Chapter Twenty-One: Returning to Rosings
Mr. Darcy hadn't intended to return. He had fixed on riding till he was quite hopelessly lost; he had always found that such rides cleared his mind, though caused quite a panic among those he had left at home. But even so, there he was, his stallion approaching Rosings at a gentle trot. He had been furious with his aunt—angrier than he had ever been at Elizabeth even when she mercilessly insulted him—but some of his resentment had begun to gave way. It wasn't a completely ridiculous supposition, as Elizabeth herself had explained how such an idea had gotten into her head. And even he had been violently opposed to allowing his feelings to overcome his duty to his family initially, and his aunt, with none of these partial sentiments towards Elizabeth, could not be expected to behave similarly. He could not entirely pardon her, but there was at least some justification—enough that he could face her.
He leapt off his horse, with the stable before him, as the stable boy approached. The horse was led off, and Darcy slowly strode towards Rosings Hall on foot. The house always looked very handsome at dusk from his vantage point; the sun illuminated its windows, and with a backdrop of golden and pink streaks behind it, he thought the prospect almost equal to one at Pemberley. His favorite garden was a little ways off, only halfway across the lawn from where he stood; throughout his annual visits to Rosings at Easter, he had always found walks about it very invigorating (though certainly second to wild, aimless rides on horseback).
The pain of rejection still coursed through his veins, though it had considerably lessened. Any anger that he had for Elizabeth he believed to be almost entirely gone, as he found Mr. Wickham a much more suitable object of his contempt.
The garden was very well-tailored; it was surely how everyone wished their garden to appear; but it had something wanting. There was something of wildness and disarray which was not present, and which made it all seem superficial. Superficial was generally the best adjective that Mr. Darcy could think of when describing Rosings; that, and 'gaudy' was another favorite of his. He attempted to direct his thoughts to something not related to Elizabeth; but it seemed that every topic led back to it. The flowers, the twilight, the surrounding wood; it all screamed 'Elizabeth' to him; would he ever be able to look at his aunt's home as he had before that fateful day?
He had decided on intently studying his boots, as there was nothing much related to Elizabeth about them. They certainly were not as lovely as she was. He infinitely would have preferred her company to that of his boots. But what was he thinking now? Madness! Comparing Elizabeth to boots? What kind of reverie was that! He looked up, and when his eyes had focused on his surroundings, realized that he was not alone.
"How do you do, Mr. Darcy?" asked Anne politely with a slight nod of the head.
Mr. Darcy returned the gesture, and replied that he was perfectly well—which was quite a lie. Though he had known Anne since infancy, he had never truly had any confidence with her. Knowing one nearly all of one's life does not necessarily inspire intimacy; his and Mr. Wickham's relationship was a prime example. He examined his intended—her slight features, her grave countenance, her pale skin. He had never truly imagined himself married to her; he was a little ashamed to admit that she had never meant anything to him. If only she were Elizabeth instead! But there he went again—comparing what was and what could never be; and though never was a very strong word, he did think it appropriate.
"It is a little chilly," Mr. Darcy remarked after some silence, "should you not be inside? You do not want to catch cold."
"Oh," responded Anne unconcernedly, "the fresh air will do me well. If Mrs. Jenkinson or Mama knew, they should be furious, of course." She then blushed furiously and looked away.
"I shan't tell them you were here, then," Mr. Darcy assured her. She had not the power to look at him again, but he could discern a faint smile from his reply.
"Will you sit with me?" Anne asked with some boldness regained, gesturing to a nearby bench. Mr. Darcy acquiesced. She always spoke very softly, and seemed as if it took all of her energy to utter a syllable. It reminded him vaguely of his sister, Georgiana; she always acted so around those whom she was not intimately acquainted with; though during tête-à-têtes with his sister she was always quite lively and spirited. It was the latter side of her which reminded him of Elizabeth—but then he remembered that he mustn't think of Elizabeth.
