Chapter Eighteen
Longbourn
Darcy
Bingley chattered enthusiastically as the carriage rolled toward Longbourn. Darcy listened with but half an ear, his mind dwelling upon Elizabeth and what her reaction to the eighth gift had been that morning.
“You may cavil at Mrs. Bennet all you like, Darcy, but you must allow that she sets a fine table. I can scarce wait. Meat pies, pastries, rolls, preserves, pheasant, duck, goose, venison—I have never quitted her table unsatisfied.”
“What?” Darcy looked across the carriage toward his friend. “Forgive me. I was not attending.”
Bingley laughed. “And here I thought your silence as proof of disdain.”
“I have endeavored to behave better these last weeks.” He shifted in his seat. “Mrs. Bennet has grown kinder toward me—surely you have marked it.”
“Indeed, I have. I meant no offense. The neighborhood takes pleasure in our company, and I have no cause to repine. Pray, forgive my jest.”
“Think nothing of it. I must also agree with you. Mrs. Bennet lays a fine table. She would rank among London’s most notable hostesses, had she the means.
Indeed, the fare at Longbourn rivals my Aunt Catherine’s.
” His aunt’s dishes, in truth, often left Darcy ill, their richness lying heavily upon the stomach.
In contrast, Mrs. Bennet saw to it that her guests departed gratified rather than burdened.
The carriage drew up, and Bingley sprang out. Darcy descended at a more deliberate pace. The shadows of late afternoon had long since melted into darkness.
In a moment, the gentlemen were announced. As they entered the drawing room, fire and candlelight created shifting patterns across the floor. From beyond came the clatter of dinner preparations, yet here there reigned only the rustle of pages and the murmur of low conversation.
The two youngest Bennets shared a settee, whispering together over fashion plates, unheeding of the gentlemen’s arrival. Miss Mary sat at the pianoforte playing a sonata, while Sanderson dutifully turned the leaves.
Bingley went directly to Miss Bennet, who rose to receive him with warmth, smiling as he placed a gallant kiss upon her hand. Darcy scanned the room until his eyes rested on the lady he most longed to see.
Elizabeth, who had yet to look up, sat near the window, where the glow of candles lent auburn fire to the darker shades of her curls.
Her hands held a volume Darcy recognized as Lyrical Ballads.
Her fingers traced the fine paper, her whole manner intent, as if savoring each word by touch alone, her lips parted in silent contemplation.
The shawl about her shoulders slipped as she turned a page, the fringe brushing her wrist in a delicate fall.
He remained at a distance, hesitant to intrude upon her contemplations. He had come to Longbourn intent on speaking with her, on strengthening whatever sentiments she might have begun to feel for him, on inspiring in her a tenderness to equal his own—to love him as he loved her.
Something in the hushed intimacy of the scene held him still. The very air seemed alive with unspoken feeling, and his heart quickened as he yearned to remain within its spell. At length, he made his way to her.
“Good evening, Miss Elizabeth.”
She raised her eyes from the book with a smile of gentle surprise.
“Mr. Darcy! I was so engaged with the page that I could not lift my eyes sooner.”
“I beg your pardon. I did not wish to intrude. You appeared…absorbed.” His heart thundered as she gestured to the chair next to hers, inviting him to sit.
“I was.” Elizabeth held up the book. “Absorbed, that is. Wordsworth has a way of drawing one in. He writes as though nature itself were a companion—as though emotion and landscape are one.”
Darcy nodded, moving his chair nearer. “Wordsworth,” he repeated, tasting the name upon his tongue.
“I have read him, though not in recent months.” He recognized the volume as one that he had included among the gifts.
“A handsome copy—finer than the one I have in my library at Pemberley.” It was true; the one he owned had grown worn from frequent reading.
“Do you enjoy poetry, Mr. Darcy? I have lately become rather fond of it.”
A low chuckle escaped him. “I recall your opinion once being quite the reverse.” The corners of his mouth curved as he studied her, waiting for recognition. He was not disappointed as he noted the recollection in her eyes.
Elizabeth laughed outright. “‘I wondered who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!’ Yes, I remember it well.”
Darcy assumed a veneer of hauteur. “‘I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love.’ Imagine my mortification when I turned to Shakespeare that evening, only to discover the line referred to music, not verse.”
