Chapter 2
Darcy
Her hand was bare.
I had crossed Hertfordshire in the opposite direction, jolted by the ruts of the Meryton road, and this single thought had consumed me since Longbourn.
Her hand was bare. When I handed her Georgiana’s book, my fingers met bare skin instead of the kid leather I expected, and the shock was so sudden I forgot to breathe.
Three seconds. I had lingered three seconds before withdrawing my hand.
A gentleman would have pulled back immediately.
A gentleman would not have carried the texture of that skin on his fingertips for three miles of road.
A gentleman would not, at this very moment, have the memory of that warmth branded into his palm like a burn.
I was no gentleman. I had the appearance of one—the name, the fortune, the manners. But beneath the cravat and the dark blue coat, beneath the impenetrable courtesy and measured phrases, I was merely a man whose fiancée had touched his bare hand, and I was losing my mind over it.
Five weeks.
The carriage stopped before Netherfield.
I stepped down, handed my coat to the valet, crossed the vestibule.
Bingley was waiting in the drawing room, a glass of port in hand and a smile on his face.
Bingley always smiled. For a long time, this had irritated me; since Jane Bennet, I had come to see it as a form of courage.
“Well? How is the family? How is Jane? Did she ask after me? Did you tell her I would come tomorrow?”
Four questions in five seconds. I sat, accepted the glass, took a sip. The port was excellent. Nothing at all like the tea at Longbourn.
“The family is well. Miss Bennet expects you tomorrow. Mrs. Bennet spoke of lace for the better part of my visit.”
Bingley laughed. That easy, open laugh that held nothing back. It had taken me months to understand that this ease was not superficiality. Bingley loved Jane as naturally as he breathed. Without effort. Without struggle. Happiness suited him like a well-cut coat.
I envied him. Or rather, I had envied him. Since Elizabeth had said yes, I had realized with some embarrassment that I too had become an insufferably happy man—I simply wore it less well than he did.
I had always worn my feelings poorly. Even as a child, my father reproached me for a face that said nothing; he saw coldness in it, when I simply did not know how else to be.
At twenty, I had stopped trying. At twenty-eight, I was called haughty in three counties, and I had made my peace with it—it spared me conversations.
Then I had met a young woman from Hertfordshire who told me to my face what others whispered behind my back, and I realized that what I wore as armor appeared, to the rest of the world, as contempt.
I had not changed my face since. I would not know how to. But when she was in the room, something eased in my shoulders, and Bingley, who had known me for ten years, had remarked on it twice.
No. It was more precise than envy. I envied the simplicity.
For Bingley, loving Jane was the most natural thing in the world.
For me, loving Elizabeth Bennet was a constant fire that had to be contained behind a marble face, week after week, in a drawing room too small, where her mother spoke of ribbons and where I could not even look at her too long without risking exposure.
“You seem preoccupied, Darcy.”
“Not at all.”
“You’re gripping your glass as if you mean to crush it.”
I loosened my fingers. Bingley studied me with that benevolent curiosity that made it impossible to resent him.
“Five weeks,” he said softly, as if reading my mind. “It passes quickly.”
No. Five weeks did not pass quickly. Five weeks, when you had felt Elizabeth Bennet’s skin beneath your fingers and had to wait thirty-five days before you had the right to touch her again, was a century.
I said nothing of this. I took a sip and changed the subject.
?
The next visit came three days later, Bingley at my side this time, and the drawing room at Longbourn filled with that joyful chaos that seemed its natural state.
Mrs. Bennet beamed. Kitty giggled. Mary quoted Ecclesiastes.
Jane and Bingley occupied the sofa with a conjugal serenity that preceded the marriage by several weeks.
And Elizabeth, near the fireplace, looked at me over her cup with that half-smile that made my knees go weak.
That smile. Not the one she offered her mother or her sisters.
That one was reserved for me. A smile of complicity, of shared understanding, that said: I know you are suffering, I know this drawing room stifles you, and I know you stay anyway.
There was tenderness in it, mischief, and something deeper I could not name.
Mr. Bennet appeared at the door of his library. A rare event. He surveyed the drawing room with a glance, seemed to assess the chaos, and his gaze settled on me.
“Mr. Darcy. Would you have a moment? I have a volume in my library I should like to discuss with you.”
A volume. I doubted it, but I rose and followed him. Elizabeth cast me a glance that held an amused warning.
