Chapter 28
State Changes
They walked on in silence for a time, thinking about mirrors and statues, and the man finally asked timidly, “You said that before yesterday, you entertained the idea that we might be friends.”
“I did.”
“And now?”
“I do not know. Have you studied physics?”
“I did at Cambridge.”
“Then you are aware of the difference between permanent changes and state changes? State changes are reversible, and permanent changes are not. Cool water enough, and it freezes, but if you heat it back up, you get the same water. Fire is not reversible. Burn something and nothing can change it back.”
“I agree. Some things can be both. A bell cannot be unrung, but it will eventually be nearly as it was. It may well have caused someone to act on the sound, but the bell itself reverts.”
“Exactly! So, you see, I… well… I mean—”
Flustered, Elizabeth paused a moment to allow a few bars of one of Mary’s dirges that always soothed her to play in her head.
He waited patiently; she finally continued.
“I would not like to part in rancour, but beyond that, it is difficult to be friends after a day like yesterday. Perhaps it can be done… I do not know. I will be satisfied if we part without resentment, with the possibility of meeting someday, when time has passed, the ice has melted, and the bell is still again. I doubt we can ever be indifferent acquaintances again, but perhaps we could be… something different.”
He smiled. “I would like that.”
“May I offer some unsolicited advice, Mr Statue?”
“I would like nothing better, Miss Mirror.”
“You previously asserted I had… what was it… ‘10 times your skill in social interaction?’”
“I stand by it.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Is that as you think things should be?”
Chastened, he shook his head. “One night at Rosings, you told me I needed to practise. You are absolutely correct. As the colonel asserted, I never took the trouble.”
“Let us return to your claim. You spoke euphemistically, as I am not certain it is even possible to have a 10-fold difference in social skill.”
He nodded.
“Why do you believe I have more skill?”
“Because it is an established fact! I did not believe you superior because I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. In the letter in my pocket, which I shall burn for your protection, I counted at least two dozen times when I behaved badly towards you by any reasonable person’s reckoning, culminating in yesterday’s debacle.
I counted even more offences from the ladies of Netherfield that I endured without comment.
In all that time, you raised your voice precisely once and said something remotely unkind precisely never. Is my count in error?”
“Close enough,” she grumbled.
“I stand by my opinion. You are my superior. I will take your advice and practise.”
A tiny, wistful smile graced Elizabeth's face. “Mr Statue,” she said, and paused for some time. “I applaud your effort. Would you… could you… well—”
He waited patiently.
She finally said, “Would you like to know something… well… Oh… I cannot believe I am saying this!”
She stamped her boot like a spoilt child, stared at the ground, and stopped short. Darcy halted beside her.
He held his tongue. A telltale twitch in her cheek suggested she was thinking furiously.
It shamed him that he had wanted to marry this woman yesterday, still wanted her hand today, and hoped, without any encouragement whatsoever, that he might one day ask for it again—yet knew so very little about her.
He had only seen her angry or frightened once, and admitted it took far more to rattle her than him.
A nagging suspicion remained: he had never seen her truly angry or frightened. How bad might such a sight be?
She faltered still, so he said gently, “You may tell me anything you like without fear of censure or gossip, Elizabeth. I will not repeat it to a soul, not even my cousin or sister. I have no right to ask, and I will not. It is your choice.”
She snapped, “Of course it is my—”
She broke off mid-sentence and closed her eyes tightly; her fingers moving as if counting until a decision settled in her face. He recognised the expression from the previous evening, when she pulled on three pairs of the softest gloves to crush his hopes with.
At length, she said, “I would like to tell you something important… though I have no idea why.”
“I am at your disposal.”
She pulled him into motion again. “I must remind you what I once said to you.”
“Do you remember everything we ever said to each other?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think that significant?”
“Not particularly. I am intelligent, and as you once said, I live in a mostly static and unvarying society; it is not difficult to keep track of all slightly significant conversations. I tried yesterday to make a rough estimate of the total number of words passed between us, but I could not keep my mind on the problem long enough to get a good estimate.”
