Chapter 21 #2
“I am determined only,” Darcy said, “to prevent you from abusing them further.”
At first, it seemed Wickham might reply.
Then, with a composure not entirely restored, he turned and withdrew.
They watched him go. The garden, which had seemed so open before, felt suddenly still.
Darcy did not immediately move. “You stayed.”
“I thought it better.”
“I would have preferred otherwise.”
“I know.” A pause. “I could not leave you.”
Darcy regarded her more steadily. “That is not a reason I can easily oppose.” He exhaled slightly. “I should wish you safe above all things.”
Elizabeth softened. “I understand.”
He hesitated, then said more quietly, “I am sorry you were exposed to him.” He raised his hand and touched her cheek. “I had not believed he would dare so much.”
“He has already dared it once,” she replied.
Darcy’s expression hardened.
Elizabeth cleared her voice. “He saw us the other day, here in the garden.
“It was him?” He looked away. “To come here, this way, the second time and accost my loved ones – this was deliberate.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat, “Your loved ones?”
Darcy was taken aback for a moment but then smiled. “Yes, my loved ones.” He looked her in the eye. “Would that offend you?”
Elizabeth could not speak immediately. She shook her head.
Darcy inclined his head, acknowledging it.
“What did he say?”
“Thankfully, not much. You came at a very good time. I think you were right when you said I had made an enemy. Just as you came, he-he meant to insult you – by presuming upon me.”
Darcy’s expression changed – decisively. “I have been too lenient with him,” he said under his breath. He drew her gently nearer. “I shall take care of it,” he said quietly.
And Elizabeth, who had held herself composed throughout, felt that composure at last give way. She did not resist him. Darcy pulled her into his arms.
At last, she allowed herself to tremble.
***
Elizabeth did not pause upon entering the house. She went directly to her mother, who was still in the breakfast parlour, full of activity and expectation. “Mama,” she said, with a composure that admitted of no interruption, “I must beg that you will do me a service.”
Mrs. Bennet turned at once. “My dear Lizzy, what is it? You look quite…”
“Mr. Wickham has been here.”
The name alone was sufficient.
“Here! In the garden? What could he possibly…”
“He addressed Miss Darcy and me in a manner which cannot be overlooked. I must request that you will make it known – properly known – that he is not to be received in this house, nor in any society which values its respectability.”
Mrs. Bennet stared.
Elizabeth continued, more steadily, “You are well acquainted with the neighbourhood, Mama. I believe your opinion carries weight in such matters.”
There was a pause. Then Mrs. Bennet drew herself up. “Indeed, it does. And I shall take care that it is properly understood. Such behaviour! In my garden! To Miss Darcy! And my daughter! I shall not be silent, I assure you.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “I knew you would not.”
She did not remain to hear more but went at once in search of Georgiana.
She found her in the smaller sitting room, where she had withdrawn, pale and silent.
“Miss Darcy, Georgiana,” Elizabeth said more softly.
Georgiana looked up, her composure barely held. “I am very sorry. I did not expect…”
“You have nothing to regret,” Elizabeth said at once, going to her. “He had no right to speak; no right even to be there.”
Georgiana’s voice trembled slightly. “I thought… I feared…”
“You are safe,” Elizabeth said, with quiet firmness. “He will not approach you again.”
There was something in her tone which Georgiana believed at once.
“I am very much obliged to you,” she said.
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “You need not be obliged to me. We are not strangers now.”
Meanwhile, Darcy had requested the favour of a few moments’ private conversation with Mr. Bennet.
The request, though unusual, was not refused. They withdrew together.
When they returned, there was nothing in Mr. Darcy’s manner to betray what had passed, though his composure was of a graver cast than before.
“We must beg to take our leave,” he said, addressing the room with proper civility. “There is a matter which requires immediate attention.”
Mr. Bingley, who stood beside him, looked less composed, though no less determined.
“We are to wait upon the colonel of the militia,” he added.
Mr. Bennet inclined his head. “A very proper call, I should think.”
Mrs. Bennet, though curious, was too much occupied with her own indignation to press for particulars.
Elizabeth met Darcy’s eye only briefly – but it was enough.
The men, including Mr. Bennet, left.
“Lydia, you wanted to spend more time with Miss Darcy; now you have it. Why do you not show her your hat designs?” Elizabeth suggested.
***
Mrs. Bennet went to the kitchen to give her instructions for luncheon and dinner. She fully expected the gentlemen to remain.
Elizabeth smiled and turned to return to her room.
The house, though still animated below, seemed quieter above, and she withdrew to her room under the pretence of a composure she no longer felt the need to maintain.
She closed the door softly behind her. She felt no inclination for company – not even that of Jane, whose gentle presence was at all times her greatest comfort.
