Ugh, after many attempts at getting this chapter up, let's hope this works! Many thanks to LucyFoudre for her excellent editing work as always :)
Chapter VI
"Oh, Lizzy, please do go down and spend time with the others. I can certainly do without you for a few hours."
"Is that a delicate hint that you want me to leave you alone?" Lizzy teased.
"Not at all!" Then, she looked contrite. "Perhaps, a little. 'Tis not that your company is distressing, but, Lizzy, you must admit that you are restless. You are fidgeting quite a bit, and it is rather difficult to rest when you do so. Why do you not join the Bingleys and their guests?"
The answer to this inquiry, though elusive to Jane, was painfully obvious to Lizzy. Her sister had lain abed when her mother and sisters came to call the previous day. Lydia was, naturally, still angry at her sister and had decided to align herself with Caroline Bingley to see how many not-so-subtle references they could make to all areas in which Lizzy was supposedly lacking. She had thought to seek Mr. Darcy as an ally, if not to defend her than to at least silently commiserate with her. He, however, seemed much colder than he had been in the library the previous afternoon and stood on the far corner of the room turned decidedly away from the conversation. Trying in vain to catch his eye, she realized to her great embarrassment that Mr. Darcy was avoiding looking in her direction. He eventually found a seat far from everyone else and paged through a book, not attending to the conversation.
To Lizzy's initial relief, her mother had not said more than the customary greeting to Mr. Darcy until the gentleman made a strange remark in response to her desperate attempt to make light of her mother's tasteless conversation.
His resonant voice came unexpectedly from the corner of the room in response to her. "I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love."
Concealing her surprise, she replied in a vigorous attempt to remain cheerful. "Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away."
Her eyes met his briefly, and he smiled wanly, saying nothing more.
Her mother decided to use that opportunity to encourage Mr. Darcy's supposedly fledgling affections for her second eldest daughter. "Mr. Darcy, would you not say that my dear Elizabeth looks quite well today? Such a lovely rose to her cheeks."
Mr. Darcy's cheeks flamed, but he did not look at any of them. He put down his book on his chair and stalked out of the room without a word.
Lizzy had been mortified, partially by her mother's behavior and partially by that of Mr. Darcy. How can he be so mercurial?
Having remained in the room long after the rest of the party had left, she curiously peaked at the book Mr. Darcy had been reading—a volume by Coleridge. He had not closed the book, and she looked at the last page he had been reading. "Dejection" had been the name of the poem, and Lizzy nearly laughed at the irony of the title matching her spirits. She read the stanzas she presumed Mr. Darcy had been reading before he so rudely left.
There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
The words had left her feeling rather bereft, and she felt almost as if she had invaded Mr. Darcy's privacy. She had dropped the book unceremoniously as if it had burned her and fled the room.
Attending to the present, she smiled at Jane and took her sister's hands. "You are correct, my dearest. Why should I not?"
Jane nodded in satisfaction, and Lizzy kissed her forehead. "I pray you shall rest well in the absence of my infernal fidgeting."
The drawing room felt like hostile territory when Lizzy entered to find them looking up at her from their game of loo. It was no surprise. The Bingley sisters had with each subsequent day made her feel increasingly less welcome. Their manners had become noticeably perfunctory, and Miss Caroline Bingley had a tendency to look at her as though she were about to steal something. Mr. Bingley, she had come to realize, was too fickle to properly defend his guest in spite of his geniality. She had hardly heard a word from Mr. Hurst in the duration of her stay, and Mr. Darcy, the only person that she might deem a friend and ally in the room, did not spare a glance her way.
"Miss Elizabeth," Mrs. Hurst's voice was flat, "would you care to join us for a hand of loo?"
"No thank you. You are very kind, but I should not like to interrupt your play. I may have to return to my sister shortly. Please worry yourselves not. I shall entertain myself with a book," she said taking a seat next to a table with some books stacked upon it.
"Do you prefer reading to cards?" asked Mr. Hurst with a little frown. "That is rather singular."
So that is what the man's voice sounds like, mused Lizzy. She suspected his question to be rather rhetorical, so she remained silent. Miss Bingley, however, decided that this was not enough commentary on another one of Lizzy's many unseemly eccentricities, and spoke up, "Miss Eliza Bennet despises cards. She is a great reader and takes no pleasure in anything else."
"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," replied Lizzy. "I am not a great reader, and I take pleasure in many things."
