Some Particular Evil

Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

E lizabeth artfully dodged the questions and quizzical glances of her host and hostess when she returned to the parsonage. She excused her lateness by alluding to a disagreement between Molly and Jem and mentioned how desperately Molly needed a listening ear. Mr Collins praised her Christian charity towards those beneath her, while expressing his lack of surprise that such vulgar persons should experience marital discord. Elizabeth closed her eyes a moment and made her way to her bedchamber soon after, claiming a headache.

Alone in her room, she allowed the events of the day to wash over her, wave after wave. Crash over her, really, for there was not one moment in the last three hours that did not knock the wind out of her at its remembrance.

She thought about her unexpected—and frankly, discomposing—liaison in the study with Mr Darcy, his holding her so warmly and expressing his affection with such tender words and kisses. Then, her heart pounded at how the spell was broken by the appearance of the murderous thief-takers, followed by her frantic search for him. Elizabeth marvelled afresh at his implicit trust in her as she conveyed to him what she had heard and suggested a possible means of escape, and how convincingly coarse and unrefined she had made him appear with just a beetroot and a razor. She thanked Heaven for the assistance of the Scarletts, especially when she thought of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s visit to the cottage in search of his cousin just minutes after Jem had gone to meet Ophelia. They had each done so well convincing him they had had an argument and deflecting his attention from any evidence of their afternoon’s true activities.

Jem had volunteered to assist in the search, and Colonel Fitzwilliam had hesitated. At length, he acquiesced, commanding Jem in the strictest tones that if he were to come upon Mr Darcy, he should report it to no one but himself. Elizabeth and Molly held their breath as the two men spoke, only exhaling when they had dashed out into the night, one of them intent on finding Darcy, and one intent on not allowing it.

She had left the cottage before Jem had returned, for darkness was soon upon them, but she could see the lanterns in the hands of horsemen in different directions afar off.

Foremost in her mind, of course, was her harsh rejection of Mr Darcy’s proposal.

She was still baffled by his asking for her hand at all, much less at such a time and in such a manner. Who could accept such a condescending and insulting proposal? As worthy as he apparently found her, he clearly assumed she had no pride. For what self-respecting woman could hear a man catalogue her inadequacies with so much fervour and actually accept such an offer?

Why should she even care about the opinion of such an arrogant, conceited, self-important boor? Had she not done all in her power to rise above his judgments, to care nothing for his fault-finding stares, to rebuff his goading and prove herself unaffected by his pointed attentions?

And—she could not help but recognise now—his attentions had been rather pointed.

If his constant presence on her morning walks, his painful efforts to know her better, and his continually visiting the parsonage—however unpleasant it was for him—did not reveal his affection for her, his words and actions in the study that afternoon could naught but confirm it.

Elizabeth wondered for a moment how she would have behaved upon seeing him again had the events of the day not taken such an unexpected turn. It was difficult to put aside the mortification his proposal had elicited, but what if she had not known the extent of his reservations? How would she have received him again after having been spoken to so tenderly, kissed with such feeling?

She had to admit to herself that, in the moment, wrapped in his strong arms, she could see herself returning to them again and again. The sweetness of his endearments, of his touches, and the warmth of his body against hers had conjured in her a sensation of—was it comfort? No, it was not merely comfort; it was security. He held her as if his only wish was to keep her safe and close, as if she belonged to him, and he would happily protect and provide for her forever. If she were honest with herself, sitting in his embrace, laying her head upon his chest in the dimly lit study, surrounded by walls of books and the scent of his shaving soap and the feel of his thumb caressing her temple, she had felt oddly…home.

She shook the thought out of her head. It was ludicrous! After all, she did know the extent of his objections, all the reasons he had meditated upon to convince himself of her unworthiness. She felt his disapprobation keenly, not leastwise because she could not refute any of his words.

Suddenly, a picture of her eldest sister Jane came into her mind. She could only imagine what Mr Darcy thought of her. No doubt Jane, who was the absolute epitome of goodness and sincerity, had been deemed wanting from that man’s point of view. Who but the powerful Mr Darcy could have persuaded Mr Bingley to leave Hertfordshire after he had so clearly formed an attachment to dearest Jane? If Jane, the picture of perfection, was not good enough for his friend, then how in the world could he think Elizabeth worthy of a man like himself?

Therein was the rub. He did not think her worthy. He claimed to love her despite her manifold inadequacies, the lowness of her relations, and the disapproval his choice would garner him from among his friends and family.

Not that anything he said of her was untrue. She had no fortune; her family was uncouth; she did have relations in trade; and it would certainly be a degradation for him to attach himself to a woman like her. It was just so humiliating to hear it all laid out so plainly. The recollection of his words brought fresh heat to her cheeks, for which she cursed herself. And him.

Perhaps that is why the tears were so hot as they slid down her face. They were not borne from anger as she had tried to convince herself.

They were tears of shame.