A more foolhardy errand she would be hard pressed to come by. It was not every day that a lady held the hat of a man she had refused. How she came to be in possession of this article was a curious business indeed, but that unpleasantness was now fixed in the past, and so it was Mr. Darcy had quit her presence so quickly that he had quite forgotten the beaver topper he had placed upon a nearby chair.
Alas, it was not the only thing he had forgotten in his ill-timed intrusion upon her privacy when he decided to offend and insult her while asking for her hand in marriage, but she could not restore a man's civility as easily as she could restore his hat.
She, of course, had no great wish of seeing him again, especially following such an abysmal scene, but there somehow remained enough generosity in her spirit, no matter how wounded she might have been, that she would not allow him to suffer another humiliation in returning that day, not when his hopes had been so bitterly disappointed.
Following her declaration that she would not, could not be his wife and that he was the last man in the world she might be prevailed upon to marry, he had quit the room without so much as a backwards glance, likely keen on propelling himself back to Rosings with all the intensity that had brought him thither. She heard the door slam and immediately buried her face in her hands, hoping some unknown strength might make its way to her.
She had cried for nearly half an hour after he departed, recalling every particular of his cruelty toward her sister and of his prideful defense of the part he had played in keeping her and Mr. Bingley separated. She was sure a more hateful man could not walk the earth, but she would have been a simpleton to have not also spent many moments in contemplation of what a compliment he had given her and what her refusal had cost him if he indeed loved her as he claimed.
A few deep breaths later, she lifted her eyes to where he had stood, where the colour on his face had gone from a flush of passion to a sober white. Her gaze had next fallen to the small table whereupon he had laid his hat before he had lost himself in his avowal of ardent love.
She still could scarcely believe it and her mind turned every which way. He had behaved as if she expected his addresses. He had been assured of her acceptance of his suit. But how? What had she done to inspire any warmth from that quarter? She did her best to avoid Mr. Darcy; she could hardly abide him. He was everything ridiculous to her, and every time he looked her way, she was sure it was to meditate on her many faults, nothing more. It simply could not be that he nurtured any sort of lasting affection for her. But he had spoken that deceit was his every abhorrence, and, in truth, she found he hardly spoke at all. How much more weight should she give to the words of a man who used them so infrequently?
Perhaps she should believe that he loved her. Perhaps he was due that, but it was hardly helpful, for she surely would not love him! Earnest expressions mattered very little when coupled with such selfishness.
She drew another shuddering breath and moved to the mirror above the mantle to survey her appearance, making sure all evidence of unwanted tears was dashed away.
Returning his hat to Rosings seemed a sensible choice. It would provide her mind with some occupation. The short walk would be just the thing to renew her spirits and distract her from the unsettling knowledge that now plagued her. She would remain far enough from the house so that the Rosings party would not see her, and then she would return to the parsonage to promptly put herself to bed and think of how she might find a way to return to Hertfordshire as soon as may be.
She collected her bonnet and pelisse and crept out the side door. The unsettling thought that Mr. Darcy might be just beyond caused her to slow her steps, but she was soon convinced he could no longer be near and moved toward Rosings with quiet intention, her heart hammering wildly in her breast as if she was doing something wholly forbidden. She heard every twig snap and every crunch of the grass and gravel beneath her boots. She was profoundly aware of every time the breeze touched her curls, and she could not be easy in her own company. It felt as if she now existed in a new world, a world that had been created in the sitting room at Hunsford, a depiction of a future life she had not considered.
She thought of how her mother would behave if she had learned of the proposals from
Mr. Darcy. If an address from her cousin Collins had been particularly valuable to her mother, her refusal of her second suitor was as much a crime as refusing Croesus. Another offer might not come to her. She did not wish to dwell on that; a moment's anxiety was too much.
She had not prepared for rain. The sky had given no indication of it, but soon an ominous grey was overhead followed by the rumble of thunder. She straightened her shoulders and walked more determinedly, her posture rigid until it wasn't. She was usually quite sure of her steps and could not account for her sudden lapse in judgement. It had only to be the distress of the day and the earlier unexpected appearance of Mr. Darcy at the parsonage that had her so thoughtless and clumsy.
