Chapter 5 #2
Despite his aunt’s insistence upon patience, he had determined to call upon Elizabeth the morning after her sojourn to Sallow Hall, but her ladyship had stubbornly guarded what knowledge she possessed of Elizabeth’s whereabouts, all the while insisting that Darcy leave well enough alone.
Much like Lady Catherine, Lady Carlisle preferred to have her own way in things, and Fitzwilliam’s and Emerson’s antics had tried her patience to its limits.
She had hinted that she had something special in mind and refused to allow her plans to be thwarted by ‘their bottle-headed indelicacy’.
Emerson, who could have made himself useful by locating an address for Darcy or at least providing her aunt’s name, had refused his assistance with an insufferable smirk that made Darcy want to strike him.
Now, as he stood in the drawing room awaiting Elizabeth’s arrival, the anticipation of their reunion was well-nigh unbearable.
He was impatient to see her, and to ensure that she was well in truth; to offer his condolences for the loss of her father, to enquire whether there was anything to be done for her mother that had not already been done, and to question her about the fate of Miss Lydia.
Collins, who had only grown more presumptuous and pontifical since he had inherited Longbourn, had relished informing Darcy of every scandalous detail of the family’s trials except for the name of the blackguard with whom Miss Lydia had eloped.
Was she ever recovered? Was she married? Darcy was anxious to know.
Finally, their party was announced, and Darcy’s heart beat a wild staccato in his chest. He was standing on the opposite side of the room, as far from Emerson’s ridiculous prattle as possible without quitting the room altogether.
The rest of his family, having been seated together before the fire, were closer.
All of them rose and assembled themselves in order of rank.
Darcy remained where he was, willing his pounding heart to calm.
When Elizabeth appeared, he nearly forgot to breathe.
She was the very picture of loveliness in a gown of pale lavender silk; her hair was a lush, sophisticated arrangement of dark curls and pearl-tipped pins; and around her neck she wore a single, lustrous pearl suspended on a delicate silver chain.
In short, she was every bit as beautiful as he remembered.
The urge to touch her, to ensure that she was real and whole and well, was nearly overpowering in its intensity; it warred with the stringent self-control that had been ingrained in him since birth.
Until he had met her, Darcy’s temper and his heart had been under regulation.
Not only had Elizabeth Bennet invaded his heart and weakened his resolve, but she had altered the course of his life beyond his comprehension.
Regardless of how much her opinion of him had improved in Derbyshire, she would not take kindly to being accosted by him in Yorkshire, especially before her family and his; thus, Darcy forced himself to remain where he was, mindlessly twisting his signet ring.
His letter to her had been sealed with that very ring before he intercepted her in the grove at Rosings Park—a letter he had written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit after her refusal of his hand.
He still recalled the clarity of his family crest, the crispness of its impression after he had pressed the ring into the hot red wax to seal it.
He had prayed that Elizabeth would read it so that she would know all that Wickham was truly capable of and of the devastation he always left behind in his wake—the unpaid accounts, the debts of honour, the seductions, and the lies.
Darcy had not expected her to forgive his interference in Miss Bennet’s romance with Bingley, but he had hoped that, after hearing his explanation, Elizabeth would have better understood that his interference, however overreaching, was done in service to his friend—a friend who had managed to involve himself in multiple affairs of the heart over the years, only to change his mind about the ladies.
He did not say that per se, but it was implied.
As he watched Elizabeth greet his family, optimism swelled within his heart.
His uncle was as formal as ever, but his aunt welcomed her warmly.
Unsurprisingly, Fitzwilliam appeared as charmed as ever and eager to put her at ease.
It was apparent, by the expression of surprise upon her face, that Elizabeth had no idea of Fitzwilliam’s connexion to Lady Carlisle, nor that he would be present.
Emerson looked much as he ever did, which was often an indication that he meant to say or do something to mortify his wife, who had claimed yet another one of her megrims and remained in her rooms.
