Chapter Twenty-One
Mr Darcy woke earlier than usual and found, to his frustration, that his first thought was of Elizabeth Bennet.
This had happened so frequently of late that it could no longer be considered an accident.
At first he had excused it as the natural consequence of proximity.
Lyme was a small place, Mrs Makepeace’s house a smaller one, and Elizabeth had a way of being remembered by rooms long after she had left them.
He could not sit in the front parlour without recalling the tilt of her head when she challenged him.
He could not pass through the hall without being punished by the memory of a bonnet ribbon and his own unforgivable want of sense.
It was no use pretending the matter was slight. He loved her.
He had known her only a few weeks. That fact ought to have restored some proportion to the matter.
It did not. Indeed, it made the whole business more alarming.
Had he known her for years, he might at least have comforted himself with the respectability of duration; instead, he was obliged to acknowledge that a young woman previously unknown to him had entered his life by means of a seaside lodging house, an unfortunate collision of foreheads and several conversations in which she had disagreed with him almost as a matter of principle, and had somehow made herself as necessary to him as breathing.
He rose and attempted to dress with his usual care, but found his attention unequal even to the tying of his cravat.
This was absurd. A man might lose his heart and still retain the ability to arrange linen.
Eventually he achieved an appearance of respectability and sat down to write to his steward.
The letter advanced tolerably for six lines before a sentence concerning a boundary wall somehow became entangled with the memory of Elizabeth’s expression when she had said that persistence was not always attractive.
He read it back twice, discovered no possible way of rescuing it, and abandoned the attempt.
By breakfast he had resolved upon moderation.
This, he thought, was essential. He had been too hurried in his proposal, too certain in his conclusions, too ungoverned in his conduct.
He would not repeat the error. He would speak to Elizabeth calmly.
If she would allow him to begin again, if she would permit him the smallest chance of improving his cause, he would be patient.
The resolution was admirable and lasted until he reached the hall.
Mrs Makepeace’s house, ordinarily ruled with a sense of rigid order, had been overtaken by the unmistakable disorder of departure.
Trunks stood against the wall. Bandboxes occupied chairs.
A travelling cloak lay folded across the banister.
A maid hurried past with a bonnet box in each hand and a look of intense concentration.
Mrs Makepeace herself stood at the centre of it all, directing the movement of luggage with the calmness and confidence of a general.
If Napoleon had ever thought to employ her, the French might have taken Europe in half the time and with far better-packed linen.
Darcy stopped upon the last stair. For a moment he stood looking at the trunks without understanding them.
The sight ought to have been plain enough, but his mind resisted it.
Only the previous evening Elizabeth had been laughing in the drawing room.
Nothing had seemed altered. Lyme itself had acquired an odd feeling of permanence in his imagination, as though a place that had changed his life so completely might be exempt from ordinary endings.
The illusion lasted no more than a moment.
Mr Bennet's face rose immediately before him.
Darcy thought of the older gentleman's watchful composure and of the curious way every private conversation had become impossible since his arrival.
The departure suddenly made perfect sense.
Mr Bennet had reached a conclusion and acted upon it. The matter was already decided.
Mrs Makepeace saw him and paused with a folded travelling rug in her hands. "Good morning, Mr Darcy. You had better go into breakfast."
"Why?"
"Because Mr Bingley is in there looking as though someone has informed him that Christmas has been abolished. He has heard the news."
"The news?"
She looked at him for a moment. "Ah."
It was a small syllable, but Darcy disliked it immediately.
"The Bennets are leaving this morning."
He heard the words quite clearly. It was their meaning that seemed to arrive slowly. "This morning?"
"Yes. Mr Bennet gave the order last night. She wished to start early, which is sensible. Nothing good ever comes from travelling after noon. By that point people have generally spent the morning delaying their departure and the evening regretting it."
Darcy said nothing.
Mrs Makepeace’s expression softened. An expression that did not fall naturally on her face. "I thought you knew."
"No."
"I see. Then nobody thought to tell you." She folded the rug with unnecessary precision. "Mr Makepeace, God rest him, always maintained that unpleasant news grows no smaller for being hidden under a napkin. People persist in trying the experiment."
