Chapter 2
TWO
Before breakfast the next morning, Darcy went into the gardens.
The sky was clear, and the air was cool and refreshing.
After a largely sleepless night, he hoped it would revive him.
He had spoken to Georgiana for a few minutes, long enough to ensure she was well, did not wish to join him, and that she liked Elizabeth.
“I knew she would,” he whispered to himself as he strode towards the walled garden he recalled finding pleasant during previous visits.
The gate was ajar, and he pulled it closed, dislodging the rock that had prevented it from doing so, separating himself from the world in which Elizabeth and his pain existed.
It being early May, the garden was a feast for his senses.
Many of the plants were still small, but the air smelt fresh and clean and lightly floral; colours abounded—from the various greens of the leaves, to the browns and greys of tree trunks, to say nothing of the whites, pinks, yellows, and purple of flowers.
He stood still for several seconds, breathing deeply, and listening to the gentle hum of insects and birds, before walking along the winding path that would take him through the garden, certain it would bring him the calmness he craved and the strength to spend the day with Elizabeth without making a fool of himself.
Then, there she was. He had not taken more than a dozen steps when, to his shock, he found her standing before him.
Her lips parted as though she was going to speak, but she did not; neither did she look directly at him.
What should he say? Could he simply nod and continue walking, pretend she was not there, the sight of her stabbing into his heart and robbing him of the brief ease he had just begun to feel?
Fortunately, she had more presence of mind. She made a shallow curtsey and stepped around him to the gate. He heard her gasp in dismay, and turned to her just as her fingers curled around the metal handle and tugged on it to no avail.
“You closed it?” she said accusingly, still pulling at the door.
Evidently, she was having trouble opening the latch. He approached, and she watched, her expression challenging, as he tried and was likewise unsuccessful.
“No one warned you not to close it?” she demanded. “Did you not see the rock I placed to keep it from closing?”
He shook his head, which made her roll her eyes, which was rather rude. Then again, he had yet to say a word, which he supposed was not particularly courteous. Thus, he said, “I did not speak to anyone.”
She let out an exasperated breath and peered through the window of the metal door. “And now I do not see anyone! Oh…blast it!” Turning to him, she said, “The gardener told me the mechanism is rusted or-or something like that.”
“And would not easily open again,” he said, indicating he understood the problem. He closed his eyes and sighed. Being trapped with her was the last thing he needed; no doubt, she had just as little wish to be here with him.
They each looked through the window, but no workers were in sight, and his calls for assistance went unanswered.
“I am afraid we shall have to wait until someone notices the door is closed,” he said. He examined Elizabeth’s profile. She was several yards away from him, and sunlight glinted off her hair, making it shine.
“I told the housekeeper where I was going,” she said. “If I—we—are not at breakfast, she will remember.”
He nodded, although it was unlikely she saw.
He ought to do or say something to make this easier for her, but since seeing her in Lord Halsley’s drawing room yesterday, all he could do in her presence was notice how enchanting she was, which left him forlorn and silent.
To be sure, he had never been especially talkative in her presence, but currently, it seemed impossible.
It is because I more fully appreciate what I have lost. Being rejected by her, having to admit to the flaws in my character she so rightly exposed to me, has only emphasised how much I need her. How much I want her.
She glanced at him, and, if her scowl was any indication, was exasperated by his silence.
After a moment of pacing, she said, “How can your family be so amiable and find so much to admire in you—Colonel Fitzwilliam, your sister, and Lord Halsley all do. Even Lady Catherine and Miss de Bourgh.” She gestured as though dismissing the last words, and added, “That sounded terrible.” He wondered if she wished she could begin again, find a better way to say what she meant.
He had often wanted to have a second chance to tell her what he was thinking without sounding arrogant and stupid.
She had spoken quietly, almost mumbling, and he did not think he was supposed to hear. But he had, and stammered, “I-I…”
After observing him for a moment, she shrugged, suggesting she had decided that she might as well continue the conversation.
