by Riana Everly
Matching his tone, barely breathing, she replied. “I did not know, Mr. Darcy. I merely surmised. I know my cousin Samuel, and I observed you, and saw you in pain. And since I had it within my means to offer aid, I did so. Are you recovered, sir?” Tentatively she reached out for his arm, meaning only to reassure him of her support and presence with the lightest and briefest of touches, but no sooner did her gloved hand alight on his coat sleeve, his free hand reached over and clasped hers, the drowning man still clinging to the rope, even after being pulled safely to shore. “We need not go back inside,” she whispered.
“We will be missed.”
“Then let them miss us.”
“You will be tarnished. Your reputation—”
“Means nothing to the people here tonight. Only my friend Charlotte and Mr. Collins will have any concerns about me. No one else will even recall my presence, let alone my name. Charlotte knows me too well to worry, and Mr. Collins is undoubtedly too busy fawning over your aunt to give a thought to my whereabouts. If I have helped you abide the evening, I have nothing to regret.” She gathered her wrap about her shoulders and hugged it tight against the cool night air.
“You are cold. I should have noticed. I was too busy thinking of myself.”
“You were recovering. How do you tolerate the noise and activity for as long as you do? You seemed comfortable at the beginning of the evening.”
“The sensation of being overwhelmed by the noise and lights and other sensations does not occur immediately. Rather, it grows imperceptibly, starting from nothing, changing into a minor and unimportant irritation, then gradually becoming more and more present until it is all I can feel. I am so accustomed to this descent that I enter every social situation with such a feeling of dread that I immediately barricade myself. Tonight, I had hoped to put to practise those skills we have been discussing, and indeed, I was easier than I have been in a very long time. But even so, the sensation of being crushed by the activity came upon me at last. I am a lost cause, it seems. I am sorry, Elizabeth.”
“Nay, do not be sorry! If you began the evening at ease, you have made great progress. And I believe I observed you enjoying some conversations. You seemed quite comfortable with Mr. St. Ives, and genuinely interested in his discussion. Do you share similar interests? Bridges, perhaps?” She joked.
Darcy laughed and shook his head. “I did not ask him about bridges, for I know my interest there is unusual. Rather, we discussed music. He is most knowledgeable and professes to play the violin rather well. I, too, have a deep interest in music, for it seems to express the thoughts and feelings that I understand so imperfectly at times. He has come upon some new compositions by a young Italian violinist named Nicolo Paganini. He is still unknown—St. Ives only heard of him from a musical friend who travels for his business—but his works are, apparently, quite fine, and fiendishly difficult. St. Ives and I may attempt them at some point during my stay here. Perhaps you would join us…. You and Richard, and Anne if she will come.”
“You play music?” This was the first Elizabeth had heard of any musical inclination on the part of her companion.
“My mother was a great lover of music. My sister plays very nicely, and I was forced to learn the pianoforte as a child. In truth, I was not forced, for I loved it, even if I did not practise as much as I should.” He looked solemnly at Elizabeth. “In that, we are equals.” Then his gaze softened and he repeated his question. “Will you join us?”
She smiled, recalling her conversation with the man’s wife. “I should be happy to, sir. I enjoyed meeting Mrs. St. Ives and should be delighted to continue that acquaintance. Tell me more, please, about the music you love the best.”
At this, Darcy grew animated, and cast off the last of the weight of the evening’s tortures. He expounded upon his thoughts concerning Mozart’s symphonies and operas, about Beethoven’s piano sonatas, and about new musical styles and compositions coming from parts of the continent. Not even Napoleon could stop the dissemination of music, and Beethoven, the great symphonist himself, had recalled the dedication of his third symphony when the tyrant proclaimed himself emperor. Elizabeth, a music lover as well, found herself enjoying the conversation, and her present company very much.
As much as her musings of late had revolved around Mr. Darcy, they had almost all concerned his difficulties and how these had caused him to be so misunderstood; she had given little thought as to whether she liked the man. Once she had divested herself of her initial prejudices after his behaviour at the Meryton assembly, once she had come to understand his behaviour stemmed from severe discomfort and not innate arrogance, she had ceased disliking him. Other stimuli to her dislike, such as Mr. Wickham’s tales, she too had begun to think of in a new light, and she did not object at all to the hours she had spent in his company as they examined and analysed facial expressions, listened for vocal inflections of meaning, or play-acted imaginary conversations.
She had even, she realised, begun to look forward to their daily meetings. It was not a hardship when Richard and Anne were unable to join them. On those days they might talk as much as they worked, and she found that she really enjoyed those moments. Her feelings towards the man had progressed from loathing to comprehension and acceptance, and even sympathy. But now, there was something else, something even warmer: there was the beginning of affection.
She really liked Mr. Darcy! How had that come about? She could hardly imagine it, but she had come to think of him quite warmly, and counted him as a cherished friend. Surprised at this realisation, she looked up at him, and her golden eyes caught his moss-green ones and neither looked away.
