Chapter 15
THE TRUTH WILL OUT
Elizabeth studied the meagre titles available to her in Netherfield’s library, weighing the merits between a mediocre history of Roman architecture or a Latin primer, when an odd, tingling feeling travelled up her spine—as if she were being watched.
The library, seeming the least-used room in this entire house—this was her third visit, and it had always before been empty—it had not occurred to her to inspect it for the presence of others.
Slowly, she turned.
The person she most and least wanted to see in the world, Mr Darcy, sat upon the sofa nearest the fire like a king upon his throne, his expression brooding. Off with their heads, his countenance seemed to say. Her heart began thrumming a frantic beat, one not quite fear and not quite yearning.
“Mr Darcy! How you startled me!”
“Did I?” he replied.
The kindly, interested man of yesterday was gone as if he had never been.
A man of mercurial temperament, she told herself.
A part of her mind protested this description, however, telling her it was nothing of the sort.
This newly discovered, incomprehensible side of her responded to his dangerous looks with the urge to incite more of them.
Clamping down on the unacceptable woman within, she seized the first book her hand fastened upon, without any idea of its title.
“I apologise for disturbing you,” she made herself say. “I will leave you to your reading.” Turning away from him, clutching the book to her breast with one hand, she beat a hasty retreat, reaching for the door, for flight, for safety.
A strong male hand forced it closed again.
She whirled. “What are you about?” She ought to have been afraid, but the anger that should have accompanied it was sadly missing; the woman she was trying so hard not to be briefly escaped, and it was she who asked the question.
In her voice was a longing that changed her tone from the firm, crisp one her stronger self intended, into a breathy murmur.
He stared down at her, all the arrogance of royalty in his gaze. “Why do you flee from me?”
“I call it ‘observing the proprieties’.” To her own ears, she sounded like Mary at her most pedantic.
“Do you know what I call it? ‘Cowardice’.”
A thread of resentment found its way through—mostly because he was right. “It is most ungentlemanly of you to point it out, when I am the one who is behaving.”
A dimple appeared in his cheek, although not a smile fully formed—more like, the mirthless acknowledgment of a conqueror.
“If you did not wish to attract my attention, you ought not to have worn that dress.”
At last she found her anger in his stupid remark, and clung to it.
“Oh, yes, certainly; if a man behaves poorly, it is always the fault of a woman for failing to predict when he might decide that his decency, honour, and self-control are irrelevant. Undoubtedly, she ought to have known she was to blame for donning a style worn by thousands.”
He frowned. “I meant it as a compliment.”
“It would be, if I desired the compliment of your attention.”
The monarch’s sneer returned. “Heaven forbid. Instead, you flirt with a man who is too inexperienced to know when he is behaving as a gullible fool.”
“I flirt with no one!”
“Tell me then, when did you develop such a profound interest in snuff boxes?”
She could not help it; her cheeks heated. “I was interested. I did not realise there were so many different kinds,” she retorted, wishing her defence was a stronger one.
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, for the love of all that is holy. At least let there be honesty between us, if nothing else.”
Abruptly, a biting wariness filled her. She was out of her depth, and she knew it; there was no point in pretending any longer.
He was not the type to mildly dismiss a woman who had captured his interest. Distractions, distance, and detachment, such as she had intended by her conversation with Mr Bingley, were simply childish methods of avoiding Mr Darcy and all she hid from the world.
He wanted honesty? Let him hear it, in all its ugly, unromantic truth. She squared her shoulders.
“Here is honesty for you. When my father learnt he was dying, he insisted I wed a man I barely knew. Unfortunately, Mr Ashwood’s dreams of producing a son fell far short of his ability to actually do so.
I was sixteen years old, Mr Darcy, only sixteen when I entered that marriage.
I have—had—four sisters, all equally na?ve.
I knew nothing, nothing of men or of flirtation or intimacy.
Neither did I learn any of it from Mr Ashwood.
Shall I tell you all about nursing someone with a wasting disease, instead?
All of my ‘experience’ with men, sir, has come from caring for a man who could scarcely feed himself the last few months of his life.
I cannot replace what I have heard from other women with any understanding of my own—nor do I wish to.
I am not looking for any sort of lover, or protector, or even the palest shadow of romance—not with you, not with your friend.
All I have wanted for years now is a life of my own.
If you believe I am some sort of ‘merry widow’, you are vastly mistaken. I am not who you think I am.”
