Darcy's world is made of concentric circles.
It is dark, mostly. Night. In his mind, the circles look like Celtic ruins, made of crude grey stones, on a grassy plain, dimly lit by the moon. It looks like Scotland, that he visited, with his parents, when he was very young. Scotland at night.
The first circle represents him. Ghosts live there. She does too.
The ghosts are his parents and Georgiana. She is Elizabeth, of course. She is a being of pale fire. Her hair is undone; she is wearing only a thin linen shirt. It is a strange image, considering he never saw her in that state of undress. But that is how she was in his dreams, when he fell for her, in Netherfield – yes, it happened in Netherfield, after, he just fell deeper.
The second circle. It's larger. There reside people he is responsible for. People living in Pemberley – in the domain, or connected to it. Bingley belongs there too, as does Colonel Fitzwilliam – Darcy is not responsible for Colonel Fitzwilliam, but his cousin sleeps there anyway. Circles are not always logical.
In the third circle lives his family. Darcy's cousins, uncles. Aunts. His duty is to respect them, to help them, to visit them. If something goes wrong, he has to make it right. If he cannot, then the fault is his.
In the fourth circle moves a strange crowd, of people he is connected to somehow. He isn't responsible for them, but he owes them courtesy, politeness. Efficient men with a profession – lawyers, merchants, barristers, who did good work for the family. Friends of his parents. Friends of his friends. To all those people, he has to be loyal. He would not refuse help if they ever asked.
In the fifth circle there is Society. Society includes the third, fourth circles, but it is also an entity of its own, an abstract crowd of people and judgments and obligations. Society's opinion should be respected, of course.
Then, there is the rest of the world. It is endless. When he was young, he was curious. Scotland was so fascinating. Now, curiosity has died.
The rest is already so heavy to bear.
But back to her.
Elizabeth was fire. (She is white fire still.) But she was blazing, burning, when he met her – he was already walking in the shadows, three ghosts as his daily companions. And she, fiery with life and light and laughter. He didn't have the right to take her, of course. He couldn't buy her and bring her home, because of the third, fourth and fifth circles.
Elizabeth would have been good for the second circle, though, Darcy was thinking, at the time, in Netherfield and in Rosings, when he was watching her and listening to her with quiet desperation. She would have been perfect. A good friend to his close friends. A good mistress of Pemberley – she would have helped him carry the load – and of course, in the first circle, in his arms, she would have… She… The sun would have risen.
But no. It would have been selfish. Marrying just to please himself, what an idea. For love? How self centered. Egotistical. No.
Then he got her, despite everything. When he realized what he had done to her – the third, fourth and fifth circles disappeared from his view. Society is still there somewhere, of course, moving like a big, ever hissing snake. But he can't see it anymore – the night is absolute on that part of the plain.
It happened that night, after he berated her. When she sat down on the bed, raised her eyes to him, and said: "Very true," to all his insults. Brutally, he couldn't remember. Why the judgments and the opinions of those circles had even mattered. Why he had even listened, even a split second, to the hiss of the snake. All his fears of misalliance and gossip crumbled, reduced to nothingness and garbage –
– when he realized he had destroyed all his hopes for ever seeing dawn.
How God must laugh.
So, yes, he is very unhappy.
(Georgiana's ghost is sitting by him, with a shy smile.)
It's fine. He deserves to be.
...
And then Elizabeth puts her hand on his chest.
And it's real.
And it's true.
And it's burning like hell.
...
Elizabeth's hand lingers for a few moments. Then she smiles, and walks away. She says something about the tea. The door opens, tea is served, they drink, they talk, politely, she goes away, to sleep.
It's morning. Breakfast parlor. She arrives, she sees him, and smiles.
He smiles back.
They go walking. (Crocus everywhere.)
He's very happy.
No, it's not happiness. It's a sort of fever.
He's burning.
...
Waiting for her next smile. Her next touch.
He does his tasks for the day. They are not flies. He doesn't swat them. Everything is connected and makes sense. It's just that there are a lot of them, and they are heavy.
In the evening, when he goes home, Elizabeth smiles at him again.
...
In the morning, they walk.
They mostly stay silent. But sometimes he points and explains. The history of that chapel. Of the village. Of that farm. Of that man. There is a tree, and a bench. They sit there. Across the lane is a beautiful old stone cross, half buried, with a broken Virgin Mary. A remnant of more catholic times. Faraway, the old Abbey – in ruins. He tells the story.
Before their walks, they (the bench, the cross, the farm, the man, the Abbey) were blurs. Now, when Elizabeth sees them without her husband they vibrate with the sound of his voice, with the feel of his presence, with the knowledge imparted.
They glow. They are secret and special.
...
One day her husband touches her.
He has forgotten his gloves, and when he realizes it, they are already far under the white and silver sky. It's not that cold. They go on. She has her arm in his, so his hand, his bare hand, reposes on her wrist. It doesn't have to, really, but somehow, it is.
There is a naked part between her coat and her gloves. His fingers trail on her skin.
It's barely a touch at first.
She doesn't say anything. She doesn't pull away.
They keep walking. In perfect silence.
His fingers touch her skin again.
They keep walking.
He doesn't say a word.
...
Next morning, she enters the breakfast parlor, and smiles. He smiles back – then he's serious – his eyes follow her, when she sits, when she fills her plate, when she pours coffee. His gaze is intense. In that way he has, in that way he always had, Elizabeth suddenly realizes. Even when they were not married. When they were just acquaintances.
"Do you want some more coffee, Mr. Darcy?" she asks. (Nobody could say that Elizabeth Bennett – Darcy – is not always perfectly polite.)
"I was thinking," he answers. "You said you like colors."
"I do."
"This winter is endless," he says. "And very grey."
"It is getting better," she says, raising her eyes to him.
She thinks he stops breathing there for a while. But maybe it's her imagination. Maybe it's all in her imagination. The wrist, the glows. The shirt. "Dearest." Maybe she's grasping at straws. Worse. Maybe there are no straws.
It's a while before he talks again. "Well, I was thinking", he finally continues. "About colors. It is still the Season."
He hesitates. Then:
"How about going to London for a few days?"