Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
On Sunday morning the wind softened, the clouds were carried off, and the sun appeared.
Elizabeth thought that it almost felt like summer, but Carew had still dressed her in her purple pelisse from Kent for the curricle ride.
She stood on the sweep with those who were to drive to Bakewell.
She took in the house, on its elevated ground with the woods behind it, and turned to see the view of the valley.
The dales of Derbyshire possess true picturesque beauty.
The others were readying themselves to leave and were not as taken by the scenery as Elizabeth.
Mr Balfour was assisting his sister onto her saddle, talking about where to place her pencils.
Mrs Lanyon intended to find a place to draw near to Bakewell, and her brother simply wished for a diversion whether it was the ride, or the festival, or whatever he found to amuse himself.
Jane and Bingley were already in his carriage and smiling at each other; whether they were curious about the excursion or simply happy to be near to one another was impossible to determine.
“Lizzy,” Jane called her over whilst they waited for Darcy, “what has Mr Darcy said of these flower decorations?”
“He only mentioned that the wells and fountains were decorated with a profusion of flowers. He did not say why or explain how it was done. Perhaps he will tell me more on the drive.”
“If I know Darcy,” Bingley said, “you shall have a thorough history of the custom before you have gone a mile! Are you sure you would not rather ride with us?”
“Thank you, Charles,” Elizabeth said with a laugh, “but I do not mind hearing about it.”
In truth, she hoped Darcy would not spend the entire time talking about the decking of wells, at least not until she had the chance to thank him for what he had done after Hunsford.
She had misjudged him and had favoured a contemptible man over a good one.
And even though she had thrown unjust accusations against him, Darcy still secured Jane and Bingley’s happiness, and preserved everyone from a further acquaintance with Wickham.
“Where is Darcy?” Mr Balfour cried, turning his horse round. Both the animal and its rider seemed eager to be on their way. He pulled out a fine gold watch. “It is quarter to the hour.”
As the others assured him Darcy would never be late, Elizabeth walked the road leading from the front of the building towards the stable, trying to take in a better view.
Looking down the valley had a very agreeable effect on her spirits: by directing her eye along the edge of the side of the valley, she could see that the country beyond boldly swelled into green hills.
Elizabeth turned the corner and saw two boys throwing a ball near a curricle.
There were three men standing behind it, talking, but Elizabeth could only see their hats.
As she came nearer, one of the boys threw the ball and it disappeared behind the horses and curricle, only to be thrown back by someone unseen.
“This is bad weather for the hay.” Elizabeth recognised Darcy’s voice.
“Yes, sir, but it’s much worse weather for the wheat. That is a comfort.”
All three men chuckled. “Well, that is cheering, Mr Stevenson, thank you,” Darcy said drily.
One child overthrew the ball, and it rolled across the cobbles.
“Boys!” the other man cried. “Take the ball somewhere else.”
“Your sons may stay,” Darcy said.
“You will not say that when they hit one of your horses or break a window,” a third voice said good-naturedly.
“Let us not tell Mr Stevenson of the time I broke the window in your father’s mill. Old Mr Gabriel was very good to allow me to pay for its repair without ever telling my father.”
“Oh, I think old Mr Darcy always knew it was you.”
The men all laughed. The younger boy threw the ball again, and it seemed that it was Darcy who caught the ball and tossed it back whilst he spoke with two men, perhaps his steward and a tenant.
The steady sound of the ball hitting their palms continued and the gentlemen’s voices resumed, talking about the low yield from the home farm and what that would mean for helping those tenants who also suffered from the poor weather this season.
When she heard Darcy thank and dismiss the groom, Elizabeth returned to the others before Darcy drove round.
He is all friendliness and ease with his servants and tenants.
He had improved in civility since Hunsford, of course, but Darcy was naturally at ease at home.
Elizabeth took in another view of the valley as she rejoined the others.
How could he not be at ease in a lovely spot situated by the side of a sparkling stream in a deep valley amongst steep hills covered with foliage and fields?
Darcy then appeared and, after assuring Mr Balfour that he was not late—the hour had not struck—he handed Elizabeth into the curricle, and they were on their way to Bakewell.