Darcy had no answer. The news had not yet arranged itself into anything he could sensibly respond to. He inclined his head and continued into the breakfast room, carrying with him the uncomfortable conviction that the world had altered while he was asleep.
Bingley was there already, staring into his coffee blankly. "They are leaving," he said as soon as Darcy entered.
"Yes."
"This morning."
"So I am told."
"But Miss Bennet said nothing of it yesterday.
" Bingley looked up with sudden anxiety.
"Do you think she knew? No, she cannot have known.
She would have said something. At least I think she would.
She would not simply go without—" He stopped, evidently finding the sentence impossible to finish. "Darcy, I do not care for this at all."
Nor did Darcy. But Bingley’s distress, open and unguarded as it was, had the effect of forcing his own into some semblance of order.
"Have you seen her?"
"Jane? No. Mrs Makepeace told me ten minutes ago, and I have been sitting here ever since attempting to decide whether I ought to find her, write to her, appeal to Mr Bennet, order my horse, or do all four at once. I have made no progress."
"You will make less if you attempt all four."
"I know it. That is why I am sitting down."
Darcy might have smiled on another morning. Before he could answer, Georgiana entered. She had plainly heard the news; her face was pale and her eyes went at once to him with an appeal she was too gentle to make aloud.
"It is true?" she asked.
"Yes."
"They are going home?"
"This morning."
Georgiana sat down slowly, her hands clasping in her lap. "Mrs Bennet did not say so last night."
"I believe it was decided late."
She looked towards the window, and Darcy saw at once where her thoughts had gone.
Mrs Bennet had become, in the quietest and most improbable fashion, important to her.
Elizabeth had begun to become a friend. Lyme had given Georgiana not merely sea air but female friendship, and now both were to be removed before she had really begun.
"I am sorry," he said.
Georgiana looked back at him. "Have you spoken to Miss Elizabeth?"
"No."
"Then you should."
There was a simplicity in her advice which made it almost unbearable. He had spent years protecting Georgiana from the world; now she sat before him and told him, with more courage than he had lately shown, to do the one thing he most wished and most feared to do.
"I intend to," he said.
The difficulty was not in the intention but in the accomplishment.
The house seemed to have arranged itself for the sole purpose of preventing him.
Miss Bennet was found first, but only because Bingley nearly collided with her in the passage.
Darcy had meant to pass on, but the expression on Bingley’s face held him there for a moment.
Miss Bennet was very composed, which made the emotion beneath more evident rather than less.
She thanked Bingley for his kindness in Lyme, spoke warmly of Georgiana, hoped they would meet again, and looked down before the last word had quite escaped her.
Bingley gazed at her with an expression which would have left nobody in doubt of his feelings except, perhaps, Jane Bennet herself.
Darcy left them to it. Their misery was too private to witness and too close to his own to bear.
He found Mr Bennet in the hall, examining the fastening upon a trunk. "Mr Bennet."
"Mr Darcy."
"I understand you are leaving us."
"So it seems."
"I hope nothing has occurred to hasten your departure."
Mr Bennet looked up. His expression was mild, but Darcy had begun to understand that Mr Bennet’s mildness was often less a mood than a weapon.
"We have been absent from home some time. Even the best sea air must eventually yield to the claims of ordinary life."
"Of course."
A silence followed. Darcy knew that Mr Bennet understood exactly what he wished to ask and was determined not to assist him.
"I had hoped to speak with Miss Elizabeth before she left."
"Had you?"
"Yes."
"My daughter is occupied at present."
"I would not detain her long."
"No," said Mr Bennet. "I am sure you would not intend to."
There was nothing in the words which could be answered without making matters worse. Darcy felt the rebuke because some part of it was deserved. He bowed and stepped back. Mr Bennet returned to the trunk.
Darcy saw Elizabeth at last upon the stairs.
She held her gloves in one hand and her bonnet in the other, and was speaking over her shoulder to a maid.
There was nothing extraordinary in the sight.
She was merely descending a staircase. Yet the whole hall seemed to alter around her.
He had thought the same thing before and despised himself for it as fanciful; now he had no energy left for self-contempt.