She had, she discovered, found something she had not been expecting when she made the journey from Hertfordshire to Kent to visit Charlotte. She had envisaged an awkward, difficult visit with her dear friend and her husband, whom Elizabeth had rejected scant hours before Charlotte had accepted him. She had dreaded many a tedious hour sitting listening to Mr. Collins as he sermonised painfully on passages of scripture he only weakly understood, or as he fawned and scraped over Lady Catherine’s every condescension. She had imagined herself sitting in pained silence over useless embroidery, trying to keep civil company with Charlotte’s sweet but childish sister Maria, or forcing pleasant conversation where she wished to scream at Charlotte for a decision she could ill comprehend whilst her friend likely wished to scream that Elizabeth truly did not know her at all for thinking her choice to marry Mr. Collins so dreadfully foolish.
She had not once imagined finding a purpose in Kent, finding companionship amongst the younger residents at Rosings, finding friends. But it was true. Richard, Anne, and even Mr. Darcy himself had worked their way into her affections. Richard was the joker, the one always ready with an easy laugh, the perfect word, a conspiratorial smile. His manner was all that was pleasant and he was the most congenial of the cousins. Anne, quieter and more serious, due perhaps to her weak constitution, was nonetheless a sincere and honest companion, kind and patient, ready to listen without passing judgement, well-read and remarkably well-informed considering her near-imprisonment in her mother’s home.
And Mr. Darcy… why could she not think of his by his given name? There was something so formal and correct about his every gesture, from the perfect pleats in his cravat to his carefully cultivated and practiced bows, that forbade such familiarity. And yet, of the three cousins, he was the one she realised she was most drawn to. His formal mien was his method of functioning in the world; perfect manners and a strict code of conduct served as the framework that let him interact with others. But beneath that sober and forbidding exterior lay a sweet and kind man, with a quick mind and a dry sense of humour, never mind that he so seldom let it be observed. He felt things deeply, but hid behind his assumed facade of hauteur and pride, protecting himself not only from the physical sensations that he felt so keenly, but from the emotional pain that came from floundering in a world he poorly understood, and that understood him not at all. H
e, of the three, was the one Elizabeth now knew, with whom she most wished to continue her acquaintance.
She had been staring at him while these thoughts flooded her mind, and he had been looking directly back, not flinching, neither diverting his gaze. He cleared his voice, as if he, too, had been contemplating something, and now wished to speak.
“Elizabeth, sweet Elizabeth…”
But he got no further, for at that moment his cousin Richard burst through the balcony doors, proclaiming, “Will, where in blazes have you been hiding? Our aunt has been breathing fire wondering what had become of you!”
Chapter Eight
An Unpleasant Walk
Sleep did not come easily to Elizabeth that night. As much as she strove to clear her mind and get some rest, she could not help but replay and think upon the events of the evening.
After Richard had interrupted them on the balcony, he and Mr. Darcy had quickly returned to the drawing room. Darcy had assured her that he was much recovered and felt capable of surviving another hour or two of the chaos within. “Should I begin to be overwhelmed again,” he had promised, “I will excuse myself for some air.” A few minutes later, Lizzy herself had slipped back into the crowded room. As she had opined, no one had missed her, and if they had, had not considered her important enough to worry about.
“There you are, Cousin Elizabeth,” Mr. Collins had uttered at one point, some quarter hour after she had returned to the room. “Have you complimented Lady Catherine on her gathering yet? Surely, you must have some words to offer her to adequately convey your deepest appreciation at being granted the most felicitous opportunity to socialise with members of a society ordinarily so far above your own. Come, Her Ladyship is just there, let us go together…”
She had had no further chance to talk with either Mr. Darcy or his cousins, and when the Collins party had left soon thereafter, upon Lady Catherine informing them that the carriage was ready, she was able only to bow her head to Mr. Darcy, who was trapped in a conversation with the duchess on the other side of the large room.
In all, the evening had been a great success. From what Elizabeth observed, Mr. Darcy had found himself able to engage in conversations with strangers, had begun a new friendship with the meek but interesting Mr. St. Ives, and had seemed fairly well at ease in the crowd. When he had begun to feel the sights, sounds and other sensations of the gathering becoming too powerful to withstand without withdrawing behind his protective wall, she had shown him the simple solution of withdrawing from the assault. He had revived on the balcony and, once removed from the hubbub of the society in the drawing room, he had regained his balance and was able to rejoin the group inside with some degree of equanimity.
As she lay in bed, hoping to sleep, her mind returned again and again to her conversation with Mr. Darcy on that cool, quiet balcony. Although, in their lessons in the folly, they had often strayed to topics removed from their exercises, never before had they engaged in a free and extemporaneous discussion, on a topic of interest to both, but that had nothing to do with Mr. Darcy’s social difficulties. Without the self-imposed restrictions of feeling the need to return to their studies, Elizabeth had found she enjoyed their discussion on music more than she would have imagined. In that serene, private space, conversing on a topic that inspired him, no one would have thought Mr. Darcy’s social skills lacking. It was as he had once said: when completely comfortable and at ease with people whom he knew well and liked, he was as friendly and pleasant as any man, and certainly more intelligent and insightful than most. He had some fascinating thoughts about the music they had discussed, and he was much more knowledgeable than any man she had ever met about the art. She had truly enjoyed every minute she had spent with him last night.
