Chapter 24
Shadows
Elizabeth still knelt beside the dollhouse when the bell rang again, and much to her surprise, in came Mr Darcy—alone.
Startled, she rose with as much grace as she could muster.
She dropped a curtsey and tried not to sound startled. “Mr Darcy!”
The gentleman stalked into the room. Elizabeth could produce no other word for his manner. His brow was furrowed in… in… something. On another man, it might have been nervousness, but she discarded the notion, leaving herself with nothing but confusion.
The boxes seemed to surprise him, and the dollhouse in the centre of the mess to intrigue him. He stared at it a moment before recollecting himself enough to offer the basic courtesies.
“Miss Bennet, I heard you were ill and called to enquire after your health.”
The very concept of Mr Darcy, of all people, walking half a mile to enquire after a lady who complained of a mere headache seemed odd at the very least.
“I am well. It was only a headache, and I am fully recovered.”
“I am happy to hear it.”
He kept glancing at the dollhouse, so she decided to either satisfy his curiosity or at least reduce his obvious agitation.
“I see you are intrigued by my gift. This arrived within the hour from London. What do you think?”
Much to her surprise, he leaned over and at least pretended to examine it.
Even more shockingly, he dropped to one knee to inspect it closely. “May I examine the underside of the roof?”
“By all means,” said she, caught completely off guard.
He lifted the roof and examined the underside for a moment before setting it gently back where he found it.
“As I thought! This is a Jameson, is it not?”
The question inordinately surprised Elizabeth.
“I believe it might be. Are you familiar with them?”
He looked up at her a moment, considering.
“I know a little, though I am not an expert. They are made by a man a decade my father’s senior, with the odd name of John Jonah Jameson.
He is considered a bit eccentric among the ton because he will not make a dollhouse for someone he does not respect.
My sister has one at Pemberley my father bought for her just after she was born, but Lady Catherine still fumes that he would not sell her one for Anne. ”
Uncertain how to respond, Elizabeth said, “I am all astonishment at your knowledge of dollhouses.”
“I have been my sister’s guardian these 5 years, so that might seem the most likely reason, but it would not be entirely correct.
In truth, Mr Jameson sent his son to Cambridge, in the hope that he might buy an estate and enter the landed gentry one day.
His son was 3 years behind me, so I did not know him well, but he is a good fencer, and we sparred from time to time.
He beat me far more often than the converse.
It is also possible we may have shared a glass or two of port or chess game on occasion. ”
Curious, Elizabeth asked, “And what do you think of him?”
Darcy finally met her eyes with another expression she could not read. “I thought well of him. We have not spoken in years, but I believe he may be nearing his purchase.”
Elizabeth thought she must ask her soon-to-be brother, as Jane had neglected to mention anything of the sort. How odd that Mr Darcy should know Mr Jameson. Should she enlighten the gentleman about the connection? She decided to let sleeping dogs lie.
Darcy bent over the dollhouse and ran his fingers along the edges of the maze. “I suspect the shell was made by the father. It would be quite valuable.”
“Valuable?”
“There are collectors who want one very badly, mostly as a matter of pride. Most purchasers do their best to abide by the elder Mr Jameson’s guidelines, so they only sell to the more respectable families.
Some of the less respectable would like one to satisfy their vanity, and the more respectable would pay handsomely to keep the legacy intact.
It makes for some competition, which drives prices up. ”
He bent closer and pointed to one of the maze walls.
“See the walls here. The style is different. This maze was added later, I would say recently. It does not look quite like the father’s work, so I suspect it is the son.
He is good—very good in fact—but not equal to his father.
Of course, it is not his principal occupation.
He is a merchant and importer. I may even have a share in one of his ships. ”
Both the information and its source surprised Elizabeth.
She noticed he had been present unchaperoned for some time, and it behoved her, for both their sakes, to see him out.
“Mr Darcy, I thank you for the information. I find it most useful, but I am certain you did not come here to discuss dollhouses, and well… well… we are unchaperoned—”
The gentleman sprang up as if reminded of an urgent task. He stalked to the fireplace and paced before it, leaving Elizabeth in confusion.
Increasingly concerned about the entire enterprise, Elizabeth started to ask, “Mr Dar—” but he interrupted, speaking forcefully.
“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression.
She might have thought herself prepared for whatever Mr Darcy chose to throw at her, but this went very far beyond anything she had considered in her carefully laid analysis.
She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent.
What could she possibly say to such a declaration, delivered so abruptly, without the smallest hint preceding it?
This was not how courtships were performed!
At the first avowal, a sensation foreign to her sensibilities and startling in its intensity coursed through her—this man possessed such feelings for her.
A sense of belonging, of being part of something important, of standing at the beginning of something new, took root.
It was a feeling she thought she might like very well indeed once she recovered from her shock.
None of her careful thinking, fretting, or analysis had prepared her for that burst of pure emotion, and its intensity entirely threw her off balance.
As a rational creature, she knew she was no more in love with him than before; nor was she likely to be in the immediate future. However, for the first time, she could imagine she eventually might, given sufficient encouragement.
Elizabeth was sensible enough to recognise the sensation as infatuation, shock, or perhaps merely the lowering of her guard; but it was profound, disturbing, exhilarating, and disconcerting.
Unfortunately, as the man continued, that tiny flower of hope withered and died, much like a thin inclination starved away by one good sonnet.
He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride.
His sense of her inferiority--of its being a degradation--of the family obstacles which had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.
“In spite of all my endeavours, I find it impossible to conquer my feelings for you. I have held you in the highest regard almost from the first moment. In declaring myself, I act against the wishes of my family, my friends, and my own better judgement. I stand prepared to disregard such obstacles. I am so much in love as to wish to marry you in spite of all my objections. I hope now to be rewarded by your acceptance of my hand. Please, consent to be my wife.”
By the time he finished, she fought the contrary desires to rail and to cry.
She wanted to rail that she had yet another awkward conversation to deal with, this time her own.
She wanted to rail at the injustice of the declarations, while simultaneously wanting to cry for the forlorn death of hope, like seeds falling on rocky soil.
She wanted to cry that she had ever allowed them to be planted in the first place.
She was, however, surprisingly short on the one emotion that such a declaration ought to produce.
She was not angry, but she was… disappointed…
profoundly disappointed… and the feeling was disconcerting.
When the man finally ceased speaking, Elizabeth could scarcely think rationally, so she tried Mary’s advice: do some arithmetic—any arithmetic. She settled for proportional scaling, something simple enough to be accomplished in a few seconds to restore her equilibrium.
She imagined Mr Darcy’s proposal, such as it was, as one hour.
By that standard, roughly the first 9 minutes and the last 6—a mere quarter of the whole—were devoted to sentiments that could be considered in her favour.
Yes, he loved her, admired her, and so forth, as was common in any proposal.
Even poor deluded William Collins had said as much in his ill-advised proposal at Longbourn.
The almost pro forma and perfunctory asking for her hand belonged to the usual forms; so really, only about 15% of his words were of affection, with 10% dedicated to required forms, and the remaining 75% to some form of derision and excuse-making.
Elizabeth was torn. Before Mary’s tutoring, Jane’s rage, and her own deep thinking; she very well might have been so angry as to lash out with the strongest language she possessed—and long experience suggested that was very strong indeed.
Such an outcome remained possible, but she was checked by that first flash of…
something… perhaps proto-love, or affection, or anticipation, or desire, that had sparked at the beginning.
That feeling of lost possibilities stayed her hand and cooled her temper.