Chapter 6
Six
That evening, Charles Bingley narrowed his eyes as he looked at his good friend. “You know how much I value all that you have taught me about estate management. I have thanked you at every turn, have I not?”
Darcy nodded. “Certainly. And yet…you look at me as if you are upset with me?”
“Well, Darce, I have no right to be upset. But you told me that I should be patient, I should make very sure of my feelings for Jane—um, that is, for Miss Bennet—before I declare myself or propose. And you went on to point out that, even though you have waited years for Miss Elizabeth to be old enough for your proposal, you were determined to give her plenty of time to get to know you, did you not?”
“I did.”
“But the very next day you proposed!”
“In one sense, that is true, but—”
Bingley interrupted, “But you do not mind hypocrisy, as long as Saint Darcy is the one being hypocritical?”
“I hope that I am not hypocritical. However, perhaps you can share your judgement of me after you listen to what I was attempting to explain.”
Waving his hand, Bingley said, “Of course; forgive me. Please explain.”
“Miss Elizabeth and I were discussing news from an acquaintance we share; she had received a letter that day from the woman. I could see signs that Miss Elizabeth had cried, and I remarked with sympathy about her emotions, and she burst out with two questions: Was I attempting to court her, and were my intentions honourable.”
“She asked you?”
Darcy chuckled a bit and replied, “Those two questions are not the established form of a marriage proposal, but she apparently did not need more time to know her heart. I assured her that I did see myself as a suitor and did have honourable intentions, and then she seemed to expect me to propose. It seemed quite imperative.”
Bingley felt ashamed to have judged his friend harshly.
“My apologies, again. I suppose I just feel impatient to make Miss Bennet mine.”
“I understand. Now that I can kiss Elizabeth…I feel a hundred times more impatient myself!”
Hearing the word “kiss” coming out of Darcy’s mouth was far too much for Bingley to bear. He grimly considered that it had only been a fortnight since he met his beloved Jane—and it seemed quite impossible for him to be able to wait another fortnight for his own kiss!
Elizabeth laid in bed, although the sun was up.
She had gotten precious little sleep the night before, as the twisted sheets and blankets could attest. She had thought that being so happily engaged to marry would have afforded her the peace to sleep deeply and solidly, but instead she had been tortured by the memories of Mr Darcy’s kiss….
In fact, Elizabeth found herself worrying about that kiss.
It had been wonderful. Incredibly wonderful—but it was also masterful.
And she worried about that. Mr Darcy—he had asked her to call him Fitzwilliam, but it was hard to make the switch, even in her mind—he had told her that he had never felt the way he felt about her with any other lady.
But, then, how did he know so well how to kiss?
Of course, Mr Darcy was seven years older than her. And a man. But, still, if he had never loved anyone else….
Over the course of the next several days, Elizabeth tried to call on the courage she supposedly had to ask Mr Darcy how he had learnt to kiss so well, but there were two interruptions in the form of Jane and Mr Bingley attempting to chaperone as they felt they must, and the third time she meant to ask, Mr Darcy suddenly realised that nobody was nearby, and he took advantage of the rare solitude to kiss her again.
That was only their second kiss, but it was even better than their first. (She was no longer counting her chaste peck as a kiss.)
It seemed ridiculous to waste their rare private time with a likely upsetting discussion when they could instead enjoy another, much more pleasant activity.
But then there were hours during which she tossed and turned in her bed, alone with the question she had not asked.
One morning when Elizabeth woke up at dawn, as usual, she forced herself to act so that she would not have to endure another restless night.
She quietly pulled out her writing materials and carried them to the table by the window to ensure she had enough light. Then she penned a very short note:
“You told me that you have never felt as you do with me, with anyone else—but I have been so worried because I wonder, how do you know how to kiss?”
She did not bother with sand, given the brevity of the note.
She just waited a bit and then waved it in the air.
When the ink was dry, she folded the note into a very small packet and sealed it.
After getting dressed for the day, she put the note into her glove, the gloves into a bonnet, and she carried the bonnet down to the entry hall.
