It took Elizabeth a few drowsy seconds and a very startled gasp to remember why she was waking up in an unfamiliar, mauve room. Sighing heavily she pushed the covers away and walked over to the window. The view overlooked the side yard of Rosings and she thought that if she looked very closely she could spot the smoke curling up from the parsonage's chimney. Although she knew it could have just as likely been a pillar of fog creeping up over the damp, misty countryside. Unawares she wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. She nearly laughed that she should be missing the antics of her cousin and the chatter of Maria so much.
Last night after supper the evening had dragged on as though pulled by a lame mule. The gentleman had lingered long enough to hear Georgiana play a couple sonatas, excusing himself shortly thereafter. But comfort was not to be enjoyed even once his imposing figure had left. Georgiana had swung back and forth between playing morose melodies and apologizing to Elizabeth for—Elizabeth had lost count of how many things exactly: her Aunt Catherine, her miserable mood, her audacious selection of gowns to loan her. The list dragged on as indefinitely as the evening. Futilely Elizabeth had tried to steer Georgiana's thoughts into other paths, to reassure her that all was well and at last had simply hugged her and pretended that the storm had made her especially fatigued and she craved nothing more than a bed and sleep.
The bed had come but sleep had not. For hours Elizabeth had listened to the thunder shake the roof and wondered at the odd story Lady Catherine had unceremoniously divulged. With no real information but the patchwork tidbits shared by her ladyship or overhead the week earlier, Elizabeth could only surmise one thing: that Georgiana considered the sudden marriage of her former lady companion to be both tragic and somehow her fault. But in all the apologies of last night, Georgiana had not even alluded to this Mrs. Annesley. Of all the things on which Elizabeth would have liked more explanation she was left with nothing but curiosity and a feeling of powerlessness. For she felt certain that if her friend would simply open her heart on this matter she would be able to assuage the culpability and charm Georgiana into smiling over a match of love instead of convenience. Elizabeth had preferred to muse about this enigma because it saved her from the puzzle that was Mr. Darcy.
What sort of man defended the actions of a nobody like Mrs. Annesley or a steward and yet despised the silly pretentions of her matchmaking mama or the lowly squire station of her father? Who reneged his attentions to a lady one week and the following week reprimanded his imposing aunt for doing the very same thing? In Elizabeth's mind he was a conundrum of the worst kind—the kind she could not figure out. A conundrum she still could not decipher even in the lightness and freshness of morning. Throwing her hands up she walked away from the peaceful, foggy scene and resolved again not to think about that man. She had failed last night and she would not fail again this morning.
One of the maids had already brought up her dress, cleaned and pressed, and not wanting any assistance or fuss Elizabeth quickly buttoned it up herself and hurriedly twisted her thick hair into a simple knot. It did for church most Sundays and it could do for a breakfast at Rosings. Smiling at the wet, sunny grounds and her surprisingly rested-looking appearance she fled from the bed chamber to the unexpectedly airy breakfast room. Unfortunately it was occupied with only one other person—and it was not the Darcy she had hoped to run into before returning to the Collinses.
"Good morning Miss Bennet."
Elizabeth curtly nodded at Mr. Darcy. He sat back down and flapped open a newspaper in front of his face. She poured herself a cup of tea and grabbed a piece toast from the sideboard. Hesitatingly Elizabeth seated herself across from him. With any luck he would read during the entire meal. Fortune was not her companion though or grace her ally.
"At Netherfield you preferred coffee to tea in the mornings Miss Bennet," he observed, folding his paper and setting it beside his plate.
The unprompted comment had stopped her mid-sip and some tea escaped her agape mouth, dribbling down her chin. His expression remained bland, a stark comparison to her colorful one.
"Are your preferences seasonal or is the tea in Kent more to your liking?"
Elegantly, embarrassedly she swiped the tea away and summoning her courage, replied, "All preferences are seasonal, Mr. Darcy. Tastes are by nature determined by our surroundings. Do you think any Englishman really prefers port to claret? Or gin to wine? Our palates are the slaves to what is within our reach."
