A cold wave of dread crashed through Elizabeth, and she nervously rubbed her face. She remembered their conversation this morning. She remembered Darcy said he could not find any good reason but vanity for his disdain of social inferiors. Elizabeth felt sick. After that his mood became very good.
He had used her Christian name. And she had not noticed. It had felt natural.
“I see you understand me — I urge you to think how you would respond if he offers for you. Perhaps you truly wish to remain unmarried, were I in your position I might, but I urge you to know your own mind.”
Charlotte was right. Elizabeth imagined what she would feel or think were he to offer. It would be rather like what she’d suggested this morning: he’d stand near her with that silly pompous manner of his, and say something insulting which would be terribly sweet if thought about in the right way. And then? She would say yes, and they would marry.
Marriage. She saw it again, the image arose and danced uncontrollably at the thought: Mr. Collins next to Lydia. It was in the study, he had brought them both in after he discovered Elizabeth’s visits to Charlotte without permission. The meaty thwack of his fist as he struck Lydia in the stomach. Herself screaming at him to stop. “Please don’t! Please don’t. I’ll never disobey again.” Mr. Collins’s voice, each phrase punctuated by another blow, “Elizabeth, you owe me. You owe me.”
Charlotte’s sad eyes watched her as Elizabeth’s awareness of the sitting room returned. “It won’t happen, he won’t ask me. He can’t. I don’t want him to.”
Elizabeth stood shakily, “I apologize, I have business I must attend to and I need to go.”
As Elizabeth pulled on her coat at the front entry she noticed that her hands trembled and her stomach felt tight. He couldn’t offer, he simply couldn’t. Their friendship was perfect. She didn’t want it ruined.
* * * * *
When Darcy and Bingley returned to Netherfield late that afternoon Darcy was too agitated to sit at home, so despite the lateness of the hour he saddled his horse and rode hard along one of the cold country roads. His mind filled with the memory of Elizabeth’s manner and expression and beauty.
Had he really been so foolish this morning? He hardly liked half the people whose hidden sneers had played in the back of his head. In many cases if they expressed an opinion on politics or business it would be a sign it was wrong. Yet he still took seriously their good opinion of himself.
Bingley had been wiser and more sensible — the only thing he cared about was whether he was loved.
What would Elizabeth think when he spoke?
Did she love him? Darcy could not believe she did — he had been quite clear: she should not expect him to propose to her. Only a vain, foolish man would expect a woman he warned off to eagerly expect a proposal. And only an immoral, careless man would hope that a woman who had been told there was no chance of a marriage was in love with him nevertheless.
Darcy’s elated mood from earlier in the day reversed itself as he reached the far point in the ride, and dismounted Brownie to let her rest before he returned. He was atop a hill which let him look several miles round. Darcy sat against the back of a tree, mostly protected from the winter chill by his heavy greatcoat. When he thought back on his behavior in Hertfordshire he could not like what he saw.
He consistently had focused upon his own feelings alone, and shown a decided contempt for those of everyone around him. Not only people such as Sir William, or Mrs. Long, who would never be more than acquaintances, but even his dearest, loveliest Elizabeth. Never before had Darcy seen his own flaws so starkly. Though he had lived to eight and twenty, he was not at all sure that prior to this day he had ever thought meanly of himself.
He did not enjoy seeing his flaws so starkly. In the future, he vowed, he would strive to show more consideration to the feelings of everyone around him. His behavior until now had been unchristian and ungentlemanly. For some twenty minutes Darcy thought unhappily of himself, as he reviewed instance after instance where he had shown disdain for the feelings of Elizabeth, and others.
Then worry set in. Darcy stood and anxiously paced as he asked himself: might she refuse him? Perhaps she ought to. He was not as good a man as he had thought himself to be. The sense of superiority he had always carried with him had been vanity.