She next found herself mired in mud, her skirts pitifully caked in it, her boots of no use to her. She had fallen in such a way that she had landed on her wrist and it throbbed in aching protest. Mr. Darcy's hat had slipped too from her grip and now was upon the ground as desolate as she, its expensive exterior now more brown than black and surely of no great use to him as such. She would have laughed-- she longed to laugh-- but she could only cry at her rotten luck; there was surely no pleasure to be found in it.
It was not enough rain to render her entirely helpless, and, had anyone trespassed upon her solitude, it would have embarrassed her to no end. She was not one generally given to tears, but, as she had cried just earlier, she was of the mind to cry again. Where the cries from before had been of the quiet sort, the ones that emerged now were quite the opposite. Had she the care to feel regret for them, she might have, but instead she indulged her sorrow right there in the grove and sobbed until she felt sick and empty and absurdly foolish.
She cried once more for dear Jane's disappointment and then cried again for Mr. Darcy. As much as she detested him, she felt true contrition for speaking so abominably. And though she was surely justified in her refusal and he most deserving of it, it was awful that he offered for her out of love. It was not often a gentleman would do so, especially a man who, by all accounts, was worthy of her acceptance based on his name and fortune alone. No, her tears were shed because Mr. Darcy was not a better man. Had he been a better sort of man, she would very likely accept him. It might have been her honor to do so.
She finally tired of weeping and turned her attention to her swollen wrist, grimacing when she attempted to right herself, muttering when her efforts were woefully in vain. In a fit of temper, she kicked at the hat, only to be horrified when her eyes alighted on its owner some ways in the distance.
He was to her side before she could even say his name. She was finally able to utter that appellation when he had set her to rights by pulling her up from the ground as if she weighed nothing at all. She must have remarked on her wrist-- she could not remember in her horror-- for he turned it over for inspection and murmured in a low voice that he was sorry for it. She could only blink and flush and wish she was dead.
He stood so closely, far closer than he ever had before. Her throat thickened and, for a moment, she doubted her ability to draw a single breath. His appearance was decidedly less austere and he had genuine concern in his expression. His dark eyes arrested her -- they were not-- could not be red rimmed-- no! She felt a wave of shame course through her and stared now to the ground, willing herself not to wobble or stumble once more.
"Are you well?" His voice came out hoarsely.
She hardly knew how to answer him. She was not well. And more than that, she was mortified and ridiculous, muddied in the grove and found taking out her frustration on his blameless hat.
Her cheeks flamed mercilessly and she was absolutely certain her voice shook. "I am, sir, thank you."
"I see you have found my hat?" His tone was bland. Whatever he thought of thought of this fool's errand, it was not easily discernible.
She tried vainly not to sputter. "As you see."
"And you were kicking it because…?"
The shrewdness in his eyes gave way to another look entirely, and she felt wretched. She drew a hand over her face and murmured. "I was… it was…I am... I shall pay for it. I have pin money."
"No, Miss Bennet. No need. My man shall restore it."
She withdrew her hand and her mortification reigned anew. By his expression, she knew she had mud upon her face. She felt precisely where it was. Thankfully, he would not let her silently suffer and reached into his pocket to extract a very fine, very white handkerchief that she would soon ruin by her folly. She reached for it gratefully, but, before she could rightfully object, he was touching it gently to her face. Her cheeks had never been hotter. She felt the flush as it traveled to her bosom and was resentful for it. Perhaps he reveled in this humiliation. She lifted her eyes to him, wishing to glare, but his answering gaze was soft.
"All better," he finally said. He bent to retrieve his hat from its pitiful place in the mud and she nearly gaped at him in wonder, for the corners of his mouth had quirked up into what looked like the barest trace of a smile. "Do you need help returning?"
She needed to be dragged somewhere and put out of her misery, but she did not tell him this. "As long as there is not another patch of mud between here and the parsonage, I shall be able to manage."
"It looks like there is nothing but a patch of mud, Miss Bennet. I wonder how you avoided it before this misstep."