Guilt rode Darcy—rode him hard, as he stared down into the fiery eyes of Elizabeth Ashwood.
He had not been angling for an affair, but he had treated her as if she were—blaming her for his own jealousy and desires.
He had known she had married young, and been widowed young.
Due to her innate confidence, he had not realised just how young, however.
With new eyes, he saw the girl she had been—dear heavens, sixteen! Georgiana’s age!
Now he understood how she had gained that poise she wore so easily—by being thrown into an awful situation, a marriage to an elderly stranger who, evidently, had become an invalid not long after.
So many women might have crumpled beneath the weight of such adversity.
Not she. By all accounts, she had been a wonderful mistress of Stoke—a not insignificant property.
Certainly, the new mistress of Stoke was jealous as the devil of her.
Chin raised, she stared at him defiantly, as if daring him to degrade her further. He stepped back from her and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Can we—can we just sit, and talk? Only talk, I promise.”
Reluctantly, it seemed to him, she turned back to the sofa, carefully seating herself on one end—perched on its edge, as if she was preparing for escape at any moment.
And what else is she supposed to do, Darcy? he questioned himself; after all, she did not know him, not really, and despite her status as a formerly married woman, no longer under a father’s protection—did that not make her more vulnerable, rather than less?
“You have nothing to fear from me,” he began.
He had told her that before, he recalled; she did not appear comforted.
Shifting uneasily upon his side of the sofa, he struggled to find words for what he had only revealed thus far to his cousin Fitzwilliam and his uncle, Lord Matlock.
Elizabeth needed to know how deep was his commitment to her safety; it seemed imperative that she trust him.
Besides, he trusted her, without even fully knowing why.
“I have a sister who, last summer, was imposed upon by a man my own age. I barely managed to prevent the elopement, and then only because I arrived at her home unexpectedly—she was only fifteen at the time, which must be her excuse. His was his hatred of me for my refusal to accept his vicious behaviours. He cared nothing about Georgiana, not that he would destroy her trust and her young heart, and not at all for her future, wanting only her fortune. He would have abandoned her within a six-month of receiving her inheritance, mark my words. She hates me for it now, she says.”
Her dark eyes had softened in sympathy. “I am so sorry,” she said quietly.
As much as he hated to admit it, he had treated Elizabeth poorly from the very beginning.
He was certainly unaccustomed to the overwhelming feelings she inspired.
He simply had not been expecting, in this tiny corner of England, to find love—especially when he had not been looking.
In his mind, he searched for another word for his feelings…
but it felt like he had hit upon the right one.
“You are correct in that I do not know you well, and it is obvious that I am attracted to you. You are wrong, however, in feeling that I am a danger to you. As God is my witness, I will never harm you or your reputation. To even consider that I left you with an impression that I might act in any way resembling Wickham—the man who injured my sister—sickens me to my soul.”
She stared down at her hands. “I have never thought you would intentionally hurt me. It is only that…for a woman alone, it is so easy for rumours to begin. Fanny has not been able to significantly pierce my reputation, because I have given her no opportunities. You will leave here sooner or later, and I will stay, and I must deal with the neighbourhood. It is also…I do not always know myself with you. I did not wear this gown to-to send some sort of siren signal. But…but perhaps, it was unconsciously done. I was tired of being viewed at my ugliest. Of you seeing me that way.”
He placed one hand briefly over hers, squeezing lightly.
“Another item you had correct—your dress is perfectly appropriate, and I apologise for any implication that it was not or that you were attention-seeking. I was jealous of the notice you paid to Bingley last night and acted possessively. I acknowledge I have no rights where you are concerned, and it was inexcusable to act as though I do. Would you forgive me?”
A light blush covered her cheeks as she nodded, seeming a little tongue-tied instead of self-possessed; she truly was an innocent, perhaps even wholly so.
The impression she had given of a poised matron was an accurate one, but she also used her hard-earned dignity to cloak all the feelings with which she did not understand how to cope.
He ought not to be so pleased about her inexperience, but the idea that she allowed him to know her, to share her true self, was more thrilling than the most practised seduction.
One thing had become perfectly clear. He had, at last, met the woman who made worthwhile all that he must endure, all the pain he must cause, in order to have a wife of his own. He cleared his throat.
“Still…I cannot help but wonder whether, in time, I might earn the right to your affection? Might, one day, you accept my hand, if I prove worthy of your trust?” He asked her the question boldly, but within, he was as unsure of its reception as was possible to be.