Chapter 7 Unhappily Ever After #3
One truth, at least, remained unchanged: he desired her.
Despite his initial distaste with all within the environs of Hertfordshire, he had quickly discovered that Elizabeth Bennet had been unlike other women.
He had resisted the pull of her eyes, bright with wit and intelligence, but after the Netherfield ball, he had nearly succumbed, nearly spoken his heart.
Only Bingley’s sudden departure and his own withdrawal from Hertfordshire had checked him.
When he had seen her again at Rosings, any resolve had crumbled.
He could deny his feelings no longer, and he had offered.
Yet now, even in recalling it, he could not ignore that she had twice reproached him for separating her sister from Bingley.
Darcy sat upright, seized by sudden purpose. I will send Bingley back to Netherfield and encourage him to renew his attentions. That will please her.
He drew out a sheet of paper from his escritoire.
With firm strokes, he wrote, and he bent his mind to this chance at reconciliation with his wife.
He would not speak of it to Elizabeth—better that her sister should mention Bingley’s return in her next letter.
Perhaps then Elizabeth would see that his actions could bring her happiness, and not only grief.
Regardless, that would not solve the immediate difficulty. Weeks might pass before Bingley received his letter, made his arrangements, and returned to Netherfield.
As he dressed for their first dinner together at Pemberley, he thought he might tell her of the estate, of its tenants, of all the improvements, and hopes he planned for it.
He could speak of what her position as mistress of Pemberley would mean, not as ornament but as partner.
She had assisted her father at Longbourn; he understood.
Surely, she would take an interest in the running of his estate as well.
If he invited her counsel, perhaps she might see him in another light.
His heart quickened as the plan formed. We will speak as partners. She shall see that I value her, and that together we might yet build something better than this bitter beginning. She will come to know me, and I will come to know her. Perhaps then, she will come to love me as I do her.
A short time later, he knocked upon the door to her chambers. Elizabeth’s maid answered, dropped a quick curtsy, and slipped out when she saw him.
“Might I escort you to dinner?” he asked, finding Elizabeth seated at her mirror, radiant in her new gown. He lingered in the doorway, unwilling to intrude, lest his presence unsettle her further.
“Yes.”
Despite his earlier resolve, Darcy could not help but feel a pang of disappointment.
He longed for her to greet him with affability instead of politeness.
To no avail, Darcy failed to draw her into conversation about Pemberley—its lands, its people, and the duties of its mistress—hoping to show her respect and inclusion.
Yet every effort met with the same clipped replies.
Did Elizabeth suppose he meant to lecture her, as though he sought to instruct her in responsibilities?
Having grown up on an estate, even though vastly smaller, surely, she knew what was expected of the mistress?
Perhaps she found his words condescending rather than an attempt at including her.
He could not understand why nothing he did seemed to encourage her to join him in conversation.
When the meal concluded, he escorted her to the library, determined not to surrender his efforts so soon. “I spend my evenings here. I thought you might join me, since I recall how much you delight in reading. Perhaps, we might even read together.”
Elizabeth’s expression softened as her eyes widened in awe. “This is a truly wonderful room. I could spend many happy hours here. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
“Of course, my love.” The endearment slipped out unguarded as he took in her expression. At least this pleased her. “You may recall that only days ago, I vowed to give you all my worldly goods. Anything you desire, Elizabeth, it is yours.”
To his astonishment, her composure gave way. Turning from him, she burst into tears.
Darcy froze, utterly at a loss. He half reached for her, then stopped himself, fearing such intimacy would only drive her further away. Instead, he hovered helplessly beside her, pressing his handkerchief into her trembling hands.
When her sobs quieted, he asked gently, “What is it, Elizabeth?”
The question broke what little composure she had regained. Her tears flowed fast, and Darcy stood helpless beside her, each sob seeming to drive her further from him.
“Dear God. This is not what I wished for when I proposed,” he murmured, the words scarcely meant for her ears. “To be married to you—I thought it would bring me happiness, not such loneliness.”
Elizabeth gave no sign of hearing him.
Darcy could not endure it. The sight of her misery tormented him beyond bearing.
He had gained what he once believed would make him happiest, yet not in the way he had hoped.
Instead of love, there was only bitterness.
Instead of companionship, silence. What was he to do when the very thing he had most desired seemed to have brought them nothing but wretchedness?
Was it not enough that he loved her? He had never considered until this moment how much he wished to have her love him in return or why, failing that, their marriage would not as happy as he had hoped.
Unable to endure the sound of her weeping, he drew her suddenly into his arms, praying that doing so would give her some small comfort.
At least she would not bear her pain alone.
However, when she finally composed herself, upon realising he held her in an embrace, she pulled out of his arms and ran from the library.
The door slammed shut, startling Darcy. He shook his head, as though to clear it from such disappointments. What he would give to have her love in return.
After pacing for several minutes, he picked up a book entitled From Hunsford to the High Seas by Natasja Rose.
He opened it and snorted at the irony: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in desperate circumstances will attempt to remove himself to a place where those circumstances are unknown.
He felt rather desperate himself.