Without Undue Pride

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

Elizabeth finished letters to Jane and to her mother and stretched her arms over her head. Charlotte had parted from them this evening not long after Darcy entered her parlour upon returning from a dinner with his neighbours. He was on the other side of the room reading while she wrote. She enjoyed their companionable quiet, but now she was ready for some conversation. She considered leaving him alone until he put his book down, but he would read all night if she did not interrupt him.

“What are you reading?” she asked, joining him near the fire.

“Nothing of importance,” he blurted out. “I am happy to put it away if you finished your letters.”

The way he set it aside, hand on its spine as he turned it away, caught her notice. “Darcy, are you hiding that book?”

He shook his head, but under her stare, he relented. “I was reading a poem by John Milton. I did not want to tell you because the name would remind you of your brother-in-law.”

Elizabeth held back a smile at his unneeded thoughtfulness. “That dreadful man might rob me of much in the future. Let us not allow him to also ruin poetry for me.”

He bowed his head in agreement. “I was reading Milton’s companion poems. Il Penseroso describes the serious man in deep thought—learned, melancholy, and pensive—while L’Allegro investigates the happy man of hilarity and play.”

“Aside from Paradise Lost , I am rather ignorant of Milton.”

“They are not long,” he said while finding the page and handing over the book. “Read them and tell me your thoughts.”

Elizabeth quickly read through both. There was a lot of imagery of night and day, of a buoyant person contrasted against a contemplative one. One welcomed the goddess Melancholy and the other Mirth, and each saw the worst in the other.

She wondered if opposite people attracted one another, like magnets? Was a marriage stronger if one was night and the other day? Were she and her husband too much like Mirth to have been truly happy together? They were both like the cheerful man who pushed away melancholy. Were they both too active, not quiet and pensive enough to fully enjoy one another since they both eagerly embraced good humour?

Had she married so young and so quickly because she had not been thoughtful enough?

“You look pensive,” Darcy said, startling her.

She laughed a little. “I was actually wondering if I was not pensive enough.” She shook her head, smiled, and flipped through the pages. “ L’Allegro concludes, ‘These delights, if thou canst give, Mirth with thee, I mean to live.’ Il Penseroso differs and ends with, ‘These pleasures Melancholy give, And I with thee will choose to live.’ One poem ends with ‘mean to live’ while the other says they will ‘choose to live.’ One is cheerful and gregarious, and the other a meditative self-observer.”

“That is one way to consider them.”

“Then which one are you?” she asked, expecting the answer. He was pensive, and she was cheerful.

To her surprise, Darcy shook his head. “They cannot stand singularly. They are represented by day and night. Day and night are a never-ending progression of one, then the other. Choosing Il Penseroso above L’Allegro is as impossible as expecting an everlasting night. ”

“I think they are meant to be compared and judged, not taken as a complementary.”

“I disagree,” Darcy said. “You cannot read them independently and understand the complete meaning that is shown between the pair. Both moods are important to achieve a state of balanced harmony.”

“But in each poem, each state is represented by different influences, and each also reminds one of the worst of the other: one can be idle-brained, and the other forlorn. So we are all capable of both melancholy and mirth?” she asked, shaking her head in disbelief. “Are they not too different?”

“Are you entirely full of delight and mirth?” he said, leaning forward in interest. “Are you never thoughtful, never crave moments alone to reflect?”

She supposed she did. She was not made for melancholy; not even in her misery in Spain had she been entirely without hope. Was she not also capable of deep reflection as much as she was capable of joy?

“I think,” said Darcy, “too often, L’Allegro and Il Penseroso are pitted against one another. But you must tell me you disagree with me and why. I promised to argue with you for glory and amusement, if you recall.”

She laughed. “I only enter battles where I am confident I will win. You make too good a point. What a shame you have persuaded me out of my opinion so early in our friendship. I think I agree no one is solely cheerful or pensive, but a mixture of the two. Although some people lean more heavily to one or the other.”

