by Maria Grace
Darcy forced a smile and nodded. “You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”
She seemed to start at the notion that they were anything alike. That look of wonder and confusion in her eyes! If only he could get to his notebook quickly lest he forget it. The little crease between her brows that appeared when she was thinking formed. Was she now considering their similarities?
How compatible might two such people be? Would it not be very pleasing to have such a companion for his future life? His heart hammered staccato against his ribs.
“What are you talking of now? I must have my share in the conversation!” Aunt Catherine’s shrill tones raised the hair on the back of his neck.
Miss Elizabeth immediately began playing, her muse taking his for a whirl about the room once again. Was it possible he had been forgiven? Could it be procured so easily: simply to allow her to tease against his foibles?
Aunt Catherine approached and listened for a few minutes. “Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practiced more, and could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.” Her tone warned, scolded him of the duty she believed he owed her.
Miss Elizabeth looked at him. Could she tell he did not agree with Aunt Catherine’s continued litany of instructions on style, execution, and taste? Did she detect Aunt Catherine’s real meaning? Oh, how Miss Elizabeth received the diatribe with all the forbearance of civility, even—at the request of Fitzwilliam—remaining at the instrument till her ladyship's carriage was ready to take them all home.
As he watched her disappear into the carriage, a stabbing ache lodged in his chest. Watching her depart was indeed a dreadful thing.
There had to be some way to make it stop.
∞∞∞
The ache gave way to a cold void within, never easing, ever reminding him of the incompleteness. That empty place within would only be quelled by time spent in her presence. But for that, he must pay a price.
His muse appeared satisfied with the offering of his pride upon her teasing altar, permitting, even encouraging, him to call upon the parsonage. This morning, not even the absence of Fitzwilliam would stop him from the pleasure his soul demanded as surely as it needed air. He hurried his valet though morning ablutions and made haste to the parsonage.
With every step toward his destination, only one purpose—that of filling the emptiness torn in him when Miss Bennet left Rosings Park—drew him. In her presence, there would be solace, wholeness once again. He composed himself briefly and rang the bell.
The maid guided him to the parlor to be greeted by Miss Elizabeth—and only Miss Elizabeth! What had he done to receive so great a privilege as to find her alone? He fought to catch his breath lest he greet his boon in stunned silence.
She rose and curtsied, the morning sunlight caressing her features. “Mr. Darcy! Pray excuse me, Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas are gone to the village, and Mr. Collins has gone out on parish business.”
“Forgive my intrusion, madam. I had thought all the ladies to be in this morning.” He bowed from his shoulders. He should repine this situation; he should excuse himself from her presence. It was improper to be here alone with her, but his muse rooted his feet into place, and nothing was likely to enable him to move.
She stared at him for far too long, as if trying to make sense of the situation. “Pray, would you care to sit down?” She gestured at a chair—a rather ambivalent invitation to be sure, but it was enough.
But of course, it should be; she was a proper young lady in an improper situation.
If only his muse would agree and permit him to decline.
“Are Lady Catherine and her daughter well?” She sat down, her gown falling into graceful folds in the sunbeam that enveloped her chair.
“What … ah … they are in good health. And the Collinses?”
“I believe they are in good health as well.”
He leaned back and glanced around the room, hoping for something to inspire conversation, all the while keeping her in view, drinking in her presence.
She sighed a little uneasily. That was bad enough, but the forced smile she wore, so different from her true smile, almost made her look like another woman. “How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you all after him so soon, for, if I recollect right, he went but the day before you left. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?”
“Perfectly so—I thank you.” What game was his muse playing with him now? He had already atoned for that particular deviation from the truth, had he not?
“I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?”
Where would she have got that notion? The only one who had any inkling of Bingley’s plans were Miss Bingley and the Hursts. Had Miss Bingley written to Miss Bennet? “I have never heard him say so, but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing.” And not all of his friends thought the company in Hertfordshire was a good thing.
And those friends were in all likelihood completely wrong. He swallowed hard.
“If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighborhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there.” She tossed her head softly, just hinting at disdain. “But perhaps Mr. Bingley did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighborhood as for his own pleasure, and we must expect him to keep or quit it on the same principle.”
“I should not be surprised if he were to give it up as soon as any eligible purchase offers.” He stared at his hands. Perhaps he should speak to Bingley on the matter.
Miss Elizabeth made no answer, merely looking at him with something vaguely resembling disapproval. What could he do to change that?
Perhaps a different topic was in order. “This seems a very comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford.”
She rolled her eyes just a bit. “I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more grateful object.”
“Mr. Collins appears very fortunate in his choice of a wife.”
“Yes, indeed. His friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding—though I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light, it is certainly a very good match for her.” Just how many emotions could play across a face in a single moment? He counted no less than five: frustration, teasing, resignation, peace, and something that was not entirely happiness but made a strong effort to appear so.
“It must be very agreeable to her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.” But who really cared what Mrs. Collins thought of the matter? How did Miss Elizabeth regard distance from a woman’s family?
“An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles.” She laughed, but it was hardly a happy sound.
“And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's journey. Yes, I call it a very easy distance.”
“I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the match. I should never have said Mrs. Collins was settled near her family.”
“It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighborhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far.” Pray, let it not be so!
She pressed back
into her chair and shook her head subtly. “I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family. Far and the near must be relative and depend on many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expense of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the case here. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent journeys. I am persuaded my friend would not call herself near her family under less than half the present distance.”
Perhaps then, there was a chance! He leaned toward her. “I imagine you cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. You cannot have been always at Longbourn.”
Elizabeth looked surprised. But what did that mean? Had she never been much away from Longbourn, or did she not consider the possibility with pleasure? Perhaps a different question. “Are you pleased with Kent?”