She hardly knew what she had said by the time she had finished. Her tongue had trusted her wit to carry her along; her attention occupied by his probing gaze. He did not immediately reply and so Elizabeth took a bite of her toast. She scanned the large room, seeking out a distraction from his dark eyes.
"I might agree with you Miss Bennet."
She shot her bright eyes to his face. The haughty inscrutability of it made her nervous and at the same time emboldened her. Something about the curve of his mouth taunted her.
"Might Mr. Darcy?"
"Yes, I might agree with you. I certainly agree with you about the superiority of claret and wine to port and gin. Although I cannot side with you that it is our surroundings alone that dictate our tastes. You forget that what is without the reach of one man is within the reach of another, though they stand in the same place. Means alter the availability and abundance of selection. A wealthy man has a longer reach than a poor man."
"That is as it happens, sir, but you are forgetting one crucial point. I did as well and so I must amend my original statement."
"Pray enlighten me."
A smile teased around the corner of his mouth at Elizabeth's unwitting arched brow and tilted head.
"Preference is not only based on what we can acquire but what we care to acquire. Experience plays as much a role as availability. And in my experience, good coffee is much harder to come by than good tea. I am very pleased I did not venture out and go with my bias for coffee merely because there is a pot within my grasp."
"You are absolutely right this time Miss Bennet. Experience makes all the difference. It even supersedes desires."
The sudden drop in his tone suddenly made her wonder if they were really discussing their palates and not their hearts. She grew uncomfortable under his resolute look. But whatever he was truly thinking or referring to he did not seem willing to say more. Soon he turned back to his newspaper. Quickly Elizabeth finished her tea, scalding her throat.
As she excused herself from the table, Georgiana came in. With haste and resolve Elizabeth declared she would be setting out for Hunsford. Her friend cried out that she need not rush off so soon. Polite but firm Elizabeth stayed true to her decision and Georgiana conceded, demanding in her simple, timid way that Elizabeth at least take the carriage.
All this was done in the presence of Mr. Darcy and although he did not look up again from his paper, even in her hurry Elizabeth knew he was listening more than he was reading. For as Elizabeth begrudgingly accepted the ride, he stood and stunned both ladies by offering to accompany Miss Bennet to the parsonage himself. He had already planned on leaving and using the Rosings livery this morning, seeing her safely off at Hunsford's gates would not disrupt his plans and in fact permit him to depart at the predetermined hour. Elizabeth objected but was ignored by the brother and more than pressed to agree by the sister.
Much too soon she found herself seated again across from Mr. Darcy. The sticky wheels rolled loudly in the fresh mud as the carriage trundled to the parsonage. Afraid her nerves and discomfort would soon best her she decided to speak up.
"If you are premeditating any further inquiries into my tastes, Mr. Darcy, I should warn you that it will prove rather dull. And without any inducement I will tell you in the strictest confidence that I prefer a plain dish to ragout."
She laughed conspiratorially when she said this, but the smile on her lips abruptly faded into a grim expression at the frown on her companion's brow. She leaned back as he leaned forward.
"Miss Bennet, there is much that could be said between us—and perhaps even more that should not be said—but regardless of what your feelings may be for me, I feel honor-bound to justify my actions to you."
Despite her earlier musings, she suddenly realized she would rather he remain a puzzle than to endure this conversation. Darting her eyes out the window she whispered, "Please, sir, it is best to let some things remain in the dark."
"And others to come forth into the light. I had thought of writing you a letter, but I knew this morning that I would rather see your reaction than wonder what it might be should you understand my motivations only in print."
"Really, you have no need to feel obligated to offer me any apology or information."
"Please, Miss Bennet," he nearly interrupted. "Obligation has never compelled me to say anything where you are concerned."
Elizabeth slowly turned her wary eye on him. His eyes and posture possessed all the animation they had lacked last night. The same sheen of energy glowed on his face as the day he had withdrawn his declaration. It was enough to silence any more of her protestations. He took the cue.
