5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
U nsurprisingly, Lady Catherine demanded another song from Elizabeth. After some hesitation, she decided to risk it. If Mr Darcy was already under a spell, another opportunity at hearing her voice would not matter.
Elizabeth’s attention could hardly stay focused on the keys before her. Every time she glanced up, which she did far more frequently than was her custom, the eyes of Mr Darcy were upon her.
This was the first time she had played since their ludicrous, humiliating encounter at the parsonage where Elizabeth had preemptively turned down Mr Darcy’s proposal before any hint of it could escape his lips. Elizabeth felt her cheeks flame with the remembrance as her fingers continued to dance through the notes and her song swelled to fill the room.
The meeting this morning. At the bridge. She could not deny that she had enjoyed it far more than she had anticipated. The moments of contention were discomfiting, yet also pleasing in a way that she could not entirely define. Already her mind had begun a composition that was certain to extinguish regard in a potential suitor. Then Mr Darcy could forget all about her and…and meet another young lady more agreeable and with a family that was less degrading?
Her fingers faltered. Her voice tumbled down several octaves, ending in a cough. Mr Darcy was beside her in a moment, enquiring after her well-being, ordering a glass of watered-down wine, and suggesting a turn on the terrace for a breath of fresh air.
Elizabeth could only nod and stand, taking a sip from the glass that had been offered to her. With a hand at her elbow, Mr Darcy directed her to the doors and escorted her out of them before she could protest. The terrace was close to Lady Catherine and company. It was not difficult to overhear her shrill pronouncements.
“Too taxing for such a weak, thin voice. It was more than her constitution could bear, I suppose. Not like Anne. Anne could have sung the night away if she had learnt. It does not portend well for her capture of a well-to-do husband, for it takes strength of character to run a fine estate. Why, I ran Rosings so well that my husband rarely had need to speak to me about that subject or any other.”
“I am certain that there is a very grand estate indeed in the near future of Miss de Bourgh,” Mr Collins said as he leaned forward, mincing and prancing as well as one is able to while still remaining seated. “Perhaps there has been enough exhibition for one evening. Especially if the person exhibiting herself is pressing beyond the bounds of propriety.”
“My dear,” Charlotte said, “you seem to forget that it was Lady Catherine herself who requested another performance from Elizabeth. It would not do to call into question the wisdom of her request.”
“I am so sorry, Lady Catherine! It had slipped my mind that you were so gracious as to consider the comfort of your guests and—”
Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut as she strode with increasing force to the railing of the terrace, practically dragging Mr Darcy in her haste to remove herself as far from the sound of the conversation within as possible.
“You must allow me to apologise for my aunt, Miss Bennet. I will make amends where I can for the deficiencies in sense and manners of certain members of my family.”
“I will permit it, sir. But only if you allow me the same privilege,” Elizabeth replied with a knowing smile. Her mirth faded when she recalled how wrong it was to assume that he would be in company with her family in the future. Was that not the opposite of all she wished? Removing her arm from his, she stepped away, increasing the distance between their bodies. “I did not mean to imply that you would be exposed to my family in the future. It was a slip of the tongue.”
“I did not mind it at all. In fact, I found it pleasing. I suggest we both accept the…shall we say eccentricities? We both accept the eccentricities of our respective relations.”
Elizabeth’s smile returned. “That is a wonderful suggestion.”
Mr Darcy took a step closer and said softly, “And have you composed your poem yet?”
Elizabeth shook her head, flustered by the recollection of their walk earlier in the day. “I have not. I expect that I must though, for there is a very pretty bridge guarded by a troll, and if I am to pass over, I think I must have a vile set of lines that only he will appreciate.”
She gazed up at him out of the corner of her eye, smiling in a teasing way. She was shocked to observe that he was not offended, but was controlling a smile of his own with great effort. “A troll, is he? I have heard that he can be rude on occasion, but I did not think he was as bad as all that.”
“It is true that the troll has made an effort to be more agreeable of late. For mischievous reasons of his own, no doubt.”
“In matters of the heart, I believe him to be incapable of mischief. He can only say what is true and good.”
Elizabeth raised her brows, her breath still with trepidation.
“What are you discussing?” Lady Catherine enquired as she stepped out onto the terrace. She paused briefly, eyes blinking, perhaps realising that she had not ventured out there for quite some time. “I must have my share. It is rude of you to keep a guest out here for so long.”
Elizabeth and Mr Darcy glanced at each other, neither certain who the rude one was.
“Bridges and trolls, ma’am. That is what Miss Bennet and I were discussing.”
“Oh, do be serious, Fitzwilliam. I think the presence of certain elements in your recent circle has had quite a poor influence on your character.”
Elizabeth was certain that the lady’s eyes darted momentarily towards her.
“Miss Bennet is almost fully recovered. I faithfully promise to escort her back the moment I judge it safe.”
“Mmm, yes. Anne becomes worried. Return as soon as you can. I would not wish you to be exposed to virulence.”
Mr Darcy only bowed slightly, no longer amused and obviously repressing no small measure of anger. Lady Catherine returned inside.
“I feel I must apologise once more,” he muttered.
“Oh, do stop it. Remember that we agreed to tolerate one another’s less amiable relations? If Mr Bingley returns to Netherfield, you must expose yourself to my mother’s company in order to balance the tally.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” he said, then paused with a thoughtful frown. “Well, that is not entirely true. I can think of several things that would give me greater pleasure.”
