Chapter 20
The Lane
“Mr Darcy,” Elizabeth exclaimed upon meeting him unexpectedly on her morning walk.
To be fair, she was walking on a nice Rosings path, and the gentleman stayed at the estate, so his presence was not particularly shocking.
Of course, she had never noticed him walking there, but he was seen to walk at Netherfield, so he was familiar with the basic operation of his feet and legs in a park-like situation.
“Miss Bennet, good morning,” he replied with an odd expression.
Elizabeth looked askance at his haughty expression then abruptly remembered her promise to herself.
As subtly as possible, she pinched her arm to focus.
She had promised to try thinking about the man differently by substituting words in her inner thoughts—so she looked carefully at his bashful expression and gave him a small curtsey.
“Good morning, sir. Your presence was unexpected. I did not know you walked this way.”
Careful to reword every thought, hoping the exercise might eventually train her recalcitrant mind to follow her edicts, Elizabeth waited for the man’s awkward reply. See there, not prideful at all.
“I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble?” said he, as he joined her.
“You certainly do,” she replied with a smile, “but it does not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome.”
“Might I join you?”
Elizabeth, on general principle, liked to be as precise in her language as possible, while keeping the necessary allowances politeness demanded. “I do not object.”
There it was. She did not object to his presence, a substantial improvement.
Neither did she particularly desire it, but such a declaration was unnecessary.
She expected him to turn and walk with her, like he had tried to do with the Netherfield Huntress.
That lady had grabbed his arm like a fishmonger hooking his catch, which was amusing in its own way.
However, against her expectations, he smiled and offered his arm.
She surprised herself by taking it without complaint, and even sheepishly admitted some modest enjoyment in the act.
Elizabeth had walked with men in the past, but none of the calibre of her current partner.
There were, of course, all the elder gentlemen of her father’s generation and their equally familiar though mostly disagreeable progeny, who graduated from hair-pulling and frogs to dancing and walking without ever attracting even a hint of admiration.
She had never enjoyed a beau—unsurprising, when she spent all her time with Jane—though she had wondered idly what it would be like.
Of course, Mr Darcy was no such creature, but if she did one day have a beau who looked like Mr Darcy but was not quite so haughty bashful, it might not be the worst thing in the world.
They walked for a few minutes in silence, and Elizabeth found she liked it. Mr Darcy was a man of few words in the best of situations. Most women of his acquaintance probably talked enough for 3 people, so his lack of participation was not usually a difficulty.
At last, he took his turn at conversation. “Is this a favourite walk, Miss Elizabeth… Miss Bennet?”
The slip proved endearing rather than insulting. “Be at ease. I am Miss Elizabeth most of the time and am not offended if you find it easier to use.”
She said it because she truly was not offended if he used her usual name, but also to let him know, subtly, that Jane remained unmarried.
He, of course, need not know that; but considering how acrimonious their last meeting in Hertfordshire had been, and that his best friend remained very much in her brown books, it might be useful.
However, as her thoughts ran down far too many tangents, she supposed it was time to reply. “To answer your question, it depends on how you define favourite. I suppose I could say this walk is a favourite, but not the favourite. I have 3 walks that all have equal favour.”
Darcy chuckled. “I assume you have a tally and some equations to back that up, Miss Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth noticed the reversion to her usual name and wondered about it. In most men, she would call it laziness. He had accustomed himself to calling her that, and changing was more trouble than sticking with habit. However, that did not match what she had begun to think was his nature.
Elizabeth had talked to various people at Rosings about the gentleman, including parishioners, tenants, and even a few pensioners.
It was wonderful how much access she had to people as the sister of the parson’s wife.
Everyone, without exception, spoke of his care in all his dealings.
According to everyone she asked, he was a good master, scrupulous in his conduct, fair in his dealings, and trustworthy in every way.
Of course, Lady Catherine ran the estate, and Mr Darcy was simply there to aid his aunt, but he took the job seriously.
Colonel Fitzwilliam visited the parsonage often because he was bored while Mr Darcy was busy.
A stray thought struck Elizabeth, halting her steps.
“Miss Elizabeth?” Mr Darcy asked sweetly.
Abandoning plain speaking, for Elizabeth did not want to discuss her thoughts, she said, “A momentary stumble. All is well!”
She matched deeds to words and tugged him back into motion. He wore his haughty perplexed expression.
The thought that so confused her was mathematical in nature. She loved percentages. They were so simple, any child could understand them, and they told a wonderful story—almost painted it in words.
The problem was, she could easily imagine the number of people she should, or typically would, talk to about a man with such a thin connection to herself, and not an auspicious one at that.
If she recalled all the conversation she had actually had about the man, it amounted to 350-450% of the usual. Yes, it was clear and undisputed: Elizabeth Bennet was gossiping… about Mr Darcy—enough to put her mother to shame.
Chagrined, she tried to change the topic. “I rode out with your cousin, Miss de Bourgh, yesterday. It was fascinating.”
