Chapter Eleven
“Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”
FITZ
I STARED OUT THE WINDOW at the well-manicured grounds in the early light, seeing my behavior more clearly than I had the night before, even though I was exhausted. I hadn’t slept a wink. Visions of a hurt and angry Monroe had tormented me all night. After our first kiss that had set my world aflame, I had consumed myself with the thought of making us work. In her eyes last night, I saw my future—days and nights filled with love and laughter and children. I knew she’d felt it too, so I’d assumed she and I were on the same page about what needed to happen. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Not only had she berated me in the forest, but when I realized the magnitude of what had happened, I’d chased after her, only to have her call me an arse and to tell me to sod off. For a split second she’d grinned at using what some deem to be vulgar language here in the UK, but she bounced back to hating me in no time at all. So much so, she told me she wouldn’t have to pretend to despise me when we rehearsed the Meryton ball reenactment later this afternoon. Worse, she said I’d ruined our friendship and there was no going back now. Then she threw the letter I’d written in my face. “You can keep your pretty words,” she’d cried. Those written words were the most honest I’d ever been in my life.
To say I felt gutted was a vast understatement. Her tears and the way she’d trembled from pain tormented me, especially since she wouldn’t allow me to comfort her. I thought she knew me well enough to understand I only wanted to protect her. But perhaps she was right—I’d been looking to protect my own image as much as hers. And I concede that I probably didn’t choose the right words. I’d just wanted her to see the extent of how some of her quirky behaviors might hurt her in the press. If ever she read the article in the Daily Mail , it would mortify her. I didn’t want that. But instead, I’d hurt and mortified the woman I loved myself, and probably ruined any future happiness we could have had together. Bloody hell, what a mess I’d made of all of it.
I had to fix it—I needed to talk to Monroe. Without a second thought, I put on my coat with tails and strode out of my room, intent on setting off for the Longbourn house. Unfortunately, I ran into a roadblock in the form of Winnifred, dressed in a pale-peach silk dress and wearing an evil grin.
“Alastair, did you see?” she asked gravely, while elegantly prancing my way.
“See what?” I asked, annoyed, knowing exactly what she was referring to.
“Well,” she tried to seem concerned, but her body language revealed ulterior motives in every part. “I know this might come as a shock to you, but I fear you must know. There was a nasty article about Monroe in the Daily Mail .” There was no hiding the delight in her eyes.
“I am aware. And you are correct, it was nasty, and I found it utterly distasteful.” Why hadn’t I said this to Monroe last night instead of telling her she was unconventional? I was a complete knobhead.
“You have to admit, she did look ridiculous,” Winnifred changed tactics.
“I don’t have to admit a thing.”
Growing desperate, she said, “Your mother is quite upset and fears what this will do to your family name and your social standing. As do I.”
“I don’t believe it’s anything you need worry yourself about.” I brushed past her.
“Alastair,” she cried, her voice echoing down the cavernous corridor. “You can’t actually be serious about her.”
I spun on my heel to face her so there would be no doubt about my feelings for Monroe. “I’m more serious about her than I’ve ever been about anything in my life. If that hurts you, I apologize. It was never my intention to give you false hope.”
She stood tall and proud. “Whatever gave you the impression that I want you?” She sniffled, her voice hitching, before turning and escaping in a less-than-elegant manner.
Perfect. How many women would I make cry during this forsaken holiday?
Before I ran into another person, I jetted off down the hall and the back stairs, hoping to avoid everyone. The nearer to the kitchen I got, the more the mansion smelled of fresh-baked bread, honey cakes, and strong tea. Though I was hungry, I couldn’t think of eating until I fixed things with Monroe.
I headed out into the cool but mild September morning. Though the sun was peeking through the clouds, the air was damp, and a thin layer of dew rested on the lawns and paths. I took the path that led to Monroe, the path I should have figuratively taken last night. But now I wasn’t sure how to traverse that route. I wanted nothing more than to be with Monroe, but it seemed more complicated than ever.