For a few moments, she did nothing but stand still, as though the quiet might restore what had been unsettled. But her thoughts would not be so easily arranged.
She had attempted, more than once, to arrange them into some orderly form, to consider events with the calm discernment upon which she had long prided herself. Yet every such attempt dissolved almost immediately, undone by the vividness of recollection.
Mr. Darcy.
The name, which had once carried with it little more than offence and contradiction, had of late assumed a very different consequence.
She moved toward the window, though she did not look out.
She had once thought him proud. And perhaps he was. But she began to suspect that she had not always understood the nature of that pride, nor distinguished it from something far more difficult to dismiss.
She smiled faintly. It was not so easy, she now believed, to judge fairly where one had already decided.
Her thoughts turned.
It had been no moment of confusion, no thoughtless indulgence to be dismissed with a blush and forgotten by the next day.
She had been fully sensible of his nearness – of his intention – and of her own.
There had been no surprise in it, no alarm; and when his lips had met hers, she had not withdrawn.
Nor, when it ended abruptly, had she wished it undone.
Elizabeth pressed her hand lightly against the window frame, as though to steady herself against the admission.
Such a reflection ought, she knew, to have occasioned some degree of shame. It was, by every standard of propriety, a circumstance to be regretted, concealed, perhaps even repented. Yet she could summon none of those feelings with any sincerity.
Instead, what returned to her with the greatest force was the interruption.
Wickham.
The very name, which not long ago she would have spoken with unguarded warmth, now brought with it a most unwelcome discomfort. His sudden appearance, his evident observation of what had passed – and more than that, the expression with which he had regarded them, her – would not sit easily.
For Mr. Wickham to have witnessed that moment… it was not to be borne. It had been hers – entirely hers. It should have been only between Mr. Darcy and her.
And to have it thus observed, and then later alluded to, with that same insinuating manner… She shivered.
That man had meant to use it. Of that she was now persuaded. To turn it to his own advantage; to lessen her in Mr. Darcy’s estimation; perhaps even to wound them both.
To think that she might have served as a pawn in such a design was intolerable.
Her thoughts shifted at once to Georgiana. Poor Miss Darcy had clung to her with a force that spoke of more than mere alarm. There had been real fear in her manner – and something like distress at being recognised.
Was there more in that history than she yet understood?
Mr. Wickham had addressed her with a familiarity wholly unjustified. That alone would have been sufficient to condemn him.
For that reason, if for no other, Elizabeth had not allowed herself to appear intimidated. She would not have Georgiana suppose herself unprotected.
She drew a breath. It had been, she must own, a relief beyond expression when Mr. Darcy appeared.
She could not help but smile at the recollection – how he had at first ordered her away, and then, upon finding her still beside him, had accepted it without much reproach.
And yet… She grew more thoughtful. She had been afraid.
Not of Mr. Darcy, nor even wholly for herself, but of what might have followed had they been left alone together. There had been something in Wickham’s manner – something unrestrained – that suggested he might not have stopped at words.
Mr. Darcy was strength itself. He acted not with haste, nor with anger, but with a resolution that admitted no opposition. How she admired that.
There had been no display. No raised voice, no attempt to triumph.
He had not argued – he had decided. And Wickham, for all his ease of manner, had yielded.
It was not merely authority, though he possessed that in abundance.
It was something steadier, something that did not seek to impress, and therefore could not easily be resisted.
He had protected, without claiming the act. And that, perhaps, affected her more than anything.
She had been very certain. Too certain.
She had believed him proud, reserved, and perhaps incapable of that warmth of feeling which renders a man truly engaging. She had believed him unjust in his judgements, ungenerous in his opinions, and indifferent to the sentiments of others.
There had been, she saw now, a certain satisfaction in her earlier judgement.
And yet… She paused. Whatever she had once thought of Mr. Darcy, she could no longer think it without qualification.
Elizabeth drew a slow breath. It was a humbling reflection.
He had said – though not in the manner of a formal declaration – enough that she could not mistake his meaning.
He loved her.
She put her fingers to her lips.
That she should have inspired such a sentiment – without design, without calculation – astonished her still. And yet, what lingered more strongly was not the declaration itself, but the manner of it.
She seated herself at her dressing table and looked into the glass, though she scarcely saw her own reflection.
He had asked if it was all right.
She could not help but smile at the recollection. There was something endearing in a man so used to authority to become hesitant all of a sudden. It touched her more than any confident avowal might have done.
Then, he had drawn her to him. He embraced her. She had not understood, at the time, how much she needed to be held.
By him.
The memory returned with quiet force.
Elizabeth lowered her gaze. The warmth of it lingered still.