A Fair Prospect

by Cassandra Grafton

  Mortified and chagrined, both by her fall and its aftermath, she felt the warmth flood her cheeks and cast her eyes to the ground. The man opposite her spoke no words, yet she could sense his consternation, for with her eyes lowered she could perceive the agitation of his hands as they hung at his sides.

  There were no words she could summon in such circumstances, and only the consciousness of the rain beginning to trickle down her neck, exposed as it now was to the elements, roused her from her silent contemplation of the muddy ground. With a hurried glance in Mr Darcy’s direction, she nodded briefly before turning to flee up the path to the parsonage.

  Darcy stood motionless where Elizabeth had left him. There had been no chance to respond to her parting gesture – indeed, he was too deep in thought to even be conscious of the loss of her company. For some moments, he remained where he was, staring at the place where she had been, until an impatient stamping of hooves and a disgruntled snort alerted him to the presence of the horses, and he finally turned to take his leave.

  Chapter Two

  Elizabeth closed her bedroom door and sank onto the chair nearest to the fireplace, though little heat emanated from its residual embers, the bitter exchange between herself and Mr Darcy resounding in her head and beating a rhythm that slowly elicited a dull ache.

  She gave an involuntary shudder, becoming acutely aware of the state of her clothing. She was damp and cold, her dress and coat wet through and the hemlines soiled with mud. Her bonnet had fallen to the floor by her feet and lay, limp and unnoticed, as she got wearily to her feet and pulled the bell for a servant.

  The maid was soon on her way back downstairs, having stoked up the fire and, dressed in dry clothes once more, Elizabeth sat on the edge of her bed and began to brush her now towel-dried hair. The sudden storm had ceased as abruptly as it had arisen, the clouds being hurried on their way by a blustering wind, and even now a tentative ray of sunlight seeped through the window. The fire crackled brightly in the grate, yet she felt no warmth from either source.

  A coldness had settled on her limbs, and somewhere deep inside she ached, though she knew not why. Her initial anger was all but spent, but though her indignation remained, it continued to be overshadowed by the memory of that moment when she had found herself clasped within Mr Darcy’s embrace.

  Elizabeth stirred restlessly. Never in her entire life had she experienced such proximity to one of the opposite sex. She had looked into the depths of his eyes, studied the length of his fine lashes, every nuance of his face. With a sigh, she owned what she had long denied – he was a well-featured man; an extremely handsome man, who had professed not moments before to being deeply in love with her. Yet she despised him heartily, did she not?

  Getting to her feet, Elizabeth began to walk about the room, arms folded around her middle. Mr Darcy was a proud man who perceived her as decidedly below himself – how had he come to offer for her? Whence had come this depth of affection that he claimed and – if his proposal stemmed from such ardent love – how acute must his disappointment be?

  ~o0o~

  Darcy remained on a damask-covered chair near the window of his room, elbows resting upon his knees, his head in his hands. The change in the weather made no impact upon him; he remarked neither the cessation of the earlier downpour, nor the sun breaking through to disperse the remnants of grey cloud.

  His valet, Thornton, had taken away his soaking garments and mud- spattered boots with a barely concealed grunt of displeasure and, dressed once more in dry clothes, Darcy had dismissed him for the remainder of the day with the strict instruction that he was not to be disturbed. Thus, he had been sitting like so for an hour or more, the only disturbance to his contemplation being his cousin, Fitzwilliam, rapping on his door, but he had ignored him.

  He had to put this debacle behind him, but how to make a beginning? His head pounded; he felt chilled to the bone and deep inside he was conscious of a dull heaviness that had settled close to the region of his heart. Further, despite his efforts to the contrary, his mind would persist in replaying over and over the recent encounter.

  “Your character was unfolded by Mr Wickham”

  Darcy stirred in his chair. Elizabeth’s defence of Wickham had cut him badly. His anger towards her was all but gone, so much so he could hardly bear dwell upon it, yet his mind persisted in tormenting him with questions for which there were no answers.

