Chapter 10 #2
He took the one he held and broke it in half, giving the other part to her. She thanked him, shyly; it felt very oddly intimate to share with him in such a way. An inquisitive brown bird approached them, and she felt inordinately pleased when Mr Darcy shook the crumbs in the bird’s direction.
“I met again with Bingley this morning,” he told her, his gaze still on the bird. “He does at last admit to…to what happened between them.”
“That is something, I suppose.”
“A very little something. He will not agree to marry her.” Mr Darcy spoke with a flatness that she recognised as the voice he used when things were worse than his tone admitted.
“I presented the matter to him as plainly as I knew how. I gave him every opportunity to behave as a man of honour. He…” Mr Darcy paused.
“He raised various arguments that I will not trouble you with. The substance of all of them was refusal.”
Her chest tightened with displeasure and fear, but she forced herself to sound light when she said, “I suppose he thinks it might be another man’s?”
Mr Darcy gave her a look that was surprised and yet confirmed her suspicions.
“I would not think him so unfeeling as to abandon her unless he imagined such a thing. He never really knew her at all, if he thinks… And yet, such is the quandary of a woman. Man wishes to degrade her to his purpose and then despises her for acquiescing to it.”
“Not all men,” said Mr Darcy firmly. He had selected a third pastry from the box and offered half to her. She thanked him but refused, her appetite suddenly turned into nausea.
There was nothing more to say. She had known this was how it would be since learning that the Netherfield party had departed Hertfordshire with no plan to return, known it with the bone-deep resignation that came from understanding the nature of men like Bingley, charming and warm and capable of genuine feeling, right up until the moment feeling became a hindrance to their own pleasures.
After that, nothing. After that, arguments.
After that, the particular cruelty of a man who is not cruel by nature and is therefore never obliged to see himself clearly.
“Would that a lady could call a man out,” she mused. “Of course, I would need to be certain he selected pistols. I do not think I am equal to swinging a blade about.”
Mr Darcy laughed and then enquired, “And the pistol? Can you shoot one?”
She gave him a sidelong look. “I am a good shot, Mr Darcy. My father is quite proud of me for it.”
“Alas, a dead Bingley is no good to us.”
“No, he is not,” she said and then, feeling her despair rising, said, “How is such a man to be worked on!”
Suddenly there it was again, that choking feeling and the stinging of her eyes. She lowered her gaze to her lap, willing them back. She was not going to cry in a public yard in Cheapside, nor did she wish to inflict more misery on Mr Darcy.
She squeezed her eyes closed; when that did not work, she raised her hands and pressed the heel of her gloved palms into her eyes, inhaling and sniffling and doing everything she could to stem the tide of sorrow which threatened.
It did not entirely work, but she was at least able to refrain from sobbing, to merely weep rather than scream out the despair within her.
She felt him slide closer to her, though they had been very close before, and then felt the warmth of him around her. He pulled her against his chest, and she thought how very good and comforting it felt to be there.
He did not offer well-intentioned words or optimistic falsehoods that would have required her to respond to them.
He drew breath and she did likewise until some mad impulse moved her to look up at him.
His gaze, dark and fathomless, was fixed upon her.
He used his hands to gently wipe the tears from her cheeks and then bent his head to kiss her.
She had never kissed a man and had certainly not ever imagined kissing Mr Darcy; yet somehow it felt good and right, and easy.
Sorrow was forgotten or perhaps consumed in the fire of longing that lit within her.
She wanted more kisses even as she received what he offered and, for a shocking moment, completely understood what it was that had led her sister down the wrong way.
When that thought occurred to her, she realised it was time to pull away. She did, but not before removing a small sliver of almond that had fallen into the folds of his cravat.
“Come,” he said, his voice sounding strange and strained. “Let us walk.”
She nodded, not trusting the sound of her own voice.
They left the churchyard and turned towards Gracechurch Street without quite deciding to.
The morning was fine and had grown warmer, and the streets had grown more crowded with the business of the day.
“It always strikes me as very odd,” she told Mr Darcy.
“Almost everyone we see here has their tragedies and triumphs and yet here we are, all of us, bustling about on the street, not knowing what the others contend with.”
“I daresay that is fortunate, for you above all,” he said.
She looked at him.
“With a soul as tender as your own,” he said, “I do not think you could bear to know of all the world’s difficulties. Your heart would break.”
“You have the measure of me, I think,” she said. “And yet you are not different, are you? You take care of everyone.”
“I am quite different, I fear. Bingley’s selfish disdain for this matter with your sister has led me to wonder if I, as well, am guilty of preferring my own interests, even to the detriment of others. Alas, I fear I have.”
“I do not see that.”
“Unfortunately, I can think of many examples. The insult you mentioned; I knew what I had done and even considered, too briefly, that I ought to come apologise to you. I did not, because to do so embarrassed me. Not once did I consider how I must have embarrassed you.”
She had no idea of how to reply to that.
“And then of course is the matter of George Wickham.”
“What about him?” she asked.
“I have remained silent about his seduction of my sister,” he said. “Chiefly concerned for our family name and for Georgiana, of course.”
“As you should!” she cried out.
He shook his head. “I do not think it is right that I have done so. It should be known what he has done, what he is capable of doing, or he will do it again. Likely he already has. I have chosen to protect my own interests to the detriment of other ladies who may fall to him.”
That she could not deny.
“But you have spurred within me a desire to reform,” he told her with good cheer. “As such, I have written to the uncle of a young lady to whom he is lately attached.”
“Miss King?”
Mr Darcy nodded. “Fitzwilliam keeps track of Wickham, and we had learnt in January of his attentions to a young heiress in Meryton. But I realised I must write to her uncle, the guardian of her fortune, and tell him what I know. I did not mention Georgiana’s name, but I daresay her uncle may understand my actions to imply it.
In any case, my wish is that Miss King may escape losing her fortune to him. ”
“You are too good, sir,” she said and did not keep the admiring tone from her voice.
He looked at her and in similar accents said, “I am not, but with you by my side, I am trying.”
She blushed again and thought what nonsense it was that all she could do, it seemed, was to cry and blush around him.
He must think me a ninny, she thought, knowing he did not.
“Your cousin does not think so,” she said.
“He said something along the lines of there being nothing you would not do for those whom you really love.”
“I am glad he thinks so,” he said. “For I feel that I have failed many of those whom I love, or did love, quite grievously.”
They had arrived then in front of the Gardiners’ residence. Elizabeth paused and turned to Mr Darcy. “I doubt very much that is true.”
“One thing is certain,” he said. “I am determined not to fail you in this. I care not what it requires; your sister, your beloved friend, shall not be left in a dire state.”
It produced a great swell of feeling to hear him say so. What a devoted creature he was, and somehow the object of his devotion was her. She could not credit it. How had she ever imagined this man to be a villain?