A/N: A thousand apologies! I am new to Fanfiction, so I had marked this story as "complete." OOPS. I think I now understand that despite the fact that the book is complete (in real life/on my computer), I should not mark it as "complete" HERE until all chapters are uploaded! Mea culpa; I've changed the category designation and will only mark it complete once it's entirely uploaded. I would continue humbly groveling, but I think Darcy will be more interesting... So sorry for the confusion, though!
Chapter 8: Elizabeth
Their first day at Netherfield had been interminable. And though Elizabeth had tried to find joy in Jane's obvious happiness, every other aspect of the day had been as slow and continuous as the steady snowfall outside.
She could not decide who in her family was determined to embarrass them all more effectively. Kitty and Lydia were all glee and mischief; they delighted in asking footmen for anything and everything, simply because there were footmen at their disposal.
Elizabeth had tried to put an end to this behavior, but was hushed by her own mother, who said the girls were just having a bit of fun. And then, too loudly, Mrs. Bennet had exclaimed, "After all, perhaps we too will have footmen aplenty in our very near futures!" And she had giggled worse than her daughters, while looking over at Jane and Mr. Bingley, seated across the room.
For her part, Jane had borne it all admirably. She remained pleasant and kind, engaging Caroline and Louisa in pleasant conversational topics that centered entirely around them and their lives. She smiled through their mother's countless soliloquies.
Jane even kept a perfectly serene face when Mary had, in fact, discovered the pianoforte. For once, Elizabeth was thankful Caroline Bingley was nearby. As hostess, Caroline suffered through only one of Mary's songs before declaring it time to dress for dinner.
"Oh," Mrs. Bennet had cried. "But we have no new gowns to wear. If only I had known a freak blizzard was to befall us!"
"Yes," Caroline had said archly. "If only we had all known, we could have cancelled the ball."
But Mr. Bingley had cried, "Not I! Why, if I had known in advance, I should have planned the ball just as it was, for I am greatly enjoying being snowbound with new friends."
And then he had turned to Jane, his heart simply shining from his eyes, and they both had sighed at each other quite beautifully and dramatically.
Elizabeth had turned from staring at her sister and her sister's obvious suitor to find Mr. Darcy glowering in the corner. For that had been the worst of it. Elizabeth realized that she was, to an extent, accustomed to her relatives exposing themselves in and around Meryton. But when they were surrounded by the same people they had all known for simply ever—well, it was what it was.
Everyone knew Sir William Lucas would tell the same tales about going to Court, during every other dinner. And everyone knew Mary would frown at cards and refuse to play. And everyone expected Kitty and Lydia to have high spirits. And everyone knew her mother…well, they all knew what to expect with Mrs. Bennet.
But Mr. Darcy was not everyone. And for the first time, Elizabeth was dismayed—more than dismayed—by her family.
When Kitty and Lydia insisted on dancing this afternoon, Mr. Darcy had sat in the corner, reading and judging them with his eyes.
When Mary had played the pianoforte, Mr. Darcy had suffered through three verses before excusing himself and leaving the room for a moment.
Even during nine pins, he had been stiff and formal and—and maddening! He had asked her about Wickham and then seemed to grow angry and withdrawn, and Elizabeth did not know how to change the mood or even address the topic again.
And she couldn't even go for one of her typical walks.
Outside the snow was so thick you could not see the ornamental hedges, where the verandah ended and the wilderness walks began. Though the view from the library was comforting, and the room warm. She had escaped here while everyone "dressed" for dinner, even though all of the Bennets had only one set of clothing and a few borrowed scarves.
Elizabeth had discovered her father here, as well. They'd shared a quiet time, perusing the wonderful books of Netherfield before Mrs. Bennet had appeared and called for her husband to come be social "with the menfolk" before dinner.
"Lizzy, don't you want to do, well, something with yourself?" Mrs. Bennet had scolded. "Mr. Collins will likely sit near you, and you must pay him more attention."
