Chapter 4
Chapter Four
How could she have spent three hours walking and talking with Darcy, but it felt like mere moments?
It was a lovely afternoon. And it did not compare to their walks at Hunsford where Elizabeth always wished to avoid him.
Not only was her assumption that Darcy was not a good-tempered man wrong, but he was, in his own way, charming.
He had a natural confidence, was sure of himself and his beliefs.
But he could also listen, and the combination of those qualities was attractive to her.
They entered Woodcote’s hall and were struck by its vulgar taste, the clutter and gilding and ornaments everywhere, and when she glanced at Darcy as his eyes turned every which way, she suspected he had the same thought.
How many other ways did their thoughts and feelings coincide, and would she ever have the opportunity to find out?
They climbed the stairs and were about to part when he asked, “Did you want to see the miniature of Pemberley?” He pointed down a passage in the other direction from hers. “It is just in my room.”
“Yes, certainly I do.”
He entered and left the door open whilst she waited in the passageway. “Do you always travel with a painting of your home?” she called in after him.
“My sister painted it for me,” he called back. “When I said I missed home when I was away, she insisted on making me a memento.”
Elizabeth took a step forward to better hear him and had a fuller view of Darcy’s room.
There were books stacked two or three high with ribbons marking some pages.
A rag and hairbrush were out on the shaving stand.
His riding clothes from this morning must have been put away, but his boots were awaiting a polish.
Darcy must have changed his mind as to what coat to wear this afternoon, because the discarded one was over a chair.
It was a good choice; she preferred him in green rather than that shade of blue.
Seeing his personal items after such a pleasant walk with him excited her feelings.
Darcy was a real person, not an actor in her friends’ misfortune or a man reluctant to dance with her.
He was full of complexities, with interests and faults like anyone else.
He was likeable, loyal, and cared about those he loved.
Darcy was a person she now esteemed, a person whom she could love. And she felt it too late.
He came back to the doorway and handed her the miniature. “I will boast of Georgiana’s skills as a painter, not of the beauty of the house itself.”
Its splendour struck her, but it gave one the feeling of home. It was exactly as he had described. Everything in the image was enchanting. “I think both are worthy of praise.”
“There is a natural beauty to it, more so than at a place like Rosings,” he said, taking the painting back. “I thought you— I am pleased you approve. And I will tell Georgiana you admire her talents.”
Her heart raced. Darcy thought she would like his home. He had an anxiety to please that she had never seen before, and his manners were softened from how he was in Meryton and Hunsford. Her reproofs at Hunsford worked a change, but why? Was it possible that he should still love her?
An increasingly large part of her heart hoped he still did.
“There you are.”
They turned to see Julia Metcalfe. Her eyes slid to the open door, with Darcy just in the doorframe and Elizabeth outside. A smirk played on her lips. “What are you two doing?”
He was entirely unembarrassed. “I was showing Miss Bennet a miniature of Pemberley. Would you care to see?” he added when Julia waited expectantly.
“I would.” Julia gave him a slow, seductive smile.
An unexpected jolt of anger struck Elizabeth’s stomach, but she tamped down her jealousy. Darcy did not belong to her, but neither would he belong to this grasping woman, so what did it matter if Julia smiled at him?
She stepped in front of Elizabeth, crowding her out, and fussed over the painting, hanging on Darcy’s arm.
But whilst Julia’s attention was on Pemberley House, Elizabeth doubted Darcy heard a word.
His eyes met hers; his whole attention was on her.
Her cheeks felt hot, and she wondered if his interest meant what she hoped it did.
When Darcy said nothing else to Julia, only held out his hand for the painting, Julia huffed and said, “Come along, Miss Bennet. Let us dress for dinner.”
Rather than continue into her own chamber, Julia followed Elizabeth into hers. She had just set down her gloves when Julia cried, “Do you plan to catch Mr Darcy for yourself?”
“I would never set out to catch a man,” she said aloud, even whilst her heart murmured, “Yes.”
Julia scoffed. “All women want to catch a husband, especially a rich and handsome one. That one is mine. I would send you home if not for Lady Catherine. Or lock you up for the week, if I could.”
