to fill up with guests. “Your aunt has commanded a good attendance this evening. Do you know everybody?”
“Indeed, we have been paraded before them in years past. Come, let me introduce you to some very pleasant people!” He offered his arm and led her across the room.
The evening passed much as expected. Lady Catherine reigned supreme over the assembly, whether enthroned in her chair at the centre of the large drawing room, where she commanded her subjects to bow to her will, or whether strutting around the periphery of the space, intruding upon conversations and interjecting her opinions into matters, whether her thoughts were wanted or not. If I had not known better, Elizabeth mused, and not for the first time, I would think Mr. Darcy’s lack of social aptitude something learned and not innate! Catherine de Bourgh was certainly no model of the social graces, no matter her noble lineage.
“No, no, Mrs. Rothmere,” the grand dame pronounced to one unfortunate lady, “you must tell your cook to use the gizzards in the broth. It would not do for her to be discarding useful food. And when you have your biscuits with tea, be certain that you avoid butter until after you have finished the fruit, for that will guard against stomach upset.”
“Lady Grover, I do hope you have advised your daughter not to wear that shade of mauve again. It does not become her, with her colouring. Of course, not everybody can be like my Anne, who can wear every colour with equal grace. No, no, you must tell her maid that she should not wear that shade again. Oh, Darcy, there you are, Nephew. I was just telling Lady Grover how my Anne looks equally radiant in every shade of clothing. Do you not find it so, Darcy?”
“Sir James, have you implemented the system of categorising your poultry yet? Your farmers must have noticed an improvement in their numbers, for my way has yet to fail anybody. Of course, it only works with fowl. To keep account of your flocks, you must use the other method I taught you.”
And so the great lady paraded around the room, dispensing advice where it was not needed and her thoughts where they were not wanted. Elizabeth succeeded in stifling her amusement at the display only by recalling how her friend Charlotte was subject to these same admonishments and instructions on a daily basis, with no recourse but to obey with a cheerful and gracious smile. What might be amusing for an evening could be nothing but grating when received so regularly.
Eventually Elizabeth’s peregrinations from one conversation to another landed her by the tea table. She had to admit that she had rather liked many of the people she had met that evening, and wished only for more congenial circumstances in which to come to know them better. Mrs. St. Ives, the wife of another major landowner in the area, was particularly pleasant. A young woman, only some five or six years Lizzy’s senior, she was handsome and intelligent, with an excellent understanding and a lively wit. Lizzy could well imagine her becoming a good friend, were the circumstances to be right. Mr. St. Ives was somewhat older—the current Mrs. St. Ives was his second wife, Lizzy believed—with a pleasant if unremarkable face, and a soft manner that concealed a keen mind and a ferocious interest in music, as she discovered upon making mention of the pianoforte in the other drawing room.
As she stood contemplating her new acquaintances, Elizabeth sensed a presence at her side and looked up to see Mr. Darcy approaching. “I would like some tea,” he explained. “I have been making a great effort to converse, and I find my throat is rather dry.” He looked around and, assuring himself that he was not being overheard, confessed, “Remembering all your advice is more exhausting than I would have imagined. I find it challenging to keep abreast of the rapidly changing expressions on people’s faces as they talk, at the same time as making a note of the tone of voice and the actual words they utter. I do not know how people manage with such ease, pleasure even!”
He accepted the tea that Elizabeth had prepared for him as he spoke and took a sip as she offered some more advice.
“Think on this, Mr. Darcy. Ask questions of your companions in an area which you believe to be of great interest to them. Ask them of themselves, or their families. And as they speak, think of more questions to ask. Most people love nothing so much as to talk of themselves, and if you prove to show an interest and are willing to listen, they will pronounce you the world’s best conversationalist, even if you say only ten words the whole evening. It will also save your voice, should you find it strained.”
He gave her a sweet and grateful smile. “I shall take this advice to heart, Miss Elizabeth, and shall put your theory to the test. I believe my aunt approaches with the duchess. Madam.” He bowed politely and made his departure, leaving Elizabeth to finish her own cup of tea in blessed, if momentary, solitude, before joining a small group gathered around the whist table.
