Chapter Thirteen #3
Elizabeth grinned gleefully at her friends.
“I can meet at least half of his criteria at most, and I am sure I should be frightened out of my wits if I ever encountered a lady who could do better! You see, Mr. Darcy, when one is a truly accomplished reader, one has time for little else. You shall see the truth in my words when you stand up with me at the assembly on Thursday.”
Mr. Darcy smiled back at her just as wickedly. “We may yet find ourselves speaking of books in a ballroom; if you tread on my toes, I shall spend the rest of the evening reciting for your edification the most odious poetry imaginable.”
Marianne gaped in horror at Elizabeth, while Mrs. Bevan threw back her head and laughed uproariously.
The subject of the ball occupied them for another quarter hour, and then Marianne was obliged to return to Mrs. Jennings, who wished to host Elizabeth and her uncle for dinner that evening.
Mrs. Bevan requested an introduction to the widow, whom Marianne had described as an amusing and generous but occasionally vulgar matchmaker and first-rate meddler.
The authoress was eager to take the woman’s likeness.
Mr. Darcy expressed a wish to join his sister and cousin at Sanditon House, for their visit must be nearly at an end, and asked if Elizabeth would walk with him before she could offer to accompany her friends in the other direction.
“Certainly, Mr. Darcy. We must be seen promenading together on so fine a day; perhaps Miss de Bourgh will be about town and catch a glimpse of us.”
Elizabeth’s words proved a prophesy, for they had scarcely taken a dozen steps from the tea shop when a shiny red and gold curricle came into view, speeding down the thoroughfare.
Sir Sidney was driving the equipage, reigns in one hand and a flask in the other, while Miss de Bourgh and her companion Miss Lovelace clung to each other on the seat, laughing with unfettered glee.
The curricle was moving so quickly that Mr. Darcy was obliged to wrap an arm around Elizabeth’s waist and pull her toward him as he hastened across the street.
Elizabeth clung to him as she found her footing, and he did not release her from his embrace until she looked back at the curricle, meeting Miss de Bourgh’s gaze.
“At least she had the grace to look mortified!”
Mr. Darcy took a step away from Elizabeth as he watched the curricle fly down the thoroughfare with red-faced fury. “That man is a menace!”
Elizabeth laid a calming hand on his arm. “But once again you have been most gallant in rescuing me. Thank you.”
“Of course. I ought to call him out for endangering you and Anne in such a way! I cannot for the life of me understand what she sees in that drunken coxcomb!”
For her part, Elizabeth could not comprehend what Mr. Darcy saw in Miss de Bourgh.
She took his arm as he led her down the avenue toward Sanditon House, which was situated just beyond the eastern end of the village.
After a moment of silence, she summoned the courage to ask, albeit rather timidly.
“I suppose I ought to be impressed that your affection for her has endured such indignities. Forgive me, but, why?”
Elizabeth feared he would not answer her. He was quiet for a moment, gazing out at the sea as they traversed the open plaza at the end of the row of townhouses. But she had come to understand his expressions a little better, and supposed he must be carefully choosing every word of his response.
“She and I spent little time together before our engagement. It was my aunt’s notion, which I originally resisted, but in the end I agreed to a lengthy engagement—Georgiana and I spent considerable time in Scotland, as you know.
During that period, Anne and I began a correspondence; it was a requirement of mine upon entering into the betrothal.
I felt it would help acquaint me more intimately with my future bride, and so it did.
Though I have seen little of her in the interim, and only in the oppressive presence of our relations, I have come to know and love her through those letters—beyond what I had imagined possible. ”
Elizabeth’s heart began to beat faster. “I know something of the power of love letters.”
Mr. Darcy began to speak, looking very much like he would inquire; to her relief, however, he appeared to reconsider.
Instead, he gave a heavy sigh. “I have doubted, at times, since coming to Sanditon, whether Anne is still that charming and insightful woman. I attribute the alteration to Sir Sidney’s influence, of course—and I suppose she must conceal a great deal in the presence of her mother. ”
A nagging feeling pricked at Elizabeth’s mind.
She recalled Charlotte’s comments when comparing the note Mr. Darcy had penned to the valentine which was, even now, in her pocket.
She reached through the folds of her dress and wrapped her fingers around that treasured talisman.
And then she inwardly laughed, reminding herself that she had just spent an hour with two of the most fanciful women of her acquaintance.
Mr. Darcy was surely not the only gentleman in England capable of writing love letters to an indifferent lady.