She saw him and her step faltered.
"Miss Elizabeth."
"Mr Darcy."
A moment later Miss Bennet emerged from the passage, cast them a look of anxious sympathy and went into the parlour.
Mr Bennet was within sight at the door. Mrs Makepeace was within hearing.
Servants moved around them with boxes, cloaks and all the relentless apparatus of departure.
And yet, for a moment, Darcy felt as though the house had given them a small and dangerous mercy.
"I did not know you were leaving," he said.
"No. Nor did I, until last night."
"Is it your wish?"
Elizabeth’s gaze moved briefly towards the open door where her father stood speaking to the driver. "It is my family’s decision."
"That is not what I asked."
"No," she said, looking back at him. "I suppose it is not."
Around them, the house continued its motion.
Mrs Bennet called gently for her eldest daughter.
Bingley’s voice rose somewhere in an attempted cheerfulness which fooled no one.
Mrs Makepeace informed a maid that a travelling rug folded in that manner might as well be thrown into the sea for all the use it would be. Darcy heard none of it clearly.
"I have no right to ask you to stay," he said.
"No."
"I have no right to ask anything of you."
"That has not always prevented you."
The words were severe enough to be deserved, but there was no cruelty in them. There was sadness, a little humour and enough softness to wound him.
"No," he said. "It has not. I am trying to learn better."
Her expression changed, and he saw, with a misery sharpened by hope, that she was not indifferent. The moment closed quickly. Elizabeth drew on one glove and then the other, though her fingers were not quite steady.
"Goodbye, Mr Darcy."
He bowed. "Goodbye, Miss Elizabeth."
It was perfectly correct and he hated every part of it. Something inside him screamed to say more, to do more. Instead, he bowed politely and stepped back.
The next quarter of an hour was conducted under the tyranny of good manners.
Mrs Bennet embraced Georgiana with genuine affection and promised to write, while Georgiana held to her a little longer than strict composure allowed.
Jane and Bingley took leave of one another with such painful restraint that even Mrs Makepeace, who was not inclined to sentimental indulgence, dabbed at her eyes.
Mr Bennet shook hands with everyone in turn.
He was civil to Darcy, very civil, so civil that Darcy wanted to scream.
Mrs Bennet laughed, kissed Georgiana once more and allowed Mr Bennet to hand her into the carriage. Jane followed, pale and smiling. Elizabeth came last.
She did not look at Darcy as she crossed the pavement. Then, just before she stepped up, she did.
It lasted only a moment. It contained no promise but there was so much feeling in her expression, so much depth to her gaze, that a seed of hope took root in his heart, despite the fact that she was moving away from him.
Darcy remained upon the step as it rolled away from the house, past the narrow line of shops, towards the turn that would take it from sight.
He had been trained all his life in composure.
He had stood before tenants, lawyers, creditors, relatives, magistrates and Lady Catherine de Bourgh without betraying more than he chose.
Yet no education in self-command had prepared him to stand politely in a Dorset street while Elizabeth Bennet was carried away under her father’s protection and he did nothing.
The carriage turned the corner and the sound of the wheels faded. Bingley sighed and scuffed at the pavement with his boot.
As the carriage disappeared beyond the rise of the road, Darcy became uncomfortably aware that he had spent much of the last fortnight assuming there would always be another opportunity.
Another walk. Another conversation. Another day in which to explain himself better than he had managed the day before.
The assumption had appeared reasonable while tomorrow remained available.
Now tomorrow was travelling steadily towards Hertfordshire under the supervision of Mr Bennet.
The thought produced a sensation so unlike anything he had previously experienced that it took him several moments to recognise it.
Panic.
Before he had fully decided what he intended to do, he found himself moving.
The first few steps carried him only to the edge of the pavement.
The next took him into the road itself. Had anyone asked where he was going, Darcy would have struggled to provide a satisfactory answer.
He was dimly aware that pursuing a departing carriage on foot was not the action of a sensible man.
He was also aware that, sensible or not, he could not quite bring himself to stop.
Somewhere behind him Bingley called his name. Darcy ignored him and increased his pace.