They sat, with darkness slowly descending upon Rosings. As he glanced back at the great house, he saw all of the windows aglow from the lighted candles, and a slight crescent moon hovering above it. Mr. Darcy very much wished to be left alone; but he pitied Anne. He always had, ever since she had taken ill; he was sorry that any partial feelings he may have had towards her were out of sympathy, and not true compassion; but so it was.
"You know, Mr. Darcy," Anne ventured bravely after a short coughing fit proceeded by more silence; "Our families have always been great friends. Mama and Aunt Anne were always so close—but of course, you know that. What I mean is—well—we have never been great friends. Is it not—well—peculiar?"
"I suppose one may call it peculiar. But as we are both so very different, it is not so much of a wonder."
"We are very different, aren't we?" replied Anne, her voice trailing off till it blended in with the serenity of the night. "It is becoming quite dark. I must return to the house, or I shall not be able to see. Good night, Mr. Darcy."
"Good night, Miss de Bourgh."
Mr. Darcy listened carefully to the light footsteps of Anne's departure; and when he was certain she was well out of sight, quitted the garden himself. As he ascended the steps which led to the front entrance of Rosings, he supposed he should have offered to escort her; but he was quite absorbed in his own thoughts, and had only been half-listening to the small sort-of conversation which Anne had attempted at. He knew that he would not be able to sleep at all that night; how could he possibly? The occurrences of that day would certainly be impressed into his memory forever. He would look back on it as the worst day of his entire life—and he supposed that he should have been relieved it was almost over. Even then, though, it was all only a memory; yet it seemed much more vivid than one.
As he contemplated this, he once again crossed paths with another. It was his aunt. She seemed very pleased to see him, which was quite a difference from the last time they had encountered each other.
"Darcy," she said, neither gently nor scornfully, "Where have you been all day?"
"Riding," he stated matter-of-factly, which was not so far from the truth.
"Hmm—you do fancy long rides, don't you? Your mother was very fond of horses too, you know. When we were girls there was a white mare named—well! I suppose that is not important. But I do wish to speak with you."
Mr. Darcy followed his aunt into the drawing room and she invited him to sit. She did not seem angry, which was a relief. Whenever she mentioned his mother, she was certain to be in very good humor.
"I do believe, Darcy, I owe you an apology," she began. This was especially astonishing to him, as he had never believed apologies within her power.
"Of course you know what I allude to; you have always been bright. But I must say I am heartily sorry for supposing you were engaged to that poisonous Bennet girl. Certainly, it must have been quite detrimental to you for me to have even supposed it possible. But I have since come to a right way of thinking; it has only ever been a fanciful idea of those Bennets, who for some reason thought it uncannily clever to mention it to me. Why, I have no idea. You know, I shouldn't have expected any better from country folk like them. And Elizabeth Bennet! I had always known there was something distrustful about her; always lacking proper manners. And she is not even handsome! I am quite shocked now at my supposing you could ever fancy her. Terrible, dreadful girl; pretended to be quite appalled by my confrontation when she is certainly the very cause of my being deceived!"
Mr. Darcy, though having been recently exposed to a dose of Elizabeth's lack of good manners himself, found that such comments did not flatter his vanity. In spite of some natural resentment, he still had some warm feelings for her; and all of his love for her easily forgave her remarks—even though his head knew he ought to forget her, and had to.
"Indeed, you are quite forgiven," interrupted Mr. Darcy, not particularly wishing her speech to be drawn out any longer.
"I am glad we are friends again. I feared that you had left for good when I didn't see you at all today. Fitzwilliam will be glad to know you shall stay a little longer."
Mr. Darcy attempted to seem pleased, and then excused himself, declaring that he was very tired. There could have been nothing further from the truth as his latter comment, for his head still swirled and spun with ideas which would keep him conscious throughout the night. He fancied some liquor might do him good; and then perhaps he would write a letter to his sister. Writing letters was another excellent way of relieving stress. In fact, Mr. Darcy perhaps thought he might be able to get over his rejection tolerably soon, as it seemed that there were many things one could do which relieved stress.
