Chapter 4
How hard could it be? All Elizabeth had to do was to plaster a smile on her face, walk into the cottage at Netherfield, and say all the polite nothings to Miss Darcy and her horrid brother.
The one whose kiss had kept her awake at night more than she cared to admit, making her hot all over and longing for more.
And to pretend their quarrel had not taken place, or that she had not deliberately provoked it.
Had it been because of that kiss?
She could hear the tinkling sounds of a pianoforte as she approached. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door. The maid seemed to be expecting her and showed her into the drawing room.
Her heart gave a little start at the sight of Mr. Darcy, who was sitting at a table writing what appeared to be a letter. He rose immediately and made a stiff bow.
Georgiana jumped up from the pianoforte. “Oh, Miss Bennet! I am so glad you came. Is it not delightful, Brother?”
Her brother looked anything but delighted. “Welcome, Miss Elizabeth. I hope your family is well.”
“Very well, I thank you,” she said through her suddenly dry mouth. Why should she be surprised that he was not pleased to see her, after the way she had treated him two days ago? And why did it hurt?
He said gravely, “I am happy to hear it. Since you are no doubt here to visit my sister, I pray you excuse me.” And without another word, he bowed again and left.
Ouch.
She managed to keep her smile, though. “I cannot stay long, since we have visitors at home, but I wanted to tell you how excited my sisters are to have some of the magical mistletoe of Netherfield. Even though I could not tell them of our adventures, dearest Hermia!”
The girl still looked as if she had been ill, but her color was slightly better today. “I have been taking your advice about trying to play music even though I do not feel the desire. It has been helping, I think.”
“And it sounds lovely. I wish I could play half so well as what I heard from outside! But one small step at a time.”
“Yes,” she said. “Even if the steps are hard.”
“They are indeed hard! But I brought you something that I want to try.” She set her basket on the table and took out a packet of twigs prettily tied up with ribbons.
“My aunt, who is visiting from London, has a trick for cleansing pain away at Christmas. You take a scrap of paper and write on it whatever you want to leave behind you. Roll it up and slip it inside the ribbon, and then we cast it into the fire. She helped me make these.” She held it out to Miss Darcy.
The girl took it and cradled it in her palms. “I have heard of this before. Some of our neighbors at home do something like this, but we never tried it.”
“I should not be surprised. It must be a local custom. My aunt was raised in a town not far from Pemberley.”
This seemed to catch her interest. “Truly? Do you have family there, too?”
“I fear not. She is my uncle's wife, and I believe all her family left Lambton after her father died. He was the rector there.”
“Lambton? Oh, that is indeed close to Pemberley. It is a small world.” Then she seemed to lapse back into her low spirits.
Ever since learning Wickham was responsible for both their woes, Elizabeth had been even more determined to help the girl - no matter how much she might wish to avoid her brother.
“Will you join me in this? I truly wish to burn some of my experiences from this year and move forward, and it would mean so much to me if we did it together.”
“I will try anything,” she said.
“Good. Then let us make our notes. I brought these scraps of paper, and I see your brother has kindly left out ink and a pen for us.” Not giving her a chance to object, Elizabeth sat down at the table, carefully choosing the seat Mr. Darcy had not used and pulled off her gloves lest they be stained with ink.
She leaned over to pick up the quill - uncomfortably aware that his fingers had only recently been where hers were now - and dipped it into the ink. She hesitated a moment until she felt Miss Darcy moving behind her, and then she began to write.
“Are you putting down your cad's name?” the girl asked shyly.
“I am just writing 'the blackguard' because I do not want to dirty a perfectly fine piece of paper with his name, or even send ashes with it up the chimney! But not just that; I am also going to include my misplaced pride, which tells me I should be ashamed for failing to see through a man whom everyone else believed, too. Sometimes my own standards of perfection are my worst enemy. I want to learn to forgive myself.”
“I know just what you mean,” Miss Darcy said with a deep sigh.
Elizabeth held out one of the scraps of paper to her. “Will you do one, too?”
“Yes,” Miss Darcy said, with a surprising firmness. “I will burn him to ash, and my self-doubts with it.” She sat down in Darcy's seat.
“Good for you!” Elizabeth handed her the pen, careful to keep it away from the half-written letter he had left behind lest she accidentally leave a blot on it. But as she did so, a familiar name jumped out at her from the top of the page.
The letter was to Mr. Bingley.
Suddenly every word of her quarrel with Mr. Darcy rushed back to her, with both anger and embarrassment. Anger at him for what he had done, and mortification that she had lost her temper and behaved in manner that could only confirm his low opinion of her and her family.
And now she was snooping in his letter.
She tore her eyes away from it. There was no reason to read it, anyway. It was just a letter to his friend, nothing to do with her. Instead, she said the first thing that jumped into her mind. “Do you think your brother would like to join us? I brought a third one just in case.”
The girl looked up from the blank paper she was frowning over, and her face brightened. “I will ask him.”
Elizabeth had asked for him to join them.
The words kept echoing in Darcy’s head. Had she read the letter he had deliberately left out, the one where he told Bingley he had been wrong about Miss Bennet's sentiments?
It had seemed like a sign when she arrived just as he was writing, and on impulse he had left it there where she might notice.
It would be some comfort, during his long, lonely nights, to know she would be thinking a little better of him. That he might make mistakes, but he would repair them.
But this was not the moment to think of how often he dreamed of Elizabeth Bennet. He was supposed to be deciding what he wanted to burn in the fire, and he would never surrender his memories of her, no matter how much she might haunt him.
He picked up the pen. What did he want to leave behind him? Apart from George Wickham, but he had long since realized that particular burr would stick to his coattails forever regardless of what he did. What could he change?
Out of the corner of his eyes, he watched Elizabeth coaxing a smile out of his sister.
The one whom none of the finest doctors in London could help, who could not be cheered by any of the well-bred friends he had pressured into visiting her, who could not be pleased by any of the expensive gifts he bought her.
Who was finally finding a trace of happiness thanks to Elizabeth Bennet, the woman whom Darcy had judged not good enough for him.
Elizabeth, who had befriended her not in the hope of the favors Darcy could do for her or because she had thought there was an advantage in it, but because she had seen a girl in pain and thought to relieve it. Did he know anyone in fine London society who would have done the same?
He dipped the pen in the ink and wrote quickly, 'Misplaced pride.
Judging people based on my first impressions and society's expectations rather than their true worth.
' He waved his hand to dry it, then rolled it up tightly and tucked it inside the ribbon.
Unlike his letter to Bingley, this was not for Elizabeth's eyes.
What had she written on hers? Surely if his name had been on her list, she would not have invited him to take part in this.
He joined them by the hearth, holding up his packet. “I am ready.”
“Excellent,” she said. “On the count of three, then. Miss Darcy, will you do the honors?”
How cleverly she had made Georgiana take an active role!
His sister raised her chin. “To new beginnings. One, two, three.” She tossed her tied-up twigs into the fire.
Elizabeth followed suit, and his was next, landing almost on top of Elizabeth's. Lucky twigs, to be able to touch hers! If only he had the privilege of being so close to her, even if it meant burning up. He was already on fire for her, after all.
Tendrils of grey smoke rose as the paper was engulfed in flames. Darcy kept his gaze fixed on the ribbons curling and turning black; it was safer than watching Elizabeth. His expression might give too much away.
“Out with the old, in with the new,” Elizabeth murmured.