She would be surprised. He could not expect her to give him an affirmative reply immediately. A wise woman such as Elizabeth would not enter into marriage without careful thought. Also, her first husband had hurt her, and she had repeatedly said she had no desire to marry again. Darcy knew that was no mere affectation. But — could he hope that it was a prejudice on her part, no better grounded than his own vanity had been? If so, Darcy was certain it would not govern her decision.
Would she accept him? She would not marry him for his lands or name.
Elizabeth clearly had affection for him. They were friends, good friends. Darcy’s person was not objectionable. Elizabeth had laughingly referred to him as handsome on more than one occasion. As the shock of realizing he had behaved poorly faded Darcy’s sense of his own merit rallied. He had more flaws than he had realized, true. His virtues, such as ownership of Pemberley, were of less value than he had thought them. He was not nearly as superior as he liked to fancy himself.
Yet — he was handsome, clever and rich. And now that he knew he thought meanly of others, and ignored their feelings he could correct that. It would not be the work of a day, and perhaps he would always be a little vain, but he would become better.
He could not — should not — be certain. But, Darcy thought more likely than not he could convince Elizabeth to accept his suit.
The question now was: how could he best show his concern for Elizabeth’s feelings? Darcy decided that while he would on the next day go to Longbourn to speak to her, he would make it clear he did not need any immediate response. Though, he hoped for one.
The sun had begun to set when Darcy remounted his horse, and he rode slowly back to Netherfield in the fading orange light. It was too cold to be pleasant, but Darcy felt warm as memories of Elizabeth went through his mind. Her laughing tones, her bright flashing eyes, the way her curls bounced as she danced, her smile. Especially her smile, that arch look in her eyes as she found a way to tease him and puncture his natural pomposity. Darcy loved her.
Chapter 11
Darcy hoped for an opportunity to speak with Elizabeth privately the next day when he called at Longbourn with Bingley. However, the day opened very wet and continued such well into the afternoon. The rain was too heavy and the roads too muddy for Bingley to risk the carriage. Darcy impatiently paced the sitting room, glancing out the window every minute or so.
Bingley noted his mood, and with a knowing manner said, “Why, you’re almost acting as though it is you who is the suitor.”
Late in the afternoon the rain stopped, and while the sky remained overcast Darcy chose to risk a trip to Longbourn. He knew he ought not delay his return to Pemberley, but if necessary he would.
Pulled between anticipation and anxiety the brief ride to Longbourn seemed to take far longer than it did. The sun would not set for another hour, but the clouds made it dark. Brownie occasionally sunk into the soft ground, and when she escaped splashed mud onto his legs. Though he wished to appear his best, Darcy knew he did not. He rode into the well-maintained fields around Longbourn, and leapt off Brownie in front of the house. As he stood in the entry and scraped the mud off his boots, Darcy found himself more nervous than he ever had been in his life.
His heart’s rapid beat pattered uncomfortably through him, and he nearly clawed at his snuggly tied white cravat to loosen it. His arms felt odd, almost as though they did not belong to him.
Darcy followed Mrs. Hill down the hallway to Elizabeth’s study in a dizzy haze, and registered nothing until he entered the room. Then he saw a large account book, an ink pot with a goose feather quill, and Elizabeth’s smile. She stood and briskly greeted him, “I am very pleased to
see you, indeed, I would have been extremely disappointed if I missed you before you returned to Pemberley. I planned to wake early tomorrow so I could call upon you at Netherfield before you left.”
Darcy nodded stiffly, and forced out of his tight throat, “I have something to speak to you about.”
Elizabeth nodded, her face serious in response to his tone, but for the first time in his life Darcy was completely speechless. When he opened his mouth he could feel the words in his mind, but no sound came. In a near panic he paced between the fireplace and the window in agitation as he tried to get his dry mouth to work. The portrait of her father stared down at him.
He had never felt like this.
Finally Darcy turned to the wide eyed Elizabeth who tightly gripped the back of a chair. “Elizabeth — dearest Elizabeth, I must tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” The grip on the back of her chair tightened further, and Darcy could see her white knuckles, where the strength of her grip had forced the blood from her fingers, and she stared with complete intensity at Darcy.