"I cannot imagine why," Elizabeth had said. Her mother had immediately become incensed, but her father had gently drawn her away, leaving Lizzy to have a few moments of peace.
But her mind was distracted, and she could read more than a few pages before she would find herself staring blindly at the fire. Elizabeth paced the room, then walked to the window and pressed her palm against the cold glass of the window.
Mr. Darcy.
What was he doing now? And why did she care?
Her palm began to burn, but she pressed it against the glass a moment longer, then pulled it back and rubbed her warm hand over her cold flesh.
"My apologies, Madam."
A low, masculine voice startled her. Elizabeth closed her eyes. No, no, it could not be him.
But of course it was.
"Mr. Darcy." Elizabeth turned around and there he was, standing in the open doorway. He had dressed for dinner, his dark blue jacket highlighting his eyes. She could not help but admire his long legs and fine figure, though she forced herself to look him in the eyes.
That was worse, though, for what she found there was…heat.
Fire.
Some fierce emotion she could not name but recognized nonetheless.
Mr. Darcy took a step backward. "I did not mean to disturb you, Miss Elizabeth. I only thought to read before dinner."
She smiled. "Read, or hide from the rest of us?"
She watched his lips, his eyes, as he hesitantly smiled back. They stared at each other for a long moment before she blinked. He did the same, as if waking from a spell.
"Why would I—ah, but I should just answer your question." He smiled somewhat shyly.
"It would be appreciated, but I am growing accustomed to your questions."
He laughed then, and looked so boyish and sweet that Elizabeth felt her heart ache.
"May I—may I join you?" He glanced back at the open doors, and then at her face, as if ensuring her of his propriety.
Why did she feel slightly…disappointed?
"Of course. Or, if you wish to have privacy, I will leave—"
"No! I mean, please stay. If you desire to. I would not scare you away," he said.
Elizabeth sat in one of the two matching chairs, set close to the fire. "You do not scare me, Mr. Darcy."
He sat across from her. "I am glad. Being around you has taught me that—that many do fear me. But not you. Never…you."
The fire highlighted his high cheekbones and he cocked his head, studying her. Elizabeth did not know quite what to say. His words, his way of seeing her, seemed so very personal. But they also brought to mind Mr. Wickham, which brought to mind the heated conversation from this afternoon.
Perhaps Mr. Darcy was remembering this as well, for he grew silent and stared at the fire. Elizabeth pretended to do so, but surreptitiously studied him from the corner of her eye. His clothing was simple but expensive. His dark hair was curled slightly and damp, and Elizabeth wondered if his valet had provided him with hot water and a cloth, as the maids had done for Jane and herself.
He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, finally looking at her.
Finally. Oh, but he was handsome when he was serious. Elizabeth wished she didn't notice his perfection.
It was annoying. And distracting.
She forced herself to remember Mr. Darcy's horrified face, when he discovered he would be trapped at Netherfield with her and her family. Or his stern, disproving glare as her sisters had cavorted loudly all afternoon. She decided to ask him—or goad him, perhaps. She did not know what made her press him, but she needed—she needed to do something. She could not just sit here, while they stared at one another silently.
Mr. Wickham had been so easy to get to know. Why was Mr. Darcy so difficult? And why did she want to work even harder, then, to discover his true nature?
"So, are you hiding from anyone in particular, then? You must be honest with me. It is a full moon and a snowy night. It feels almost magical—the sky so black and blue, and the world so white and silent. I do believe it would be bad luck to tell a lie, tonight."
He half-laughed and stared at her as if she were a changeling, just discovered in his home. He shook his head slightly, as if to say, Who are you?
"Though you must know, I never lie. I abhor lies, so you should always tell me the truth." She had no idea what she was saying, but she felt half-drunk on the way he looked at her, on the way he tried to puzzle her out. Wickham had never looked at her like this.
No man had.