Lizzy hoped that she had put an end to their focus on her.
"In nursing your sister, I am sure you take pleasure," said Bingley with a smile, "and I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well."
Even if he would not check his sister's rudeness, she was grateful for his kindness. "Thank you, Sir. She has made progress today, and I believe her fever to be completely gone."
Mr. Bingley walked toward the table where she was browsing the books there. "Please let me know if you would like me to fetch other books," he offered generously and then laughed. "I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit, but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever looked into."
Lizzy smiled at him, pleased that such an earnest man fancied her beloved Jane. "I assure you, Sir. I can certainly make do, but I commend you for your gallantry."
He bowed to her, and she selected the only familiar book from the pile—the one Mr. Darcy had been reading the previous day.
"I am astonished that my father should have left so small a collection of books," cried Miss Bingley indignantly. "What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!"
"It ought to be good. It has been the work of many generations." Mr. Darcy looked at Lizzy briefly as he said this, and it made her angry.
"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books," Miss Bingley tittered.
"I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these. I hope to see illiteracy irradiated and a book in every home in my lifetime."
This comment vexed her for it was difficult to maintain her anger at him when he expressed such admirable sentiments.
Miss Bingley must have taken this as a good way to end her deluge of flattery for she returned her attention to Lizzy. "And, what have you selected to read from my brother's slim pickings, Miss Eliza?"
"Just a small collection of Coleridge's poems. I particularly like 'Dejection: An Ode,'" she said, looking at Mr. Darcy to see if he would react.
She wanted him to look at her. His coldness felt unjustified, but simultaneously she worried over what she might have done, afraid that she had finally, unforgivably offended the man in some way.
To her gratification, he did react. He shot her a startled glance, and when his eyes met hers, he colored ever so slightly and looked back to his cards.
"Well, I have never heard of such a thing. It is clearly not a book read by fashionable society," Miss Bingley said with a confidence Lizzy almost pitied for being so misguided.
With another insult given, Miss Bingley decided to let the conversation rest a while. Lizzy heard nothing but the sound of shuffling cards and the crackle of the fire for several minutes before her most appreciated respite was interrupted.
"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" inquired Miss Bingley enthusiastically. "Will she be as tall as I am?"
"I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller." He looked over at her again, and she could not understand why he would seemingly ignore her one moment and mention her unwarranted in the next.
"How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite."
Mr. Darcy frowned at this, and she felt as if she could read his thoughts. One thing Lizzy had noticed within the first several hours of her stay at Netherfield was that Miss Bingley seemed to be the type of woman Mr. Darcy had described to her that day in Longbourn Park. She obviously did not know Georgiana very well yet expected that adulation of the sister would bring the favor of the brother. The mention of Georgiana, of all things, softened her feelings toward Mr. Darcy who could not be enjoying such a display.
"It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are."
"All young ladies accomplished! My dear brother, what do you mean?"
"Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished."
Darcy finally decided to add his voice to the proceedings. "Your list of the common extent of accomplishments has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are truly accomplished."
"Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley.
Lizzy wanted to roll her eyes. "Then, you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman."
"Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it," said Mr. Darcy. His gaze was roving her face as if he did not know precisely where to look.
"Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant. "No one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word. And besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half-deserved."
Miss Bingley devotedly punctuated this statement by standing from the table and walking directly in front of Mr. Darcy's line of sight.
"All this she must possess," added Darcy who, in spite of his stoic expression, seemed as amused by this as Lizzy was. "And to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading."
The last was said was a glance at her once again, and she flushed. What was he after?
"I am no longer surprised at your knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing any." Her voice was fiercer than she had intended, but her frustration with Mr. Darcy was becoming intolerable.
"Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all this?" he retorted.
"I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe, united," she said with barely concealed scorn. She was certain that he was teasing her in some way, but his present behavior and general propensity for making her feel woefully inadequate disallowed Lizzy from taking such a jest in the humor with which she was certain it was intended.
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley clearly took umbrage with this statement and wasted no time in having their protestations known.
Mr. Bingley, in his mercy, turned to Lizzy with an apologetic smile. "Miss Elizabeth, would you grace us with a song on the pianoforte?"
Lizzy nodded and attempted not to appear shocked when Mr. Darcy offered to turn her pages.
She sat down at the piano and composed herself, running her palms down her skirt. She felt Mr. Darcy's presence at her side before she saw him, and it made her shiver slightly.
