Chapter 2
If things are going untowardly one month, they are sure to mend the next.
— MR WESTON, EMMA
Elizabeth Bennet was walking with him.
She was not ignoring him, or glaring at him, or ringing a peal over him as he had so often imagined would happen should their paths ever cross again.
When she had first set foot on the bluff and beheld him, there was no denying she was shocked. Darcy had been shocked himself. How could he have felt anything but shock? He had come to Evermore on Sea hoping to find clarity and direction. He had hoped to find some modicum of peace. Instead, he had found Elizabeth, whose fine eyes and handsome countenance inspired thoughts and sensations and emotions that were the very opposite of peaceful.
Somehow, Darcy had managed to ignore the pounding of his traitorous heart and find the courage to speak with her of mundane things: the weather and the state of the roads. Elizabeth, however, had been uncharacteristically subdued, and the responses she gave to his questions, while perfectly civil, were disinterested. It was as though their personalities had been reversed, at least when they had first encountered each other.
Now, things had settled into a more familiar pattern as Darcy listened with rapt attention as Elizabeth recounted her impressions of the coast—her awe upon beholding the sea for the first time, and her enjoyment as she watched the sun inch towards the horizon at the end of each day and slowly melt into the sea. Then, after expelling a breathy little laugh, she told him, “I believe I could live quite happily here but for my mother’s daily admonishments. Of late, I have developed an unfortunate habit of returning home at dusk with sunburnt cheeks.”
Darcy smiled. At that very moment, her cheeks were in fact tinged with pink, the result of spending countless hours out of doors exploring the shore and the bluffs or perhaps even bathing in the sea. “When it is not obscured by clouds,” he told her, “the sun does tend to burn brighter here. As a boy, my cheeks were often sunburnt as well and by the end of my stay my skin was rather tan. Evermore on Sea felt like a magical place. The sea itself was vast, and the waves were like nothing I had ever seen, cresting and breaking and rolling without pause. It was spectacular and awe-inspiring and a bit frightening as well. And yet, the colours of the land were not nearly as vibrant as they were at home in Derbyshire. They were subdued, almost to the point of appearing drab. I found it difficult to reconcile the blandness of the landscape with the strength and vitality of the sea.”
“They are very different entities,” said Elizabeth, plucking a tall blade of pale grass from the ground as she went. Her ruined bonnet, which had become a makeshift basket for the myriad wildflowers she had collected as they ambled along the bluff, swung from her arm. “I confess I have grown quite fond of the subdued hues of the seaside. When compared to the lush fields and woods of home, the landscape here appears a bit bland, it is true, but it has a subtle, understated beauty I have found to be soothing. The sunsets, though, are so vivid! Even more so than those I have seen in Hertfordshire from atop Oakham Mount.”
“The sunsets here are indeed something to behold, but I have found Hertfordshire to be very beautiful as well,” Darcy replied, all the while thinking that she was the true beauty, more vibrant than any sunset, more mysterious than the sea. Thankfully, he was master enough of himself to refrain from speaking such words aloud.
Elizabeth looked towards the sea, sighing contentedly as she did so. “It is beautiful here. I defy anyone to say otherwise. There is surely something for every person to enjoy—the rhythm of the water, or the wildness of the bluff, or the picturesque charm of the village. Even those who are determined to find fault with everyone and everything must eventually discover some small, unexpected pleasure within such a place as this one.”
“Do you refer to me?” he asked with a wry twist of his mouth, meaning only to tease her.
“I refer to my mother, who for many weeks begged my father to treat us to a seaside holiday. After just two days in residence, she declared the sea too unpredictable, the sand too uneven, and the wind too fierce. She has found consolation in visiting the shops.” She paused and, to Darcy’s surprise, grew quite serious. “When I said that to you…when I accused you of having a propensity to disapprove of everyone, I was unpardonably rude, not to mention wrong. I am ashamed to have thought such a thing, never mind given voice to it in the middle of Mr Bingley’s drawing room.”
“I believe your actual phrasing referred to my propensity to hate everyone.”