Her tone reflected confusion and frustration more than anything else—unless he entirely mistook her, which was always possible.
“They all like you so much, praise you for being such a wonderful gentleman, yet all you showed me and the people of Meryton was contempt.”
Naturally, he had no notion what to say, but, still stammering, repeated, “I-I…”
“Why were you so horrid to me in Hertfordshire, staring at me constantly, criticising and insulting me, and having that ridiculous discussion about accomplished women at Netherfield? If you saw anything, even one tiny thing, to admire in me—as your sister suggested you did just last night!—why not give some indication of it? Do you understand that it might have helped? I might not have been so-so stunned when you proposed? I thought you hated me, disdained me—you do disdain my family, and that alone means I could never marry you, even if my feelings?—”
Even if your feelings did not revolt at the thought of being my wife.
“I looked because I admire, and I thought you were clever enough to understand I was attempting to tell Miss Bingley she was being ridiculous, that despite her conceit, I would not consider her an accomplished lady.” He heard a soft gasp, and was surprised that she looked so shocked by this revelation, with her mouth agape and brow furrowed.
“Yes, I behaved poorly at the assembly, I admit it, and I apologise for it.” Because he was agitated by her unexpected attack, his tone did not match his words, but he was sincere.
“I would have been glad to dance with you at Lucas Lodge,” he added, referring to Sir William encouraging them to join several other couples in an impromptu dance.
Elizabeth’s brow arched, and she scoffed. “Glad?”
He preferred her shock to her mockery. His hand swept through the air.
“Very well, not glad. But only because I truly do not like dancing, not because I would have disliked partnering with you. And I did ask you at Bingley’s ball.
” Given how she had challenged him about Wickham at that occasion, he should have known she did not view him with favour.
Yet, he was—had been—so certain that no woman would dare to refuse him, that he had never considered whether she liked him.
Seemingly frustrated, she shook her head and remained silent.
A bubble of suppressed vexation he had not realised remained inside of him burst, and he said, “What of Wickham? You believed him without a moment’s hesitation, did you not?
Why? Because he is handsome and flirted with you?
It never occurred to you that he might be lying, did it?
With everything that waste of a man has done to me and my sister, how do you think that makes me feel?
To say nothing of having been foolish enough to fall in love—” He had not meant to say that and, his face aflame, abruptly turned his back to her, mortification flooding him.
There was a long moment when the only sound he heard was the rapid beating of his heart and rush of blood in his head. Then he heard her voice, which had become gentle, and he eased, albeit slightly.
“I did, and I am very sorry for it. I was far too willing to listen to him. To be honest, and I have spent hours contemplating it since…since Kent. Part of the reason I believed him was because his tale sounded so believable.”
His back still to her, he said, “Because of my behaviour.”
Although it was not a question, she said, “Yes. But it is also true that he flattered my vanity. Perhaps I was more susceptible to it because I had felt slighted by you, but I do not know, and even if it is true, the fault was mine. Had a dozen men slighted me, I still should not have been willing to listen to, let alone give credit to, what he said of you. And…”
He turned just enough to see her from the corner of his eye, and silently encouraged her to continue.
“And I am sorry for the way I spoke to you. At the parsonage. I was needlessly harsh.”
He shook his head. “I deserved it. You cannot know how much I wish I could—” He averted his gaze and scratched the back of his neck, a finger digging into the skin beneath his cravat.
There was another brief silence broken only by the sound of her footsteps on the gravel. She stopped in front of him, and he forced himself to look at her.
She said, “That we could pretend it never happened?”
He shrugged. It was not exactly what he meant, but it was close enough, and he did not think he could explain it.
“I do not,” she said, which caused him to startle. “To be sure, I prefer to think of the past as it gives me pleasure, and nothing about that day does.”
She exhaled sharply before going on. “I suppose what I want to say is that I feel I learnt something important about myself because of it and your letter. As uncomfortable as the memory makes me, I believe I shall be a better person because of it, one not so quick to judge others.” She gave an awkward laugh.