Darcy watched her smooth down her skirts and select a piece of music from what was sitting before her. He cursed himself for his impulsive decision to turn pages for her. She was not looking at him and from his position by her side, the long curve of her neck was directly in his line of sight.
He felt a burst of longing and squeezed his fists at his sides. Why did he feel so out of control these days? The past two nights he had been plagued by unchaste dreams of the lovely woman sitting before him, and they had rendered him nearly senseless in her presence. Every arch of her brow or quirk of her lips or pert comment brought back memories of the passionate Miss Bennet of his dreams. All of this was unfortunately aided by the fact that he had once seen her in her nightclothes, and unbeknownst to him, he had remembered her appearance that terrible night more vividly than he had thought.
He moved slightly toward her as she began to play and caught a glance at her face. Her cheeks were becomingly rosy, yet her countenance betrayed a somber mood.
"Are you well, Miss Bennet?" he spoke quietly to avoid the seemingly impeccable hearing of Miss Bingley.
"Do I not appear well, Mr. Darcy?" She kept her eyes trained on the music in front of her.
He suppressed a grin at the archness in her voice. "No, Miss Bennet, I am afraid you do not."
"I thank you, Sir, for your continued frankness on the subject of my appearance."
The comment disconcerted him, and he did not know how to respond, deciding instead to change his approach. "Are you feeling well? You do not seem to be feeling sociable this evening. I merely would like to ascertain if I could be of service in anyway."
"I could say the same to you for you most certainly did not appear sociable yesterday nor today."
He was grateful she could not see how flushed his face had become. "Yes, but as we have established, I am—by my own sister's description—taciturn and shy."
Her playing became noticeably louder, and he startled slightly when she muttered, "The page please."
He turned the page, and they were silent for a few moments before she spoke. "'Tis strange then, Sir, that I have only truly felt your supposed shyness firsthand these two days past. I had gathered from our previous interactions that you did not find me to be intimidating nor a stranger, yet was I mistaken in thinking that you were seeking to avoid me yesterday?
"Or is it that you were not shy, but you happened to be offended by my words or behavior in some way. I am surprised I had not offended you before yesterday, Sir, though you seem to be rather capricious in deciding to aid me presently when I might have preferred aid only several minutes ago."
"I—I…" he began, attempting to somehow to excuse his behavior without revealing the source of his discontent. "I must apologize, Miss Bennet, for giving you the false impression of antipathy. Your mother was present yesterday, and I believed that you had told me to show you no preference in front of her. I am deeply sorry if my disinclination to speak caused you distress."
She stumbled over the next couple measures of music before composing herself. "I was not distressed so much as confused. I do appreciate your good memory of my advice, but I daresay you did your job too much credit. You left the distinct impression that you were heartily disgusted by the Bennet family, and I assure you Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst noticed."
He winced. He had been disgusted with some of the Bennets. Mrs. Bennet had been crass and the younger sisters obnoxious. "I apologize sincerely. I did not consciously intend to insult you or your family, and I very much regret Miss Bingley's lack of hospitality. I can well understand how grating her comments can be."
Her shoulders relaxed somewhat, and he wished he could see her entire face. "And, might I presume her rather oblivious comments about Georgiana were the cause of your ill humor this evening?"
Miss Bingley's fawning over Georgiana did bother him somewhat, but his vexation helped distract him from the more potent cause of his displeasure—namely, his intense attraction to the woman who was only inches from him.
"Yes," he breathed.
"May I ask what precisely the nature of your anxiety about Georgiana?"
She turned to him for a moment, and his face must have expressed bewilderment for she quickly added, "I shall not compel you to speak, but in honor of the candid nature of our discourse, I would like to offer you the opportunity to speak if you wish."
As always when speaking with her, his first instinct was to bare himself of his burdens and speak freely. It, however, struck him as too intimate—too much like a lover—to share such confidences and receive comfort from her. He could not begin to think of her in that way. He could not afford to marry obscurely and shed light on the Darcy family nor could he even think of marrying in to such an unstable family when Georgiana required stability.
What was he doing? He only had a couple dreams about the woman and was now thinking about marriage. The idea was absurd! Miss Bennet was an acquaintance of his and Georgiana's, so it would only be appropriate for him to speak to her of his sister.
"I…" he began quietly without knowing what he wanted to express. His thoughts were every changing and nearly always distressing.