  How intimate were they? Was her outrage on Wickham’s behalf born of tender feelings for the scoundrel? If he had imposed himself upon her… the ache within his breast intensified, and he caught his breath. He knew not how he would bear it if it were so. Darcy rose quickly from his chair and began to pace to and fro across the room.

  Wickham was evil; he was degenerate and unworthy. That he had maligned Darcy’s character to her surprised him not, for it was hardly the first time, but to what extent had he imposed upon her open and generous nature? How was it that, in their brief acquaintance, Elizabeth had such a picture of him from Wickham? With a groan of frustration, Darcy threw himself down on a chair adjacent to an ornate writing desk. Such thoughts were counter-productive; none of it signified, for even had Wickham not vilified his name, he had to accede that, in Elizabeth’s eyes, his faults lay in more than one quarter.

  Head in his hands once more, he finally began to admit the portent of her words. Her refusal had been a profound shock, but to learn of her dislike of him, her poor opinion of his character… the pain occasioned by such knowledge, accompanied by the devastation of all his hopes for the future, was almost more than Darcy could bear, and for a time he became lost in the depths of his own despair.

  ~o0o~

  With a frustrated sigh, Elizabeth stopped pacing and stared down into the fire. That Mr Darcy had been shocked by her refusal was clear, and the depth of hurt and disappointment on his countenance she knew she would likely never forget; yet she wished she could be rid of it. Mr Darcy was a man she could not respect; his actions against Jane, Mr Bingley and Wickham spoke for themselves.

  Elizabeth frowned. The subject of Wickham clearly disturbed him; could it be that he felt remorse for his treatment of him?

  “You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns!”

  Or perhaps it was the depth of her interest that riled him so? Her mind all confusion, Elizabeth walked slowly over to the mirror and stared at her reflection.

  She could not help but dwell upon Mr Darcy’s words – his seeming pleasure in his success in parting Jane and Mr Bingley; his failure to accept either responsibility or affect contrition for Wickham’s present circumstances – all this far outweighed her embarrassment over his appraisal of her family, a situation she had lived with for so long that she could hardly fail to acknowledge its truth, no matter that is was galling to have it spoken of in such terms.

  Yet her confusion over Mr Darcy and his character reigned. That he had acted the true gentleman in seeing her safely home could not be ignored. Nor could she deny that he had saved her from the mortification of a fall brought about by her own stubbornness. And overriding all these things was the man himself: his air and countenance, the breadth of his shoulders and the pain and confusion in his eyes. She had clearly failed to read his feelings throughout their laboured acquaintance, yet she was certain – with complete conviction – that he had been tempted to do the unthinkable and place his lips upon her own...

  A sharp rap on the chamber door caused Elizabeth to start, and welcoming the interruption, she hurried to open it.

  ~o0o~

  Slowly, Darcy became conscious of his whereabouts, and he leaned back in his chair, his gaze falling upon the desk in front of him. Elizabeth’s accusations haunted him, the discovery of her ill opinion consumed his every thought, and he could perceive no respite from it. He needed resolution, to defend himself and his character – but how?

  Her opinion of him was a matter of no little import. If there was aught he could do so that she despised him less then do it he mu
st. Attempting a private interview for the length of time it would take to explain his dealings with Wickham and his reasoning for his actions towards Bingley and her sister was impossible. Besides, in the face of her displeasure and the knowledge of her rejection, he would struggle to retain the power of coherent thought or speech.

  His troubled gaze fell upon the letter-writing materials on the desk, and he studied them thoughtfully. A letter went quite against the form; moreover, in all likelihood she would refuse to accept it, and even should she do so, he had no guarantee she would read it with any intention of believing his word. It was hardly a fool-proof plan, yet he had no other. Thus it was that the letter would be written and without delay.

  ~o0o~

  Elizabeth closed the door as the servant turned away, her attention with the crumpled letter that had been discovered in the pocket of her coat.

  She frowned as she straightened the pages. The maid had been adamant that these two sheets were all, yet Jane had on this occasion run on to a third.