What would Julia say if she knew she refused Darcy five weeks ago? “Catching a man is not an employment to which I have been brought up. Men are very safe with me, let them be ever so rich.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is there something between you? I sense a spark of something between you.”
There must be. Elizabeth felt it, and to her delighted astonishment, Darcy might still feel it. Could that spark now flare into a steady heat? Admitting that would be putting her hopes ahead of facts, and it would be foolish to admit those hopes to this selfish, hostile woman.
“No,” she murmured. “We have mutual friends, friends we think might soon become engaged. We have merely known one another longer than we know anyone else here.”
“I trust you have no foolish pretensions, Miss Bennet. Remember who you are. You are welcome to one of the other men, but I am marrying Mr Darcy before June is out!”
Julia stormed from the room and slammed the door behind her.
Elizabeth sighed and dressed for dinner.
As she became better acquainted with Darcy’s character, she looked forward with increased eagerness to every moment spent with him.
But now she had to be careful not to raise Julia’s ire.
Her interest in Darcy was noted, and to her delight, it also seemed possible Darcy still had feelings for her.
Elizabeth found dinner tedious. Lady Metcalfe alternately talked to Mrs Tessier or Mr Travers about her shared history with each.
It seemed she had been a neighbour of Mr Travers when they were young, and she had as many youthful reminiscences with him as she had with Mrs Tessier from their early married years in London.
“I remember once, when it poured before a ball, and you went into the town and bought me shoe roses and hair combs yourself,” said Lady Metcalfe to Mr Travers. “I tried to repay you, but you said you were glad to use your allowance on a friend’s happiness.”
“My father still gives me the same allowance twenty years later,” he muttered.
“You ought to have married a wealthy woman and gained your independence years ago,” called Sir John Whitney.
Julia’s fork and knife clanged against her plate. “Some of us have no interest in the past, or in who ought to have married whom however long ago. The present and future are of far more significance.”
Mr Travers made no answer, and Lady Metcalfe sniffed. “Well, I thought it a kind gesture.”
Lady Metcalfe must have been the belle of the neighbourhood, but she gave herself airs and her daughter’s vanity was an extension of her own self-importance.
Elizabeth had wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, to not judge harshly too soon, but now she was certain.
Both were beautiful, but selfish and vain.
There was nothing obliging or amiable about either of them.
Julia was only interested in agreeing with whatever Darcy had to say, but the subject of her mother’s girlhood days irritated her.
Perhaps she was especially irritated because Darcy seldom spoke.
He followed the conversation and answered when spoken to, but he gave Julia no opening to trap him in a conversation.
The dining room was as heavily ornamented as all the other rooms and passageways, from floor to ceiling.
Its walls were covered with designs illustrative of the Greek romance of Daphnis and Chloe.
At least, that was what Sir John explained when he noticed Elizabeth’s attention drift toward them when the talk at the table wearied her.
“They were two foundlings brought up by shepherds who fall in love,” Sir John explained. “But they were too young and na?ve to understand what they were feeling. They kissed and still did not know what they felt.”
Why did her eyes turn to Darcy at that moment? She now had a firmer sense what she felt for him, and she had never even kissed him. What did his intent gaze mean? She could not be secure it meant he still loved her.
“Do you know the story?” she asked him when she felt Julia’s jealous stare.
Darcy thought for a moment, then said, whilst still looking at her,
“My breath comes in gasps, my heart jumps up and down, my soul melts away—but all the same I want to kiss her again! Oh, what an unlucky victory! Oh, what a strange disease—I do not even know what to call it. Had Chloe drunk poison just before she kissed me? If so, how did she manage not to be killed?”
She felt hot all over. His eyes held a sense of longing that made her heart thrum.
“It is hard to believe anyone could be that foolish,” said Sir John, with a laugh. Darcy started and dropped his gaze. “Even when instructed to lie naked with one another and sleep, Daphnis and Chloe did not know what to do and took the directions literally.”
This was said with a heavy look to her, and Elizabeth hoped Sir John was not offering any such instruction.
“I hope the entire myth does not centre on kissing.” She refused to meet his eye.
“It is quite an erot—romantic book.”
“They have a series of misadventures,” Darcy said, glaring at Sir John. “Kidnapping, pirates, and issues of rank separate them before they can marry.”