Though her manner did not give encouragement Darcy continued with an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach, “I foolishly spent weeks struggling against the rightness of this feeling, I thought like the vain fool I am you were somehow beneath me. I was wrong. Your words yesterday punctured my arrogance and conceit, and let me see myself for what I truly was. Until I met you I was a man who ignored that which mattered most to look at things which matter far less.”
“Elizabeth, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth: your intelligence and laughter has made my life bright since we met; your wit and willingness to challenge me has caused me to think, and showed me flaws in myself I had not known. Your company has made me a better person. I can think of nothing that would make me happier than to have you and your brightness with me forever.”
“I know this must be a surprise. I know you have never thought to marry again, but together, together I am certain we both would be very happy. I see your manner and know here,” Darcy pushed his hand against his heart, “you feel some affection for me. If you should marry me, I swear I will never attempt to control you or constrain you, but only seek for us to be happy partners together. I love you. I love you more than my own soul, and just wish you to be happy. I will wait however long you need to reply, but know this heart, my heart, despite its flaws is yours.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest protectively, and turned away from Darcy. Though she did not speak her foreboding expression gave Darcy a nauseating certainty it had somehow gone terribly wrong. With eyes fixed out the window Elizabeth said, “I’m sorry Mr. Darcy. It is impossible for me to marry. I’m very sorry. And I wish — I am sensible,” Elizabeth’s voice cracked with incipient tears, “I am sensible of the very deep honor you’ve given me.”
Elizabeth fell silent. They stood silent as Darcy looked at her and realized he had been refused unambiguously. In that moment he understood he had not really thought there was any chance she would refuse him; she might need to be persuaded, given time to think, but in the end she would accept him. Darcy plaintively asked, “Can you not say more?”
Her stiff figure refused to look at him and she did not speak. Darcy’s anger and pride rose. “Is this all the response I am to expect?”
Elizabeth flinched and pulled her arms more tightly together over her chest at the question, but still made no response. Could she not at least look at him as she broke his heart? As he spoke Darcy knew he made a mistake, “Elizabeth,” he snapped, her eyes turned towards him and he continued, “You owe me some explanation for this dismissal.”
At those words Elizabeth changed, her eyes grew unfocused and distant as she stared through him at somebody who was not there, and Darcy felt a sharp sense of remorse as she trembled, “I don’t owe that,” she shouted, “I don’t, I don’t.”
Then Elizabeth stepped forward, and to Darcy’s deep confusion cried out, “don’t hit her, don’t, don’t, please don’t, I’ll do what you wish just don’t hit her. I’ll do anything.”
Though he understood nothing, the desperation in Elizabeth’s tone touched Darcy’s heart, and he placed his hand on her arm softly and said, “Elizabeth.”
At his touch and voice she startled, and looked at him with wide eyes like those of a terrified deer, and she pushed away and ran to the door flinging it open. Her rapid footsteps quickly receded. There was a muffled bang as a door to the outside was thrown open.
Darcy was too confused and concerned to be hurt. Elizabeth had acted like nothing he had ever seen before. She seemed hysterical. What about his offer did that?
He’d been refused.
She refused him completely; she’d run from him.
Darcy felt a lump in his throat; his eyes began to tighten and tears tried to force their way out. With an angry jerk he beat the feeling away; he stood straight and stiff, and forced down the lump in his throat.
He was Fitzwilliam Darcy: he would not cry.
His cheeks were pulled tight against his eyes, and water already pooled in them. Furiously, Darcy brushed it away with his sleeve, and used his fingers to manipulate his face into a neutral expression. He took several slow shallow breaths before he could confidently hold the mask.
With a stiff gait — his legs did not work right, and he had to focus on each separate step — Darcy left the study and headed for the entrance. But before his escape Miss Lydia blocked his way, “What did you do to my sister?”