“And the defect you assigned to me,” she reminded him, “was the propensity to wilfully misunderstand them.” They were approaching the village, where residents and tourists alike were going about their day. Elizabeth slowed, then stopped walking altogether.
Concerned, Darcy looked at her askance.
Shaking her head, she twirled the blade of grass around her finger. At length, she said, “Until I read your letter, I believe I never truly knew myself. Throughout our acquaintance, I misjudged you horribly based upon one incident in which my vanity was wounded. We had not even been introduced at the time. So determined was I to hold it against you that when Mr Wickham came along and mentioned he had passed his youth with you at Pemberley, I was disposed to listen to his stories—to his lies—and believe them. It is no excuse, I know, but I am ashamed of what my conduct was then. Not only then, but in Hunsford as well.”
“You ought not to be,” he told her. “It was unaccountably rude, not to mention unacceptable, of me to spout such nonsense at all, never mind in public. What I said then was patently untrue. I ought to have stayed at home, but Bingley would not hear of it and so I passed the evening in a foul temper, wanting only to be left to myself. As for Wickham, he is a master of deceit. My own father believed every lie that scoundrel told. Your conduct does not signify.”
“It does signify,” she insisted. “Earlier, you spoke of forgiveness. You were even so generous as to say that I would have yours whether I desired it or not. I want you to know that I do. I do desire it. For months you believed we were friends, but in truth, I was anything but a friend to you and I would like for that to change. If you are amenable, I would like for us to be friends.”
For a long moment, Darcy merely stared at her, taking pains to ensure his expression remained neutral as his head and his heart endeavoured to digest all she had said to him. She had expressed real regret for misjudging him, and she had offered him her friendship. The question remained: could he be Elizabeth’s friend when what he truly wanted was to be her husband?
He must have been silent too long, because a moment later he heard her say,
“Of course, if you do not desire the same, I will understand. And in the future, should we ever meet again, know that we may do so as common and indifferent acquaintances.”
Indifference.
That was something Darcy doubted he would ever feel towards her. He had spent the last three months contemplating her reproofs and endeavouring to become a better man—a man she would be proud to know, and possibly even admire. Such a transformation would, of course, never be known to her, for he had not believed their paths would ever cross again, especially since he had fallen out of favour with Bingley. And if Bingley would not agree to receive him at Netherfield, or acknowledge him in town, that meant that Elizabeth would forever be out of his reach.
But their paths had crossed, and Elizabeth was offering him friendship.
He looked at her then—at her face and her lips and her eyes—and felt his heart swell with affection for her, even as his stomach clenched with a tightness born of disappointment and past regrets. Declaring himself to her now was impossible, no matter how much he longed to drop to his knees and beg her to become his wife. They had passed an hour together quite pleasantly, but for Darcy one hour was not nearly enough. He wanted more. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He wanted to make a family with her. And he wanted her love.
But he was wise enough to acknowledge that being her friend would probably be a good place to start.
“I cannot,” he said in earnest, “imagine any occasion where I would not desire to speak with you as we are doing now. I am sorry, exceedingly sorry that my sentiments and my words, so poorly expressed on so many occasions throughout our acquaintance, caused you distress. Although your accusations were ill-founded, my behaviour to you was deplorable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence. The things I said to you…they were unworthy of me, Miss Bennet, as I was unworthy of you. You were right to refuse me.”
“And yet my conduct was no better. It was not right for me to speak as I did to you, nor was it right to treat you so contemptuously, regardless of how your words and your actions made me feel.”
“What did you say of me that I did not deserve?”
“A great many things,” she insisted, “especially regarding Mr Wickham.”
The last thing Darcy wished to do was speak of George Wickham. “Of that subject, the less said the better. As for the other, I daresay we have both improved in civilities. This afternoon is proof of it, and if you are truly amenable to having me as your friend, I would like that above all things.”
His words must have been the correct ones, for Elizabeth made no further attempt to argue with him. Instead, a small, intimate smile appeared upon her lips. “You are very good. Thank you.”
“There is no need to thank me for doing that which will bring you pleasure.” He offered her a little bow. “I am your servant, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “You shall be my friend, sir.”
“Just so,” he agreed, and offered her his arm.