“I did not think we would be having such a conversation. Ever, let alone when I saw that we were trapped in here this morning.”
Darcy was rocked by a wave of love for her, any animosity he still held towards her vanishing instantly.
He nodded and, his voice rough, said, “That is an admirable way to view what might otherwise only cause discomfort.” And regret.
“I shall try to do the same.” He grimaced and, feeling contrite, continued.
“As to why or how my family manages to like me, who am I to say?” Accepting how far he had strayed from the direction he should have been following, he would try to show her the man he truly was, or that he wanted to be.
He had been kind and generous with those he loved—even those he felt a duty to, such as his tenants—but he had not always treated those he did not with courtesy, as though there was not enough room to allow others entry into his thoughts, let alone his heart.
Clearly that was not true, given he had fallen in love with Elizabeth.
Standing here, so close to her, after their difficult but necessary exchange, he realised he was not yet finished falling in love with her.
If she returned his feelings, if they were together as husband and wife, sharing their lives, he doubted he would ever stop falling in love with her.
The murmur of voices from beyond the walls alerted them that someone was nearby.
Both of them rushed towards the door and called for help.
As they were released from the garden, he whispered to Elizabeth, “I wrote to Bingley. Last week. About…what you told me.” He had not intended to tell her, and he had no desire to speak of it further, but it felt right that she should know he had confessed his errors to his friend.
For the remainder of the day, Elizabeth felt odd.
She could not describe the sensation—partly enervated, partly overly energetic, but mostly as though she were standing in the path of a storm, exposed and helpless to its awesome force.
There was nothing she could do but try to suppress it, and most of all, hide her agitation and hope it would soon dissipate.
Over and over, she reviewed her exchange with Mr Darcy in the garden.
The interlude could not have lasted long—surely no more than ten minutes—but it had such a weight to it!
From his admission that he had stared at her because he admired her, to his final whispered words that he had written to Mr Bingley.
She wanted to ask him precisely what he had told his friend, but even if the opportunity arose, she did not believe she would.
Did she really need to, when her heart gave her the answer?
Beyond informing him of what she had said of Jane, she was certain Mr Darcy had admitted to knowing her sister had been in town that winter.
The knowledge nearly made her want to weep, but why, she could not say.
Perhaps because it is another illustration of how I misjudged his goodness.
She spent most of the day with Miss Darcy and Mrs Annesley, although they did nothing in particular; where Mr Darcy was, she did not know.
As she was preparing for dinner, Elizabeth silently lamented that it was going to be an extremely long week unless something transpired to lighten her mood or add more liveliness to their party.
Perhaps she might suggest an outing that would take them away from the estate.
If nothing else, it would help to pass the hours.
She was the last to arrive in the drawing room. Her father beckoned her to join him on a settee. Once she was sitting, he said, “Well, Lizzy, what did you do with yourself today? I have not seen you since breakfast.”
Not entirely knowing what she said, she chatted about Miss Darcy and Mrs Annesley.
She found it difficult to recall anything apart from the minutes she had spent in the walled garden with Mr Darcy.
Repressing an urge to squirm to ease the strange discomfort in her chest, she turned her eyes towards that gentleman and caught him quickly averting his gaze.
“Good,” her father said. “You know I am unlikely to worry overmuch about separating you from your mother and sisters for my own selfish purposes, but I do feel better knowing you are not alone.”
They soon went into the dining room. Lord Halsley’s chef was excellent, which meant the food was delicious, although the conversation could not hold her attention.
Again and again, she found herself reviewing her encounter that morning with Mr Darcy.
She was conscious of their manner towards each other being awkward, and she was certain that, with one glance at either of them, everyone would know something significant had passed between them, that their relationship was more than that of two people who had spent several weeks together in Hertfordshire, and later, Kent.
But what exactly was her connexion to him?
And why did it feel like it had completely altered after their recent conversation?