Chapter 2
TWO
ELIZABETH BENNET
Elizabeth breathed a little easier when Mr Darcy disappeared behind the newspaper.
Her head was pounding in time with her heart, and she truly did not feel well at all.
She had been on the verge of a proper tempest of weeping when nature had provided its own storm; she had known at once that Mr Darcy would not be able to depart.
Exerting herself to present a rational aspect, she had done what civility dictated she must: provide him with a comfortable place to wait out the downpour, and refreshments to sustain him.
She had spoken to him courteously and prepared his tea as she knew he preferred it.
And all the while, she felt the press of tears behind her eyes, the weight of grief for poor Jane’s broken heart in her own chest.
It was dreadfully unfair, she thought, that she should be called upon to entertain him, of all people, at this moment, of all times.
But having excoriated his manners to his face, she could not now allow hers to falter.
That, above all other considerations, drove her on.
She would think of Jane later, weep for her sister’s lost happiness at some other hour.
First, she must endure this trial of being trapped with the cause of it for as long as the rain lasted.
Very well, she allowed, he was not the entire cause of Jane’s lost hopes.
Miss Bingley no doubt had her own hand in it, and the rest of Elizabeth’s immediate family had played their part, too.
She could not truly blame anyone for hesitating to connect themselves to her mother and two youngest sisters in particular.
And yet, it had been abominably rude of Mr Darcy to fling their misbehaviour in her face, and his disdain for their ‘condition in life’—her father’s income and the size of his estate, to put it plainly—was pure pompousness and conceit.
Mr Bennet and Mr Darcy were both gentlemen, equal in rank if not in wealth.
And where had Mr Darcy’s wealth come from, then?
From himself alone? No, it had been built by generations of his forebears, no doubt.
Should he disdain her father simply because his ancestors had not the skill or luck to accumulate vast lands and great piles of coin, while also scorning her uncle in trade, who had created his own prosperity?
Many would say he was justified in both, but Elizabeth had never thought in such a way and was quite determined that she never should.
No, Mr Darcy was not wholly to blame for Mr Bingley’s defection, but she felt herself justified in questioning whether his sisters alone could have persuaded him to stay away.
Mr Bingley had seemed to have a greater dependence upon his friend’s judgment than upon theirs.
When added to Mr Darcy’s flagrantly disdainful behaviour to all the neighbourhood—and to herself in particular—throughout his stay in Hertfordshire, and to his denial of the bequest his father had left to Mr Wickham, she could not feel the slightest sympathy for his disappointed hopes.
She would not. He deserved no such delicacy of understanding from her.
How he had come to propose to her, she could not at all understand.
They had never even been friendly; rather, they were acquaintances who either quarrelled or said little to each other.
He did not even think her pretty! Although, it did seem that he must have changed his mind on that point.
What man would offer his hand to a lady who brought him nothing he valued, unless compelled by attraction?
Still, it was very strange. She did not suppose she would ever comprehend this day’s events.
She sipped her tea, hoping the warmth and sweetness would chase her headache away.
Though she tried to cast her thoughts towards other subjects, they would return to the earlier scene in this very room, to the harsh words spoken on both sides, to all the grievances and unanswered questions of their acquaintance.
They danced about her mind in time with the throbbing of her head.
A crinkle of paper drew her eyes to him; he had bent the corner of his newspaper and was frowning at her through the opened space. Only then did she realise she was rubbing her temples.
He folded the paper with quick, sharp movements, saying, “I had entirely forgotten that you declined tea at Rosings due to a megrim.” He then stood and went to the bell, pulling it and waiting by the door until Sally, Charlotte’s maid, arrived.
He requested that she fetch a cup of camomile tea, with a bit of cinchona bark if such were on hand, for Miss Bennet with all haste.
Sally’s gaze darted to Elizabeth and whatever she saw seemed to alarm her, for she bobbed the merest hint of a curtsey and scurried off.
“Thank you, sir,” she said as he sat himself down once again. For once, she could not be more than slightly irritated at his officiousness, for she was desperately in need of some relief from the pounding sensation in her head, and she knew the camomile, at least, was likely to offer it.
He nodded but seemed at a loss for any response. After an extended pause, he said only, “My sister has found it efficacious for her headaches. I hope it will help,” and hid behind the paper once more.
Sally returned in a few minutes with a cup of tea and a little bottle of dark glass.
“Cook did have a bit of cinchona, though she said she hadn’t heard of it being used in such a way.
The phial has lavender in strong spirits, Miss.
The apothecary in Hunsford makes it, and it’s a wonder,” she explained in hushed tones.
“Dab a bit on your temples, often as you like.”
“Thank you, Sally, you are very kind.”
“The Missus would’ve wanted me to give it to you,” the maid demurred, then curtseyed and left.
Elizabeth took a sip of the tea, grimacing at the intense bitterness.
That must be the bark Mr Darcy had mentioned.
She stirred a great dollop of honey into the steaming brew and left it to blend for a moment while she availed herself of the other curious remedy.
The scent of lavender and the sharp tang of spirits reached her almost instantly upon uncorking the bottle.
She had often smelled lavender oil when afflicted with a headache and knew it would be of assistance, but the cooling sensation of the spirits on her temples was a pleasant and swiftly efficacious surprise.
The throbbing in her head retreated slightly, and the aroma of lavender somehow served to blunt the still-bitter taste of the tea.
“I hope,” she said, “you do not mind the smell of lavender. It is very strong.”
“Not at all,” he replied gravely, bending his page to peer at her again. “My sister is very fond of it, as was my mother. I find it pleasant, in fact. But even did I not, it would be a small price to pay for your relief. You look a little less ill already.”
“I feel a little less ill already,” she admitted, and they sat in silence again for half an hour, broken only by the drumming of the rain and the occasional turn of a page.