"Believe me, I am as unused to justifying my actions as I am to needing to retract my words." He must have noticed the sudden color in her cheeks for he quickly continued, "I know I said yesterday morning that I would not broach this uncomfortable subject on my own account but I cannot in good conscience sit in your company and know you think ill of me—and perhaps better of others."
Elizabeth struggled to maintain a sense of equanimity under his ardent scrutiny, but fidgeted terribly as he paused to watch her reaction. She knew he awaited some reply. With difficulty she told him she was listening.
"Although I do not entirely understand you, Mr. Darcy," she frankly added.
He laughed wryly, swiping his hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic signal of agitation. "No I imagine you do not, and that is my fault Miss Bennet." His hand dropped and some of the light in his eyes did too. "I suppose I should thank my aunt for sharing with you the story of Mrs. Annesely. It is a topic I wish I never had to speak of again but the nature of her elopement and the character of her husband complicate the issue at hand. It is why I was late to the picnic. Lady Catherine learned of the marriage only that morning. She, like me, was less than pleased."
"Because he is a steward?"
"A steward of an earl's estate is a respectable station and perhaps an elevation for Mrs. Annesley, who is a widow of small means." He could not entirely hide his contempt at her assumptive disdain, at the way her eyes had flashed with accusation for his pride. She shifted with unease again but did not avert her gaze.
"This steward, a Mr. Crolls was once the steward of Cumberbtach," Mr. Darcy's eyes narrowed on her, as both their minds thought of Sir Gregory. She managed to hold Mr. Darcy's stare without too much fluster or flush. "My aunt disapproves so heartily of the baronet that she disapproves of Mr. Crolls."
Elizabeth composed her face and measured her voice with caution. "It seems more than unjust to dislike a servant solely because he used to be under the employ of another."
"Justice has little to do with these matters. Yet, Mr. Crolls is not without fault. Suffice it to say he has more than the usual amount of vices and I could forgive or ignore them all if he had not involved Georgiana this time. "
He leaned again toward Elizabeth who involuntarily scooted to the edge of the carriage bench, her curiosity winning over her discomfort.
"Why does Miss Darcy blame herself—why does she disapprove of the match?"
Mr. Darcy studied Elizabeth for a moment, her blush ever rising. Why could she not demure as Jane would surely have done and claimed it was none of her business? Curse her fickle need to know! She settled back into the chaise as the carriage came to a halt. Both turned their faces. The parsonage loomed before them. Sun broke through the low-hanging fog with blinding glitter over the cottage's roof.
"Perhaps a letter would be better," Mr. Darcy muttered almost to himself, drawing her attention back to him. He looked resigned and distant. "I do not know how much to tell you or how little, but yes, as you have astutely gathered, my sister feels guilty that Mrs. Annesley is married to such a man. It relates to, to a tragedy she herself nearly suffered this last summer."
Elizabeth opened her mouth, ready to confess that Georgiana had confided in her about Wickham (for what else could the near-tragedy be?) but Mr. Darcy in an unexpected surge of feeling, asked, "Will you read a letter should I write it? Will you give it due credit, though it comes from a man you despise?"
She could not look at him. That would be impossible. Elizabeth could not see how beautiful, how tragic, his handsome face appeared when all pretense and pride had been cast aside by the vulnerability of unrequited love. Grasping out at the carriage door, she nodded and in a tight voice replied.
"I do not know what you wish to accomplish. I already know of Mr. Wickham's dealings with your sister. She told me herself."
"She did?"
Again Elizabeth nodded, her pale fingers cold against the door.
"I will read your letter." She paused and turned to him. "I do not despise you Mr. Darcy. How can I? I am only lately realizing how little I even know you."
He said nothing and she could say no more. In a flurry of movement, she alighted from the carriage and ran up the parsonage steps. The simple blunders and poor manners of her cousin fell upon her in pleasant relief as soon as she entered the door. Foolish men were much less tiring than clever ones.