Chapter Eleven Shattered Prejudice
THE BEDCHAMBER IN THE Hunsford parsonage was precisely fourteen steps across, provided one had a moderate stride and avoided the washstand. Elizabeth Bennet had measured it twenty-six times in the last hour.
Fourteen steps to the window. Pivot. Fourteen steps to the door. Pivot.
She was pacing as if everything she had ever believed had been strapped to a cannon and fired into the sun.
"I am an idiot," Elizabeth announced, her voice a hushed squeak. She halted, threw her hands over her face, and groaned. "I am a monumental, prideful, blind idiot of epic proportions."
She resumed pacing, her mind spinning. She had to reconstruct everything. She had to take every interaction she had ever had with Fitzwilliam Darcy, strip away her own self-righteous prejudice, and examine the new intelligence.
Fact one: George Wickham had approached her in Meryton with the face of a martyred angel and spun a tale of woe that would have made a seasoned playwright weep.
He had claimed Darcy was a jealous, vindictive fop.
Revised fact: George Wickham was a moustachioed villain—without the actual moustache, which only made him sneakier—a libertine, a gambler, and a man who had attempted to elope with a fifteen-year-old girl for thirty thousand pounds.
He probably owed money to every baker in Hertfordshire.
Fact two: Fitzwilliam Darcy had confessed this family secret, willingly bleeding his own pride into the dirt, so Elizabeth would not think him a monster.
Revised fact: Fitzwilliam Darcy was a stoic hero who carried the weight of his family's honour on his exceptionally broad shoulders.
When she encountered the Colonel the day after Darcy's revelations, she had every opportunity to ask for proof or further explanations.
But the truth was, she did not need any.
That gentleman would never have endangered his sister's reputation by spreading falsehoods.
No, whatever he had told her was the brutal truth.
Elizabeth tripped over the edge of the woven rug, stumbled, and caught herself on the bedpost. She sat down on the mattress, her breath coming short.
The Bingley situation. Oh, God, the Bingley situation.
Darcy had admitted to separating Jane and Mr Bingley.
He had confessed it with agony, as if admitting to treason.
But he had not done it out of villainy; he had done it because he, albeit foolishly, believed Jane did not love his friend.
And the moment he realised his error? He had not dug in his heels.
He had not justified his actions with his wealth.
He had gone to his desk and written a letter, thrown himself on his sword to fix it, and then confessed everything to her.
Of course, this did not rectify the initial meddling, but it gave her some explanation for the reasons behind it.
He had acted in a way he believed would help protect his friend.
Elizabeth lay back on the bed, staring at the plaster ceiling.
And what about her? She had championed a scoundrel, thrown Darcy's tormentor in his face, and sliced him to ribbons with her "wit", priding herself on her brilliant discernment, while he had stood there, taking the blows in silence to protect his little sister.
And simultaneously, blooming beneath the guilt like a weed, was a rush of breath-stealing respect.
He was an honourable man. He was a good man.
Elizabeth's brain decided it was the perfect time to review Mr Darcy's attributes without the filter of hatred and resentment.
He was tall. Very tall. He had shoulders that filled out a superfine coat perfectly.
His eyes, when not narrowed in judgement, were an intense dark brown.
And when he had stood before her, the rigid mask gone...
"Oh, no," Elizabeth whispered to the ceiling, clapping her hands over her burning cheeks. "Oh, no, no, no. I am attracted to him. I am deeply, inappropriately attracted to the man."
She squeezed her eyes shut, but it was too late. Her beliefs were overturned. The prejudice was shattered. And Elizabeth Bennet was officially in uncharted territory.
DINNER AT ROSINGS PARK was rarely a meal; it was an endurance trial involving silverware, culinary showmanship, and Lady Catherine de Bourgh dictating the precise manner in which one should chew one's food.
Tonight, everyone was present.
Elizabeth sat quietly, her soup spoon hovering over a bowl of something vaguely gelatinous. She was observing the room through new eyes, with new understanding.
At the head of the table, Lady Catherine was ordering the butler to carve the roasted pheasant as though she were ordering the disembowelling of a political enemy.
To her right, Mr Collins leaned forward so far that he was in danger of falling into the gravy boat.
"The succulence of this fowl, your Ladyship, is a testament to the moral superiority of the Rosings gamekeeper!
I dare say, even the birds of the air know to present their most tender breast meat when on your estate! "
Before today, Elizabeth would have looked at this circus and assumed Mr Darcy was judging them all with disdain.
He was seated between Charlotte and his aunt, but he was not scowling.
He was enduring. His jaw was set, yes, but it was the set that meant he was trying not to sigh aloud.
He cut his pheasant with quiet dignity. He listened to Mr Collins's poultry-based rhapsody with a blank expression that Elizabeth now recognised not as haughtiness, but as an ingrained habit of endurance.
He looked magnificent. The candlelight caught the dark waves of his hair, casting shadows over his cheekbones. Elizabeth caught herself staring at his hands—large, strong, and gripping his knife as though he wished he were somewhere, anywhere, else.
She felt a ridiculous urge to reach across the table, pat his hand, and whisper, I am so sorry about my cousin, your aunt, and the fact that we are surrounded by lunatics.
But before she could indulge this impulse, her attention was intercepted by the most absurd spectacle unfolding at the table.
Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, the charming, boisterous man who had spent the last two weeks trying to woo Elizabeth with volume and gleaming brass buttons, was behaving like a man possessed.
He was seated next to Anne de Bourgh, ignoring Elizabeth.
