The sting from that barely tolerable still lingers in her memory. Abounds. Taunting her in whispered sprigs that scrape away serenity with each aloof monosyllable his distaste casts in her direction. Displeasure and censure flick off his black eyelashes in bullseye darts while he observes her from a populated corner of the ballroom; his posture stern and stiff, his eyes bold, brooding, and unrelenting as they unstitch her flaws for acute inspection. Judgment. He unbinds the country stays Longbourne has fastened against her back to expose lack of pedigree and connection. Not with fingers, not with words, but with haughty, unforgiving self-righteousness. And silence.
Silence so direct yet deafening it fires musket balls from his closed lips. From his creased brow. No—neither Elizabeth nor her society meet his "elite" standards. Nor time. Nor conversation, apparently.
Hateful, pompous man, she grumbles inaudibly.
But while Elizabeth refuses to allow this Darcy-stinger to consume her, it does infect her...profoundly. With dislike that's implacable. to. the. core.
Perhaps his 'good opinion once lost, is lost forever,' she reflects, but my first impression once blemished, remains blemished always.
Obstinacy more than reason has hammered finality into the bricks of her mind regarding Mr. Darcy's personality. Unyielding Elizabeth remains in her opinion of him, contending that second-chance redemption for someone who thinks himself superior of everything and of everyone is—and forever will be—impossible. His arrogance is insufferable; and he, despite his wealth and prestige, is nothing but intolerable.
End of page. End of chapter. End of story, she concludes to herself with a huff.
"Take care, dear Lizzy," her father had remarked once when she was a child, his wire-rimmed spectacles peeking out from behind a folio of Shakespeare, "for little in this world heals worse than wounded pride. It can scar a person in acute degrees."
And perhaps Mr. Bennet was right.
Because now, when their paths cross, all she perceives is Barely Tolerable Snobbery adorned in a satin-trimmed waistcoat, cravat, and golden cuff links. All she feels is sorrow for Wickham, her retaliatory tongue uncoiling and hissing at first mention of Mr. Darcy—ready to accost, accost, accost.
And yet, when this same gentleman materializes between herself and Charlotte Lucas with a gallant bow and an unexpected proposal at the Netherfield Ball, Elizabeth finds herself at a loss. Surprise smothering wit against her throat like a scarf all too restricting. Her pronounced stammer suddenly stamping out the animated sharpness her voice usually betrays in answer to him.
Mr. Too Good For Country Misses and Public Assemblies wants to dance…with me?
"Why I—" Elizabeth's wide-eyed and blinking away shock-fog "—I had not thought that—" stumbling and staggering on coherency; words choking, choking, choking on rotten air too thick to breathe. "You certainly cannot—I know you're disinclined to—please understand that I—" she falters.
Oh, the shame! Elizabeth's flustered and floundering. Disdaining the hitch in her speech, abhorring the colour seeping into her cheeks…the heat! That awful, unpardonable heat.
"—I thank you, yes," her twitching lips blurt out at long last. "I am not otherwise engaged, sir."
Outrage pools in her stomach at the sound of her own mouth's blundering betrayal, but she sucks it back—folding it away beneath flowing chiffon fabric and civility—to lower her chin and curtsy. Resigning herself to a fate she once fervently promised to avoid…for she's just submitted to dance with Mr. Darcy.
What a fool, I am, what fool, she laments. What a bewilderment-knotted fool!
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'd originally only intended to write Darcy's thoughts preceding the big ask-her-to-dance moment, but I liked the parallelism/contrast of writing it from Lizzie's perspective as well. I can't decide if I should/will proceed or not. Anyway, thanks for reading! :)
Reviews are lovely.
xx Ashlee Bree