Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Georgiana chose Darcy’s favourite sonata.
He was lulled, as he often was by her playing, and had to fight off sleep.
He had not been able to rest since he arrived for the wedding.
Though he knew it was being so close to Longbourn and not being able to see Miss Elizabeth, he told anyone who asked that it was a mild hip injury from a horse’s misstep that kept him from finding a comfortable position in which to sleep.
Why could he not force himself to feign dispassion if not contentment?
His face had once again betrayed him, and that wretched Mrs Bennet not only noticed, but had felt the need to share her observations with everyone.
He had tried—he had tried!—not to react to any of the foolishness in this house.
He had promised himself to say nothing that might be construed as insulting and to keep his face neutral, come what may.
But those girls, those infernal girls, were impossibly wild, and Mrs Bennet was lacking in decorum and intelligence.
How could Miss Elizabeth be from the same family?
Miss Jane Bennet was also sensible, and so he did not object too greatly to Bingley choosing her, but if they remained at Netherfield, as had been suggested, his friend would be part of such scenes as these regularly, a life which Darcy could never tolerate.
It was good, then, that he was giving up on Miss Elizabeth, for, to be with her was to be with the Bennets.
When Georgiana finished playing, he clapped for her, and he was pleased to see that the others clapped with even more enthusiasm.
She was accomplished, and it pleased him to know he had assisted her to become so.
James’s nod to him echoed that pride. They had done right by her, or at least had done the best that they could, and she had weathered the proverbial storms of life with little trouble.
On the whole. His thoughts turned dark as his mind lighted on Wickham, and this time, he could not stop thinking fast enough, and his mood instantly soured.
“Wonderful,” called out Bingley, and Miss Elizabeth rose to offer a standing ovation.
Georgiana curtseyed, and then blushed so thoroughly she looked like a late summer tomato. She hurried away from the pianoforte and into James’s waiting embrace.
All stood at Mr Bennet’s invitation to stretch before dinner was served, and milled about to converse. While some remained in the receiving room, others went back to the garden, for the season offered later sunsets and warmer weather in which to enjoy them.
Darcy wished there was wine. He had not partaken in the cakes on display at tea, and though he would have liked to say that it was the quality of the offerings, he knew it had been nerves at seeing Miss Elizabeth, who was currently speaking with his sister.
Now he was hungry and peevish. He decided this was the perfect time to have an uncomfortable conversation.
He crossed the room. “Miss Elizabeth.” His voice was sharp, and she startled before turning to face him.
He ought to quiet his mind before speaking, for Bingley would not appreciate theatrics on the eve of his wedding, yet, he could not calm himself entirely.
In a slightly more civil voice, he said, “I wish to speak with you. Might we go to the garden?”
It was an impulsive and wrong-headed suggestion, for they both knew her sister might be listening from her bedroom window.
Miss Elizabeth glanced at Georgiana, who smiled in acquiescence, so Miss Elizabeth curtseyed to her and moved towards the door.
Once they were out, her step hitched, and her eyes darted to the second-floor window, where Darcy presumed Mrs Collins resided.
She said, “Let us go a bit farther away from the house.”
She led him to a copse, and once in the shadows of the trees, she looked about as if deeply uncomfortable. Good. He did not think he could bear a cheerful Miss Bennet when he hoped to end his—what could he call it?—dalliance with her.
“I wish to know about the circumstances surrounding my aunt’s death.” He heard the tone of his voice, and could most nearly construe it as a bark. Was this what he wanted? To offend and frighten her?
Miss Elizabeth bit her lip and did not answer.
“Tell me why she was here at Longbourn.”
“I do not think you wish to know the truth.”
“I do.”
“It might sour your opinion of her, and with her so recently deceased…” Her brow was furrowed and her sad eyes—those eyes—gazed up at him full of pain.
To finish this, he would be cruel no matter what she said. “I need answers.”
She drew in a breath. “She died right here, if you must know.”
Darcy blanched. She might have told him this piece of information before bringing him here, or at least have broken the news more gently. Certainly, there were euphemisms one ought to use. But he was being insistent and sharp, so perhaps she was matching his ill behaviour.
He asked, “Why did you ask her to visit?”
“I did no such thing! She arrived unannounced. And she was rude.”
“You disrespect my aunt’s memory?”
“No, I— It is simply that…” She bit her lip and absently wiped her hands on her skirt, making him think her hands were sweating. He was making her nervous. Heavens. No, it was good. He would pursue this.
“What, Miss Elizabeth? I demand that you tell me every last detail!” He sounded like his father, which made him feel a touch ill.
“She wanted to speak to me.”
“About?”
“About…a rumour.”
Silence.
“What rumour?”
“It is not important.”
“It is.”
She pursed her lips. “Well, I shall not tell you.”
“Her memory deserves at least that much.”
“Deserves?” She looked him over from head to shoes. “I see you for what you are, Mr Darcy. You are as demanding and self-centred as she.”
“How dare—”
“She made false accusations and insulted me, as well as my family, in every possible way. I shall not reveal her demands, but her reason for coming was borne out of envy and vindictiveness.”
“Miss Elizabeth, whatever are you saying?”
“Certain persons spoke falsehoods to your aunt.”
“Who?”
“It does not matter.”
“It does!”
“No. What matters is that your aunt came with accusations and assertions, but I parried every thrust, though I admit with impatience and insistence equal to hers. The truth is, Lady Catherine died of a shock. Instead of behaving as I ought, with grace and fortitude, I was sharp with her, and the outrage of someone not crumbling and succumbing to her will killed her. I killed your aunt!”
Darcy blinked, and blinked again, unable to comprehend all that she said.
“And while we are airing grievances, I declare in no uncertain terms that I can never forgive the fact that, after you killed my sister’s husband, you did not stop to attend to her.
As such, I believe we have reached an impasse.
How could we, even if you lowered yourself to forge a connexion with my family—a family you clearly deem so far beneath yourself as to find being in the same room with them painful—live peacefully together knowing we have wronged one another in the gravest of fashions?
” She took a breath, but did not wait for a response.
“We could not. Much as I found our stolen moments—” She seemed to check herself.
“Good day, Mr Darcy.” And with that, she bobbed the most perfunctory curtsey, and hurried away.