A/N: We are at Chapter 10 out of 19 for this novella! :)
Chapter 10: Elizabeth
"My sister is sixteen—the same age, I believe—as your sister, Lydia?"
"Lydia is not yet sixteen, but she will be soon." Elizabeth stared up at Mr. Darcy, his face like marble in the moonlight. He was like a living statue: so perfectly carved, so cold, so untouchable.
But here he was, almost close enough for her to reach out and grasp his hand. She watched his bare hand, as he ran a knuckle over the cold glass. It was an echo of her earlier movement in the library. She knew now his skin would be cold to the touch. She wondered what his hands were like: rough or smooth? What would it be like to hold hands with man? She had only ever touched men while dancing and wearing gloves.
She shook her head and forced herself to focus. She was losing her mind. Perhaps the moonlight really was full of wicked, fairy madness.
"Yes, not yet sixteen," he repeatedly quietly. "And she is so very full of…life."
Elizabeth made a slight, scoffing sound. "You are too kind. I know you find her—overly animated. I admit to having had similar thoughts myself, and I love her dearly."
Mr. Darcy stared down at her. "I do not find her overly anything." He laughed quietly when Elizabeth made a disbelieving face. "Very well, when I first met her, I did find her to be a bit…bold. My sister would never act like yours."
"You are overly generous in your assessment," Elizabeth said. She tried to act flippant, but it hurt: to know that his sister was so much more refined—better?—than hers. Better behaved, at any rate.
"But the more I watched her—and your family—the more I realized: I should be lucky if Georgiana were more like Lydia, or Kitty…or you, truth be told. Though I hold you in higher esteem than—anyone."
She stared up at him. Higher esteem? But before she could wrap her mind around that particular aside, he continued with his tale.
"Because my dear sister—my only link to my parents, who passed too early—is not lively. She is not bold. And I think I would give the world if she would dance and laugh and cavort for even one hour, the way your sisters have done all day."
"Please, go on."
"I'm sure Wickham told you that he and I grew up together."
"Yes. He said his father was your father's steward—he spoke very highly of your father."
"As he should. I am glad, at least, to find that he does not try to mar the memory of that great man. My father adored George, as he called him. And he set aside a good living as a clergyman for George, once he came of age. Is this what Wickham told you—perhaps I should ask you what he has said, before I continue?"
Footsteps down the hall interrupted their hushed conversation
Elizabeth did not plan to be devious, or draw back further into the alcove—but that is exactly what she did. She did not want them to be interrupted. Not yet. She told herself it was because she needed to discover the truth about Mr. Wickham. But the truth was, even if Mr. Darcy had no story to tell, she would want to be here. With him.
"Who is it?" he said, stepping forward, but she put her hand up, almost as if to grasp his arm. He stopped suddenly, staring at her hand as it floated in air, in the moonlight. They both stopped speaking and watched one another, waiting as the clipped footsteps moved closer and closer.
And then passed them by.
Elizabeth glanced out of the alcove.
"I think it was a maid," she whispered. "Please continue."
"We should not be doing this," Mr. Darcy said.
And then slowly, oh so infinitely slowly, he raised his hand to grasp hers.
His hand was warm and smooth and strong, and large. It engulfed her hand, held her nestled in his palm.
"Miss—" he stuttered slightly, "Elizabeth. I should let you go."
No, she thought, that will not happen. I do not want to go. But she could not say that. Instead, she closed her eyes and gasped as he squeezed her hand gently. He ran his thumb in a circle across her palm, once, twice, three times. A wicked, wonderful shivering went up and down her spine, and Elizabeth felt breathless and airy, as if she were for a moment as insubstantial as the moonlight.
"I should let you go," he repeated. And then slowly, almost regretfully, he released her hand. Elizabeth cradle the touched hand with her other palm, wondering, Is this what people do? Do young ladies meet men with burning blue eyes in secret, hideaway places? Do they hold hands and then walk away, never acknowledging it but carrying about the knowledge that they have touched – they have touched – all the next day?
"You should go," he said again gently. Oh so gently. "You will be missed."
She wanted to ask, Will you miss me?
Instead, she shook her head and said, "No one misses me at the moment. And I must take this opportunity to tell you what Mr. Wickham told me. He had asked me to keep this in the strictest confidence. I have relayed it to no one, not even to Jane or my other sisters."
He again leaned back against the wall, his hair mussed and his eyes intense. He crossed his arms and Elizabeth wondered if he was angry, or if he wanted to touch her again but would not let himself. "Thank you for trusting me. Please, tell me what he said."
"He said that after your father passed, you took away his living. For—for no reason. That you were always jealous of him. That everyone liked him better than you," she paused, hating to say this to Mr. Darcy. Hating the fact that she had liked Wickham better at first! "Even your own father."
