Chapter 2
Restless Reflections
The same morning Mr. Darcy set out on horseback, eager to breathe the clear air and rid himself of the disquiet that had troubled his rest. Usually quite a good sleeper, of late, some uneasy current in his thoughts denied him the comfort of undisturbed slumber.
It was not the management of Pemberley – that was ever on his mind, but never a torment.
His estates were well-ordered, his tenants loyal, his steward capable.
Nor was it Georgiana, whose welfare was his first concern, for she was safe at home, tenderly cared for by Mrs. Annesley.
Her last letter gave hope that she was letting the past go.
No, the source of his unrest was of another sort – and he disliked owning it even to himself or even naming it with any precision.
Indeed, he was not certain it ought to be owned at all; for to give such thoughts consequence was – perhaps – to grant them more importance than they deserved, and he was not yet persuaded they deserved any.
He had spent too many hours tossing from one side to the other.
He was compelled to revisit scenes that should have held no consequence for him.
It was a crowded assembly room in Meryton where the lively murmur of provincial voices, and among them a lady whose quick wit and unguarded eyes seemed to challenge his every reserve.
Elizabeth Bennet had crossed his path but briefly, and yet her presence lingered – with a persistence that surprised him, and, he thought, ought not to have vexed him as much as it did.
What was she to him, that her laughter should intrude upon his solitude – or that he should permit it to do so?
Who was she that her look of indifference would trouble his composure?
He could assign no sufficient reason for it – nor was he certain that he wished to find one.
He had endured the weight of public notice all his life, had stood immovable before admiration and censure alike. Yet, one country miss had succeeded in shaking his rest – a circumstance he would have dismissed, had it not been so very evident.
Darcy urged his horse into a brisker pace.
Motion itself felt like it might scatter these thoughts.
The fields stretched wide about him, and the ground was firm beneath the hooves.
The air was bright and cold. He enjoyed the bite of it; it was weather that invited motion, not confinement.
Yet he welcomed it, though the freedom of the open country did not entirely quiet his mind.
He was not a man accustomed to weakness, least of all in governing his own thoughts – or so he had always believed – and the novelty of it was almost more offensive than the cause.
The morning air seemed a better cure than any further tossing upon the pillow.
The country lay before him in sober late-autumn clarity; frost still silvered the fields, and the hedgerows held the season’s last leaves, unmoved by wind or rain.
Such mornings had always suited him. He never shied away from the cold.
Riding always steadied him. It offered an escape from duty and society when it became too much.
He recalled the long discipline of his youth, the weight of estate and family that had fallen upon him so early, and the solemn promise he had made to himself never to fall short of the expectations bound to his name.
Yet even here, with the rhythm of his horse beneath him, his thoughts strayed where he had least intended, and he became aware of it too late to prevent it.
The memory of Miss Elizabeth Bennet rose unbidden – the arch of her brow when she caught his eye, the liveliness in her manner, the very readiness with which she would say something mocking. She would do it with such an innocent expression that no one would catch her.
He recalled when she had likened Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, and himself to a group of three cows upon the path.
She did not want to ruin the picturesque, she said.
The ladies had no idea of the insult. He shook his head.
He found it intriguing that she had known about Gilpin’s idea of the power of groups of three as desirable for aesthetic purposes.
How many young ladies in Hertfordshire even thought of such things? Or elsewhere.
He told himself it did not matter: a gentleman of his position ought not to be swayed by a country miss, however fine her eyes.
And yet he had not forgotten them.
Nor, he told himself, was there any reason that he should – though he could not quite approve the persistence of the recollection.
It puzzled him more than he cared to admit. He had been admired often enough, courted for his fortune, his name, his consequence. He knew many ladies considered him handsome. It was a new thing to find himself the object of indifference, or worse, of disdain.
She had refused to dance with him, not once, but twice. No one had ever done so. He could not figure her out, nor, he admitted with some reluctance, had he ceased trying. That recollection pricked his pride, though strangely it did not chill his curiosity. Rather, it heightened it.
It did occur to him that Miss Elizabeth had appeared so inappropriately at Netherfield to forward herself in his eyes.
But then, he argued inwardly, would she not have made sure she was presented immaculately?
Not that her appearance injured her in his eyes.
He was a man, and he rather enjoyed her complexion, though he would not, under ordinary circumstances, have allowed himself to dwell upon it.
Her state of dishevelment was not without effect upon him either, though he was sure she had not intended it.
Also, she spent most of her time with her sister rather than downstairs, so the idea that she wanted to impress him did not seem to hold.
She was quite unpretentious, confident, and witty.
He found her person beguiling. He smiled at the memory.
There had been that walk at Netherfield on Miss Bingley’s suggestion.
He had jested, awkwardly enough, that they sought only to display their figures.
She had answered him with such a look, half-mocking and half-playful, that for an instant he could not decide whether she teased or encouraged him.
It was not the sort of exchange he was accustomed to having with women, nor one he had been entirely prepared to understand.
He was not sure what such an exchange meant, but that he had been drawn into it at all astonished him still.
Darcy tightened the reins, impatient with his own weakness.
He had duties beyond Hertfordshire, duties to Pemberley, to Georgiana, to the generations before him.
He was not free to indulge fancies, however appealing.
Still, as he turned his horse along the rise, the clear morning granted him an unimpeded view of the meadow path below, and upon it a slight figure, walking with brisk purpose across the open ground.
The vigour of her step, the graceful carriage – he knew it instinctively.
Miss Elizabeth.
He watched – at first without thought, and then, when he became aware of it, without immediately choosing to look away.
He could do that. He did not approach; he had no reason, no right.
But as he paused upon the crest of the hill and looked down, he felt an unwelcome warmth stir within him.
It was a mixture of curiosity, vexation, and something more tender, which he was unwilling to examine too closely.
He pressed his heels to his horse and moved on, yet the image remained: her figure outlined against the pale November sky, imprinted upon his thoughts with a force that no sense of duty could quite efface.
He rode on for some distance before he became aware that he had taken no notice of the road before him.
Such distraction was unlike him, and he checked it at once; yet the effort cost him more than he cared to own.
***
After his ride, Darcy submitted himself to his valet with less patience than usual.
The scrape of the razor, the rustle of the brush, the faint sting of soap – all these were things he commonly bore without thought, but this morning he found them intolerably slow.
The mirror gave back his own features, steady and composed as ever, yet his mind was far from tranquil.
It was now three days since he had last seen Miss Elizabeth. Even then, he never spoke to her. A glance, a look into each other’s eyes. That was all he was afforded before…
… he saw Wickham.
Why now, why here? Of all places to cross paths, it must be Meryton’s narrow street, and at Elizabeth Bennet’s very side.
Darcy recalled, with a tightening of his jaw, the moment their eyes had met.
The colour had drained from Wickham’s face; Darcy, on the other hand, had felt his own redden with unbidden anger.
It was the first time he had seen him since he quit Ramsgate.
Wickham had saluted with insolent ease, from behind the ladies, as if to remind him that the past was not so easily escaped.
And Elizabeth – she had been there, watching.
What she must have thought of him, he could not determine – nor was he easy under the uncertainty.
He adjusted his cravat before the glass, his movements precise, as though order in dress might restore order in thought.
But the effort was vain. He saw her astonishment again as she looked between them.
Of course, she would be curious. She would wonder at the sudden change in their countenances, the coldness of their bow.
And Wickham, with his practised charm, would not fail to offer her some tale.
A tale turned to his own advantage, blackening Darcy’s name while winning her sympathy.