“Perhaps next time I will be luckier and you will have to argue with me for longer before I convince you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him as he smiled. Darcy was too smug in his victory. “You have just ensured that next time, I will be entirely unpersuadable by your arguments, no matter how well constructed and brilliant they are.” She enjoyed debating with him. Hopefully, he would not be afraid to challenge her again.

As she handed the book back to Darcy, she said softly, “Your cousin would not have argued with me. He embraced hilarity far more than reflectiveness, at least with me. ”

Darcy looked at her for a long moment. “Perhaps he thought you were too pensive and strove to cheer you.”

This took her aback. She had always thought of herself as the one to cheer others. She was certainly more reflective now than she had been when she first met Fitzwilliam, but she did not think she needed his good cheer and liveliness. She could have handled more serious discussions with him.

When she made no answer, Darcy added, more happily, “He did like to tease, however. And he always thought I was too pensive and needed more of his mirth.”

She was grateful for him changing the subject. “You were different in temperament, but I think your values were similar. And you know this, but he thought of you like a brother. There was no one nearer to him than you.”

Darcy took a deep breath and bowed his head. She had thought much of her own grief, but not of his. They had both been lonely in their mourning. She had been alone in Spain and trying to survive, while he had not had the support of his family.

“Forgive me,” he said, blinking his eyes. “I thought the worst of my grief had passed. In fact, for so long after hearing the news, I thought all my feelings were deadened. I did not shed a single tear except for the time I saw his mother weeping before the funeral.”

He seemed a little embarrassed by this, but he had no reason to be. At least not with her. “I was not alive to any sensation in the days after, either,” she breathed. Not that she wanted to talk about those frightening weeks after he died. Darcy was giving her a steady look, like he would listen to every word she had to say, and she grew conscious. “I am sure you believe me to be cold-hearted.”

“I think you were grieving, and are capable of so much love.”

His words hit her far more deeply than he could have known. “You too,” she whispered, patting his arm before turning away to dry her eyes. In a livelier tone, she added, “To hear him talk of you, at least compared to Lord Milton, one would think you are without defect.”

Darcy barked a dry laugh. “I have faults enough, and he would tell me so to my face. So much so that I am not the same man as I was six months ago.”

“Your cousin’s loss changed you?” she asked, not understanding.

“Because of his advice about my faults before he left for Spain.” He took a heavy breath and looked into the fire. “I never gave myself the trouble to engage with people outside my small circle. I could never care about their concerns, or even appear interested in them.”

“How did you decide this was a fault that needed correcting?”

“Your husband told me I must do better, that he was going to war and would not be here to apologise for my rudeness or help me seem more agreeable by his own pleasantness.”

“I cannot imagine you being rude, and you are not too shy to speak.”

“Oh no, I am not shy like my sister,” he agreed. “I finally realised that I thought meanly of others and highly of myself. And I had been a selfish being all my life until then—in practice, though not in principle.”

“Darcy,” she cried, “you are the most generous person I have ever met.”

He gave her a wry smile. “And you knew me only after he was gone.”

She conceded his point, but felt certain he had never been as selfish or unlikable as he feared. There was much to admire in Darcy’s character, and she could not believe he had undergone so material a change that she could not have liked him before. It would be easy for any woman to fall in love with him.

Setting that thought aside, she asked, “You changed your manner for his sake, in his memory?”

“And also for my sake,” he said. “He was right about me. I thought of it often after I received your letter that he had died. I needed humbling. I only wish he was here to see it, and tell me at length that he was right.”

There was a melancholy air about him, so she said, “And he would do that, you know. He would tease you about it forever, about how your improvements were all his doing.” She leant forward a little to be certain he was paying attention. “And he would be proud of you.”

He made a slight movement, as if a heaviness had left him. He smiled, his eyes bright and gentle.

She felt a rush of excitement at making him smile, and now she wondered what it would be like to kiss those upturned lips.