Theoretically, a betrothed couple could write to one another, but she felt that this particular note, at least, should be handed off more discreetly.
When the two gentlemen from Netherfield visited and inevitably suggested a walk, Elizabeth waited to pull on her gloves as they were exiting.
Jane looked pointedly at her gloves, because she was all about what was proper, and going outside necessitated gloves, but Elizabeth managed to extract the note and press it into the gloved hand of her intended while Jane’s back was turned—and then hurried to put on her gloves.
Mr Darcy looked surprised but almost immediately recovered his usual expression as he offered his arm.
As they began to walk, he set a brisker pace than usual, and when they were far enough away from Jane and Mr Bingley, he asked, “Is there somewhere we might be able to be certain of escaping all eyes?”
Elizabeth had never shown him the path to Oakham Mount, before, because she had never
wished to excite the censure of evading all chaperones.
Mr Darcy, too, had shown some concern about propriety.
But now, to take a chance that he might be able to end her torment, she would gladly risk a scolding.
She led him to the trail, then upwards to the top of the hill.
From that position, Mr Darcy spotted Jane and Mr Bingley walking through the garden and about to enter the orchard.
“Why a written note?” he asked, taking it from his pocket. He looked at her, a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth.
“Because I do not wish to ask this, but then I can hardly sleep for wondering. And when I am with you, you are so distracting….”
“I am distracting?”
He grinned and reached for her, but she stepped away from him and then hastened to the log that had become smooth and polished from the hundreds of times she had sat there over the years.
“I cannot watch you as you read my note,” she explained. “But please hurry and do so, and then, pray be honest in your reply.”
Of course, the note was very short, and only a moment later Mr Darcy seated himself beside her on the log.
She looked over at him, worried about what she would see; he looked entirely serious and quite concerned.
She kept her eyes locked onto his as he began to respond to her question.
“I do not pretend to know what maidens know of such things—and I do not even know if the typical rite of passage for men is something that is specific to the supposedly highest circles, or if it is common amongst all classes—so forgive me if I err in speaking too plainly, or if my assumptions about ‘typical’ and ‘usual’ are incorrect.”
“I urge you to concern yourself with honesty, not decorum; nor protection of maidenly innocence.”
“I will. From my understanding, when young gently-raised men turn eighteen, it is typical for his father or an uncle to take him to a seraglio.”
He looked at Elizabeth. Not knowing what the Italian word meant, she shook her head a bit.
“Umm…a Discreet House. A…a high-class brothel.”
Oh! She nodded to show that she finally knew what he meant.
“My father disliked bawdy behaviour and many of the common attitudes and actions of men. He specifically told me, when I was eighteen, that he had never sought the company of a courtesan or mistress—not just when my mother was alive, but even before he was married and after she died. But, he told me, it took him a while to learn how to please his wife. So he saw some reason to initiate a young man in amorous congress.”
He asked, “Do you understand what I am saying, so far?”
“Yes.” Elizabeth felt quite blank. She realised that she had wrapped her arms around herself as if she was in need of comfort, and she deliberately lowered them and placed her hands carefully into her lap.
“My father could not stand the idea of taking me to a seraglio himself, but he allowed my uncle to take me. My uncle’s attitudes about women and marriage, I gathered then and have no doubt now, are completely opposite to those my father espoused and lived by.
I felt quite ashamed to be entering the brothel—although it looked like just any other beautiful mansion, inside and out—but I had accepted my father’s proposition that I learn from the experience and then not engage in those activities until I found the woman I wished to marry. ”
“You learnt to kiss from a courtesan?”
“I learnt all that I know about such things from a single courtesan on a single night, when I was just a few days older than my eighteenth birthday.”
“And you never…?”
“I did nothing of the sort before or after that night, until the day we became engaged and you allowed me to kiss you.” He paused, but Elizabeth did not respond, and he finally asked, “Are you upset that I have some experience?”
Elizabeth said, “I do not think so. Right here, right now, I do not feel upset. Although perhaps I should. I imagine if I reported that I had had such an experience a few days after I turned eighteen, you might be quite upset.”