"I cannot stand when Miss Bingley speaks on and on about Georgiana's accomplishments and her good prospects because," he swallowed, "I fear every day that she could be ruined by even a rumor of what happened. And, all of her accomplishments and her good character would vanish in the eyes of the world. She would cease to be Georgiana, a young lady with musical talent, a sweet disposition, and a loving family. She would become the woman that man ruined. She might never have the opportunity to marry or have a family, and even our relations and lifelong friends could refuse to speak to her. I cannot imagine what such a thing would do to her, and I cannot imagine what witnessing it would do to me…"
His voice had become so quick and quiet as he spoke, he was surprised Miss Bennet could hear him at all. He quickly realized that he had forgotten to turn the page, and she had concealed his mishap by playing the same few phrases repeatedly. He finally turned the page, and she continued playing.
"Mr. Darcy, I know it is of little consolation, but I truly believe I understand the depth of your fears."
His hoarse response was out of his mouth before he could think better of it. "I know you do."
She did not say anything, but she finished the piece and then looked at him with a piercing gaze. He wondered if she somehow could tell that he was thinking of the conversation he overheard with her sisters at the assembly.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Miss Bingley was, unfortunately, faster. "Mr. Darcy, I was hoping you could stay there and turn my pages. There is a new piece I have learned that I have been dying to play."
He bowed in attempt to hide his grimace.
While Miss Bingley went to retrieve her music, Miss Bennet pressed some sheet music into his hand. "Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Darcy."
Then her voice became quiet, and he had to lean in to hear her. "I am deeply sorry for misinterpreting your actions, and if you ever want…" she paused, and he desperately wanted her to finish her sentence. "Did you know I very much enjoy walking?"
Before he could answer this abrupt change in topic, she continued quickly, glancing at Miss Bingley's approach. "I particularly love the wood on the eastern part of Netherfield's park and walk there at dawn frequently."
He did not have the opportunity to respond for Miss Bennet left his side hastily, taking her leave of the party, just as Miss Bingley came to sit at the pianoforte.
He sorely felt Miss Bennet's absence for the rest of the evening and took the first opportunity to excuse himself. He dressed for bed without his valet and spent the night staring at ceiling feeling a contrariety of emotion within him. His anxieties were still great, and he still believed it had been improper to speak so to Miss Bennet. Yet, he could not quite regret it for she claimed to understand, and she did.
That was the crux of the matter. Everything could fall apart because no one would understand. No one would understand that Georgiana should not be blamed for the crimes of profligate men—no one save Miss Bennet. The mere knowledge that a kind, intelligent woman understood and accepted Georgiana gave him no small amount of comfort, and he fell asleep quicker that night that he had in weeks. His sleep was not to be restful, however, due to the stirring dreams that plagued him to no end.
The air the next morning was precisely what an autumn stroll required, Lizzy mused to herself as she set off along the least-traveled path in the Netherfield woods. The air was crisp with just a hint of cold portending the coming winter, yet there was scarcely wind enough to rustle the leaves that crunched beneath her feet.
It was—she thought—the perfect atmosphere for contemplation, and on this morning in particular, she had much to contemplate.
First in her thoughts since the previous evening were Mr. and Miss Darcy. She had not even considered the full extent of what could happen to a young lady like Georgiana if Wickham's crime were to be exposed. What had already happened seemed to be horrible enough without the possibility of ruining Georgiana's future.
Lizzy remembered the cautionary tales that mothers whispered to daughters when they were young—sordid tales about fallen women. Though too young to remember the incident herself, Lizzy had learned from Charlotte that Miss Jennings, Mrs. Long's niece who had often come to spend summers in Hertfordshire, was a fallen woman. Lizzy remembered Miss Jennings as a pretty lady with auburn hair and a lovely complexion who always seemed to laugh a little too loud in public. Ten-year-old Lizzy quite understood the desire to laugh loudly and be merry, and although they were never introduced, Lizzy had liked the older girl.
Charlotte, who had come out with her, told Lizzy years later of the poor girl's fate. At seventeen, Miss Jennings was found in a corridor at a ball with the hand of drunken Mr. Tate—who was twice her age—down the front of her dress. Miss Jennings' father was called upon to settle the matter. Dueling was presented as an option, but in the end, Miss Jennings became Mrs. Tate and was not heard from again by the people of Meryton.