There was much to admire in his disposition, regardless of what changes he had made or how extensive they were. Darcy was clever and insightful and debated with her as an equal. As far as she could see, he was free from improper pride. He was handsome, but did not carry himself as though he knew it. He was worthy of her respect, esteem, and confidence.

His seriousness was mixed with a subtle humour she liked, and with his generous nature and loyalty, she wondered how fondly and deeply he would love.

A fleeting hope of procuring his regard crossed her mind. When their eyes met, she wondered if similar feelings and wishes were close to his mind. Likely not, and a good thing that was because submitting to another man, even to a good man like Darcy, was impossible.

Darcy’s heart pounded wildly. He was certain no one could be in Elizabeth’s company for half an hour without being prepossessed in her favour, and no one thoroughly acquainted with her without feeling that prepossession strengthen into regard.

She was precisely what a man of principle and taste wanted when he wished to be married, and wished to be happy in that union. Beneath her grief and anger was a sweetness of character and a woman capable of caring friendships.

Elizabeth was a witty, sensible woman, and whenever she laughed, it made him want to join in. He was not a man given to loud laughter and displays of mirth, but her spirit charmed him. She was extremely pretty with a lively mind, and even if he had not already decided to be less proud, he would have rendered himself agreeable for her sake .

The earnest look in Elizabeth’s eyes faded, and a playful one replaced it. “How else did Fitzwilliam tease you? Given how he teased the ones he cared for the most deeply, I suspect you were often the target of his arrows.”

He sensed she wished to change, or at least lighten, the subject. He dared not think she had felt the same moment of attraction as he had. Surely, these curious thoughts about a shared future were only on his side.

“Oh, often. He never tired of it.” Darcy had not thought that he would miss being insulted and mocked, but he did. “But your supposition fails on investigation because he loved you dearly, and I doubt he sported with you the same way.”

Elizabeth smiled to herself. “True. We bantered with one another about others’ follies and nonsense, but he did not laugh at me. I wonder why, since I am not the sort to be resentful and not laugh at myself.”

He wanted to say no man retaining the use of his senses would playfully mock his beloved wife. Her husband would rather lay the world at her feet than possibly distress her. But Elizabeth wanted to be seen as her husband’s equal, and not above however he saw fit to treat the others who were dear to him. “Well, you knew one another for such a short time,” he said as gently as he could. “Perhaps that sort of teasing comes with an ease that is more slowly built. He died too soon for your relationship to have come to that point.”

“So he would have teased me in six months? I would like to think that he would have been that much at ease with me.”

“He certainly would have been laughing at your whims and inconsistences by your first anniversary,” he said as seriously as he could.

She smiled, and he was a little relieved that her countenance brightened. It told him before her words did that her playful spirit would remain. “Since he is not here to do it himself, you must tell me how he teased you.”

With whom else would he feel so much at ease to summarise how he was laughed at and expose himself to ridicule? Could he have even had this conversation with anyone before Fitzwilliam died, before he examined his own temper and was unhappy with what he saw there?

“My habits were his favourite subject to mock,” he said, chuckling to himself at the memories. “Although he was never at a loss to find something to give me a hard time about.”

Her nose wrinkled in confusion and he found the expression adorable. “What could he mock regarding your habits?”

“I was routinely abused because I did not dance enough, I did not drink enough, I did not keep a?—”

He stopped when he realised what he nearly admitted. Were his cheeks as red as they felt? How could he have been so comfortable, lost his presence of mind, to nearly admit to such a thing to a woman?

Her pretty eyes went wide, and she tried in vain to hold back a grin as her mouth fell open. “Fitzwilliam Darcy! Were you about to tell me about your keeping a mistress or not?”

Elizabeth’s vivacity and kindness made him lose all sense. That was the only explanation. She just had the right disposition to draw him out, to his mortification.

“I am not furthering this conversation, madam,” he said with as much dignity as he could, which, at this moment, felt to be very little.