Before Emerson could so much as open his mouth, Fitzwilliam managed to impart a bon mot at his brother’s expense that elicited a chorus of laughter from the ladies.
At that moment, seeing Elizabeth enjoying herself amidst his family, Darcy decided he could not care less whether Emerson uttered any number of appalling phrases, ballads, or tales that evening.
So long as she was happy and at ease, nothing else mattered.
While her aunt and his conversed with Miss Mary, Fitzwilliam touched Elizabeth’s arm, silently, unobtrusively directing her attention to Darcy.
He watched with bated breath as her smile faltered, and her countenance flushed with colour.
Her eyes met his own, and after a slight hesitation, she abandoned Fitzwilliam and made her way across the room.
At last, she was before him, stealing his breath anew and rendering him completely useless as she peered at him almost shyly from beneath her lashes.
A Kashmiri shawl, which had concealed her shoulders when she had first entered the room, now rested in the crook of her arms, exposing capped sleeves and smooth, pale skin.
She looked alluring and innocent all at once, incomparably beautiful, and more sophisticated, more worldly than the last time he had seen her.
A surge of protectiveness rose within him as he imagined the heartbreak and adversity Elizabeth must have faced since then.
In that time, she had lost her father, and her fifteen-year-old sister, and had been forced to live under the thumb of her preposterous cousin while she mourned them both.
Her mother was addled. Her friends and neighbours had shunned her.
And she had left the only home she had ever known—a home that contained a lifetime’s worth of memories of her beloved father, and her sisters, and her mother when she had been hale and whole.
Yet, here she stood, as graceful as ever, with her fine eyes and her full lips and that lovely loose curl caressing her cheek, holding his fervent gaze with her own.
Was she glad to see him? Looking at her, it was difficult to tell.
Darcy had spent months at the beginning of their acquaintance believing she had been hoping for and even expecting his addresses—and he had been wrong. So very, very wrong.
But at Pemberley, she had smiled at him in a way that had made his pulse pound, and his stomach clench, and his heart take cautious flight.
There had been no shortage of words between them then.
And so, he determined there would be no silence between them now.
With his heart in his throat, Darcy bowed to her and said, “Miss Bennet. It is a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you as well, Mr Darcy,” she said softly as she curtseyed.
“I trust that you are in good health?”
“I am in excellent health, I thank you.”
“And your mother,” he asked gently, “and your sisters?”
“Yes,” she replied. “We are all quite well, all things considered.”
Before Darcy could make any further enquiries, the hint of a smile appeared at the corners of her lips as she said, “I trust that your cousins’ disagreement the other morning has had no lasting ill effects on your health?”
Inordinately pleased to be the subject of her teasing once more, he offered her a sheepish smile of his own.
“Other than the effects of my aunt’s temper, I suffered no permanent injury.
” In a more serious tone, he said, “Please allow me to apologise that you were made to witness such abhorrent behaviour.”
Elizabeth shook her head, but her smile remained. “You owe me no such apology, sir. From what I understand, yours was the role of peacekeeper.”
“A role for which I was shockingly ill-prepared to perform.”
“Pray do not be so hard on yourself. Your cousins appear to be determined troublemakers, particularly the viscount. As it happens, I was privy to another performance of his that left me with quite an impression of his character.” She expelled a huff of laughter.
“I am afraid it was quite concerning. His character and his performance.”
Darcy, however, could find no humour in his cousin’s drunken behaviour. He said, “Permit me to apologise for that spectacle as well. Emerson’s antics are often…”
“Shocking?” Elizabeth supplied helpfully. “Poorly considered and wildly inappropriate?”
“Well put, Miss Bennet,” he told her with a wry twist of his mouth.
An amused smile appeared upon her own lips. “He does appear to try Lady Carlisle’s patience exceedingly.”
In that moment she looked so lovely, so very much at ease, that it was all Darcy could do to keep from blurting that he loved her.