This memory brought her mind to Mr. Darcy. Strange creature though he was, she could not deny her respect for the way he handled Georgiana's situation. He refused to blame her or force her to bear unjust consequences. He was, as evidenced by his admission the previous evening, worried about her future and well-being more than anything. Even as she loved her father, she was not sure how he would handle the same situation.
It gave her a deep and profound respect and admiration for Mr. Darcy. She thought perhaps she had been too hasty in her judgement of his behavior. He was awkward and had an unfortunate propensity for making inelegant remarks, for which no one appeared to check him. He was, however, a very good sort of man in essentials, and he clearly respected her and her opinions, which she appreciated.
She conceded that she had, perhaps, been prideful in allowing his unfavorable comments about her countenance fuel her vexation toward him. He clearly appreciated her mind, and though he might never seek her for a bride, he might consider her a friend. She refused to acknowledge the unconscious thoughts that came to her regarding his handsomeness, his dry sense of humor, and her possible attraction to him. It was an impossibility and sheer folly to even entertain the thought.
"Miss Bennet!" the subject of her thoughts called from a few feet behind her.
She turned around and cursed the heat that rushed to her face. He held his hat in his hand, and she saw that the slight breeze had made his hair unruly and his cheeks pink. "Good morning, Mr. Darcy," she said, slightly louder than she should have.
She tore her gaze away from him and looked at the ground.
"'Tis a nice coincidence to meet you here upon the path." She continued to walk in her original direction.
He quickly caught up to her. "Indeed. I saw you a fair way back, but you are rather swift of foot."
"I am quite fond of walking."
"Yes, I know."
She looked at him, and he was staring at her in a way that discomfited her.
"I apologize for all that you had to endure last night, Sir. Given what you have related to me, I can better comprehend your reticence in company."
"It does not signify. Miss Bingley has caused me disquiet long before the events of the summer, and as you have indicated several times, I am prone to brevity."
She smiled, pleased that he could at least occasionally ridicule himself. "That is no flaw in of itself, Mr. Darcy, for I believe 'brevity is the soul of wit.'"
"Again, we seem to fall back on the words of others to appear clever."
She laughed, "I shall not tell if you do not."
He fully smiled then, and she had to look away lest he see her blush. "Have you heard from Georgiana, Sir? I may have received a reply from her, but I have not had a chance to read any mail sent to Longbourn in my absence."
"Yes, I received one yesterday. In it, she spoke highly of your letter to her, declaring it 'the most charming letter she had ever received,'" he said in a wry tone.
"Although I consider your sister to be an honest soul, I might speculate that she has not had much occasion to read charming language if she describes my irreverence in such superlative terms."
"On the contrary, I do not doubt your ability to charm in the least, Miss Bennet," he said, looking up toward the sky. He cleared his throat, and his tone became aloof. "I must thank you for your letter to her. She seemed in higher spirits because of it."
"You need not thank me. It was a selfish act for I desire Georgiana's correspondence as much as—or perhaps more than—she does."
They were both silent for a moment, and the question that had been gnawing at her intruded forcefully upon her thoughts in the disconcerting silence. "Mr. Darcy, I beg you tell me truthfully. How has Georgiana fared these last months?"
He did not speak for several moments, but she now knew better than to assume his silence to be caused by offense or anger. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and almost vulnerable. "I hesitate to disclose any news of her wellbeing for I am not sure of it myself."
He paused again, and she did not speak, figuring that Mr. Darcy was the type of man who would speak when he would.
"Georgiana has hardly spoken to me in recent months. We will exchange words, but nothing she says expresses anything about her thoughts or emotions. It is very much unlike her to be so cold, and yet she does not appear melancholy as I might expect. Perhaps she does not think of it often. She does not like to speak of it, and I have learned to cease my attempts to discuss it."
Lizzy pondered this for a moment, recalling Georgiana's letter and her response to it. "It does not surprise me that her reaction may not be apparent." She shot him a wry smile, "For in spite of what is said of us ladies, we are not all prone to histrionics. I have found that each reacts to pain in a slightly different way, taking into account her temperament and the circumstances of her situation. While one might expect melancholy to manifest itself in a girl with tears or trembling, it may be something entirely unrecognizable as melancholy from an outsider's perspective. Regardless of its appearance, however, she may still be feeling, and you will not know until you ask."
