Part One #2
Just as Mr. Bennet had a favourite chair to which he relegated himself whenever social decorum forced him from the sanctuary of his library, Darcy, too, had commandeered his own place in Longbourn’s west parlour: one that offered him a bit of solace as he spent yet another evening in his role as a dutiful future son-in-law.
Despite weeks of courtship, the liveliness of the Bennet household was something to which he had not quite accustomed himself.
That evening, Mr. Bennet had eschewed the burden of social decorum altogether, leaving Darcy and Bingley to fend for themselves in a room full of chattering women.
There, Darcy sat by the fire, doing his best to meditate on the pleasures bestowed from his Elizabeth’s fine eyes.
He was too much concerned with when at last he might be alone with his future wife to worry over much about the nonsense that sprang from Mrs. Bennet’s and her sister’s mouths.
Just sitting in the room with those two women was torture, and much like evenings he had spent in his aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s parlour, he had learned that the best way to avoid engaging in discourse with those who often spoke solely for the purposes of hearing themselves speak was to avoid making eye contact.
He must avoid making eye contact, refrain from looking at the clock, his pocket watch …
anything that would encourage his future mother-in-law to make a fuss.
Even after weeks in his company, it seemed she was exceedingly prone to converse with him when she thought she might do something to garner his approbation.
Darcy had lost count of the number of evenings he had spent thus. Little did it matter now, for there was only one thought that consumed him: two nights more.
His eyes pored over Elizabeth’s light and pleasing figure. A second earlier and I would have been the one by Elizabeth’s side, instead of her loquacious aunt. It was all he could do to master his sensibilities when they were as close as this. Indeed, our wedding night cannot come soon enough.
Every moment spent apart from his betrothed, he best described as lonely.
Such were the sentiments of a man who had never thought of himself as missing out on anything, at least not until he met her, and never more than during the span of time between his ill-worded marriage proposal—which Elizabeth rightly spurned—and that glorious day when she accepted his hand.
To think it had been nearly three months ago when, believing he had lost her forever, he had endured the lonely journey back to town after he had done his part in reuniting her sister Jane with his friend Charles Bingley.
A thousand happy thoughts accompanied him on his return trip to Hertfordshire once he had received the life-changing intelligence from Lady Catherine de Bourgh, teaching him to hope for a future life with Elizabeth as he dared not allow himself before.
Setting aside his outrage that her ladyship had broken every rule of decorum in coming to Hertfordshire and accosting Elizabeth, he realised what she had to say upon confronting him in town had met with his ardent appreciation.
According to his aunt, Elizabeth’s words bore a hint of regret that she could not declare that she was indeed engaged to him as his aunt had accused, and what was worse to her ladyship’s way of thinking, Elizabeth had adamantly refused to promise she would never enter into an engagement with him should he ever make her an offer.
How could he help being encouraged by this astounding turn of events brought about by his aunt’s meddling?
He knew Elizabeth’s disposition well enough to be certain that had she been absolutely, irrevocably decided against him, she would have acknowledged her sentiments to Lady Catherine with unrestrained frankness and unequivocal forthrightness.
On the other hand, even if he had read more into his aunt’s declarations than Elizabeth’s words truly had signified, he knew in his heart he had to give the matter of winning Elizabeth’s hand one last chance before he could silence himself on the subject forever.
Despite all his aunt’s dire prognostications, having surrendered his heart to Elizabeth so long ago and having won her heart in turn, for Darcy, no amount of mortification proved unbearable, even the near-constant society of her Hertfordshire friends and acquaintances.
Darcy crossed his legs. I can well imagine that Elizabeth would find evenings in company with the likes of Lady Catherine as equally discomforting as I find spending time with Mrs. Philips.
At least, Mrs. Philips gave no appearance of disdaining him whereas his aunt openly despised his betrothed.
Her letter to him decrying the folly of his marital plans had been scattered with language so abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that he determined should he never lay eyes on his aunt again, it would be just as well.
My, how things have changed, for I recall the time when I never thought I would find myself in such a place as this. Yet, here I sit. What’s more, there is no place on earth I would rather be if it meant being separated from my dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.
His eyes met hers from across the room. Her amazing dark bewitching eyes. Darcy shifted in his seat as an arousing sense of anticipation washed over him, and he wished they were not merely betrothed, but already man and wife.
Then she tore her eyes away from his, and she hastened out the door. Where is Elizabeth going? Whatever had been the impetus, watching Elizabeth bolt from the room sent his heart racing. A notion of following her consumed him.
Does she truly mean to abandon me—forcing me to endure her insufferable aunt alone? What have I done to warrant such an unenviable fate?