Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
She was wearing a green gown that reminded him of the forest. Had this choice been intentional?
He suspected it had been. It was not grey as the sky had been.
It was just as well, for though that colour was becoming in nature, it would make Miss Elizabeth appear pale.
Green was a becoming to her. Heavens she looked lovely.
He had to stop thinking of her in such a fashion.
Of how he wanted to kiss her. Hold her close.
Touch his lips to her cheek. Her neck. To— No.
No. No! How was he to get through this afternoon, nay, the next minute, without confessing his love for her.
Love? Nay, attraction. That was not the same as love.
But he admired her. He liked her. He had encountered more beautiful women than she, but none that made him feel quite so alive. So…ungentlemanly.
Miss Elizabeth laughed. Something had been amusing and he had missed it. He had to pay attention, for surely a question would be directed towards him.
As if on cue, Bingley asked, “Do you not think so, Darcy?”
Darcy had a reputation for being aloof, so he simply shrugged, and Bingley said, “Do not act nonchalant. I know you enjoy seeing plays in London.”
“I-I do. I do. I suppose,” he took in a breath he hoped did not appear too long, “it depends on the play. We once saw Sarah Siddons—”
“You did?” exclaimed Miss Elizabeth. “Oh, to see her upon the stage!”
Darcy said, “Yes, I have had the pleasure of watching her perform on numerous occasions. She is a wonder as Lady Macbeth.”
“I confess,” said Miss Bennet, “I do not understand Shakespeare completely.”
Bingley asked, “Have you seen it performed?”
She shook her head. “We have only read it.”
Bingley said, “I suspect if you saw it upon the stage, you might have a different opinion, as his work is meant to be seen and not read.”
“I would like to,” she said, looking up from under her lashes, and Darcy expected Bingley to promise to take her to a play and not stop there, but to propose right then.
Darcy had advised his friend to be cautious and to learn more about the family, but Bingley said he did not care.
It had seemed a foolish response until he met with Miss Elizabeth in the woods.
Now he wished to ignore logic and embrace his feelings. And her.
“It is poetry unmatched,” Miss Elizabeth said. Then she looked directly at him and said, “Do you enjoy poetry, Mr Darcy?”
He attempted not to react to this teasing.
“I do,” he said, and recalled saying these words to her in the woods and feeling for her what he had felt for no others.
His thoughts were beginning to sound like wedding vows.
I do feel for you. I do wish to kiss you.
I do wish to stay at your side and never part.
“That is all, Darcy?” Bingley asked. “Such a tepid response. Has he told you ladies that he was in the Shakespeare Society at Cambridge?”
Miss Elizabeth beamed. “No. Tell us now, Mr Darcy!”
Darcy shook his head, at first wishing to laugh at the recollection of the theatricals, bashing about wearing pantaloons and ruffs, declaiming about witches and poisoned ears.
But then he recalled receiving a letter from his father demanding that he leave the society as it was not becoming of a first-born son.
He did cease attending, but pined for fun and distraction each time his friends told him of their gatherings.
He had avoided most Shakespeare until this past season when Bingley had enticed him to productions as an alternate to more events at which mothers and daughters would clamber for their attention.
“Mr Darcy is being shy,” said Bingley, who looked at him with exasperation. “He was an excellent Banquo. Noble, true, and loyal.”
“A character murdered for goodness,” Darcy said, feeling a smile rise within him at the memory of being on stage, pig’s blood smeared on his hands and face for effect while playing the ghost visiting a guilt-ridden Macbeth.
“Can you recall any lines from it?” asked Miss Elizabeth, and the light in her face made him want to recite every word of the piece.
He sat up straighter and pointed one finger at Bingley as if he were Matthew Bexley, who had played Macbeth, the righteous soldier and friend turned murderous enemy. “Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all, as the weird women promised, and, I fear, thou play'dst most foully for't.”
The other three clapped, and Miss Elizabeth appeared to delight in it the most. He would like to live each day to make her happy.
“Have you ever told Georgiana about this talent of yours?” Bingley asked.
He saw a flicker of doubt cross Miss Elizabeth’s face and realised she might think Georgiana was a woman competing for his attentions. Hastily he said, “My younger sister thinks I am above such foolishness.”
“Foolishness?” asked Miss Elizabeth. “Shakespeare is not foolishness. He is every human emotion, be it great love or envy or frailty or nobility. He is one who captured it all.”