And, just before Richard burst through those doors to find him, Mr. Darcy had been about to say something to her. Had he been about to thank her for her advice? For her endless hours of practise and instruction? Was he hoping to extend, once more, the invitation for her to accompany him to the St. Ives’s residence to hear the music of that young Italian violinist Paganini? Why, oh why, could Richard not have waited another two minutes? At long last, with these questions and thoughts swirling through her mind, she finally succumbed to the arms of Morpheus.
It was mid-morning by the time Elizabeth reached the folly. Uncertain as to whether Mr. Darcy would expect her to resume their sessions the day after the gathering, Elizabeth nevertheless took pains to arrive as previously planned. He had said nothing about their arrangement the previous evening, but he really had neither the time nor the opportunity to confer with her about the status of their accustomed meetings. Consequently, it was with some disappointment, but not surprise, that Elizabeth found herself alone at the folly when she arrived. The morning was warm and she was tired after her fitful sleep, and thus instead of walking further down the laneways, she took a book out of her bag and settled down on a cool marble bench under the shade of the cupola to read.
She had been at her task for no more than ten minutes when the sound of hoof beats caught her attention and she looked up to see not Darcy, but Richard riding up. He dismounted and tied up his horse in a shaded area near the water and quickly strode up the hill to the folly where Elizabeth sat. “Good morning Elizabeth,” he bowed politely.
“Richard, it’s always a pleasure to see you!” She replied. “I trust your aunt deemed her rout a success?”
He laughed, his easy jovial nature making itself known. “Aunt Catherine would not allow anything in which she had a hand not to be a success. Yes, she is happy, and would only be happier if Will and Anne would finally accede to her wishes, ignore their own and announce their engagement. But fear not, Elizabeth, that will never happen.”
She looked at him with confused eyes and he blinked as if coming to a sudden realisation. Deftly changing the subject, he continued, “You have done excellent work with my cousin. He seemed almost pleasant in company last night, certainly happier than I would have ever expected. I do not believe I have ever seen him engage in such long conversations with people he knows so little, and he owes it all to you. In fact, Will sent me with a message for you, apologising for not being able to greet you himself this morning and begging your forgiveness. For all his ineptitude in the salon, he is a wizard with numbers and Aunt Catherine has commanded him to give her some time to peruse the account books for Rosings. He does this every year and is most adept at whatever it is he sees in them. He really ought to teach Anne, and indeed she has asked to learn, but our aunt will have nothing of that. It is her way, I do believe, of ensuring his return each year until he realises that if he only marries poor Anne, the estate will be his.”
“Does he wish that? To unite the estates of Rosings and Pemberley?”
“No, not at all. Pemberley provides him with more than sufficient income, and enough of his time is taken in its management. He has no desire for a second commitment, which is how he sees the situation. In fact, he has suggested that I marry Anne for that reason: It would relieve him of Aunt Catherine’s constant badgering and provide me with a comfortable situation once I leave my position with the military.” At Lizzy’s raised eyebrows and cocked head, he added, “But I do not care for Anne in that way either, nor she me. We are cousins, not lovers, and I do not wish for the responsibilities that go along with such a large estate. Something small would suffice for me!” He gazed out over the fields and pathways and asked, “Would you care to walk? The lane over yonder is in shade and leads to a most attractive mill and pond.” Smiling, Lizzy accepted as she stood and took his arm.
“I see that Mr. Darcy takes his responsibilities seriously,” she said as they strolled. “He certainly does not seem as carefree as so many young men of his wealth.”
“That is true. I am his senior by two years, but all too often, I feel that he is the older. He has a very strict sense of duty and he will work tirelessly when he feels something needs doing. He is a good man in that sense.” There was something about R
ichard’s words that struck Lizzy as suggesting something, but she could not quite follow his thoughts.
Instead, she asked, “Has he many friends, then? It must be hard for him to maintain friendships when he is so serious and reluctant to engage in social activities.”
At this, Richard chuckled, “As you must know, and as I noticed last night, you seem to find his friendship pleasant enough! But it is true, he has not many friends; however, those he has are most dear to him, and he is unfailingly loyal to them. I know I would trust him with my life, and his small group of intimates will hear nothing bad about him at all. To know him is to love him, but very, very few people are granted the opportunity to truly know him.” Richard paused for a few moments, then continued his monologue.
“Indeed, there is one young man whom he met at their club, who claims he owes our Will everything he has. Bingley, the man’s name is. He is a pleasant gentleman-like fellow—he is a great friend of Darcy’s.” He was looking straight ahead into the dappled light of the laneway and did not react when Elizabeth’s head jerked up at the mention of Mr. Bingley’s name. He continued blithely.
“Ah yes, of course, you know Bingley, and his terrible sisters. Caroline set her cap at me for a while, hoping that my older brother might die and leave me heir to my father’s title. When my nephew was born, relieving me of that possible inheritance, she took further note of my impecunious state and looked, instead, to Will’s fortunes. He may not be titled, but his pedigree is impeccable. She has as her greatest ambition the desire to remove from herself any taint of trade.”