"I am generally a --"
"Very good walker, but it does not appear to have served you thus far. Allow me to escort you back."
She bristled at his words and implored, "Mr. Darcy, surely the very sight of me and how I just behaved... I am the last person in the world you would wish to assist. I have succeeded in my foolhardy errand. Your hat is restored to you-- now, I shall return on my own."
"Perhaps you are, but I do not think it wise--"
But she had already hastily taken her first step away from him and then another. How in the world had the grove turned into such a dreadful state? She felt herself begin to slide and then knew the horror of losing her balance again, just as a pair of arms came about her waist to work to steady her.
She turned in alarm and nearly smacked her nose against Mr. Darcy's chest, her eyes widening in panic as he too struggled to remain upright. It would have been comical to see him so humbled in usual circumstances, but her fate was quite joined with his, and, for the second time that day, she landed unceremoniously in the mud and very nearly on top of him. Thankfully, no additional harm had come to her wrist. She supposed she had Mr. Darcy to thank for that.
She had not expected what happened next, not in a thousand years. Mr. Darcy had laughed. At first it was a quiet and disbelieving chuckle, but soon he was wiping at his cheeks where she supposed tears of helpless mirth had fallen. She could not help but be amazed by such a show of emotion, from him of all people, and she felt her own bubble of laughter emerge as he apologized for his display before digging about for the handkerchief that he had used on her face mere moments before.
"I truly did not think I could be more humbled than I was this evening, but this is rich, Miss Bennet. Not only am I the last man in the world you might be prevailed upon to marry-- not only that, now I am as covered in mud as a pig and there is absolutely no hope of returning to Rosings unseen. Aunt will hear of it and then there shall be an inquisition to rival no other," he barked another laugh. "What a horrible end to this day."
"Mr. Darcy." She could not help but be broken by such a confession. She did not know what to say when he spoke so baldly. She had certainly not intended that he should join her in the mud, nor had she any intention of him proposing to her earlier. This all seemed a hopeless business.
"And let us hope we are not discovered because then the promise of a disgusting future would be yours in the form of a compromise. And neither of us would want that, would we, Miss Bennet? 'Twould be truly abhorrent."
Her eyes met his and she was able to see the odd and unreadable glimmer that always seemed to be present there. She swallowed and shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. She cradled her injured wrist and he remembered himself enough to slowly rise to his feet and help her to stand once more.
They walked for many moments in silence before she was safely to the garden gate. The rain still continued to fall but not as heavily as before. It was a good thing she had thought to grab her pelisse. Otherwise her dress would have been scandalously immodest and their predicament even worse.
Mr. Darcy had bowed when he quit her presence and she could not help but find it amusing and awful. That he should behave with any sort of propriety or ceremony after such a ridiculous parting was unbearable to her. That he should put his now ravaged hat atop his head was mortification itself. She averted her eyes when his back was turned, knowing the evidence of the spill would be all over his previously immaculate trousers. No, she must not watch him retreat just as he had no business watching her.
She entered the parsonage by way of the servant's entrance and frightened Hollis, the housekeeper. When that good woman had recovered from her shock, Elizabeth assured her that all was well.
"Hollis, there is nothing truly amiss. Mr. Darcy forgot his hat and I thought I might restore it to him. Only it began to rain and I believed myself to be quite equipped to run back so as not to get truly soaked. Well, it's as you see. .I have made myself ridiculous and my mother would be ashamed of me. If you might have Gemma sent to my room as soon as may be, I fear I may desperately need a bath drawn."
Poor Gemma had not known how to look-- the laundering of the simple muslin gown to its former state would be a fair share of work and there was no promise it might be pristine when it was all said and done. Elizabeth could only murmur her sympathy. Even dear Anna, the maid she shared with her sisters, had never had such a daunting task before her.
Elizabeth sank into the copper tub and closed her eyes. Where her thoughts had been on the number of gowns she had left for her stay, they now turned to the troublesome events from before. She promised herself she would not cry again and instead sighed heavily, attempting to banish all thoughts of proposals and dark eyes and surprising laughter from her mind.