He laughed once, a cold, hollow sound. "I will grant that, perhaps first impressions gift Mr. Wickham with more friends than me. But as I have said before, whether he can keep his friends is another matter. And my father—he loved me. He loved Georgiana and our mother and myself, above all else. He loved Wickham, too, but not in the way portrayed to you. He did not see Wickham at school—we went to school together, you see. Once Wickham left Pemberley, he changed. Or perhaps, he had always been that way. He's very pretty, very witty, you know."
Elizabeth watched Mr. Darcy's face. A cloud passed over the moon, and they were plunged into shadows. The darkness and his deep, steady voice surrounded her.
"But he is hard, beneath it all. He took to gambling and all vices. He lied to his father, and to mine—but he couldn't lie to me, you see. I knew what he really was. I saw him. And he hated that. And after my father's passing, he came and asked for his living and we made a deal: I didn't think he was meant to be a clergyman. Nor did he, for that matter. So I gave him a great deal of money, enough that he could have done anything—anything he set his mind to."
"And what did he do?" Elizabeth whispered, still in the dark, still mesmerized by his voice.
"What didn't he do?" Mr. Darcy said, bitterly. "He spent it all within a year. He came home to Pemberley in debt, and desperate. I paid off his debts—once—but after that I told him he was cut off. He cursed me and railed at me, and threw things. And then he disappeared from our lives."
The clouds moved and once more they were both bathed in the cold wintery moonlight. Elizabeth pressed her back against the wall, just to feel something steady and sure. "I cannot believe it. He lied to me. And I—I believed him. I thought myself such an excellent judge of character, and yet—"
"Do not blame yourself." Mr. Darcy took a step forward, and though he did not touch her, his eyes caressed her. She closed her own eyes, as if she could feel that warm, sure palm against her cheek.
"Miss Elizabeth," he whispered, taking one step closer. "It is not your fault. You are not the first young woman he has lied to. I will say it quickly, because it is painful: but last year he renewed his friendship with Georgiana. I had never told her, you see, what he had become. I wanted to shield her, protect her from the heartbreak of seeing her childhood companion fall so far from grace."
He paused and they stared at one another, a feeling growing between them like a living creature, something taking shape and growing bigger and bolder.
"What happened next?" Elizabeth whispered.
He took another half-step toward her. They were so close they could almost touch. "Georgiana had an establishment in London, and her companion was named Mrs. Young. I later discovered that this woman had an established relationship with Wickham. She allowed him into Georgiana's home, and life, and she assisted in Georgiana almost eloping with the man."
"No!" Elizabeth gasped and then covered her mouth.
Mr. Darcy hesitantly, almost delicately, placed his hands on her shoulders. "Should I stop? Does it shock you too much?"
Elizabeth dropped her hands, but he did not move his. It was…wildly improper.
And it was wonderful.
"Go on," she whispered.
He squeezed lightly, as if afraid to hurt her. But he didn't let go. He leaned closer. "It was pure luck that Georgiana ignored Wickham and wrote to me, to tell me of their plans. I was able to stop them before—before she was ruined."
As he said this, he seemed to realize he was still touching her.
"I'm sorry." He stepped back, and his angry, cold look returning.
"Don't do that," Elizabeth whispered. She could not believe her boldness, but what did she have to lose? He had been so honest with her. She could be honest with him.
They were…friends. Were they not?
"I did not mean to touch you—"
"I meant, don't turn cold again. Thank you for sharing your sister's story with me. Thank you for warning me, and telling me the truth about Mr. Wickham. But then you stepped back, and looked angry. I know that face. That is what I thought you were: haughty and arrogant and unfeeling. And cold."
"Cold?" he said, his eyes anything but.
"Yes," Elizabeth said. "But you are not cold. You are—a good friend. And brother. And person." You are so much more than that, but for once I cannot say what is on my mind. "So please don't retreat. Again, I assure you I will not share your secrets with the world—"
"Elizabeth," he said, stepping closer again. "I am not cold. I am burning. You make me feel as if I am engulfed in flames. And the only reason I withdrew was because if I stood near you one more minute, I would kiss you. I would kiss you, right this very minute."
Elizabeth opened her mouth to—say what?
"You said you wanted honesty. There, you have it."
She could not breath. She could not think. His lips were perfect, his face so close. Was this really happening? He moved gently, hesitantly toward her. She did the same, toward him.
And then they both heard Mr. Bennet, calling her name.
"Good night, Mr. Darcy." Lizzy found herself curtsying, of all things. She could not think—she had to flee. Especially before her father discovered them. Her heart beat as fast a hummingbird's wings, and she did not know how to respond to his confession. So she arched an eyebrow and said, "Thank you for your honesty. My only question is: what took you so long to give it to me?"
His startled laughter followed her down the hall, as she ran toward her family, trying not to act like her heart was about to burst into flames.