“I relived them all last night at some length, more than once, but I did not count them. I should think the answer in the low thousands.”
“Let me remind you what I said at that awful dance at Netherfield. I said something like, ‘I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the éclat of a proverb.’”
“Do you remember that?”
“I remember the refrain as well, with perfect clarity,” he said. “This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure. How near it may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly.”
“And what did you think?”
“Much to my chagrin, I suspected you either teased or flirted with me, but then you mentioned Wickham, and my thinking became even less rational.”
“What do you mean, even less rational?” she asked, perplexed.
“You cannot know, with all evidence supporting the theory that I am devoid of all proper feeling. To be honest, you had haunted my dreams for weeks. You know my thinking which I ill-advisedly told you yesterday, but my feeling has been much stronger and of longer duration than my brief declaration implies. I spent most of my time at Netherfield thinking about you.”
Elizabeth sighed. “That makes what I must say either easier or harder… I cannot decide which, and yes, I realise they are opposites.”
“I am sorry to add to your burden. I truly am.”
“I know; else I would be sitting with Mary talking about babies—” She gasped. “Pray forget I said that.”
“Said what?”
“Very good!”
“Let us return to my tease from the Netherfield ball, that we were each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition. Your two hypotheses are wildly in error.”
“You were neither teasing nor flirting?”
“No sir! I was not.”
“What exactly were you doing?”
“I spoke the exact literal truth.”
Darcy stopped abruptly as Elizabeth expected; she stopped with him.
After a moment, he said, “That will require some explanation.”
“I suspected as much. You see… well… let us return to your metaphorical tenfold difference in social ability. I will take your assertion at face value for the moment. Let us say my skill is 10 times yours. If true, I can assure you, it is because I have practised 100 times as much!”
Frustrated by her bonnet’s interference, Elizabeth looked around and noticed they stood in a small, very private glade. She took off her bonnet and stood before him confident they would not be discovered—not that a missing bonnet would be cause for panic anyway.
“I have never told this to any living soul beyond my family and closest friends. You see… I was a horrid child… horrid beyond measure.”
He waited for her to continue.
“Lady Catherine criticises my mother because we did not have a governess, but we had an excellent housekeeper who acted the part. Her two children died before their sixth birthdays, and she doted on us. She would have resented a governess.”
“I see.”
“When I was young, I was very personable and persuasive… and extremely, inordinately, monumentally stubborn. I could talk a calf out of his milk by arguing with him until he finally gave in just to end the torment. It meant I got my way most of the time, but also that I alienated just about everyone. When people dug their heels in, I fell into frightening, overwhelming fits of temper.”
She drew a deep breath. “My father would occasionally make me sleep in the loft above the horses just to get some peace and quiet. The usual remedies—beatings, taking my toys, sending me to bed without supper, and locking me away in a room to calm down—were ineffective.”
Darcy stared at her in wonder. “I had no idea.”
Elizabeth stared at the ground. “It gets worse. You see… you see—”
A tear escaped her eye; he wanted with all his heart to brush it away but refrained.
“There was… and likely still is… something not quite right in my head. If I could not move, I grew nervous and fidgety—far more than usual. Walking, running, climbing, and swinging were not mere diversions… they were essential. Sometimes I would wind the rope on our swing as tight as I could and spend hours spinning one way and the other. It… it calmed me sometimes when nothing else would.”
“Calmed what?”
“Sometimes my head felt like a crowded ballroom, with dozens of people shouting for attention. I could scarce hear myself think amongst all the noise, and I would lash out just to silence them for a while. I know it sounds mad, which is why I would never tell someone I could not trust, but… well… there it is.”
“Your trust in me is not misplaced.”
“I know that.”
“So, what happened?”
She sighed in remembrance. “I was 13 years 8 months 4 days old when I had a screaming fit with Charlotte Lucas, Sir William’s eldest daughter.”
“I remember her. We spoke at Lucas Lodge. A very sensible woman.”