Mr. Darcy spoke, finally. "You value honesty above all else, then, Miss Elizabeth?"
"You have answered my query with another question, Sir. But I will answer you outright: I value honesty well enough. I am not old or wise enough to know if is what I prize above all else."
He processed this, the fire crackling and his eyes heavy-lidded as he stared at her. Elizabeth felt that strange, lovely claustrophobic feeling again: as if the world were pinholing down to just this room, just him and her. As if time were stopping, as if even the flames in the grate moved slower and with a quieter, muted heat.
Mr. Darcy blinked and then surprised her by roughly running his hand down his face. A tell, she thought. If she were to play a game of cards and he made that motion, she would double her bet.
"Miss Elizabeth, I have wanted to discuss a matter of great importance with you for some time. May I have your permission to speak freely?" As Mr. Darcy spoke, he glanced back at the open doors, as if ensuring they were alone.
Elizabeth felt herself freeze in place. Why would he want to speak with her alone? It could not—it could not be something as insane as—
He was not making an offer, was he?!
"But it is not my story to tell, and so I have hesitated. I would ask for your discretion," he said quietly. "It concerns another, and I would not betray her trust or privacy for all the world."
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, exhaling. She hadn't even known she was holding her breath. What a fool she was! First, to pin so many hopes on Wickham. And now, like an idiot, to think that—that Mr. Darcy, of all people—had any interest in her!
She took a deep breath and placed her hands over her stomach.
I can never tell anyone about this moment. What a silly, silly girl I am. And worse: was I…excited? Did I hold some form of hope and affection for this man?
"Miss Elizabeth, are you well?"
"I am fine," she said, her voice thick. "Rather, I would hope you know that I would never share your story—your friend's story—with anyone, without express permission."
Another woman. A woman he would not hurt, for all the world.
She ignored the painful feeling that arose at his words. It greatly resembled jealousy and lost hopes—hopes she hadn't known she felt until just now.
He nodded and exhaled, as well. "Earlier today you said that you were attempting to make out my character. I—I believe you have been told misinformation about myself, and my life. And my relationship with a certain gentleman."
Mr. Darcy could barely look at her. His voice was low, deep and pitched so that she had to lean forward slightly to hear his words. Elizabeth watched as he clenched his jaw, a tic pulsing ever so slightly high on his cheek.
She surprised herself by wanting, suddenly, to run her hands along it. To sooth him.
"It is none of my business. Nor my concern," she answered quietly.
He spoke quickly and urgently. "I have struggled mightily with what to tell the world about George Wickham. I fear you will not believe me, but I must warn you away from that man."
"Mr. Darcy, why do you say I would not believe you?"
Mr. Darcy's blue eyes burned into hers. "I am aware that Wickham is a favorite of you and your sisters. And that I am not…a friend."
Elizabeth was at a loss. There was so much she wanted to ask. But how could she admit that Wickham had been a favorite of hers…and yet, that she had barely remembered his very existence, since being in the presence of the confounding Mr. Darcy? That she had literally thought Mr. Darcy himself had intentions for her, not a minute ago?
"Mr. Wickham is a new friend. He is merry and likes to laugh, which makes him a well-liked acquaintance—liked by all my sisters. But he is no more than that." She met his eyes. "And I would listen to what you have to say. Most eagerly, even if we are not…friends. Please, if you have information to share, I am most eager to hear it."
Elizabeth made sure she kept her face calm, but her head was pounding and she could not stop wondering who this woman was. Someone who had been hurt by Wickham? Of course. If Mr. Wickham had injured a woman that Mr. Darcy loved, that would explain the animosity between the two men.
Someone Mr. Darcy loved…
"Am I distressing you?" he asked. "I would not do so, for all the world—"
"There you are!"
Both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy jumped as a voice shouted from the hall. And then her mother came bustling into the room, and stopped short with a shriek when she saw Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, sitting near the fire.