  The only likely answer was that she had left it behind in the copse, for she had been perusing that very page when Mr Darcy had first disturbed her. With a sigh, Elizabeth laid the pages aside and walked over to the window. The storm had long passed over, and a brisk breeze hurried the clouds across the sky. Slipping into a pair of dry shoes and grabbing a shawl from the end of the bed, she let herself out of the chamber and made her way quietly out of the house, determined to locate the missing page before the wind could take it beyond her reach.

  ~o0o~

  Dusk was falling over Rosings Park. The day that had begun so inclemently was blessed with the beauty of a sunset quite lost upon the occupant of one dimly lit room where the fire had long smouldered in the grate, and the only candles that had been lit burned low in their holders.

  Darcy dipped his quill into the ink-well one final time, and then paused before placing the tip of the pen on the page. How to close the most difficult letter he had ever had occasion to write? He hesitated, then wrote, “I will only add, God bless you,” followed by his name. Blotting the words firmly, he then folded it precisely and reached for a roll of wax and one of the candles. It was done, and all he wanted was to rid himself of it, that it might aid him in shedding once and for all his past hopes and dreams.

  That thought propelled him from his chair, and he strode over towards the washstand. Having splashed some water over his face, he turned to survey the room where he had been closeted these past hours. It was time; he must find a way out of the building without being perceived and whilst the Collinses remained at Rosings.

  ~o0o~

  Having retraced her steps, Elizabeth had soon returned to the copse, the errant page easily detected lodged in a briar near the stone bench. Little remained legible of her sister’s hand but content to have it once more in her possession she tucked it in her reticule and hastened to leave the scene. Yet even as she made her way back along the sheltered stone path, the powerful memory of being held in the gentleman’s arms and the notion that he desired to kiss her returned.

  Elizabeth felt the heat steal into her cheeks. What would she have done if Mr Darcy had acted? What would her response have been? Outrage, of course, she berated herself quickly. How else could one react to such a deed, and even more so in someone one hated as much as she did Mr Darcy; she would have been repulsed, most surely.

  Tentatively, almost against her volition, Elizabeth pressed her fingers to her lips. What was it like to feel someone’s mouth against one’s own? What sensations or emotions might it arouse? Conscious of the direction of her thoughts, a wave of embarrassment swept through her. What was she doing, thinking such thoughts about a man she could not, would not, like?

  Emerging into the open, she drew in a deep breath of the cool, early evening air before turning her steps towards the lane that would lead her back to Hunsford, determined to dwell on it no longer.

  ~o0o~

  As Darcy neared Hunsford, the restraint he had upon his emotions slipped slightly. He had given no thought to how he would deliver his letter or whether Elizabeth would even permit him an audience – yet now, as he slowed his horse from a gallop into a canter the notion of facing her struck him once more.

  He pulled on the reins, causing his mount to slow further. His heart was in no fit state for another onslaught from the lady, but how was he to merely drop off the letter and leave, knowing their paths would likely never cross in future?

  With a rush of sensation, he was consumed by the feelings he had repressed that afternoon as he had dwelt upon her rejection and poor opinion of him. How was he to make his way forward in life and never lay eyes upon her again? Would he ever hear word of her, learn what life had lain before her?

  Lost in such futile speculation, it was a moment before Darcy discerned a figure up ahead, moving along the lane: Elizabeth! Swallowing hard upon his trepidation, he urged his mount forward, unsurprised when his approach was detected. The wariness of her countenance struck him forcibly, but he reined in his horse and slid to the ground, flinching as his feet struck the gravel lane.

  They stared silently at each other for a moment before he recalled himself and his purpose and, holding the reins loosely in one hand, he reached into his pocket for the letter.

  Chapter Three

  The sound of hooves pounding the lane roused Elizabeth from her stupor. Barely conscious of Mr Darcy’s departure, she had remained lost in the sensations caused by his parting gesture of pressing his mouth to her hand, his gaze never leaving her face. Now, she turned to peer down the lane towards Rosings, unable to discern more than a fleeting shadow in the dusk as both horse and rider disappeared from view.

