Chapter 2 #2
Darcy’s ride back to Netherfield was a painful experience.
His right hand was hurting, the bruise on the left side of his forehead was throbbing, and he felt sure there was some bleeding; but more harrowing was the turmoil within him.
Wickham’s insolence and attacks had never wounded him so deeply as when he had thrown the revelation of Elizabeth’s loathing in his face.
The shock of the revelation but mostly of the pain that it provoked had turned into an ire even stronger than his concern for Georgiana’s reputation — and had made him hit Wickham.
Whilst he knew better than to take the scoundrel’s words as gospel as he was never to be trusted, this time he might have spoken the truth — for once in his lifetime.
If that were the case, he — Darcy — had been nothing but a complete pompous fool, who arrogantly assumed more than there was.
He had spent days and nights trying to keep his distance from her in order to avoid raising unreasonable expectations; he had struggled not to engage her in conversation more than he already had and thought he may have already overdone it while she was at Netherfield; he had thought she also took pleasure in their meaningful exchanges.
He had been forced to content himself with only following her with his regard when in company.
Apparently, all she expected was to see him as little as possible.
Yes, he had been a ridiculous fool and it had taken Wickham — of all men — to raise the veil of deception from his eyes.
He definitely had not expected such a revelation when he had first received Wickham’s letter and decided to reply to it.
A vicious gust of wind blew in his face, and the cold, numbed his hands and his brow, and he welcomed it.
He needed to focus and return to the house to tend to his bruises.
For the moment, the pain seemed to have diminished, but he knew it would return — more powerful and more damaging both outside and in.
As soon as he arrived at Netherfield, he handed the reins to a stable boy and hurried inside, hoping he could escape any undue attention or observation and retire to his chamber.
However, no such respite was afforded him.
Bingley’s voice stopped him in the hall, and he had no other choice but to face his friend and bear his shocked countenance and worried frown when he took in Darcy’s haggard appearance.
“Darcy, where have you been? We waited for you with breakfast. What happened? Are you injured? Has someone hurt you?”
“Bingley, please keep your voice down. I am perfectly well. I merely had a small accident and fell from my horse. There is no reason for concern.”
“But you are bleeding!”
“It is nothing but a scratch. I shall go and clean myself and change my clothes. My man will see to the bruises, and I shall ring for a tray to be sent to my room instead of coming to breakfast with your sisters. It would not do to raise their concern, so please convey my apologies for my absence.”
With that, he took advantage of Bingley’s bewilderment and hurried up the stairs.
As he anticipated, with the warmth inside the house his wounded hand started to colour and swell which increased his discomfort.
His valet helped him change and wash his face — simple tasks that proved to be daunting.
On his forehead, the bruise was close to the left temple, in a place hard to conceal, and Darcy feared it too would soon become swollen and blue if his hand was any indication.
If that happened, it would be the perfect excuse for him to avoid attending the ball, which, in his opinion, was now nothing but a new source of annoyance.
Only a day prior, he somewhat guiltily had decided to ask Elizabeth to dance at least a set with him.
That prospect had instantly turned the ball into a pleasant event in his mind since he had imagined the invitation would excite Elizabeth too.
Fool that he was, he had imagined Elizabeth’s face flushed with the pleasure of his attention magnanimously bestowed on her!
How horrible would it have been to have danced with her and assumed she enjoyed his company, only to discover later on that she had loathed the entire set.
At least he had discovered the truth in time to avoid behaving ridiculously.
Eventually, he stretched out on the bed, closing his eyes.
He felt suddenly exhausted, more than usual, and again, Elizabeth’s image filled his head.
Why would she detest and despise him so?
He had always been civil if not courteous, even gracious to her — so much that he had feared she might guess his admiration for her.
Miss Bingley certainly had. No wonder, after having caught him off guard at the Lucases’ party when he confessed his admiration for Elizabeth’s intelligent eyes.
But apparently that had not been enough for her, and she had chosen to confide her opinion of him to Wickham of all people.
And after such a short acquaintance. Or at least that was Wickham’s claim.
Of course, believing Wickham was proof of foolishness too.
He knew only too well how manipulative that worm could be.
How had he insinuated himself in Elizabeth’s company?
What exactly could have prompted her to discuss Darcy?
Wickham could twist the smallest bit of knowledge and information into something useful for his own purposes, but that bit of knowledge around which he wove his deception was real.
His tales and lies were always spun around some truth.
But how could he discover it, this truth?
How could he be certain of Elizabeth’s real opinion of him?
Asking her directly was as improper as it was unthinkable.
Asking someone else was beneath him and even more unthinkable.
And to what purpose? He would leave Hertfordshire in a few days and likely never see her again.
Unless Bingley abandoned all prudence to weakness and infatuation, taking a step that his sisters dreaded and even Darcy disapproved of for more than one reason.
No, he had no time and no intention of opening up such a conversation with Elizabeth.
The wisest course would be to dismiss and forget Wickham’s statement completely.
But wisdom had completely betrayed him every time Elizabeth was involved, and to forget seemed impossible.
Perhaps time and distance would help him in that regard — eventually.
For the time being, he felt his hand swelling and throbbing even more, a painful recollection of that morning’s encounter.
He hoped he could at least sleep — fall into oblivion even for a few blessed minutes — but the tumult of thoughts and feelings increased his turmoil.
He was roused from his deep thoughts by a gentle knock on his door.
He heard his man opening it and speaking in soft tones to Bingley, who had come to ask about his health.
He bid Bingley to enter, only to notice a second person next to his friend.
Earlier, in a completely uncharacteristic stance, having yet to quit the foot of the staircase several minutes after Darcy had retired to his rooms, Bingley had frowned in confusion for a little while and then, completely disregarding Darcy’s request, had decided that his friend’s accident seemed of a serious nature, so had asked a servant to fetch Mr Jones, the apothecary.