“Yes, I knew it then.” Her mirth continued as she leaned forward, quoting herself.
“‘Of a fine, stout, healthy love, poetry may feed and nourish. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely.’” She sobered.
“I have since learned that a well-wrought stanza may hold the power to persuade to love.”
She looked at him expectantly, and Darcy swallowed hard, torn between longing to reveal himself, and fearing her reply. Would she welcome the truth of his heart? All seemed to encourage him, yet still he faltered. At last, he spoke.
“There is power in its economy—a world conveyed in but a few lines.” He silently willed her to take his meaning—that he was her secret admirer, though he shrank from full avowal.
To ease the moment, he gave her a wry smile.
“I confess I am not always equal to discerning the intent of the great poets. My own attempts fall far short.”
Elizabeth regarded him, a knowing glint in her eyes, then released a soft laugh.
“That is the beauty of poetry. It speaks differently to each reader, and sometimes differently at each reading.” Her hands caressed the book with reverence.
“I am very grateful I am in possession of so many such treasures.”
She set the book upon the side table, her fingers still lingering over the binding before letting it rest. Darcy marked the motion, inexplicably struck by it—the tenderness she bestowed on something others might call ordinary. Not ordinary, he thought. She sees the gift for what it is.
“Have you a favorite poet?” she asked, turning her attention wholly to him.
He hesitated. “I once believed it to be Milton. The grandeur, the command of language…it appealed to my youth. But of late, I find myself drawn to gentler voices.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “Gentler voices?”
He met her eyes. “Those who speak less of heroics and more of understanding…of the soul in quiet places.” Darcy waited, his heart suspended. for her reply.
Elizabeth
Elizabeth felt a flutter in her chest. She had not expected such an answer. “Then Wordsworth may suit you after all.”
Darcy leaned nearer, the space between them narrowing until she could scarcely draw breath.
The tilt of her head brought her so close she might have felt his warmth upon her cheek, and a shiver passed through her at the thought of what a kiss might be.
When he drew back, disappointment pricked, though she told herself it was folly.
“And you, Miss Elizabeth? Have you a favorite?” His reply was steady, though the faintest catch betrayed itself as he withdrew.
“It changes with the seasons, I think. Her smile warmed. “Yet I often return to Cowper. There is a sincerity in his melancholy that does not weigh one down. And Charlotte Smith—her verses are like confidences whispered in the dark.”
Milton, Cowper, Charlotte Smith, Wordsworth… She ticked the names silently. Four of the eight from that morning’s gift. ’Tis him. It must be him. Then why does he not yet speak?
Darcy’s look carried a warmth she had not observed in him before.
“On occasion, I take pleasure in Pope. But you read poetry as if it were a tongue learned from birth. That is enviable.” He paused.
“My sister inclines towards Gray, Thomson, and Coleridge.
I wish she may come to comprehend them as you do. “
A light laugh escaped her. “Perhaps I only feign understanding, and the verses are too kind to betray me. As for Miss Darcy, she is still young. Her comprehension will deepen with time.”
Darcy’s eyes strayed to the book resting on the side table. “You appeared lost in thought when I entered.”
Elizabeth dropped her gaze to the cover.
“There was a passage that struck me.” She leafed through the volume, then held it out.
“Here: One impulse from a vernal wood may teach you more of man…There is tenderness in the notion that nature may guide us when society and words fall short.” Had she not learned more of Darcy amidst fields and gardens than in all the drawing rooms of Meryton?
He regarded her in stillness, his countenance grave. “I envy those who find clarity in verse. I often perplex myself with over-fine distinctions where all ought to be plain.”
“You make it sound as though verse conspires against you. How is that so?”
“In conversation, particularly. I do not always say what I mean. Or rather, I say it poorly—too direct, or too guarded—and the sense is lost. Writing has always been preferable. It grants time to weigh each phrase, to consider what may be implied. I am no poet, but I can frame a fair letter.”
“Is that why you turn to poetry? Because another has already found the words?” The thought explained much—his reserve, the hauteur she once mistook for pride, the effort he must have made of late to appear more open.
A flicker of surprise, then gratitude, crossed his countenance. “Yes. Precisely.”