Chapter 32
MUCH TO CONCEAL
Thoughts that she was within days of coming face to face with Mr. Darcy for the first time since they were together at Pemberley kept Elizabeth from falling asleep.
Despite the house having settled a while ago, the hour was not that late.
Such early ends to evenings at Netherfield were, no doubt, a consequence of residing with newlyweds, Elizabeth suspected.
She wanted to do anything but think about what the days and possibly weeks to come would bring.
That she and Mr. Darcy would be forced to endure each other’s company after the things he had written in his letter was too much to bear.
But bear it, she would and with all the cordiality she could summon.
He was Bingley’s best friend, after all. The possibility that Mr. Darcy might visit his friend had always been a strong one, especially after the two reconciled any ill-will that might have resulted owing to the elopement.
Elizabeth shrugged. What is the alternative? Shall I remove myself to Longbourn for the duration of Mr. Darcy’s visit?
She bit her lower lip in contemplation. I suppose I might. I shall first see how the gentleman behaves and then I shall know exactly what I must do.
With such a resolve, Elizabeth sat up in bed, fluffed her pillows, and settled down once again. At length, sleep simply would not come. An avalanche of painful reflections on those final hours leading up to her precipitous departure from Pemberley completely overwhelmed her.
Not for the first time, she recalled the conversation she had with her father once their carriage was on the road to Longbourn.
“Are you quite all right, my Lizzy?” Mr. Bennet had asked in the face of her silence brought on by all the misery of those final frantic hours at Pemberley.
“Yes, Papa.”
“I ask because you were barely civil to Mr. Darcy. I was of the opinion the two of you got along exceedingly well—indeed, admired each other a great deal.”
“No, Papa.”
“No, you say? I do not believe it. I have seen the way he gazed at you when he thought no one was looking.”
“If indeed such was the case, it is exceedingly likely that he was looking at me merely to find fault.” Endeavoring to change the direction of the conversation, Elizabeth said, “In my estimation, he has a very satirical eye, and he welds it much like a sword in an unrelenting effort to erect barriers between himself and those whom he deems beneath him in consequence.”
“Surely, you do not believe such a thing, my dear. Therefore, I must conclude that your speech is merely a result of your wont to profess opinions which in fact are not your own.”
With so much to conceal from her father—indeed, the world in general, Elizabeth proceeded to open her book.
She flipped through the pages until she reached the place she left off in her story.
She knew her father too well to suppose he would not follow suit and thus her mission was accomplished, and they had spoken no more on the subject of the haughty gentleman, at least nothing pertaining to her suspected admiration.
Remembering she left another book she had begun reading the day before in the library, she got out of bed. After donning a robe, she headed downstairs. Upon reaching the door, she recalled her last evening at Pemberley.
Had I gone directly to the library to meet Mr. Darcy as planned, had I not been delayed by Mr. Wickham, might events have unfolded differently?
The very likely possibility that he had not been in the library at Pemberley that night at all dawned on her as she opened the door and slipped inside.