Good luck, her eyes said.
I almost smiled.
Mr. Bennet's library was small, cluttered with books stacked in no apparent order, sheets covered in cramped handwriting, and volumes left open where he had interrupted his reading.
The room smelled of old paper, wax, and cold tobacco.
I understood why Elizabeth sought refuge here.
It was the only place in Longbourn where the tumult of the house seemed to stop at the threshold.
Her father closed the door, returned slowly to his desk, and gestured to the chair facing him.
“Sit down, Mr. Darcy.”
I complied. He did not speak immediately. Beneath his apparent nonchalance, Mr. Bennet observed more than he let on.
“My daughter assures me that she loves you,” he declared at last.
The frankness of this opening took me by surprise.
“I can assure you that the feeling is mutual, sir.”
“I do not doubt it. You hardly seem the sort of man who would cross Hertfordshire several times a week for the sole pleasure of listening to Mrs. Bennet talk about lace.”
A hint of amusement flickered in his eyes, but his expression remained grave.
“It is not your affection that concerns me, however.”
I straightened slightly.
“What is it, then?”
He folded his hands before him.
“Lizzy has an unfortunate tendency to bend before no one. It is one of her best qualities, though it can be exhausting for those around her.”
I could not suppress a slight twitch of my lips.
“I have noticed.”
“I imagine you have. She also has a quick mind, a great deal of pride, and excessive confidence in her own judgment. On that last point, you should understand each other.”
The irony was there, familiar, but it failed to conceal the concern beneath.
“She will not be easy to govern,” he continued.
“I have no intention of governing her.”
The response escaped me before I could measure it. Mr. Bennet inclined his head slightly.
“That is well said. But it is always simpler to respect a woman's independence before she becomes your wife, before she lives under your roof and bears your name.”
His words struck closer to home than I would have wished. I thought of Pemberley, of its immutable order, of its servants, of everything in my life that had obeyed my will for years.
“I do not wish her to become another woman,” I replied. “That would be to lose precisely the one I have chosen.”
He remained silent for a moment.
“She will nevertheless have much to learn.”
“No doubt. And I as well.”
This time, his gaze changed. The amusement faded entirely.
“Of all my daughters, Lizzy is the one I will have the most difficulty letting go. Jane will be happy wherever Bingley is. Lizzy can only be happy if she remains herself.”
“I know.”
“No,” he said calmly. “You hope so. The knowing will come after several years of marriage, when you have seen her angry, unjust, hurt, or too proud to admit she was wrong. When her mind, which charms you today, turns against you.
When her opinions disrupt your habits and her presence changes the order of your house.”
He paused.
“It is then that you will know whether you truly love Elizabeth, or only the woman she is when she looks at you with tenderness.”
I found no immediate reply. These words did not constitute an accusation. They were all the more difficult to dismiss for that.
“I cannot promise never to upset her,” I said at last. “That would be a lie, and your daughter would not forgive me for it. Nor can I assure you that we will never hurt each other. We are both too proud for that.”
A gleam of approval flickered in his eyes.
“At least you do not promise me the impossible.”
“I can only promise you that I will listen to her. That I will never seek to diminish her mind to preserve my comfort. And that, if she must one day regret something, it will not be having been herself with me.”
Mr. Bennet regarded me at length. His fingers relaxed on the edge of the desk.
“That is a more reasonable answer than the one I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“A grand declaration about your eternal devotion. Young men in love are fond of them. They generally forget them before the end of the first year.”
I could not help but smile.
“Your opinion of marriage is hardly encouraging.”
“My experience hasn't always provided the best arguments in its favor.”
The humor had returned, drier now, shot through with a weariness I suddenly understood better. Mr. Bennet was not indifferent. He had simply grown accustomed to hiding behind irony all that he no longer knew how to mend.
“Do not make me regret letting her choose,” he added.
His voice hadn't changed, but all lightness had vanished from it.
“I will do everything in my power never to give you the slightest reason to.”
He nodded slowly.
“Good. Since we've completed the painful part of this interview, we may now discuss the book I used as my pretext. Are you familiar with Montaigne's Essays?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Excellent. Perhaps you can explain why Lizzy claims I quote them whenever I wish to avoid a serious conversation.”
“It is possible she is right.”
Mr. Bennet raised his eyebrows.
“You are already quite bold, Darcy.”