“My younger sister,” said Miss Bennet, “is one who appreciates passion and talent.” She leaned lovingly against Miss Elizabeth, who gave her a teasing shove with her shoulder, and the girls giggled.
“And what,” asked Bingley, “do you appreciate, Miss Bennet?”
She looked at her lap. “Flowers. Playing the pianoforte. My sisters.” She looked up. “Friendship. It is not glamourous, perhaps, but I…I enjoy quiet things.”
Was she pretending to be what she thought Bingley desired in order to snare him?
Why could he not assume the best? He frowned, irritated by his mistrustful nature. She was perfect for his friend. He could not deny it.
“Miss Bennet,” asked Bingley, “there are no flowers this time of year, else I would suggest we take a turn through the gardens. There are some lovely paintings and fine sculptures within if you would like to see more of the house and its treasures?”
She nodded and they all rose, the ladies pulling their shawls onto their shoulders. Miss Elizabeth’s was tangled, so Darcy reached out to straighten it. She froze as his fingers ran along the exposed skin at the nape of her neck. He wanted to kiss that spot, to keep her in this room with him to—
She moved towards her sister and Mr Bingley.
A rejection? No. They were all departing.
Together. In a muddle, he hastened to catch up.
At the doorway, Darcy had to step aside to make room for the ladies to pass, and to his amazement, fingers brushed across his hand.
Miss Elizabeth’s. He longed to grab that hand and hold her here, but it was not proper.
Then they were in the hall all together at a safe distance.
“What an extraordinary house!” exclaimed Miss Bennet.
Bingley asked, “Had you not been in it before?”
Miss Bennet shook her head. “The Grants have not been in residence since we have been out, and, as they had no daughters, we had no occasion to visit.”
Bingley said, “No daughters and your family with five. I suspect that there was talk of matching you with their sons?”
Miss Elizabeth laughed. “Their sons are as old as our father.”
“Not unheard of for marriages, I’m afraid,” said Bingley, and Darcy shuddered at the thought of either of these lovely creatures married off like cattle to the highest bidder, be he nineteen and a fool or ninety and in need of assistance getting into or out of a chair.
“Rest assured, Mr Bingley,” said Miss Elizabeth, as they passed designs on the walls made of armour, “they were married before we were out of the nursery. We were safe from their advances.”
“You are not safe from my advances,” thought Darcy, and then corrected himself. He would need to be a gentleman. It was not fair to take any further action that might imperil her reputation.
“Have you any siblings, Mr Bingley?” asked Miss Elizabeth.
It was curious that Miss Bennet did not ask, but she seemed reluctant to speak. Perhaps not reluctant, but reserved.
“I have two sisters, one married and—”
A servant hurried to them holding a letter. “An urgent message, sir.”
Bingley took it and they all stopped. His face drained of colour. “Speaking of sisters, mine has met with some danger after the birth of her first child.” He looked at Darcy, his eyes brimming. “I must go to Louisa at once. I…I… Darcy, what am I to do?”
His friend appeared so grim, so afraid, that Darcy decided he could not let him travel alone.
“We shall go to town together.”
“I cannot ask—”
“You would not have to. I insist.” He turned to the servant, and said, “Alert Mr Rowe to our immediate departure.” The man nodded and Darcy rested a hand on Bingley’s shoulder. “Come, man. Let us prepare quickly for the journey.”
Dazed, Bingley nodded.
Darcy turned to the ladies. “Our apologies for cutting this visit short.”
Miss Bennet found her voice, and it was full of concern. “No apologies needed.” She added, “Mr Bingley, our best wishes for your sister.”
Their eyes met and Bingley nodded, but he was too consumed by other thoughts to smile or even bow as he ought to have done.
“Until we meet again,” he said, his eyes studying Miss Elizabeth’s face in an attempt to memorise it. He wished he might remain here with her, but Bingley was in need, and he would not deny his friend.
“I…” she began, but no words came.
The servant escorted them back through the house, and Miss Elizabeth continued to look at him and he at her.
In moments, they were in the entry saying goodbye.
The door opened, allowing a frigid breeze to enter.
Miss Bennet shivered and Mr Bingley wished her well as she stepped out.
Miss Elizabeth followed, turning her head back towards Darcy as she walked.
He bowed. It was all he could do. And then the door closed, separating them for who knew how long.