She was beautiful.
She had always been so, of course; not flamboyant, like Betsey, nor quietly handsome, like Jane and Cathy. No, she was her father's daughter, and with the haughtily well-bred manners and sharply critical eye came the sort of beauty that turned heads when she walked into a room. Yet it had never mattered before. Why should I care about my proud cousin? She certainly did not care for me. She might quarrel with Alexander or Betsey or Peter, but I, I was beneath contempt. I did not care, I knew her sort well enough, I knew that I was greatly her superior in all the ways that mattered. I had charm and cleverness and knowledge of the world, but stripped of her beauty and fortune, she had nothing of consequence.
Yet I could scarcely keep my eyes off her. Pride, temper, a sharp scathing wit; what were these to the charms of a pleasing, womanly figure, the white slope of shoulders and neck? I was no better than those fops who hung on her every word, for all that I concealed it better. I felt I had been struck a blow when I first set eyes on her this time, standing tall between her brothers. I had once stared directly into the sun, because Mrs Bingley had told me not to. It was much the same feeling. I was dazzled by her, and although I thought it would pass, as so many infatuations had, it only grew worse. I found myself admiring not only the fine slender lines of her hands but the strength in them — her eyes allured me not merely for the lustrous colour or heavy lashes, but the flash of spirit and intelligence.
More than one woman had imagined herself in love with me, I had taken advantage of it, I had enjoyed doing so. I was my father's child as much as she. I had seen love, but I had never known it. And yet — here I was, mad with it. She looked at me often, and I could easily detect that there was more than disdain in her gaze, a softness. She knew. Nothing mattered, as long as she was here, with me. Not that my sister had caught William Collins and would be mistress of Longbourn, nor that father had vanished again; nor that hers was not the only pair of brilliant eyes frequently observing me.
Still, there was disdain, there was derision, and I was determined to annihilate it. Surely I, with my knowledge and experience, could win over the heart of a sheltered girl? I took her for walks, admired Pemberley, entertained her small sister, read her favourite books with enthusiasm and interest. I confessed my tragic past, apologised for the sins of my parents, spoke feelingly of how insurmountable the gap between us was. I had never cared for poetry but the animation with which she defended Byron and Keats enticed me into spending hours in the library. My young cousin Elizabeth was everything charming in my mind as well as hers. Pemberley was, of course, splendid. My parents were two of the most worthless people in England and my misfortune in being born to them was incalculable. And so on and so forth.
I had always disliked Mrs Darcy, yet I discovered, as her daughter seduced me, that it was quite groundless. She was not malicious, but witty; not pretentious, but content. She was not flaunting her peculiar relationship with her husband, she was as fascinated by him as I was by her. That my vivacious aunt should love this severe, austere man seemed vastly unlikely, almost as unlikely as the equally austere Miss Darcy of Pemberley enchanting me. Beauty and wealth could only go so far. I was her nephew and I had never understood that before.
I had often boasted that I feared nothing, neither poverty nor beast nor man; but that was not strictly accurate. For as long as I could remember, I had been intensely afraid of my uncle, Mr Darcy. I didn't know why. There was none of the quick violence of my own father; my uncle was deliberate and remote. He was invariably quiet and soft-spoken; I had never heard him raise his voice. His temper was even and not easily roused. My current prosperity was due in great measure to his generosity. Yet I still had to restrain myself from jumping if he unexpectedly appeared near me. I could not conceive of how easily my cousins approached him, even little Elizabeth who frequently clambered up on his lap. My childhood awe of this tall imposing man had waned over time, but in its place came a dread I could not comprehend.
Even as she pressed her hand against her father's cheek and embraced him, she flinched from me. When we were together, she was cold and pale; but I once caught a glimpse of her, vibrant and flushed, as father and daughter eagerly dissected his newest acquisition. It was as if I had never seen the real Anne, but only a hint of a shadow, and there would never be anything else.
I was summoned to Mr Darcy's study towards the end of my visit. I passed a stranger, a young man of about my own age, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a familiar aristocratic cast to his features. A nauseatingly poised and wholesome creature, he nodded coolly to me as I entered my uncle's room. I met Mr Darcy's piercing blue eyes — her eyes — unsteadily, the dread coiling in my throat.
Without preamble, he said: "She is not for you."