“It is a very fine county, with ample beauties to boast. I have found many of them here in Rosings Park.”
“My aunt would be pleased to hear you say so.”
“I imagine you are correct. She seems to prefer the country to being in town. Oh, I think I hear Mrs. Collins coming in. Pray excuse me whilst I fetch her here. She would be most sorry to miss your call.” She jumped up and hurried out, taking the sunshine and warmth of the room with her.
He felt her disappearance with the same keenness as when she had left Rosings. This would not do, not at all. There was no choice. He would have to return to the parsonage as often as he could. And perhaps make a better plan for keeping in her company. After all, a woman could be settled too near her family; those were her very promising words!
∞∞∞
Each day, each visit, only served to strengthen his attachment to the one his muse deemed essential. On those days he did not attend her, he spent hours over his sketchbook crafting studies of her features, her expressions, even attempting to capture her grace in movement. The sketches took form easily and cleanly, flowing from his pencil to paper as though they had been there all along. Finally, joy had returned to his efforts.
Oddly, though, when he sketched, he usually did not include backgrounds unless they were crucial to the study. But for some reason, they stubbornly appeared in each of his latest pieces. They required so little effort that he nearly ignored them until he found himself drawing a bust of Lady Anne Darcy that Father had commissioned shortly after their marriage. Why was he sketching Miss Elizabeth in the Pemberley gallery?
Because she belonged there.
Darcy dropped his pencil and stared at the sketch with burning eyes and racing heart. The notion had been at the edges of his awareness for some time now with no words to precisely define it. But now they were there, plain as paint on canvas. He could no long deny it, no long avoid it.
That was it—the answer he had avoided seeing for far too long.
His muse would not be satisfied without her constant presence. The only way to obtain that was to make her his wife. Some might argue that a mistress would serve the same purpose, but she was not the sort of woman one dealt with in that fashion, nor would his muse tolerate such treatment. The only way he could have her by his side was as a wife, so that was what he would do.
He had to. There was no alternative. It did not matter that her family was horrid and her connections low. It did not matter that she had no fortune and her accomplishments were modest at best. It did not matter that most of his family would disapprove and might even shun her. He would ignore all those privations; his muse would permit him no rest otherwise.
When would the Collinses next be away from the parsonage?
∞∞∞
His groom brought word that he had seen the Collinses walking out from the parsonage and they were not expected back soon. The man would receive an ample reward! Darcy donned a fresh shirt and cravat and hurried out. Miss Elizabeth had not felt well yesterday; that was sufficient reason for a call, was it not? Not that it was his true purpose, but somehow it felt easier to know he did not need to reveal his honest intentions immediately.
He rang the bell, counting the seconds until he was admitted. Could not the maid move faster to take him to her?
At long last, he reached the parlor near the back of the house. It was a cluttered little room, littered with furniture that did not match and odd bric-a-brac that resembled bits dumped from a peddler’s sack. But, what was an unattractive room to the company and the purpose he had today?
“Good day, Miss Bennet.” He bowed but only received a cold glance from her. “Have you recovered from your headache yesterday?”
“After a fashion, I suppose.” She did not look at him directly. Was she still feeling poorly?
She plucked the folds of her skirt, pointedly not looking at him.
He sat down, but that would hardly do. Energy coursed through his limbs, and if he did not expend it, he might lose any hope of coherent speech. So he jumped to his feet and paced along the longest side of the room in front of the fireplace.
Surely, she must understand his agitation. That had to be why she said nothing; she was allowing him to soothe himself so that he could speak. She was the very soul of consideration; no doubt, she would not desire to prolong his agony.
He whirled on her, words tumbling out beyond all control. “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
Her jaw dropped, and she stared at him, her cheeks bright and her eyes filled with fire. Of course, she should be speechless. Men of his standing were rare, and a proposal in such a circumstance, even if she anticipated it, would certainly still be surprising. Perhaps she was worried, as a sensible woman of her status would be, of the inequality of their match.
He stumbled over his words as he assured her how little he cared for his friends’, his family’s, nay society’s abhorrence of such a connection. That even his best judgment was not enough to stand against the violent passion he felt for her. He concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all his endeavors, he had found impossible to conquer and expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand.
Breathless, he awaited word of his fate. No, the proposal did not come out sounding as it should, certainly not like the hero of some romantic novel. But she would understand. Of course, she would. Theirs was a connection beyond words.
The color rose higher into her cheeks, and she drew a deep breath. Surely, his torment would now end.
“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you.” Her hand and her voice trembled. “But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.”
Chilled silence followed, echoing more loudly than any sound could.
Darcy clutched the mantel lest his knees fail. Surely, he had not heard those words. She must be teasing him. But when he searched her face for some sign of jest, there was none. Absolutely none.
He forced out words, barely above a whisper, as the room spun around him. “And this is all the reply which I am to have the honor of expecting? I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavor at civility, I am thus rejected.”
Her eyes bulged, and her nostrils flared. “I might as well enquire why, with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil?”
He clenched his fist against
the weight of her just accusation.
She rose, slowly, dangerously, her voice honed to a finely-edged weapon. “But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favorable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps forever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”
Why had he not listened to that voice when it had warned him against Miss Bingley’s subterfuge? Was this to be the price for his selfishness in choosing his own comfort over the interest of his friend?
“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means, of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind. Can you deny that you have done it?” Her tightly-balled fists quivered at her sides.
Something about the way she glowered at him triggered the instincts of a bear baited into a fury—rationality was lost. “I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.” He would probably regret those words, but what did it matter now?
“But it is not merely this affair on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself?” It must be righteous indignation that strengthened her stance and edged her voice. She was terrible and magnificent in her fury.