“Did you learn anything unexpected?”
“I have never known someone who was chronically ill, so everything was unexpected. I will not break her confidence—”
“Of course not. I respect that.”
“But there is one thing I do not believe she would mind my telling you.”
He gave her his full attention.
“I hope you do not consider this gossip or prying, but she does not seem very inclined to marry you.”
“That is a relief,” Darcy said, chuckling, “as I have no intention of marrying her. I wish I could make her happy, but since marrying her would create the opposite of her happiness, it seems a bad strategy. In your favourite mathematical terms, it would be an action of the correct magnitude but incorrect polarity.”
Elizabeth smiled; the interchange pleased her too much for comfort. “She assured me you understood her. Do you know what bothers her most about it now?”
“To my shame, I have no idea.”
“What bothers her now is that everyone she knows is accustomed to her being ill, and they all seem to take it as a given that it has always been so and always will be. Nobody expects any more of her, and—”
Elizabeth paused again. “I should not tell you this. I have no idea why I am gossiping with you—”
To her surprise, Mr Darcy put his hand over hers, which still somehow rested on his elbow.
“Be at ease, madam. I can see you are more concerned for my cousin than curious—”
“How can you say that?” Elizabeth asked, perplexed by the turn of conversation.
“Because you are a caring person. When you talk about Anne, you use the same tone you use for your sisters. It is simple deduction, really.”
Elizabeth raised one eyebrow in either amazement or consternation. She would decide later; for the moment, it was time to answer.
Stuttering, she said, “She says she does not even expect it of herself.”
Sorrow crossed Darcy’s face at the revelation, only to harden into a fierce scowl that half frightened her.
He noted her alarm. “Pray, pardon me. This scowl is not aimed at you.”
Her temper fully engaged, Elizabeth spat, “For who, then? Perhaps your cousin does not meet your expectations, but she is—”
He boldly placed his finger against her lips to silence her. By all rights, she should have bitten a chunk out of it, but she allowed the overly forward manoeuvre… once.
“Let us not be at odds. May I explain? I assure you, I will satisfy your mathematical mind at the very least.”
Elizabeth acquiesced grudgingly.
“You told me yourself you study characters, and complex ones are more interesting.”
She nodded, unwilling to fault his logic; though, to be truthful, all she could remember of her mother’s disastrous visit to Netherfield was spending half an hour wishing she could crawl into a hole and pull a blanket over her head; but she did vaguely remember saying something of the kind.
“And you told me you use mathematics to make sense of the world. Are you familiar with the term skew?”
“A bias towards something. A good example would be that English law and society are wildly skewed in favour of men.”
She thought that would send him running if he were as prideful as she supposed, but he smiled, and she had to admit his rarely bestowed smile was glorious. It nearly took her breath away, as much from the sensation as from the shock of experiencing it.
“A perfect example if I ever heard one,” he said. “Well, I must admit that I have a—”
She waited on pins and needles for an answer.
“—a skew in my facial expressions. It is an old problem I have been unable to resolve. When I am not paying attention, my expression skews towards aloofness, anger, haughtiness… that sort of thing. When I consciously try to control it, I become wooden, but at least less frightening.”
Elizabeth’s mouth hung open in wonder. She grudgingly admitted she rather liked this version of Mr Darcy, and she was ever so happy she would never have to worry about him pursuing a country nobody. She might actually be vulnerable.
“That explains a great deal,” she replied, feeling no need to add that she had detested the man a few days earlier.
“So, you see, my look of rage was directed at myself. I have known Anne my entire life. Lady Catherine has pressed me to marry her since before my majority. You learned more about her in one afternoon in her phaeton than I did in all that time.”
Slightly guilty on behalf of both Mr Darcy and his cousin, she said, “That was not my intention. I had a conversation about boxes with—”
Stumbling, she paused and continued without revealing someone else’s story.
“Sometimes it is easier for outsiders to see what is happening because they have fresh eyes. Do not chastise yourself. I have recently been required to apply fresh eyes to a host of… ah… issues.”
She fell silent, embarrassed and staring at the ground, only to come back to life and blurt, “I hope you will not do anything rash.”
“I never do anything rash. Never in my life can I remember a single rash or imprudent act. My cousin Richard teases me mercilessly about it every chance he gets, but I mostly ignore him. I will not do anything precipitous, but I will think long and hard about what I can do to help Anne. There must be something.”
Elizabeth stopped and dragged the man to a halt.
“You are in earnest?”
“Of course. As I told you once, I have as many faults as any man, and perhaps more than most. I have no more discernment of my own character than most, but I do try my best to find my faults and correct them.”
Elizabeth thought a minute, and finally said, “I shall give it some thought and speak to Mary. Between us, we can probably come up with something useful you can do.”
“So, I might turn out to be not entirely worthless?”
For the first time, the two laughed together and not at each other. Elizabeth was beginning to think it might be nice to have a friend with no expectations.
They reached the parsonage, so Mr Darcy entered to greet the Collinses then took his leave.