She Walks in Beauty
By: Tiger Lily21
A/N: So today in my British Literature class we talked about the poem "She Walks in Beauty" and some people did a presentation on it, reading it aloud while showing clips from the most recent Pride and Prejudice movie. I hate that movie with a passion (I love the 1995 miniseries with Colin Firth, and I love the book, but the new movie makes me want to barf) but I loved the idea of putting the poem and the story together. I thought about it all through the rest of class and this scene rose up in my mind. So I'm writing it out and posting it. I hope you like it, as this is my first Pride and Prejudice fic.
Disclaimer: The poem is not mine. It was written in 1812 (according to my British Lit textbook; Wikipedia says 1814 but I'm inclined to go with the textbook, plus that fits better with the story) by George Gordon, Lord Byron. The characters from Pride and Prejudice are also not mine. They belong to Jane Austen. If they were mine, Darcy would be mine. So clearly, since he's not, they are not my characters. Just so you know, I am probably taking historical liberties with this little one-shot as I'm not sure exactly how Byron published his poems (I'm assuming in collections in books) or when those collections would have been published. I'm also kind of taking liberties with the Pride and Prejudice story, putting Darcy at Pemberly before he goes to visit Lady Catherine and meets Elizabeth again (and proposes for the first time). It just seemed right to have him there, and for all we know he might have gone back for a while instead of staying with the Bingleys in London all those months. If any of that bothers you, I suggest you stop reading this story now before you get annoyed. Otherwise, enjoy.
Fitzwilliam Darcy sat at his desk, poring over a pile of important papers. At least, he was trying to pore over them. Unfortunately, his mind continued to wander to a pair of dark laughing eyes. At last he sighed and pushed his chair back from the desk. It was no use. Eliza Bennet's eyes would not stop haunting him. He could not forget them, or the woman they belonged to. He had not seen her for some months, but her eyes, her face, her voice filled his thoughts day and night.
Georgiana noticed, if no one else did. She said nothing, but her smiles said that she knew something about her older brother and that she was glad of it. She had wandered into his study earlier that day and laid a book on his desk with a page marked. He had not bothered to look at it then. Now, unable to concentrate on his work, he picked up the small book bound in red leather. He read the title—"A Collection of Poems by Lord Byron" and flipped it open to the page she had marked. The title of the poem on the page was "She Walks in Beauty". Intrigued. Darcy began to read.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Elizabeth's image flashed into his mind again, with her dark and flashing eyes. He saw her again as she had been at the ball at Netherfield. She was, like the woman in the poem, a mixture of darkness and light with her pale skin, her raven hair, and that pale gown she had been wearing. That was the first time he had danced with her. He remembered the feel of her hand in his, the sound of her cheerful voice as she tried to make pleasant conversation. He wished—not for the first time—that he had spoken more with her, that he had Bingley's ability to talk to anyone about anything. Then perhaps, Elizabeth might have liked him more, might have spent her time at the ball with him instead of forcing him to look at her all evening and admire her from afar. Frustrated, he pushed her from his mind and turned back to the poem.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
He nearly shut the book in frustration. Again the lines had forced him to think of Elizabeth. Her eyes floated in his head, disembodied but sparkling as he had seen then when she spoke with her sisters or her friend Miss Lucas. He thought again of her hair, the silken raven curls that graced her head. What would it be like to touch those curls, he wondered before reprimanding himself. He would never find out what it would be like for two simple reasons: she did not like him and she came from a family that was socially below his. However much he admired her, however fine he found her eyes, it would be impossible for anything to come of it. He was a gentleman. He had duties to his sister and his family. He could not spend his time thinking of a girl from a poor family. But her eyes…
Berating himself for his foolishness, he turned back to the poem. He would finish reading it and then try again to work on the papers that still lay on his desk. Georgiana would be sure to ask if he had read the poem she'd marked and, for all it tormented him, he could not disappoint his little sister.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.
"Why do you haunt me!" he cried, unable to stand the pictures that played through his head without ceasing now: Elizabeth smiling, Elizabeth laughing, Elizabeth looking mortified while her sister played the pianoforte, Elizabeth sitting with her sister at Netherfield while Jane was ill, walking about the room with Caroline Bingley, standing with Wickham on the street in Meryton. The flash of anger at that last thought was a welcome relief to the other feelings that had been stirring in him. He was quickly coming to realize that he loved her, that he could not do without her in his life. Part of him longed to ride back to Meryton that instant, find her, and apologize for his rude behavior before begging her to marry him. Another part of him thought bitterly that she would never accept, that she might even laugh at him for such foolishness. God only knew what his aunt would say, or Caroline Bingley. And what of his cousin, Anne de Bourgh, his betrothed for as long as he could remember? What would happen to her if Elizabeth did say yes and marry him? Torn, he shut the book of poems and slammed it down on the desk.
I must control myself, he thought even as he pictured Elizabeth in a white wedding gown, a lacy veil covering her raven curls, her dark eyes shining with happiness as she joined him at the altar. I must be reasonable. I am a gentleman, not a wildly emotional schoolboy. I must control myself.
Still the words of the poem and the images they evoked burned in his mind. He found he could not return to his work, however hard he tried. Just as he was about to give up completely, there came a knock on the door.
"Come in," he called.
His manservant entered and handed him a letter. "From your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, sir," he said.
"Thank you," Darcy said. The manservant bowed and left the office.
Glad for another distraction, Darcy slit open the letter and read it. His cousin was going to Rosings Park to visit Lady Catherine and wanted him to come along. "I understand that her Mr. Collins has some guests with whom you are acquainted," he wrote, "Sir William Lucas, his daughter Maria, and a friend of the new Mrs. Collins, one Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
The thought of Elizabeth at Rosings Park with Lady Catherine both frightened and amused him. He could only imagine what his aunt must think. Like Lady Catherine, Miss Eliza was not one to keep her opinions to herself, nor was she one to allow anyone else to lord over her. He could practically see the look on his aunt's face.
Normally Darcy was not one to make split-second decisions, but after thinking of Elizabeth for the entire day, he jumped at a chance to see her again. Quickly he pulled out pen and paper and answered his cousin's letter, saying that he would be glad to come with him. Signing and sealing the letter, he stood up and started for the door. He stopped and picked up Georgiana's book on his way. He would give the letter to his manservant to post and then return the book.
He found Georgiana sitting at the pianoforte he had bought her. She stopped playing when he walked in and beamed at him.
"Hello, brother," she said. "What brings you here?"
"I came to return the book you lent me," he said.
Her smile widened. "Oh, did you enjoy the poem I marked?" she asked.
He hesitated, unsure what to tell her. "I found it very interesting," he said at last.
"I hoped you would," she said almost smugly. "The line about eyes made me think of your letters about the young woman you met while you were staying with the Bingleys. You said she had very nice eyes."
"She does," said Darcy, picturing them as he spoke. "She has quite lovely eyes."
Georgiana smiled and started playing again as her brother left the room to prepare himself for seeing the woman who belonged to those very nice eyes.