Chapter 2.3
Elizabeth found no peace for the rest of the day. The tumult of her mind was very painful.
The words written on the piece of paper were spinning in her head and she could still not believe them, still thought that they must be a mistake.
Of the identity of the writer, there was no doubt.
But could he be referring to anyone else?
Her hopes were foolish and unreasonable—all the details were so clear, like drawing her portrait.
Her astonishment, as she reflected on what she had read, was increased by every recollection of it. That Mr. Darcy could have been in love with her for so many months, so much in love as to commit his secret to paper, was incredible!
If her life depended on it, she would have readily taken an oath that Mr. Darcy despised her, or at least disregarded and disapproved of her just as much as she detested him for his selfishness, pride, arrogance and disrespect for those outside his circle.
She realised that he had purposely searched out her company, that his stares had a completely different meaning from the one she had assumed. To know the sort of thoughts that he entertained while looking at her were disturbing and she struggled to banish them.
Elizabeth was not an ignorant simpleton.
She did know that the romantic love she and Jane always dreamed of was expressed in passionate interludes between husband and wife.
She did know that such indulgences were quite frequent outside of marriage too.
She was well aware that men kept mistresses and that women—married, widows, or even single—had lovers.
She imagined what ardent love would mean.
But, while she did fantasise about being bonded by affection to a worthy man, she never pictured herself expressing her love or being the recipient of it.
Her passion for reading opened her mind and provided her knowledge that not many women of her age possessed.
She had read books—found in Mrs. Gardiner’s library—that were forbidden to honourable young ladies.
She had blushed and shivered while reading it but did not dare to reflect too much on how it would feel to experience what she read.
That Mr. Darcy—of all men—dreamed of her—as he had said in his own words—was beyond astonishing.
It was difficult to even consider Mr. Darcy being passionately and ardently in love. But to be so enchanted with her—of all women—seemed a poor, unfortunate joke.
She had never done anything to win his good opinion, nor to gain his interest. In fact, she had been rather rude to him most of the time.
She had confronted him about Mr. Wickham during the Netherfield ball.
And since they met again in Kent, he was mostly silent and aloof, and she used any opportunity to mock and rebuke his past behaviour from Hertfordshire.
Surely these events were no inducement for a man to fall in love!
And even worse—was he not engaged to marry his cousin, Anne? How could he allow himself to feel, and to write in such a way?
She briefly remembered from the paper that he knew that he could not have her by his side.
Or even close. Or something similar. Surely he was mindful of his engagement, as he should be.
It was somehow gratifying and comforting to know that he realised any connection between them was impossible.
At least he had not even considered proposing anything dishonourable to her.
At least he was not shameless and disrespectful.
“Elizabeth, are you unwell?” she heard Charlotte’s voice from outside the door. “May I enter?”
“Yes, of course. Please do come in,” she responded, while hurrying to get up from the bed.
“I am perfectly well, I just felt a little tired as I barely slept last night.”
“Then rest; your walk must have been too long—as always. We will have dinner at six. Oh, we just received another invitation to dine at Rosings—the day after tomorrow. And I bought you a new bonnet.”
Elizabeth’s distress returned. The prospect of dining at Rosings and facing Mr. Darcy for an entire evening—which was unpleasant enough in the past—now had become unbearably tormenting. She had to find a way to avoid it but said nothing to her friend.
“Is it not exciting, Elizabeth? I do not want to appear vain to you, but I do feel appreciated by Lady Catherine. She is not an easy woman, but her good opinion is valuable—that cannot be denied.”
“Charlotte, Mr. Collins has been so fortunate in marrying you! I am not surprised that Lady Catherine appreciates you—you are worthy of anyone’s good opinion.”
Charlotte embraced her and smiled with gratitude.
“Thank you, my dear. You are very kind to me, Elizabeth. And partial, I might say.”
“I am only being honest, I assure you.”
“Now do rest and I shall see you in the dining room at six.”
Resting remained far from Elizabeth’s mind.
When she joined the family in the evening, she was even more uneasy.
Mr. Collins mentioned Lady Catherine several times, as well as Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy.
And each time, Elizabeth startled, as if fearing that her cousin might find out the secret.
∞∞∞
At Rosings, dinner time found Darcy distraught and tormented from the apprehension he had faced that morning.
He used to carry the infamous papers with him all the time, precisely to avoid any indiscreet interference. He kept them in his coat pocket whenever he left the house, fearing that someone might happen upon them while cleaning his chamber.
He had noticed their disappearance only when he was close to Rosings’ gate, and the panic he experienced was the greatest he remembered in a long while. He returned the same way, searching around, until he reached the oak where he knew he had stayed for a while.
The moment when he found the letters in the grass was the moment when he could actually breathe again.
There were not many travellers on that part of the estate, but he knew Elizabeth used to walk there too. He had met her many times—either by chance or on purpose.
If she happened to find them, she would easily guess who had written them and for whom. And that would have been a disaster, as he had long struggled to conceal his interest in her, precisely to protect her from disappointment.
Since his duty would not allow him to marry someone so beneath his situation in life, any sign of partiality from him would only induce her to entertain hopes destined to be shattered.
He had no doubt that she had guessed his interest and welcomed it.
