Chapter 9
Elizabeth
Mr. Darcy entered despite Lydia.
My mother welcomed him with an excitement she tried in vain to disguise as dignity.
Bingley’s fortune had always seemed magnificent to her; Darcy’s held an almost religious fascination.
I understood that some indiscretion from Mr. Collins or Lady Catherine had already brought the rumor of our engagement to Longbourn, even if my mother did not yet dare question me directly.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, “you absolutely must stay for dinner. We have nothing special, only a leg of mutton, two chickens, and a pie, but you will excuse us. If I had known such a distinguished guest…”
“I shall be honored to stay, madam,” he replied.
His courtesy bore no trace of contempt. I watched him endure a detailed description of the meal, our cook’s talents, and the price of eggs.
At Netherfield, he might have listened with that closed expression that had so irritated me.
That evening, he even asked a question about the kitchen garden, which encouraged my mother to recount the entire history of our asparagus.
I did not know if he had changed or if I was finally looking at him without seeking confirmation of my prejudices.
At dinner, my father seated Darcy beside him.
Their conversation was at first polite, then took a more serious turn.
They spoke of estate revenues, a landowner’s responsibilities, and the consequences of a poor harvest. My father possessed more knowledge than he often cared to use. Darcy listened with respect.
“You have managed Pemberley for long?” my father asked.
“Since my father’s death, five years ago.”
“And you have never wished to leave that burden to a steward so you might read peacefully in your library?”
Darcy glanced briefly at me.
“Often. But an estate does not become less demanding because its owner prefers a book.”
My father smiled without joy.
“That is a lesson some men learn late.”
I understood they were no longer speaking only of Pemberley.
After dinner, the men remained at table only briefly.
Mr. Bingley was to come the next day, and my mother spent the evening imagining preparations for Jane’s wedding.
Darcy was condemned to listen to Lydia asking if he held balls at Pemberley, Kitty asking if he knew many officers in Derbyshire, and Mary asking if he considered music a moral discipline.
He answered each without impatience.
When Mary sat down at the pianoforte, I took refuge near the library. Darcy joined me.
“You are brave,” I murmured.
“I have only been exposed for two hours. You have survived twenty years.”
“With visible scars.”
“Some of them please me.”
I turned my head toward him. He had spoken without smiling, his eyes resting on my mouth. The sound of the piano, the conversations, the movements of the room seemed to recede.
“Which ones?” I asked.
He moved closer, just enough that his shoulder almost brushed mine.
“Your habit of saying what others leave unsaid. Your way of laughing when you should appear impressed. Your loyalty to people you yourself criticize with remarkable severity.”
“These are my scars?”
“These are the ones I have no wish to cure.”
Heat rose in my cheeks.
Mary finished her piece on a hesitant chord. Everyone applauded. Darcy stepped away before anyone noticed our proximity.
Later, my father asked him to follow him into the library. They remained there nearly an hour. When Darcy emerged, his face was grave, but a new calm marked his features.
He took leave of my mother, my sisters, then of me.
“May I come tomorrow?”
“Mr. Bingley will be here.”
“I was not asking after him.”
“Then come.”
His eyes softened.
Once the door closed, my father called me.
I found him before the fire, two glasses of port on the table. He gestured toward one, then reconsidered.
“Your mother would reproach me for corrupting a nearly married daughter.”
“I am not nearly married.”
“Does Mr. Darcy share that opinion?”
“He awaits my answer.”
“With a patience that strikes me as suspicious.”
I sat down.
“What did you discuss?”
“The obligation. He's already had his man of business buy back the debt. Harcourt can no longer pursue legal action. We've arranged repayment over twelve years, at an interest rate I insisted on raising despite his protests.”
“You accepted?”
“Yes.”
I released the breath I had been holding for weeks.
Longbourn was safe. My mother and sisters would not be cast out by some immediate disaster. My father would have to cut his expenses, but he would keep his dignity and control of his estate.
“He wants no guarantees tied to your marriage,” my father continued. “He even asked me to sign a document stating that the agreement will remain unchanged if you refuse him.”
I lowered my eyes.
“I told you so.”
“Yes. I'm beginning to understand why you're no longer certain you want to detest him.”
“I never detested him.”
My father raised an eyebrow.
“You had a singularly energetic way of not detesting him.”
I stood to avoid his gaze.
“What do you think of him?”
“That he's proud, too accustomed to being obeyed, and dangerously serious. I also think he listens to you, which is rarer than fortune. But my opinion won't suffice. Do you respect him?”
“Yes.”
The answer came without hesitation.
“Do you desire him?”
I spun around, horrified.
“Papa!”
He picked up his glass with offensive innocence.
“I'm your father, not a piece of furniture. A marriage sometimes requires more than respect.”
“I refuse to discuss this with you.”
“That's a clear enough answer.”
I left the library to the sound of his laughter.
In the corridor, I pressed my hand to my burning cheeks. The memory of Darcy near the library, of his gaze on my mouth, of his hand restrained when he had wanted to touch my hair, came back with embarrassing clarity.
Yes, I desired him.
This discovery resolved nothing. It complicated everything.