He was in the minority for not keeping a mistress. Few men of his rank and wealth, single or otherwise, did not have a woman hidden away in St John’s Wood or some fine square in town. He was confident enough in his choice to defend it to any man, but it was embarrassing to talk about it with a woman he admired.

Talking to her about mistresses brought to mind all sorts of inappropriate thoughts about Elizabeth that would certainly keep him from falling asleep.

Elizabeth was keeping back a laugh as best she could. Darcy wondered if her cheeks hurt. “You could always address my husband’s thoughts on mistresses instead of your own, if you prefer.”

He enjoyed her sportive playfulness, but this was mortifying. “Absolutely not.” His cousin had wished he could have afforded one. To further spare her feelings, he added, “Fitzwilliam never?—”

“That is kind of you to say, but I know he did not never ,” she said. “ That would be too much to expect from a man. Yet another way in which the lives and expectations of gentlemen and gentlemen’s daughters are very different, and unfair to ladies too.”

Could one die of embarrassment? Likely not, because otherwise he would be on the floor. “I was only going to say that he never looked at another woman the way he looked at you.”

She blushed a little, but she was not nearly as mortified as he felt. He was sure of it. “I asked him about it when we were engaged,” she said shyly. “He said he did not have…a steady friend, but he admitted to visiting… Well, your poor face cannot get any redder, so I will stop there. I will only add that his visits stopped after he met me.”

“You are a singular woman.” He hoped his admiration of her confidence came through in his tone, above the shock of the topic itself.

“Well, no wife wants to encounter a former paramour, or at the least not be caught unaware. I simply asked if I was likely to encounter a previous lover, and he promised me that would never happen.” Her cheeks were still a little pink when she said in a rush, “I simply wanted to be sure that whatever happened before me…”

“Stayed in the past?” he supplied, and she nodded. “As discomforting a topic as it is for mixed company, you have every right to expect fidelity from your husband.”

“So,” she hesitated, “you would be a faithful husband, too?”

Of course he would be. But was she asking if he would be a faithful husband if he married her , or was this a general character question? He strove to answer in a playful style similar to hers, rather than make her promises she might not want. “Your husband had the right to provoke me on this subject, not you.”

He had outgrown the physically satisfying but soulless encounters with any willing widow. And the purchase of women was direful for both parties. Not to mention a fear of injury to his health from the variety and frequency of any woman’s affairs with others. But aside from that, his sense of honour meant that he would be completely devoted to his wife.

“We will not continue the topic?” she asked with a laugh and a poor attempt at a straight face. “Why ever not? ”

She laughed more at his expense, and as much as the topic mortified him, he wanted to spend a night talking and laughing with her. He started laughing too, at the absurdity of the conversation, the embarrassment, at what his cousin would say about it, and at seeing her amusement. She laughed harder, even wiping a tear from her eye.

“When was the last time you laughed, really laughed heartily?” she asked, still smiling.

“Months,” he said, as his laughter quieted. “An evening last winter over cards with Fitzwilliam, Bingley, and a few other men. You?”

“I think the last time I laughed long and hard was with a group of officers’ wives in Spain, and for your delicate sensibilities, I will not tell you the topic.” Elizabeth looked lost in a memory. “If he were here, would Fitzwilliam tell both of us to be less pensive and happier?”

“He would certainly laugh at my mortification. He would find that hilarious.”

“It feels good to laugh,” she said, and Darcy agreed. With an arch look, she added, “To that end, what else might I learn about you and your habits?”

“You have learnt far too much about me already,” he said drily.

“I hope that is not actually true, Darcy,” she said when her laughter faded. Her eyes fixed on his with intensity, and it made his heart race. “I am glad to know you better.”

“I am glad to know you better too,” he whispered. In a livelier tone, he added, “But perhaps we can set aside the topic of mistresses?”

She grinned. “Well, I enjoy this time with you at the end of the day, and agree to sacrifice such an amusing subject if it means I can be assured of your continued company.”

He nodded, keeping silent on the fact that he would spend hours talking to her regardless of the subject, embarrassing to him or not.