Chapter Seven
Surviving the Onslaught
As the evening progressed, Elizabeth was kept busy talking with one group of new acquaintances or another, but she was diligent in keeping track of Mr. Darcy’s movements and demeanour. She had been pleased to note his willingness to put his lessons to the test, despite his discomfort at the thought, and at first, after their first short conversation, his whole manner and bearing had been much easier than ever she had seen him in company. She had noticed him sitting quite comfortably in an armchair, listening to the Duchess hold forth on her chosen topics, and later on, he had seemed genuinely interested in the conversation he was having with Mr. St. Ives. He had stood stoically by his aunt as she dragged him from group to group, and had even smiled at his cousin Anne as she approached at one point to join the small assembly of which he was a part at that particular moment.
However, as the evening drew on and the noise grew greater as the conversations throughout the room swelled, she noticed Darcy begin to withdraw from conversations and retreat more and more behind his accustomed stony facade. His whole body seemed to change. His face became less mobile and expressive and his fascinating moss-green eyes seemed to grow dull as they stilled behind stiffened lids and stony cheeks. His posture also altered; no longer were his motions smooth and without tension. Now he stood stiff and tall, perfectly correct and elegant, but also distant and unwelcoming. If he had turned his back on the room, he could not have projected a less approachable persona to those in attendance. He did not shuffle his feet, nor fidget with his fingers, nor move his head to the other members of the party, but he stood stiff and remote, so disconnected with the fuss and ado that surrounded him that he may have been one of the statuary that lined the walls of the salon.
The metamorphosis from the friendly man at the evening’s start to this living statue had been gradual, but Elizabeth was alert to Darcy’s moods and she had noticed the slow change with concern. He had been at his most uncomfortable—exhibiting the same cold and distant hauteur that had so displeased the society at Meryton—for about a quarter hour before she was able to excuse herself from her companions to see if she might help him. He seemed hardly to notice her approach although the slight flicker in his eyes let her know that she was not taking him unawares. Slowly she walked up to him and murmured, so as not to be overheard, “Mr. Darcy, I fear the events of the evening have grown too much for you. The noise is high, and I believe I heard your aunt make mention of removing the carpets so there may be dancing. It is also warm in here, too warm for the night, and the lights reflecting off the crystals are bright on my welcoming eyes. For you, this must feel like a form of torture.”
At these understanding words, the frozen facade momentarily melted away, revealing a very vulnerable and unhappy face, before congealing once more across those handsome features.
“Indeed, Miss Bennet, I feel myself the target of a siege, my senses the victims. The light and heat are troubling, but you are correct that the noise is my main enemy right now. I am unable to concentrate on the lessons we conducted, and I feel my only recourse is to barricade myself away. I fear this is how I presented myself in Hertfordshire last autumn. Now that I am more aware of my response, I suspect I was most rude.”
“Indeed you were.” Her sympathetic smile softened her chastising words, although she knew he would likely miss her kind expression. She paused to regard the activity that swirled around the massive room and to listen to the chaos of the many conversations that echoed from wall to ceiling and back again. No wonder the poor man was distracted. “I believe, Mr. Darcy, that it is growing warm in here. I should be grateful for a few moments on the balcony which, if I am correct, lies beyond those glass doors.” She gestured to the bank of windows and heavy maroon curtains. “Dare I ask you to accompany me?”
His eyes spoke of his intense gratitude at the opportunity to escape the chaos of the drawing-room, even for a short time. But then, just as quickly, he began to shake his head. “It is not appropriate for us to be alone on the balcony. There are rules of propriety that cannot be ignored.”
