Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
W hen Elizabeth set out from the parsonage two days later, she took solace in the near-perfect weather. It was a lovely afternoon, neither too cold, nor too hot, and the blue sky was dotted with fluffy white clouds. It was the kind of day that offered endless possibilities for enjoyable meanderings, but for now, Elizabeth walked purposely towards the point where the path away from the parsonage met with one of Rosings’ smaller lanes. It was here that she was to meet Mr Darcy at the appointed time and place they had agreed on the previous evening.
Ah, the previous evening, she thought to herself, unable to dispel the embarrassment she felt from dinner at Rosings the night before.
She cringed as she remembered her mother and sister’s behaviour. Mrs Bennet had been vulgar and overly talkative, as she usually was. Lydia, only thirteen and lacking the manners to be amongst even a country society, spoke as though she were in the same circle as Lady Catherine—with no attempt at deference and no acknowledgement of the fact that she was still a child. Lydia should not have even been at the table!
Lydia spoke incessantly about the news that the officers from a regiment were coming to be stationed in Meryton, was disrespectful to her mother, and managed to throw a few coquettish looks and comments at Colonel Fitzwilliam and even Mr Darcy. They both appeared more amused than horrified but Elizabeth was mortified. Lydia’s behaviour was abhorrent and yet their mother did nothing to check her.
Though she had always known her family’s faults—and they were many—her time away from Longbourn had made them seem less severe. Being reacquainted with their obvious shortcomings at Rosings, in the presence of Mr Darcy and his aunt, had been humiliating. Lady Catherine made no effort to conceal her disdain, but her mother and Lydia were too oblivious to notice—and perhaps too ignorant to understand—her belittling comments.
Elizabeth could take solace that Mr Darcy’s father was delayed in his travels, and thus did not witness her family’s embarrassing behaviour. She was certain that whatever terrible things Lady Catherine might report to him would be smoothed over by Mr Darcy.
At least she had been fortunate enough to be seated next to Mr Darcy at dinner. His proximity to her not only kept him farther away from her mother—sparing him from Mrs Bennet’s drunken chatter—but also allowed Elizabeth to more easily savour the intensity of his gaze throughout the evening, a pleasure she relished. His closeness to her became even more reassuring during her humiliation, when as her mother had more wine, she told Lady Catherine that she could not be sure what sort of fellow Elizabeth would bring home to marry one day. She cited Elizabeth’s unchecked tongue and stubbornness as reasons for her doubt, and that it would take a certain kind of man, if any, to put up with that .
Just as Elizabeth had thought she could nearly shrink under the table, she felt Mr Darcy’s hand grasp her own and give it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. He looked upon her mother with narrowed eyes; when he drew breath as if to speak some insult or deserved set-down, Elizabeth tugged his arm and shook her head. He had heeded her warning, but pursed his lips and sent a menacing stare towards the offender. Although uneasy with his behaviour, she had been flattered that he wished to defend her honour against her mother’s insult. She felt equal parts embarrassed and pleased as she dwelt on the memory.
Elizabeth arrived at the spot where she was to meet Mr Darcy. He had startled her at the end of the evening, pulling her into a side room when no one was looking and asking her to meet him privately the following afternoon. When she agreed, he gave her a swift kiss on the cheek. She had been a little surprised by his brazenness, but was thrilled nevertheless. Was this to be it? Would he speak the very words she so longed to hear?
As she waited for him, she closed her eyes and lifted her head towards the sky, feeling the sun sink in on her face and listening to the songbirds in the distance. How pleased she felt to escape the parsonage today, where her mother was questioning poor Charlotte about the quality of her linens and Lydia was arguing with Mr Collins about the wisdom of his bee-keeping. She opened her eyes again and walked over to the nearest tree, tracing her fingers along the bark. Looking past the tree on whose trunk she was absentmindedly drawing shapes, she saw Mr Darcy’s tall, elegant figure approaching from afar. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she imagined returning to the parsonage with him by her side and telling her mother that Mr Darcy would require a private audience with Mr Bennet. She frowned. One could not imagine how her mother’s raptures at such news might be expressed.
As Mr Darcy came closer, she became less certain of the happy outcomes. His face was pale and held neither delight nor trepidation; his expression was serious, almost detached, and in her brief experience knowing him, it did not bode well. He marched determinedly towards her, and in a crisp voice said, “Let us walk.” He moved past her and she hurried to keep apace. They had not walked far when he broke the silence abruptly.
“We cannot do this.”
“Cannot do what?” she asked, her heart hammering in her chest.
“I cannot do this.”
She tilted her head. “Do what ?”
He stopped walking forwards and began pacing back and forth as he continued. “Do this. You and I. We cannot be together.”
Had he been followed? Turning her head to glance behind her, Elizabeth said, “I do not understand. Do you mean at this moment? We cannot be seen together?”
Mr Darcy ceased pacing and took a deep breath. “We cannot have a future together. We are too different.”