Chapter Fifteen #3
After the tumult of the evening, Elizabeth asked after her sister and was informed that she was sleeping soundly.
She thus felt free to return to the drawing room after everyone had gone while the fire, which for some reason had never been laid, heated her bedchamber.
She settled on the settee closest to the fire with her paper and pencils, her portfolio close at hand.
One of the servants had clearly overheard her conversation with Jane, which made it important that her portfolio always be secured.
She took her candle so that she could sketch yet another of Mr. Darcy’s moods.
What had he been thinking tonight? Was he disgusted by her apparent disgrace?
By the supposed poverty of her family? His smile, and then the look he had given her—both had excited her and disordered her thinking. She took a deep breath and let it out.
It was all ridiculous, but she could not find much to laugh at.
Instead, she felt at odds with herself. Why did she want him to approve of her?
It went beyond her love for Georgiana. At first, having nobody know the full story of her upbringing had been a nuisance.
Now it seemed an opportunity, but was she strong enough to see it through?
Although Miss Bingley had managed to mistake whatever it was she had been told, Elizabeth thought that the woman might have done her a favor.
Elizabeth wanted to be liked for herself.
If she were entirely honest, she wanted Mr. Darcy to like her for herself.
The man who had insulted her, set off a flood of gossip about her, teased her, laughed at her…
laughed with her. Stood up for her. Debated her.
Smiled at her. Gazed at her. She gripped her pencil tighter.
Her hand flew across the paper, and under the tip of her pencil, his image began to emerge.
She knew the lines of his face so well, now, it was almost easy, but the eyes, they were always changing.
She lined up the features, careful of the distance between each, lightly added the basic form of his hair, then began adding detail.
First the eyes, this time admiring, laughing lines appearing in the corners.
The strong jawline, dark brows, the thin white scar just over his left eyebrow, his full lips turned up in a blinding smile.
She paused for a moment to admire the expression, then, flushing, recalled Mrs. Hurst touching her fan to her left shoulder and letting it hover near her ear.
I wish to get rid of you, her fan had said.
None of the men had noticed. “I am not so very fond of you either, Mrs. Hurst,” she said in a small voice that nevertheless sounded loud in the empty room.
She returned to her work. A bit of shading, some darker values to make his jacket stand out, the curling lines of his knotted cravat.
At the bottom of the drawing, she wrote, in a hasty script, “I concede the point, Miss Elizabeth.” She liked this drawing, but earlier, following Miss Bingley’s mistaken pronouncement, he had been solemn.
She did not want to draw that picture. She already saw it too well in her memory of the evening.
Yet even after the pronouncement, he had smiled at her.
It was terrible, this changeability of his.
Even had he some interest in her, as her father and Jane had suggested, he was clearly not at peace with it.
He is so very handsome. Intelligent. Kind…
She should hate to think that Mr. Darcy would deem her worthy of his friendship based upon the strength of her prospects rather than her character, but at the same time she feared his mistaken belief in her poverty would frighten him entirely away.
What a thought. She was disappointed in him, but also in herself.
The already open door to the room suddenly swung wide and hit the wall, making Elizabeth jump. Her pencil went flying, her hand knocked her portfolio from the side table, and a dozen drawings slid out across the floor at her feet.
Elizabeth looked to the entry to see who had made such a disturbance and was shocked to see Mr. Darcy.
Though she could not discern his features in the dark, the tall figure with the broad shoulders could only be him.
She cast her eyes down to the drawings and was appalled to discover that along with the drawings of her family, several portraits of Mr. Darcy were also on display, not to mention a rather unflattering portrait of her hostess.
She fell to her knees and collected them, her movements nearly frantic.
Once she had them all, she crushed them first against her chest and then swept them back into her portfolio.
The figure bowed. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said weakly, once everything was safely tucked away. “I wish you a good evening, sir.” She could feel the heat in her cheeks as she bustled past him through the doorway. As she hurried upstairs, it occurred to her that Mr. Darcy had smelled a bit like Mr. Hurst.
Netherfield was dark and cold as the fires burned down and the last of the staff headed for their beds.
Darcy lingered in the drawing room, the nub of his candle sputtering, the copy of Meditations in his hand but unread.
Try as he might, he could not keep his eyes from returning to the settee upon which Miss Elizabeth Bennet had been sitting when he had arrived, nor still his disquiet at the memory of her startled expression when he had entered.
Her flurried attempts to gather her things and remove herself from his presence had left him with a doleful sensation he could not shake.
It was for the best, he told himself firmly, willing that things might be different.
Bingley had said she was confused, but he suspected she was not.
He had obviously not been as circumspect as he had thought, and she was a clever woman.
Sensible, too. She must know that he could never offer for her, that despite their mutual attraction there could not be more.
In such a case, it was indeed unwise to remain cloistered together here without additional company, even with the doors open.
It would only torture them both. He felt the pain of her absence already, and it was acute.
He could finally admit to himself that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was everything he wanted in a woman, though he had not known it.
He had believed himself in need of a demure, proper companion who would understand his retiring ways, not mind living in the country much of the year, a gentle soul willing to take on a younger sister.
He had no inkling that what he wanted, what he needed, was a lively, witty, perceptive, challenging woman with decided opinions and fine eyes.
One who cares so much for a sister that she would walk three miles in the mud to tend her.
Who holds her own in a drawing room, pilfers food from the kitchen before breakfast, quotes Marcus Aurelius, and knows the servants by name.
