He strode away, cursing his body's betrayal. A little wit, a pair of big brown eyes and there he was, strangled in his small clothes. Thank heaven for long coats.
But she had looked so....... Standing in that muddy lane, her cheeks flushed, little wisps of hair clinging to her forehead beneath that cheaply-made bonnet, an apple in her hand, an Eve to his Adam.
He slapped his crop against his leg. What was happening to him? This was not what he was and he could not even blame her! She was friendly, witty, charming and had remarkably beautiful eyes, but he could be nothing to her and she obviously expected nothing - at least not at the moment. But how long would it be before before her appalling mother noticed his interest and started throwing the girl at him? It was bad enough when she tried to interest him in a girl he had never even spoken to. A gentlemen never raises expectations which cannot be met, Fitzwilliam.
He trudged onwards, his riding boots slipping in the mud and suddenly, it struck him forcibly that she was probably lonely. He had never met anyone like her, what chance was there that there was anyone else like her in this godforsaken backwater? He imagined her in a house with that mother and those three younger sisters, for he might not have talked to anyone at the Assembly but there was nothing wrong with his hearing. The elder girl had better manners and seemed to be no fool, but there was no liveliness there, no spark. He had seen Longbourn from the road and there scarcely seemed room for the whole family and a father, who according to local report, hardly ever left his library. At least at Pemberley there was peace and room to hide.
He had to avoid her. It was only fair to her.
It was nearly dark when he got back to Netherfield and handed Suleiman over to the care of his groom. He was cold and wet and it took a real effort to climb the stairs to his chamber to change for dinner. Lawson, a prince among valets, had secured hot water and he bathed thankfully, feeling sensation flooding back into his hands and feet. He bowed his shoulders for the jugs of warm water and knew he had no grounds for complaint, he had a life not one man in a hundred thousand could boast and he had vowed on his knees he would remember that.
As he came out of his room, he met Bingley in the corridor. "There you are, Darcy. Caroline was worried you had come to harm."
"I am sorry if I worried Miss Bingley. Suleiman cast a shoe."
Bingley put a hand on his arm. "Look here, Darcy," he began awkwardly. "I don't want to pry but, well, I can see you are troubled. If there were anything I could do - you would tell me, wouldn't you?"
To his horror, he felt his eyes sting. "I must apologise if I have seemed inattentive or...."
Bingley interrupted. "No, no, that's not what I meant. It's just... you know where I am if you need my assistance."
The intention was undeniably kind but the effect was the opposite of what was intended. He now felt all the burden of having imposed his unhappiness upon his friend. He had to conquer this, he had to. Tomorrow he would work harder, try harder. Exhaust himself body and mind so that he could sleep. And perhaps, if he were not so tired, he might be able to work out how to bring himself back under good regulation.
In pursuance of his vow he spent the following day with Bingley, walking the property, trying to share with him the years of experience his father and Pemberley's stewards had instilled in him. You belong to the land, just as much as the land belongs to you, Fitzwilliam. You owe it your best.
The estate was only leased but it was never too early to begin to learn your duty.
However, when they were driven back to the house by driving rain, they found that Caroline and Louisa had invited Miss Jane Bennet for tea and, by the obvious contrivance of her mother, the girl was now stranded.
What followed next had an inevitability to which he could only surrender. Elizabeth Bennet arrived, vital, unafraid and, most winning of all, genuinely concerned about her sister. She was in the house, there was no escape without rudeness so gross as to be completely beyond him. He could only listen, watch and admire.
God help him, he even admired her music. Yes, she ought to practise more, she confessed it herself; but there was a sincerity to her music, a sense that she played because she had something to say and not merely because it was expected of her. He caught himself wondering if he ought to send to London for the Amati he had not played since his father fell ill.
He dreamed of her, not just in his bed but in his life; walking beside the lake, in his library, at dinner, in Town and would often awake distressed, because so often she was hidden from him, in rooms he could not find, in houses whose address he had lost or never known.
He had read of such things and thought them only poetic abstractions, fit for women and sentimental fools. Now he was living those poems and he hated it. He did not know whether he wanted merely to bed her or whether he wanted to marry her but he did know both were impossible.
Her mother arrived, witless and improper, still trying to fix his interest in Jane, a sweet girl who quite obviously wanted nothing to do with him and to whom Bingley was beginning to pay an disquieting amount of attention. And her younger sisters, vapid, untaught and deeply stupid, he imagined them in his home, running screaming through the halls and felt vaguely sick.
You are a Darcy, Fitzwilliam. Never forget your duty to that name. What I want, what you want are nothing. Duty is everything.
She was sitting opposite, pale and embarassed and he thought he had never loved anyone so much.