Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Elizabeth excused herself once the men had departed, saying she needed to rest before dinner.
In truth, she was so awake her body tremored, but if she suggested she might go on a walk, she feared her sister and husband might offer or even insist they accompany her.
She wanted to like Mr Collins, but he was tedious.
In her room, she snatched up a piece of paper and sat at the dressing table, thinking to write to Jane, but how might she write without confessing all that was transpiring between herself and Mr Darcy? She could not. It had to be kept a secret.
This madness had to stop. They could not be together. Yet he had reached for her not just at Rosings, but here at the Parsonage, and more than once.
She wanted to be with him.
She wanted him.
Only him.
There could be no other man who would satisfy her mind, and dare she say…her body. His kisses in Meryton still swam through her dreams, and now she had new kisses to savour. She wanted to see him. Needed to see him. Now. Now. Now!
But wait. Could she be merely a plaything with which he toyed when they were in proximity, forgotten as he went about the country visiting this property and that?
No. He did not seem to be that sort of man.
Could he feel as she did for him?
A knock at the door.
She desired no conversation, only to be alone with the recollections of those perfect kisses. His lips on hers. Her lips on his neck. His hands clutching her.
Another knock.
“Yes?” she asked impatiently.
“It is Mary. Might I enter?”
Elizabeth let out a breath. “Yes, of course.”
Mary peeked her head into the room as if still at Longbourn, ready to be sent away from her older sisters’ bed chamber as a bother.
“It is your house, Mary. You need not be timid.”
Mary laughed and said, “I have yet to grow accustomed to that fact: my being the mistress of my own house. It had seemed more natural before your arrival, if I am honest, but once again, I see myself as merely a little sister.”
Elizabeth waved her closer, and Mary perched on the cushioned bench under the window. It was a cozy spot, and Elizabeth wondered if its creation and fabric choice had been Mary’s or Lady Catherine’s.
“I wanted to share an important bit of news with you, Lizzy, but we have been in company too much.”
Elizabeth waited for her sister to go on, but Mary blushed and looked to the floor. Only then did Elizabeth note the fullness of her sister’s face, which she had attributed to dining at Rosings and a new cook’s meals. “Are you—Mary, are you expecting?”
Mary looked up quickly and nodded. She started to giggle, then stopped herself, then began again.
Elizabeth launched out of her seat and flung her arms around her sister. “How wonderful!” Mary rose into Elizabeth’s embrace and then stepped back, allowing Elizabeth to study her figure.
“It is only just confirmed, so you might not see any signs.”
“I confess I did not, but this is happy news, indeed.”
They sat side by side, Elizabeth attempting not to think of how her sister came to this pass given how unattractive she herself found Mr Collins. It was not fair to judge, and more importantly, he made Mary quite happy. “Are you well? You seem to have an appetite.”
“Yes, I have been so fortunate. I have the will to eat, as well as to garden, and I accompany my husband on calls to his parishioners. It is a relief, for I recall Mama being ill with Lydia and Kitty.”
“It is difficult to know how much was true illness and how much was Mama being, well, Mama.”
Mary laughed.
“When will you tell the rest of the family?”
Mary shrugged. “For now, I am pleased to have only you and Mr Collins know of this matter.”
“Of course.” She kissed her sister on the cheek. “I am to be an aunt!”
“The favourite aunt,” Mary said, beaming.
“There could be no other way,” Elizabeth said with a wink.
They sat together at the window and Elizabeth made inquiry after inquiry about names and where the babe would sleep and when they might bring the child to Longbourn, and on and on until it was time to join Mr Collins for the evening.
The next day, they were set to attend another dinner at Rosings, and Elizabeth was skittish with anticipation, so much so that Mary offered her a glass of port.
“Lady Catherine need not be feared, Lizzy. You saw that yourself.”
“Of course.” She sipped, enjoying the mild burn of the drink, willing herself not to tell the true cause of her distraction.
She was conscious of her gown being not fine enough for the setting.
She had not known they would be invited by the lady to dine at a fine house once let alone twice, and despite Mr Collins’s assurances, she felt uncertain.
When it had simply been Lady Catherine, whose opinion she did not care about, it mattered less.
Now, however, Mr Darcy would see her looking like the girl she was: a gentleman’s daughter but with no means to keep up appearances.