Even returned it—from what he could see.
Undoubtedly, such a marriage would be highly desirable for her and for her family.
Would be highly desirable for him too—if he possessed the liberty to consider only his happiness.
But it could not be—so all he could do was to protect her from disappointment.
The prospect of her finding those letters was a disaster he did not dare reflect on. Fortunately, on his quest to retrieve the letters, he saw no sign of Elizabeth. He had been lucky indeed.
Lady Catherine kept talking, but Darcy had learned to ignore her.
His thoughts flew back to Elizabeth once again.
His stay at Rosings would last another fortnight, no longer.
And after that, he would certainly not see her again anytime soon, if ever.
And he could not decide if he was more content than anguished by that notion.
“Darcy?”
“Yes?! Forgive me, I did not hear you, Aunt.”
“You seem exceedingly absent tonight. You have been ignoring us most of the time!” Lady Catherine scolded him.
“Forgive me, Aunt. I have some unfinished business that keeps me preoccupied.”
“Business? What business? Share it with us,” she demanded, and Darcy regretted his carelessness in choosing the answer.
“Some boring estate problems; there is nothing worth boring you and Anne, I assure you.”
“That is very considerate of you, but I would rather know what troubles you, if it turns you into an aloof companion.”
“It will not, I promise,” he said. “Your cook has always excelled in preparing beef,” he added. The colonel hid his smile behind his glass.
“Well, I have chosen Sweet very carefully. How amusing! He is a cook and his name is Sweet. James Sweet. And I am paying him exceedingly well, I assure you! He is most pleased with his situation at Rosings.”
“I am sure he is, Aunt,” Darcy smiled politely.
“Excellent steak,” the colonel approved. “And the brandy too.”
The dinner continued in the same manner until the time arrived for them to retire.
As always, the ladies retired first. Unlike other evenings, Darcy refused the colonel’s proposal to remain for more drinks.
He had a bottle of brandy in his chamber and for the time being, he preferred the company of his own thoughts.
“Upon my word, Darcy, I shall die of boredom. I look forward to returning to London, or I shall fall ill with the tediousness.”
“I am sorry, but I am really not good company tonight, Robert. Forgive me.”
“Darcy, you have apologised quite a lot this evening. It is almost like you feel guilty for something, although I cannot imagine what. We all know your behaviour is always flawless.”
“Well, cousin, if mocking me amuses you and helps you defeat the boredom, please feel free to do so. I shall see you tomorrow—have a good night.”
“Flawless, but boring, I might add,” the colonel laughed. “Good night, cousin.”
∞∞∞
Elizabeth sat in the shadow of the old oak. The day was sunny and warm—too warm for spring. The sweet coolness enveloped her and she closed her eyes for a moment. A long, long moment.
The breeze stroked her face in a soft caress.
Or was it the breeze? The touch was gentle, but it burned her jaw then lowered to her neck.
She attempted to open her eyes, but could not.
She tried to breathe but could not, as her lips were sealed.
A scent, completely unknown, intoxicated her.
A fire slowly burned inside her, then grew stronger.
And yet, she trembled, as chills made her shudder.
She was not alone, she soon realised that.
The scent she suddenly remembered—as well as the touch that had once held her hand.
She tried to escape but her body disobeyed her, and her own will seemed against her, as it quickly surrendered to some disturbing sensations.
Her body shattered again and suddenly she was cold, very cold and her head burst into pieces.
Elizabeth woke up violently, sweating, frightened, her breath and heart racing.
Through the open window, thunder, lightning and heavy rain broke the darkness and silence of the night.
Still trembling from the tormenting dream, she stepped out of bed and stared outside through the glass.
The storm soon grew deafening, but she did not close the window.
She returned to the bed, struggling to forget the uncanny dream and fearing it would return if she fell asleep again.
It did not, but sleep was not kind to her, and she woke up several hours later, even more troubled than the evening before.
As soon as dawn appeared, the storm ceased and a clear, blue sky was ready to welcome the sunrise. Elizabeth was ready for another morning walk, promising herself that she would choose a new path, to avoid any unexpected meetings or scandalous discoveries.
∞∞∞
As the storm had kept the entire manor awake all night, the Rosings residents were blessed with a peaceful and deep sleep only as morning approached.
Another night with little sleep was already a habit for Darcy. When the rain suddenly ceased, the fresh, chill air appeared to be the best medicine for his headache, so he prepared his horse for an early ride.
For a moment, he was tempted to take his usual path, hoping to meet Elizabeth.
Then he rebuked his own foolishness. If he indeed wished to never bind himself to her, he must find the strength to keep his distance.
Childish schemes to see her alone in the woods, if only for a moment, were distracting and harmful.
Even his horse was surprised when Darcy led him on a different road. He usually knew the morning routine, so the stallion hesitated a moment before he finally followed the lead of the reins.
Around him, there was nothing but silence. The road climbed along the crest of the hill, among a thick grove of trees. With nobody around, Darcy held the reins loosely, allowing the horse to set his own pace, and permitting his thoughts to follow their own path too.
He startled when he heard his horse neighing but before he had time to react, he felt a heavy blow to his right temple, the horse neighed again, and then it all went dark.