Somehow, he managed to say instead, “Emerson is often a trial to her, as is Fitzwilliam when they are both together. Their rivalry has been lifelong and utterly exhausting for more than just my aunt.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Her ladyship mentioned wishing she had daughters the other day, but I quickly disabused her of the notion. I am certain you must recall the chaos that abounded at Longbourn.”
“I assure you, Miss Bennet,” he said with utmost sincerity, “that I remember Longbourn with nothing but fondness.” He paused. “I was very sorry to hear about your father’s death.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, her smile fading as she averted her eyes to the carpet.
“And your youngest sister—”
“Pray do not speak of that,” she told him, raising her eyes to his face with a beseeching look.
Lowering his voice, he said, “I will do whatever you wish, of course, but I would like to know what has been done. And I would like to offer my assistance. Your father—”
“Please,” Elizabeth implored with a glance over her shoulder, “not now. Not here.”
Not ten seconds later, her aunt approached with Miss Mary, a concerned expression upon her countenance as she looked from Darcy to her niece. “Well, Elizabeth,” she said. “Will you not introduce me to this gentleman?”
“Of course,” Elizabeth answered. “Mr Darcy, may I introduce my aunt, Mrs Cahill of Rosewell Manor? Aunt, this is Mr Darcy. His estate, Pemberley, is in Derbyshire.”
Darcy bowed. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam.”
Mrs Cahill curtseyed. “And yours as well, Mr Darcy.”
Before Elizabeth could mention her sister, Darcy addressed Miss Mary himself. “It is good to see you again, Miss Mary. You are looking very well this evening.”
Miss Mary blushed. “I thank you, sir. It is nice to see you again as well.”
“Tell me, madam,” he said to Mrs Cahill, “is Rosewell situated far from Sallow Hall?”
“It is above three miles.”
“An easy distance, then,” he replied pleasantly, intending to ride there the following morning.
“A very easy distance,” Mrs Cahill agreed.
Darcy glanced at Elizabeth and felt his heart sink.
Her distress was evident in her posture, which appeared tense, and the manner of her smile, which no longer seemed natural but forced.
He ought never to have mentioned Miss Lydia in such a public space, with his relations and hers barely fifteen feet away.
A new topic of conversation was in order, but before he could introduce one, Mrs Cahill said,
“Tell me, Mr Darcy, how do you know my niece, for you clearly appear to know one another quite well.”
“I happened to meet Miss Bennet three years ago, at an assembly in Hertfordshire.”
Mrs Cahill regarded him shrewdly. “And what did you do there?”
I stared at your niece like a green boy was on the tip of his tongue.
Instead, he replied, “A friend of mine had leased an estate there, not three miles from Longbourn. Miss Bennet and I also happened to meet in Kent several months later. Her cousin, Mr Collins, was the rector of Hunsford, whose benefice is in my aunt’s possession. ”
“Good Lord,” replied Mrs Cahill. “Your aunt must be the most tolerant woman in the world. I ought to tell you that I had the pleasure of making my cousin’s acquaintance two years ago, but I found him to be more of a trial than a pleasure.”
Darcy could not help himself; he laughed, as did the rest of his relations, who had converged upon their little group one by one.
Elizabeth smiled at him then, amusement dancing in her eyes, and Darcy felt his own spirits lighten considerably.
She would never say outright what she was thinking, which was likely identical to what he was thinking: that Lady Catherine was the last person in the world who deserved the epithet of ‘tolerant’.
Emerson, however, had no such compunction. “Lady Catherine is as tolerant as a hungry tiger. She would as soon dictate her parson’s sermons than leave the writing of them to him.”
“And so she did,” said Fitzwilliam, grinning like a fool. “I doubt Mr Collins wrote a single sermon during his tenure as Hunsford’s rector.”
“Oh dear.” Mrs Cahill laughed. “Poor Mr Collins. It is no wonder he has so much to say, and no idea whatsoever of when to cease saying it.”