Before I reached Longbourn, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet, followed by each daughter, walked out of the house, dressed in their riding habits. Monroe trailed right behind her parents , glued to the woman playing Jane. Monroe looked lovely in her honey-colored habit, a cream chemisette with frilled collar peeking out. She looked every bit the part of her idol, Elizabeth.
Jane was the first to see me. She turned while whispering animatedly to Monroe.
Monroe’s red and puffy eyes lasered in on me. A deep sadness emanated from her and punched me in the gut. I’d seen her cry plenty of times, but I’d never been the reason for her tears until now, and it killed me. The scathing looks from Mr. and Mrs. Bennet didn’t help either. They circled around Monroe, shielding her from me.
As noble as that was, it wouldn’t prevent me from approaching Monroe. I was not one to be easily intimidated. Not to say I didn’t have some reservations, but that was only because I had no idea what I should do. I had mucked things up, and I wasn’t accustomed to that.
“Good morning,” I said to the group.
Each person in the company sneered at me. Apparently the entire Bennet household knew of last night’s disaster and thought ill of me. Not that I blamed them. I supposed it was apropos, considering the Pride and Prejudice storyline. In the story, Mr. Darcy does eventually win the family over in the end, though that may have had more to do with his wealth than his merit. I didn’t think my vast estate or large bank account would help me in this situation.
“Monroe, may I speak to you, please?” I begged like I never had. To be honest, I’m not completely sure I had ever begged for anything before.
Tears filled her eyes as she shook her head no .
I made to ask again, desperate to speak to her, but Mr. Bennet cut in before I could say a word. “Why don’t you all go ahead. I’d like to talk to Mr. Darcy,” he said like a protective father, in a such a terrible British accent it hurt my ears. They should have given lessons on how to speak my mother tongue properly instead of wasting time discussing how women used to wax, just like they do now. What a useless piece of information that was.
Mrs. Bennet and Jane ushered Monroe out of my reach as if they were protecting her from a predator. The other three sisters followed. The woman playing Lydia said in her cockney accent as she walked by me, “His lot always finks they are better than everyone else, don’t they?”
Kitty gave me a good once-over. “That they do, but this ’un sure is pretty.”
I didn’t think I was better than Monroe—perhaps more refined and more familiar in navigating social situations, but it was the world I’d grown up in. I didn’t hold it against her—I just knew the expectations the peerage would place on her if she were to become the Duchess of Blackthorne. If she didn’t change some habits, they would eat her alive, which was the last thing I wanted.
Mr. Bennet clapped me hard on the back, making me wince. “You sure stepped in it last night, buddy. Been there with the Mrs. more times than I can count.”
No need to ask what I’d stepped in. I caught the gist of it, and he wasn’t wrong. I hated the public airing of dirty laundry, but I needed to know what Monroe had said to him. It might help me make amends. “Is Monroe all right? What did she say?”
“Let’s walk and talk. I’m hungry.”
We traversed the path, walking slowly as Mr. Bennet shook his head at me. “Unconventional.” He whistled low. “That was a poor word choice.”
“It was better than laughable or ridiculous , like the article called her,” I defended myself.
“She read the article,” he informed me.
I cringed, knowing how it must have hurt her. “And?”
“What do you think? It crushed her, as did you.” He didn’t mince words.
“That wasn’t my intention.”
“I’ve found that kindness is always more important than intention,” he schooled me.
A sense of shame filled me, but my pride forced me to refute him. “I was trying to be kind by protecting her from further incidents.”
Mr. Bennet shrugged, not buying my excuse. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about future incidents.”
Dread washed over me. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying there are some things you can’t come back from. This might be one of those times.” He then moved on, leaving me more unsettled than I’d ever been.
His ominous warning weighed heavily on my chest. I didn’t want to imagine my world without Monroe in it. It would be, at the very least, bleak.
My heart begged to know: Was there no hope for Monroe and me?