Darcy could not trust himself to reply without tears so he stared at her. Lydia held his gaze fiercely. He attempted to walk past her without speaking, but Lydia moved to stay in his path, “What did you do?”
“I asked her to marry me and then she ran.” Darcy’s stomach clenched again at the finality of the fact and he desperately fought his facial muscles as they tried to break his emotionless mask.
Lydia’s stare added sympathy to continued hostility. She stepped aside, “oh.”
The rain began again as Darcy rode back to Netherfield. So he would not cry Darcy tried to feel angry. He had been treated abominably. A respectable woman would not have acted so. It was part of her eccentricity. It was fortunate that he had been refused.
She would have loved Pemberley. Her eyes would have lit up; she would have said it was beautiful and they would have explored the grounds together. He would have been happy and proud as he delighted in her happiness. He was not fortunate. Elizabeth had treated him abominably, but — but he loved her.
* * * * *
Elizabeth whimpered as she ran from the house; flashes of when Mr. Collins struck Lydia burned uncontrollably through her mind. She had relived that moment many times, but never had she spoken during such a spell.
Poor Mr. Darcy! She should not have lost control of herself, and it showed she was quite possibly mad. Elizabeth felt a twisting anxiety, what if she spoke at someone not there again? And again, and again. What if she entirely lost control of herself? What if everything but that moment faded away?
Her feet hurt. The evening slippers she wore were not designed for running, and each pebble ground painfully into her soles. Elizabeth stopped, and rapidly panting leaned against an oak tree whose forest of bare branches arched above her.
Her feet hurt; it was dark and it was cold; she had shown herself to be a fool.
Uncontrollable sobs wracked her, and it started to rain.
He was the best of men; his words, his words had been so wonderful. “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you” — Elizabeth’s sobs redoubled: she liked Darcy. Maybe it was not too late, she could find Mr. Darcy; she could explain her episode and he might accept her despite how she had behaved, and — and Elizabeth saw Mr. Collins face again, and a fist held back to strike.
Elizabeth swore using an obscene word which had never passed her lips before. She needed to strike out, she needed to make something hurt. Elizabeth seized a long heavy branch from the wet ground and swung it against the tree trunk.
&nbs
p; Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
The branch shattered. Elizabeth threw its remains aside, and grabbed another. She had no bonnet, and her hair had become soaked. A hairpin was fallen out, and wet strands of hair fell over her face and shoulders. Soon the new branch broke as well; Elizabeth gaped at the broken stick in her hand as her breath slowed. Her muscles hurt, and her hands were scraped. But she was nearly calm.
Damn Mr. Collins. Elizabeth hoped he burned in hell. And damn the horse which threw him. Her fists clenched. She ought to have killed him herself instead of leaving it to a drunken nighttime ride.
A cold breeze drove the rain into her and Elizabeth shivered violently. She was soaked, and would sicken if she stayed out long.
Elizabeth half ran back to Longbourn to escape the freezing rain. It hurt to think about Mr. Darcy, so she thought about her clothes — the dress was a total loss, as were the slippers. They would not even be fit to gift to the servants or a tenant. Her feet hurt with each step.
Warm lights radiated from Longbourn’s windows, and Elizabeth rushed to a side door as she hoped to avoid notice. The first floor corridor was cold, but it was much warmer than the outside and she was no longer in the rain. Elizabeth peeked around: perhaps none of her family had seen the display she had made of herself.
Alas, they had. Elizabeth barely saw her in the corner of her eyes before Lydia barreled into Elizabeth, and tightly embraced her with no concern for the state of her own clothes, “I worried so!”
Behind Lydia stood Jane whose anxiety showed through her natural placidity. And her mother and other sisters joined them seconds later. Mrs. Bennet shouted, “Goodness girl, what were you thinking running out in this weather? That dress is ruined. I swear you will be the death of me!”
Mr Darcy and Mr Collins's Widow Page 11
