Chapter 9 A Foray Into Cheapside #2
“Not sure?” She raised her brows. “That is interesting indeed. How can you be unsure?”
He shook his head, clearly unwilling to say more, perhaps thinking he had already said too much. “How can a man be expected to fall in love, to even know what love is, when the ladies he meets only present to him that which he wishes to see?”
“Perhaps you have been looking at the wrong sort of ladies.”
“Perhaps I have, but…I must be mindful of my name and station when choosing a wife. I cannot be like so many who go into an assembly and take up with the first pretty face they see, falling in love wantonly and unadvisedly.”
If this is a warning to me, Mr D, you may save it, for I am perfectly aware of my unsuitability even if you are not, Elizabeth thought. Aloud she enquired, “So you will value a woman’s pedigree above all?”
“No,” he replied quickly. “Not above all, but…I daresay it is as easy to fall in love with a suitable woman as an unsuitable one.”
“Is it?” Elizabeth asked. “Then ought you not to have been in love before?”
“A direct hit, madam.” He chuckled. “But I must say that you appear to desire a prudent match yourself, having spoken so against romance.”
“Not at all. In fact, I…” She paused a moment, wondering at her desire to confess all to him. “I have recently refused an excessively advantageous offer of marriage. My entire family is vastly displeased with my, um, selfishness, and in truth I am none too pleased with myself either.”
“Why did you refuse him?”
She pursed her lips a moment before admitting, “I simply could not respect him. He was foolish and self-important and…and fatuous. I knew I could not look to him as the head of our household, or afford him the esteem of a superior. How could such a marriage be happy for either of us?”
“It could not,” he said. “It would not.”
There was another short silence between them.
“I do not care if a gentleman can buy me fine carriages and houses and gowns. I want only someone I can talk to, who makes me laugh…someone who cares if I hit my toe against the footstool, the sort of man who will try to jolly me out of my sulks on the days I am cross…and to add to all that, if he does not physically repulse me as well, I would count myself most fortunate.” She added, speaking as lightly as she could, “I fear it is rather a hopeless business and wholly expect to end a spinster.”
“If I could find such a lady as united the qualities you just described, I do not think I could refrain from loving her,” Mr D said thoughtfully.
“I believe, sir, you are a romantic.”
“I think marrying for love is practical. I am not a stranger to loneliness and solitude, but it is not how I wish to live my whole life.” He stared off into the space about them before continuing.
“I have had tragedy in my life—tragedy inflicted upon me by the vagaries of fate—and I bore it. However, it seems it would be exceedingly stupid of me to inflict more sorrow upon myself by making a marriage celebrated by the ton but despised by me. To willingly subject oneself to unhappiness seems the most foolish thing of all to me.”
He turned his head then and gazed at her. “Thank you.”
“Why do you thank me?”
“For what you said earlier. I have been looking at the wrong sort of ladies, or at least looking in the wrong places for the sort of lady I might desire. I have never before thought of it in such terms, but now it seems to be so clear. One cannot go to the fish market seeking beef. That said…”
She watched him as he swallowed hard, fascinated by his sudden, evident discomfiture that she could not account for.
He spoke softly but with his eyes intent upon hers. “When one is at the fish market, if he comes upon a diamond… Then he ought not to discount its worth, simply because it is at the fish market.”
Her heart skipped a beat, and she was entrapped within his gaze until the meaning of it all struck her. She leapt to her feet, nearly tossing his coat at him. “The time! I, um, I will be missed. Excuse me.”
He was right behind her, rising quickly and seeming very much as though he meant to escort her somewhere.
“Stay here,” she told him.
“I will walk you to—”
“No, no…I…I ought to return by myself. Excuse me.”
And with no more than that, she left him, very nearly running and praying he would not come behind her.
Darcy watched Miss L flee from him, shaking his head at his own frankness in speaking so to her. What was he about? He hardly knew anymore.
In the months since that fateful night at the Merry Fox, he had held fast to one notion: that seeing her again would dispel the fantasy he had constructed about her.
She would prove to be like every other young lady of her ilk, finely dressed, well-educated, and vapid to a fault.
He would become, again, master of himself, a little disappointed, but back on solid footing.
Instead quite the opposite had happened. She had drawn him in with her charm, and he had come quite near to making a cake of himself. I am losing my heart to a woman, and I do not even know her name!
There was one bit, however, which had been eminently satisfying to him. I want only someone I can talk to, who makes me laugh…someone who cares if I hit my toe against the footstool.
He had, had he not? On that fateful night at the Merry Fox, while she had crept through the dark looking for a key to free them, she had hit her toe on a footstool.
And he had cared. At least he hoped he had.
He remembered offering consolation—did she?
Was this any sort of veiled reference to him or did he hope too much?
Walking out of the churchyard, he moved slowly again towards Wood Street.
She had provided few clues, as they had agreed to do.
Her familiarity with the neighbourhood had seemed minimal, and he concluded that it was probably because, like Bingley, she came on occasion.
Perhaps she, like he, enjoyed the bookshop?
It seemed she was an avid reader, a fact which drew him to her even more strongly.
What had she been looking at when he interrupted her? Interest quickened his steps until he was again at Chegg’s shop.
No matter how long Darcy had tarried with Miss L, Bingley was still nowhere to be seen. Darcy uttered a few words to Chegg about wishing to look again at a book he had seen, and Chegg waved him towards the back.
The box that Miss L had lingered over was still partly open, to Darcy’s relief. He had been busy looking at her, not the box, so he had hoped he would not be required to guess. Opening it, he found himself astonished.
The first book he pulled out was by Jethro Tull.
Horse-Hoeing Husbandry: or, an Essay on the Principles of Vegetation and Tillage.
The second was an American tome on crop rotation.
The third was Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies which made him draw back a moment before wincing and returning it to the box.
The fourth, and the one he believed had been in her hand, was An Account of the Rotula Arithmetica.
Quick evaluation showed it to be in the worst condition of those in the box; it had been well-loved, it seemed, although he could not imagine why.
It smelt strongly of pipe tobacco and, thumbing through quickly, he saw a multitude of stains from what he imagined was tea or coffee.
Flipping to the front, he found an engraved bookplate showing an estate. It was a fine-looking place, not half as large as Pemberley, but very respectable-looking. The name had been obscured by yet another of the infernal stains.
He knew not why, but he wished to have it and so took it to Chegg who raised a brow. “Sir, this book is in excessively poor condition, but I may be able to have it re-bound—”
“No, no,” Darcy said. “I wish to have it as is.”
Chegg gave him a brief, surprised look but nodded and named a fair price to which Darcy agreed. A few minutes more and Darcy was out on the street with his parcel beneath his arm. Some part of him imagined one day presenting it to her, knowing instinctively she wanted it without being sure why.