"She will not speak of it—she will not speak of anything. I do not know what to do anymore. Her letters have been better than her conversation, but it is unendurable to feel so estranged from my sister when we are in a room together." His posture seemed like that of a man defeated.
It felt strange that he seemed to be seeking and taking her counsel. Though she could not have previously imagined what it would be like to hear this proud, powerful man reveal so much, it did not daunt her as she would have expected. "Well, what have you said to her about what happened?"
"I know not…I suppose I told her initially that I loved her and that it was not her fault. I have repeatedly told her that it is not her fault. She was so contrite and has tried to apologize, but I could not and cannot let her bear the guilt of such a thing."
"Ah, I see," Lizzy thought. She felt a stab of pity for the Darcy siblings—Mr. Darcy for not knowing how to be both mother and father to a fifteen-year-old girl and Georgiana for not having a mother or sister to properly guide her through this. "Mr. Darcy, please forgive me if I overstep, but I believe that may be the problem."
"What may be?" he asked in bewilderment.
"Your refusal to let Georgiana shoulder any of the responsibility and completely absolving her."
"Did you not do the same thing?" he asked, and she detected a hint of indignation in his tone, which confused her.
"I sincerely do not know to what you refer."
He looked at the ground sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, sighing forcefully. "I must admit that I listened to you comforting Georgiana after I spoke privately with your aunt that night. I…I envied your ability to comfort her, and I attempted to imitate your manner of consolation with her later.
"You explained to her that it was not her fault because she—with no fault of her own—did not possess the knowledge to contradict what that manipulator Wickham had told her."
She did not respond immediately for her surprise at his response was great. If hearing Mr. Darcy speaking so openly and vulnerably was strange, then hearing that he envied her was astonishing. Gathering her thoughts and her recollections of her conversation with Georgiana that night, she replied, "I agree with you, Sir, that she was at no fault for the attack on her person nor for falling prey to a well-rehearsed seduction. However, she did act irresponsibly by agreeing to go with him and for not waiting for your approval. She was reckless, and though I believe her offense is forgivable, I am certain she still feels responsible for her part in the situation.
"She had little control over the situation, but the little power she had, she used unwisely. I would imagine that if I were her, I would be reluctant to speak about an incident where I felt guilt but was unable to shoulder blame. I would find it confusing if I was not allowed to sort out the difference between what I was responsible for and what I could not control."
He was staring straight ahead when she turned to look at him, and she could not—predictably—determine what he was thinking.
"How do you do it?" he said without looking at her.
"Pardon me?"
He looked at her, and his eyes were so intense it made her shiver a little. "How are you able to know what to say in any situation? In moments that I find myself speechless and confused, you are able to grasp a situation with clarity and act accordingly."
She blushed at the compliment. "Mr. Darcy, I am not certain that my conjecture is correct. I was merely attempting to give a possible explanation for your perceptions of Georgiana's behavior. Even if I am correct, I am sure the situation is far more complex that what I have described."
"Still," he spoke in awe, "I cannot fathom how one comes to such perceptive conclusions."
"Mr. Darcy, pardon me for saying so, but you are not a woman," she teased, attempting to lighten the mood, and smiled when he laughed. "No one would expect you to understand the workings of a young girl's mind. You see, for all that women are required to know about the ways of men—how to meet and anticipate their needs and make themselves appealing to them—men know very little about how our minds work."
He stifled his smile. She was so very enchanting, and if she were not so utterly sincere, he would have deemed her remark coquettish.
He swallowed and spoke coolly. "I forgive your remark, Miss Bennet, on account of its truthfulness, and I will fully admit to knowing very little about women or their desires."
"Mr. Darcy, you have had to act as brother, mother, and father to a young girl for years, and from what Georgiana has told me you do it very well for the most part. She is a wonderful young lady, and 'tis a credit to your influence. You cannot expect, however, to be able to understand the world she inhabits like another female can."
"She told you that?" he asked skeptically.
"Mr. Darcy, I would not fabricate such a thing. Your sister told me that you were an exemplary older brother, and as she grew up, you played with her and spoiled her just as a good brother should. I believe this to be a difficult time for a brother to have a role in his younger sister's life.
"Your mother is passed, and you are not married. So, there is no feminine presence in your home while Georgiana is learning all of the complexities of society, which is—unfortunately, in my view—the main responsibility of a young lady of Georgiana's age. I believe that it is difficult for her to speak of such things with you because you have never experienced the awkwardness of being caught between girlhood and womanhood."