In fact, he was also ignoring his food and his aunt. He was staring at Miss de Bourgh's hands with the wide-eyed intensity of a monk experiencing a religious vision.
Miss de Bourgh reached for the salt cellar, which was a silver contraption shaped like a swan.
The Colonel gasped, his hand shooting out to intercept hers. "Allow me, Cousin," he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion that sounded like longing. "The silver is heavy. You must preserve your wrist strength."
Miss de Bourgh slowly turned her head to look at him, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks.
"It is salt, Richard," she said dryly. "It is not a boulder. I assure you, my skeletal structure can bear the weight of seasoning my own turnips."
"But why should you exert yourself?" he argued, gazing at her knuckles as though they were carved from marble. He seized the swan, salted her turnips, and set it down. "There. Perfection."
Elizabeth bit the inside of her cheek so hard that she tasted copper. She looked at Charlotte, who was watching the exchange with her eyebrows raised so high they nearly met her hairline.
The Colonel had jumped ship. The man who had recited Wordsworth to Elizabeth in the garden was now swooning over Anne de Bourgh's ability to lift condiments. It was exactly the farcical reprieve Elizabeth needed to stop herself from combusting.
She glanced back at Darcy to find that he was already looking at her.
Their eyes locked over the centrepieces. He seemed tense, bracing himself, expecting her to look away in disgust.
Instead, Elizabeth allowed the corners of her mouth to twitch. She turned her eyes pointedly towards Richard and Anne, then back to Darcy, offering him a tiny, conspiratorial, amused smile.
Darcy's eyes widened, the stoic mask slipping to reveal a flash of shock, followed rapidly by fragile hope.
THE RETREAT TO THE drawing-room after dinner was akin to moving from one battlefield to another. Lady Catherine immediately laid claim, loudly complaining about the price of coal in London. Mr Collins hovered nearby, nodding frantically at every syllable.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had successfully steered Miss de Bourgh to a small table in the corner and was insisting on untangling her embroidery silks, a task he was performing with the clumsiness of a bear wearing mittens. Miss de Bourgh was watching him ruin her threads with fond exasperation.
Which left Mr Darcy.
He was standing near the fireplace, as far away from everyone else as possible. He was staring into the flames, his shoulders stiff, his hands clasped so tightly behind his back that his knuckles were white.
He was giving her space, Elizabeth realised, honouring his word that he required no answer.
Elizabeth took a breath. She had been wrong about him, and she was not a coward. She would not let him stand there in solitary misery when he had done everything in his power to fix the disasters around them.
She smoothed the skirts of her green muslin gown and walked to the fireplace, stopping precisely two feet from him.
Darcy stiffened, sensing her approach. He turned his head slowly, his eyes guarded.
Elizabeth looked up at him, tilting her head slightly. She let her voice drop to a soft, warm, teasing register.
"Mr Darcy," she murmured. "I find myself in a philosophical quandary of the utmost urgency, and I require your expert opinion."
Darcy blinked in astonishment. He looked as though she had just spoken to him in fluent ancient Greek. "My... my opinion, Miss Elizabeth?"
"Yes." Elizabeth offered him a smile. "It concerns livestock."
Darcy stared at her. "Livestock."
"Indeed. Sheep, to be precise. And perhaps cows, if time permits.
" Elizabeth stepped a fraction of an inch closer, the warmth from the fireplace enveloping them both.
"You see, I have been observing the Rosings flocks.
And I must ask you, as a man knowledgeable in agricultural matters, is it a requirement for sheep to look quite so angry? "
"The... the sheep, Miss Elizabeth," he started gravely, then cleared his throat and stood straighter, throwing his entire soul into the topic.
"The Rosings sheep are a specific breed.
A... a favourite of the Duke of Devonshire, I believe.
They are notoriously ill-tempered. But in general, they are sound. "
"In general, you say." Elizabeth's lips twitched with the effort to suppress a laugh. "I see. And what of cows? Does Pemberley boast generally good cows, Mr Darcy? Or are they frivolous creatures, given to lounging in the pastures and ignoring their duties?"
Darcy moved closer to her, abandoning his rigid posture. He leaned down slightly, his eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that would have been intimidating if it were not so hopelessly smitten.
"The cows at Pemberley, Miss Elizabeth," Darcy said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre that sent an improper shiver through Elizabeth's body, "are paragons of industry. The Alderney breed. Excellent milk yield. A very... robust constitution. They take their duties very seriously."
"Fascinating," Elizabeth breathed, her gaze dropping for a fraction of a second to his mouth before snapping back to his eyes. "I have always felt that a robust constitution is the mark of true bovine character."
"Fitzwilliam!"
The booming voice of Lady Catherine interrupted their conversation. The matriarch was glaring at them, her turban quivering with suspicion. "What are you whispering about in the corner? What is so secret?"
Darcy did not flinch or move away from Elizabeth. He turned his head, his expression composed, but his eyes were gleaming with confidence.
"We were discussing cows, Aunt," he said loudly, his voice ringing across the drawing-room. "The Alderney breed, specifically. Miss Elizabeth has a quizzing mind, and I was helping to fill the gaps in her bovine knowledge."
Lady Catherine stared at him, her mouth opening and closing silently like a beached trout. She looked from Darcy to Elizabeth, convinced her nephew had lost his mind. "Cows? In my drawing-room? Are you deranged, Fitzwilliam?"
"Never better, Aunt," he replied.
Darcy looked at Elizabeth, and for the first time since she had met him, the corners of his mouth curved upwards into a true, devastatingly handsome smile.
Elizabeth smiled back, having no idea where this might lead, but willing to find out.