  Elizabeth glanced down at her hand. Before raising it to his lips, Mr Darcy had pressed a letter into her palm and closed her fingers over it. Turning back, she resumed her walk along the lane towards the parsonage, staring at her name, written in a firm, elegant hand. What was his purpose? He had claimed that he wished to defend himself against her accusations, but what possible explanation could persuade him of the necessity to address her so?

  To be certain, it must be destroyed rather than read, for what could he say that could negate his cruelty to Wickham or repair the hurt and distress of her sister? If she broke the seal – if she did him the honour of reading it – was she not being disloyal to those whose misfortunes she defended? With a frustrated sigh, she shoved the letter deep into her reticule and hurried on.

  Barely was she ensconced once more in her room, when there was a sudden disturbance – the sound of doors banging and voices – alerting her to the return of her hosts. Pulling Mr Darcy’s letter out, she studied it thoughtfully. Whilst she could not yet bring herself to destroy it, nor could she contemplate reading it and, conscious of the sound of footsteps approaching, followed by a tentative knock upon her door, she quickly placed it beneath her pillow before bidding her friend enter.

  ~o0o~

  Often silent and morose during his annual sojourn at Rosings, Darcy’s distraction that evening appeared to excite no special attention from either his aunt or his cousin, Anne. Yet that which would escape the attention of the ladies made a powerful impression on his other cousin.

  Colonel Fitzwilliam understood sufficient of Darcy to comprehend that he was exceedingly troubled. As a military man, the Colonel was a keen observer and had not failed to note the peculiarity of Darcy’s behaviour during this visit – nor was he blind to the coinciding factor of the alteration in the local neighbourhood.

  Darcy’s somewhat erratic conduct over recent weeks – merely a source of covert amusement until now – had culminated earlier that day with his absence from the Collins’ invitation to tea at Rosings and instead disappearing from the house when rather inclement weather threatened. The Colonel had watched Darcy as he strode with noticeable purpose towards the stables – what had possessed the man? Furthermore, upon his return, he had closeted himself in his rooms for the remainder of the day, and now this. His air b
espoke not merely distraction of mind, but more an element of despair.

  It would take a man far less observant than the Colonel to remark the other coincidence in all this: Miss Elizabeth Bennet had also declined the invitation to afternoon tea. He frowned as he took a drink from his wine glass. Mrs Collins claimed that her friend had pleaded to be excused, citing a minor indisposition; yet the Colonel, who had had the pleasure of encountering the lady on a walk earlier that day, believed none of it.

  Inquisition was another of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s indulgences, and he had felt perfectly entitled – upon perceiving that no amount of tapping and ultimately hammering on his cousin’s door would rouse him – to interrogate the stable boy, who had willingly confirmed that the gentleman had driven off with a curricle in the direction of Hunsford and that it was now safely returned to the coach house.

  It did not take a military mind to conclude that an encounter may have taken place between Miss Bennet and his cousin, yet he failed to understand why this might cause Darcy such disturbance of mind, for they had both frequently met with the lady in the park over recent weeks, sometimes together, oft alone. What could possibly have occurred?

  The Colonel shrugged. He was a patient man, and he knew the value of luring his prey into a sense of security, to seize the most opportune moment, the element of surprise if you will, before launching his attack. Further, he mulled with some satisfaction on the weapon in his aunt’s study (a rather fine French cognac that was nigh on hard to acquire in these unstable times) that he had every intention of wielding upon his cousin when they separated from the ladies.

  ~o0o~

  Dining in company proved more challenging than Darcy had anticipated, and his hope of distraction in company came to naught. He was haunted by Elizabeth. If he pushed aside her angry voice, then his mind was filled with her presence: the weight of her in his arms, the pressure of her body against him, the beauty of her eyes as they stared into his, and finally the warmth as he had possessed himself boldly of her hand before pressing his lips to her smooth skin…