Once again, the idea of marriage to Miss Bennet floated through his mind to his chagrin, but when he focused on her words themselves, he sighed. "I have long since suspected that to be part of our estrangement. I do not know how I can provide the guidance that she needs. Mrs. Gardiner has been a help, and yet…"
He trailed off and felt uncharacteristically wistful at the image of Miss Bennet providing guidance to Georgiana, renewing her spirits and good humor. Perhaps Pemberley would be full of joy, and he would not feel so burdened.
"I do not think you need to be worried, Sir. She will learn as she goes along. I, myself, was dreadfully unprepared for my coming out, but my dear Aunt Gardiner helped me as she is helping Georgiana and experience proved an apt teacher. Georgiana will be far more prepared for her coming out than I was—which is certainly not difficult to do—but I am certain she will learn in her first season what I have accomplished in several!"
"Pray tell, what is your age?"
He grimaced. As usual, he spoke before he considered the implication of his question.
Her eyes narrowed appraisingly, and she looked him up and down before responding with a half-smile. "With three younger sisters grown you can hardly expect me to own to it!"
He flushed. "Miss Bennet, I apologize. That was impolitic. I—"
"Mr. Darcy," she interrupted with a good-natured expression, "do not worry yourself. I was merely teasing you. If you desire to know, I think we have established a candid discourse in which I would have no objections to inform you that I will reach my majority in May."
His surprise must have been evident for she asked amusedly, "I appear to have shocked you, Mr. Darcy. Is it truly so strange that I should be twenty years of age?"
"No, not at all, Miss Bennet. I suppose I would have suspected you to be older—perhaps four or five-and-twenty."
He could once again not make out her expression. Her eyes were narrowed, and she pursed her lips, yet she something about her countenance gave the impression of diversion.
"Since I have so graciously shared my age, I must beg you to tell me your age, so we shall be on equal footing," her head turned down, and he saw her smile archly at the ground.
He thought that he would tell her anything she wanted in that moment if she would only stay by his side like this forever. She would pull him in with her beauty, coy expressions, and general intelligence and wit. Then, suddenly, he would be unable to think rationally, and it seemed that any remaining control over his life slipped from his grasp.
He cleared his throat and nodded, trying in vain to pry his gaze away from her. "I will be eight-and-twenty in December."
Her eyes widened, and her jaw dropped open. He felt wholly mystified by her response. "Seven-and-twenty! Goodness! I would have suspected you to be nearing forty, Sir!"
"Forty?" he cried in disbelief. "I may feel it on some days, but I did not think—" He finally noticed her barely concealed mirth and, unable to feign offense, let out a short bark of laugher. "You are teasing me, Miss Bennet."
"I merely wanted you to have a taste of your own medicine."
God in heaven, she was lovely when she was being mischievous. It made him feel his age. He felt giddy like Bingley at a ball or on a hunt. "Yes, but I was only incorrect by five years—not thirteen. There is a fair difference between five-and-twenty and forty!"
"Ah," she replied saucily, "but what truly is the difference between a woman of five-and-twenty and a man of forty? They are both beginning to be thought of as 'old.'"
"Yes," he said with a faint smile, feeling suddenly more depressed than he had a moment before, "I suppose you are correct."
They did not say anything for several minutes, as the image of Netherfield in the distance grew closer. It seemed to him that the looming presence of the house cast a pall over their conversation. With every foot nearer, it seemed that she moved an inch away from him, and it was enough to slow his steps.
Miss Bennet did not slow down, however, and continued walking on, despite him. She looked back once she was several feet in front of him and spoke. "'Twas a happy occurrence to see you about the park this morning, Mr. Darcy. I bid you good day."
"Yes, good day, Miss Bennet."
She nodded at him gently and turned away from him. Unwittingly, he spoke again. "I do hope the weather is fine again tomorrow for I find nothing so refreshing as a brisk walk in the autumn air."
She stopped and looked back at him for a moment. Her head bowed, and her bonnet hid her face from his view. "I do too, Sir. It is an uncommon pleasure."
He did not move for several moments but smiled to himself as he watched her get farther away from him. Standing at the edge of Netherfield's small wood, he felt a contrariety of emotion—longing and loss, bliss and dejection, and, most alarmingly, hope.
Let me know what you enjoyed, what you didn't, and encourage me while my muse has gone on vacation! :(