Elizabeth was all he wanted and more, but her connections were scant and her fortune scanter, and he could not put his own needs above those of his sister.
Georgiana’s coming out was less than two years away now, and though Lady Matlock had squelched any rumors of the incident in Ramsgate rather effectively, a few whispers lingered.
Nothing had happened, but that was of no matter to the gossips, and despite Georgie’s insistence that she did not want to be a burden to him, society had its rules.
Were he to succumb to his selfish desires, her chances at an advantageous match, not only fortune and connections, but more importantly, a man well suited to her, could be materially damaged.
He sighed. His chest felt tight. No, he decided, Miss Elizabeth was indeed wise to leave his presence.
It was yet another sign of her superior character, that she understood his situation so well.
At last he pushed himself into a standing position and used the dying flame of his candle to light another as he prepared to head to his chambers.
Without thinking, he moved to the very place she had been sitting hours before.
As he lowered his candle and placed a hand on the cushions, he noticed that a small piece of drawing paper had apparently slipped away in her haste to collect her belongings.
He meant only to pick it up and lay it on the table for her to retrieve in the morning, but the image, done in pencil, made his hand freeze in its place.
He brought the light down very close to the page and discovered a beautifully derived sketch of his own face.
Darcy was secretly thrilled at the impropriety.
Surely it was proof of her attachment? Perhaps she had let it drop intentionally, meaning for him to have at least this token before they must part forever.
A sweet agony, he thought. It occurred to him as he gazed upon it that the drawing was remarkably fine, that she had caught his features perfectly other than his eyes, which reflected melancholy, and were haughtier than he knew them to be.
He had avoided looking at her sketch of Miss Bingley, fearing that Bingley’s sisters might read more into any interest than existed, but now he wished he had.
Miss Elizabeth must have had instruction from a master, he thought, though this flew in the face of what he knew to be her circumstances.
As did her mount, come to think of it, though he had never really inspected the mare.
And her reading. The volume of her correspondence. Even her playing…
He set his candle on a nearby table and stood with his prize.
He flipped the drawing over to see whether she might have signed her name on the back.
There was writing, but not her name. He moved a bit closer to the light, and read, “She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men.”
He read it again and felt as though he would cast up his accounts, no idle threat after the amount of alcohol he had consumed.
Bingley was correct; she had heard him, not only heard but committed those dreadful words to memory, to paper.
He had scuttled his own ship, for he found himself caring a good deal less about the situation of the Bennets and a great deal more about Miss Elizabeth.
She loved her family. Nothing made that clearer than the fact that she had walked three miles through the mud to tend to her sister.
Equally as clear was his conviction that she did not belong here.
She was something more, something better.
She was clever, compassionate, wise, talented.
She read deeply, she played passionately, she had a great talent for drawing, and for all this, he suspected he had not yet begun to truly know her.
She was out of place here, a feeling he knew well.
Truly, he felt at home only at Pemberley, though he spent but half his time there.
If he had a wife… “If I had a wife,” he whispered, casting a glance to the door, and then allowing his eyes to rest upon the record of his pompous words at the assembly.
He did not attempt to deny that he had meant them.
He had given her a cursory glance and categorized her without hesitation.
He had not even given it a second thought.
No woman was handsome enough to tempt him without something more.
Something special. She was a country miss in a backwater near London, and he knew, he was certain in his judgment.
Until she began to prove him wrong. When had that been?
All he could recall was her stepping through a puff of dust at Oakham Mount, her eyes flashing gold in the sun.
That he had wanted to dance with her at Lucas Lodge and when she had accepted, he had happily danced a reel. Had he been lost to her so long ago?
Yet, if she was entirely set against him, why had she produced this sketch? Had he confused her, as Bingley believed? If she was not entirely set against him, there might yet be a chance to set things right.
He shook his head. Leave it, Darcy. He had believed that their inevitable separation would cause her grief, but it would not. Bingley was wrong. She must hate him, and her dislike was entirely his own doing. She had run from him not because she cared for him but because she despised him.
He sat heavily and studied the portrait, his own image staring back at him.
Is this how she sees me? It was a foreboding expression, his brows dark and pinched.
Richard and Bingley had, at different times, called this his mask.
Even in his drunken state, though, he could discern that Miss Elizabeth had seen through his attempts to appear proud and disinterested.
She had seen something nobody else around him saw.
Not that they would tell him if they did.
He was lonely.
He felt it now more keenly than he ever had, sitting by himself in the Netherfield drawing room in the middle of the night, with the fire dying down and the air around him growing cold.
He had to give her up, but could he? If he decided to throw duty and obligation to the winds and offer for her, would she even accept?
Georgiana would support his right to choose for himself whom he should marry, and suspected that she and Miss Elizabeth would become the best of friends.
But would it hurt his sister? And what of Elizabeth?
She would have to endure a great deal of examination from the ton, most of which would be scornful.
At the least, he would need the assistance of the earl and the countess to ease her way.
Launching Elizabeth into society would be an incredibly painful process otherwise.
Richard likes her. Maybe he would be willing to help convince his parents?
He rubbed his forehead, a headache developing that had nothing to do with what he had been drinking.
It was incredibly difficult to throw aside the expectations that ran so deep, but could he live with seeing her claimed by another?
He groaned. I cannot have her, but I cannot lose her. What am I to do?
He stood, slipped the drawing into the pages of his book, and carefully made his way upstairs to bed.