This was the moment for her resolution to be executed.
With his cares at home to occupy him, and in such a large party, she might not have the chance again to speak alone with Darcy.
“I can no longer help thanking you for your kindness to my family. You confessed your interference to Bingley, and gave him the courage to return to Jane. You risked his being angry and your very friendship, based solely on what I said.”
Darcy shook his head. “You need not thank me. I ought never to have interfered in the first place. I certainly ought not to have concealed Mrs Bingley’s being in town last winter. I told him how mistaken I was, and although he was angry, my assurance that she loved him helped him to forgive me.”
They rattled on a little farther in silence before Elizabeth said gently, “You know why else I must thank you.” She felt his attention, although his eyes were still on the road.
“I know you shared your history with Mr Wickham with Bingley, who then told my father. You not only secured Jane’s happiness, but you preserved my family and friends from an unworthy acquaintance. ”
“Did Bingley or your father tell—no, certainly not,” he answered his own question. “You are clever enough to have inferred it on your own.” Elizabeth saw how he tightened his grip on the reins and set his shoulders.
“I am grateful, very grateful you were willing to sacrifice your privacy, your sister’s privacy, for—” She very nearly said me, but her heart could not be secure in that. “For the sake of others outside your circle.”
“Do not thank me, Miss Bennet,” Darcy said through a clenched jaw. “It was my fault that Mr Wickham’s worthlessness was not known in your neighbourhood. Correcting that was right to be done. Please do not make it a virtue.”
After a moment, Darcy said, in a calmer tone, “My character had to speak for itself. It was my responsibility to see to it that he was not well-received amongst decent people, people who had a right to expect that an acquaintance of theirs, a gentleman, would preserve them from such a man.”
“I feel that much good came from barring Mr Wickham from the neighbourhood. I dared not disclose what I truly knew of him. What happened to Miss Darcy did not go any farther than Jane by my means, but I did wonder what might happen to other ladies in Meryton who might be . . .”
“More fond of Mr Wickham than he deserves?” Darcy supplied.
“Yes.”
“I feared the same. I feared that if you, with your powers of discernment, were taken in, then what of your sisters and friends? I had to prevent any other young lady being hurt like my sister had been. I trusted Bingley, as well as your father, to be discreet.”
“You were a good friend to my family.”
Darcy only bowed. He said nothing about wanting to continue their acquaintance on friendlier terms. Was it strange how strongly she wished to establish a friendship with a man who had said he loved her against his reason?
He could not know how much I regret having misjudged him.
Darcy was not as ungentlemanly as she had presumed him to be.
“Might we,” she stammered, “might we talk about Hunsford?”
“A conversation about what happened in Hunsford,” said Darcy, in a tone of surprise, “could serve no purpose rather than to produce explanations that are mutually disagreeable.”
Elizabeth was filled with the keenest anguish. Did he think she was leading the way to encourage him to propose again? Had the mode of her rejection made it impossible that he could esteem her? I did make it horribly, painfully clear that his proposals disgusted me; I cannot blame him.
In a less sharp tone he added, “Let the only thing said on the matter be that I am resolved to be a better man because of your admonishments. Your reproofs of my conduct, my manners, made an impression on me.”
“And your letter made me think better of you!” The truth burst from her heart, and Darcy started. “Before I am silenced on this subject, you must know that I realise how I misjudged you, that my approval of Mr Wickham was reprehensible, and your letter removed all the unjust prejudices I held.”
Even over the sound of the curricle and horses, she heard him sigh, and she watched him swallow thickly. “I was not certain you would believe me, although, I hoped . . . I hoped you would think better of me.”
“I believed you if not instantly, then very soon after reading it. I do have confidence in your integrity, and your merits. And I was wrong to assume you so . . .”
“So devoid of every proper feeling?” Darcy asked, turning to look her in the eye.
She saw how much her rejection, as well as the manner of it, had hurt him. “I am sorry, exceedingly sorry. I misjudged you, and I am ashamed of myself.” She thought back over all that she had said against Darcy in Hunsford parsonage. “I am surprised you do not hate me after that evening.”
“Hate you?”