Elizabeth laughed. Mr Darcy smiled, laughing briefly. In a flash, he took up her hand and kissed the top rapidly. “Till tomorrow? When you will read your love-crushing prose?”
Startled by the touch of his lips to her flesh, Elizabeth could only nod. He offered her his elbow, and they returned to the house to join the others.
“The troll will be eagerly waiting at the bridge,” he murmured as he led her to her seat.
***
“As the chicken hunts the grub,
So must young ladies scratch the soil for love.
Poets so extol the journey,
The hearts of maidens simply must be yearning.
But this love must be given freely,
Without resentment, coercion, or seething.
For some hearts must be earned or won,
And not fall from the sky as Icarus peeled away from the sun.
If the love of which you speak is false or in jest,
Then I implore you to retreat, for shattered ardour mends at no one’s behest.
The elusive grub scrounged for by many a hen,
Becomes shadowed sorrow at what might have been.”
Elizabeth smiled, embarrassed at having said aloud what she had written by candlelight the night before. Without taking her eyes from the page, she waited for a laugh from Mr Darcy. The bridge was silent of laughter, though. The water was the only sound to be heard, and Elizabeth dared not speculate as to whether nature herself found her poem amusing or not.
Finally, she raised her gaze. While she expected some merriment at her expense and perhaps even a scornful declaration that such a poem had indeed extinguished all notion of love from the heart of the unknowable Mr Darcy, she was confronted with something far worse. His eyes were locked upon her, a fire from within making them glimmer with something that made Elizabeth’s heart skip with uncertainty.
“Is the troll satisfied? For I cannot claim the poem is of irreproachable construction. It is silly at the best of times.”
“Occasionally silly, yes.” Mr Darcy stood from where he had been perched, seated, on the stone railings of the bridge. He walked closer still, till he was just an arm’s reach from Elizabeth. “But also unabashedly honest, and touching somehow.”
Elizabeth busied her fingers folding the paper down several times till it was tightly compact, for otherwise she knew the tremor that had suddenly possessed them would be noticeable.
“The troll must declare your poem to be a failure. It has only increased that which it sought to extinguish.”
Elizabeth’s heart plummeted in dread and soared with amusement within the same instance, and she could not decide which she preferred.
“But you were so certain that one terrible poem would erase your regard,” she whispered.
“No, I merely proposed it as one possible way out of our current predicament. This sudden strengthening cannot be attributed to your singing last night, for it was interrupted. It was your verse that must take all the blame. And since that is not a power you could have possibly inherited from your mother, I think we must judge that my sentiments are formed from more solid stuff than conjurings by an ancestral siren.” He shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back. “Badly done, Miss Bennet. Badly done, indeed. For I have fallen deeper into my regard for you, not the reverse. Poetry from your pen and your lips has only made me more determined to capture your heart.”
Elizabeth was stunned, staring at the man openly with no ability to censure herself into a more mannerly appearance. “But,” she cried, “it was not intended as a way to increase your imagined ardour!”
“No, I suppose not.”
“It was to be a cautionary tale! One that would shake loose your delusion.”
“It has had the opposite effect.”
“But…but how?” she cried in disbelief. “I compared courtship to hens rutting in the grass for worms!”
He shrugged. “I cannot say. It is a mystery. Is that not the very essence of love? Beyond explanation?”
Elizabeth felt uncertain, warm, and confused. She clenched both hands into fists, crushing her poem, and covered her face. Tears pricked at the corners of shut eyes as she was enraged at herself for being entirely unsure whether she was pleased or infuriated that her amusing plan had gone so awfully awry.
Warm fingers curled around each wrist, and her hands were gently pulled down. Mr Darcy placed the tips of his fingers under her chin and lifted her gaze to meet his.
“Are you so wretched at the thought of my heart being so completely in your power? If you have the blood of mythical beasts in your veins, then I would willingly submit to your reign over me for the rest of my days. However, I think this is nothing more remarkable than a gentleman standing before a lady, declaring that he will love her above all others for the rest of his life.”
Elizabeth gasped, unable to rid herself of this sudden dizziness. Could it be true? Could Mr Darcy really simply love her? Not a false love such as what Mr Collins had declared for her before he transferred that regard to Charlotte after her refusal of his proposal. Not an imagined enchantment that her father blamed for his own disappointing marriage. But real, heartfelt ardour that could not be reasoned, frightened, or laughed away?
Her body quivered, ready to either run away or melt into his embrace. So conflicted was she by this revelation of Mr Darcy’s earnestness that she felt frozen by the battle that was brewing in her own heart.
Mr Darcy released her wrist and pulled his touch from her chin. “Come. I will walk you back to the parsonage, if you will permit me the privilege, that is.”
Regaining her senses, Elizabeth shook her head and laughed lightly, glad to have an end to the crisis that had held her tight. “Of course. Perhaps just to the gates.”
As they stepped down from the bridge, Elizabeth realised the poem had fallen from her grasp. She turned to scan the ground, but could not observe it anywhere. To her mortification, she watched as Mr Darcy slid one hand out of his jacket pocket, as if he had just placed something within. Her mouth opened to demand the scrap back, but recalling that she had not penned her name to the bottom of the verse, Elizabeth turned, unwilling to have another scene of teasing intimacy with Mr Darcy. She did not know if her frayed nerves could bear it.