Ah yes, she realised. He would, of course, be most concerned about the unwritten rules of social engagement long before cares of her reputation or his own comfort and peace of mind. Her cousin Samuel, too, was driven by the rules; they created a framework on which he could base the rest of his experiences, and they governed his behaviour in a world in which so much of what he observed made little sense. Just as he could not imagine conversing with tradesmen—which could contravene the rules of his class—he could not consider breaking the bounds of propriety. Even though Mr. Darcy was much more flexible in his thoughts and behaviour than Sammy, Elizabeth was certain that he too would by instinct find and adhere to whatever rules and strictures might exist to define any given situation.
She suddenly found herself recalling her interactions with poor Mr. Wickham and that officer’s tale of woe about his poor treatment by Mr. Darcy. At the time, she had fully accepted Mr. Wickham’s tale and Mr. Darcy’s culpability, but as she had come to know the latter, the matter seemed less and less clear. Mr. Darcy’s existence was likely driven by the rules he deemed were set by society; one of those rules was to be forthcoming and scrupulous about every encounter. As he had mentioned on so many occasions, deception was anathema to him. With this in mind, whatever had occurred between him and Mr. Wickham must not have been crystalline in nature, and certainly not as clear as Mr. Wickham had intimated. Elizabeth was now quite convinced that Mr. Darcy could no more deliberately countermand his father’s wishes than she could sprout wings and fly. It was completely contrary to his nature. She must ask him about that at some point. It was most perplexing and troubling. But now, looking up at his desperate eyes, craving relief from the chaos of the room, yet resolute in not yielding to his desires in the face of a raft on unspoken rules, she could feel nothing but sympathy for the man.
He was, she was certain, bound by a strict moral code, and the rule of Acceptable Behaviour Between Unmarried Men and Women declared that the two parties should never be alone together without a suitable chaperon. Nevertheless, Elizabeth could see that unless he had some respite from the party, he would withdraw completely behind his protective battlements, not to emerge again for hours, possibly days. “Nonsense, sir!” she reprimanded him. “This is no time to dicker with fribbles and fluff. I consider myself throwing a drowning man a rope. I know you will understand the metaphor. Now, for you own sake, grab the rope and save yourself. I shall inform your cousin of our whereabouts, so she may serve as a suitable chaperone should she feel it necessary.”
The stern serious look on her sweet face, coupled with her curt and unexpected words, was so incongruous that Darcy looked as if he were about to laugh. Instead, he nodded his head, quickly swept aside a portion of the heavy draperies and ducked through the resultant gap. A very short time later, having informed Anne of her mission, Elizabeth followed in his wake.
Within moments they were outside on the large balcony, breathing in cool fresh air
. The door closed, shutting behind it the hubbub and cacophony of the soirée, leaving the two solitary figures in blessed quiet. Darcy did nothing for a few minutes but breathe deeply of the crisp evening breezes, eyes closed against the flickering light, hands on the balustrade as if supporting every ounce of his weight. Elizabeth stood to the side, still and quiet, letting him absorb the calm of the night, watching as his body relaxed and his breathing eased, shoulders losing their stiffness and his jaw its tightness. For five full minutes they stood there in silence, not talking, neither turning to regard each other, but partaking of the blessed silence and quiet dim light of the moon-filled sky.
Eventually the tall gentleman breathed deeply once and stood straight, reaching to his full height, before turning his eyes to Elizabeth, who had remained so calmly by his side. In the darkness of the spring night, his features were mostly lost in shadow, with only his profile picked out by the distant moon, his hair gently gilded in that faint silver light.
“Thank you, Elizabeth. I never would have thought to remove myself from the room, no matter how desperately I might have wished to do so. I had thought my duty to remain, my obligation to my host, superseded my need to escape the assault. The noise, the echo of each and every voice, from every surface… the bright lights piercing my eyes, boring me to the quick…. The odour of all those bodies, so close, threatening to overrun me and crush me… how could you know how gravely I was suffering? For I have asked my friends and am told once and again how most people do not feel the attack on every sense as I do. And yet you knew, somehow, and yes, you threw me that rope and I grabbed it like a drowning man, for drowning I was. I comprehend your simile, madam, and find it most apt.” His voice was so quiet, she scarcely could hear it in the calm silence of the night.