That was not true. He had seen her at the assembly in her finest.
But was it fine enough?
He did not care. He had first kissed her when she was in rough clothes for walking. Perhaps that was what he sought in a mate: a woman who was not much concerned with outer appearances.
They walked, as they had before, to the great house, but this time, Elizabeth’s body tingled.
As they entered the house, Elizabeth was more aware of its adornments.
The golds, deep reds, and browns so dark they appeared nearly black.
The heavy furniture inlaid with precious gems and ivory and mother of pearl.
Intricate designs were everywhere, even on the banister to which she clung as she ascended the grand staircase.
Paintings of heaven and hell covered the ceiling and walls, making one feel as if this might be an actual passage to the afterlife.
Mr Darcy was on his feet when they entered the sitting room, and Colonel Fitzwilliam rose to greet them.
Mr Darcy looked nowhere but at her, and she thought it both reckless and thrilling.
They all sat, and the conversation floated about her.
She desired to be witty and entertaining, but would have settled for any words at all, for the power of speech seemed to have flown from her.
Eventually they moved to the dark dining room where footmen, all in perfectly appointed livery, now numbered eight to match their party, which had grown to include the gentlemen and Miss de Bourgh’s companion, Mrs Jenkinson.
The footmen moved in unison, as they had before, but now it struck Elizabeth as especially stultifying, and she wondered if Pemberley had an equally forbidding environment.
Mr Darcy appeared not to notice, so even if his childhood home had been different than Rosings, she supposed he was accustomed to such formalities and extravagances.
Just as she was beginning to fear a life with him and what that might entail, he smiled the smallest of smiles at her between sips of soup, and her doubts melted like frost in the sun.
A life with him? It was not to fear, for it was a fantasy. She had to rein in her imagination. Smiles and kisses, especially when done in secrecy, did not signify.
The dinner ended and Mr Darcy said he would join them all in a moment.
Elizabeth followed the group to the drawing-room, then feigned having dropped a brooch in the dining room.
Though Lady Catherine said a servant might fetch it, Elizabeth insisted she would look herself, which elicited a speech that Elizabeth could hear even as she crept down the corridor.
Lady Catherine was meditating on the irresponsibility of youth and pointing to Elizabeth’s having had no proper governess as the primary cause for her break in decorum.
Elizabeth hoped to see Mr Darcy in the dining room, having thought his separation from the group a ruse, yet he was not there. Disappointed, she planned to return to the rest of the party, but once back in the corridor, she saw him beckoning her into a shadowy alcove.
“Mr Darcy?” she whispered, approaching.
He reached for her hand and pulled her close, whispering in her ear, “I could not bear to be with you another moment.”
“What?” she asked pulling back. He could not bear to be with her?
“I meant, to be with you yet so far away.”
Elizabeth relaxed.
“I stayed back, needing to gather myself. I thought it best to be alone. I thought I could be without you.” His lips brushed against her cheek. “But I cannot.”
“I…” Elizabeth could not think. Mr Darcy bent his knees, so he was now kissing her neck, and her body was set aflame.
“Elizabeth?” Mary called out.
“Where is she?” said a sharp voice, though more distant. Lady Catherine.
Elizabeth had to depart. “Just a moment,” she called from the shadows, breathing in the intoxicating orange scent of the hair oil he used. She knew her voice was strained, but hoped Mary, who had never quite understood Elizabeth, might not realise something was amiss.
Mary must have turned, for her voice was more muffled as she replied to Lady Catherine.
Elizabeth came to her senses and hurried out of the alcove, leaving Mr Darcy, despite his urging her to stay.
“You are flushed,” said Mary when Elizabeth entered the drawing room. “Are you ill?”
“No.” She straightened her dress. “It is from searching for my brooch.”
“Did you find it?” asked Lady Catherine.
“No. I realised I did not put it on before we left the Parsonage.”
Lady Catherine looked at Elizabeth disapprovingly, but forgot her upset when her nephew entered moments later. “Come. We must play Quadrille.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “You know Darcy loathes cards.”
Elizabeth was already moving towards the card table, making haste so as not to displease her host any further.
Mr Darcy said, “I do under normal circumstance, but if you need a player, I shall oblige.”