Chapter 8
EIGHT
By unspoken agreement, Elizabeth and Mr Darcy turned back towards Longbourn instead of joining her younger sisters at her aunt Philips’s home.
From the first moment of dawn, her mind had been full of so many things she had wanted to ask him, to learn about him; instead she had allowed her foolish pride and dreadful temper to get in the way.
She had been contemplating the conversations she could hold with him—and the prospect of explaining that she understood the pressure which had been forced upon him.
She had meant to express her gratitude that he was so honourable as to consider the plight of the Bennets, and possibly, if it seemed right, to ask him if they might not take time to know each other better, giving both a choice.
Perhaps, she had hoped, he could enclose letters to her in his letters to her father, and she could do the same.
She had been fairly certain that he was, miraculously, a man she could someday love; but how awful, if he could not love her in return!
Instead, she had offered to find him somebody else—and she could not think how to undo her foolish words. His little poke at the silly Mr Collins had eased the tension between them, but her gaffe was still foremost on her mind.
“I wonder, Miss Elizabeth, if you are anxious to return to Longbourn,” he said in his formal tones.
“No,” she said quickly—too quickly, and felt the colour rise in her cheeks. “I mean, there is a lovely walking trail up towards Oakham Mount, and the weather is still fine…” she trailed off.
“I would like to see it,” he assured, and held out his arm—the one she had refused earlier, when in high dudgeon.
Gladly she took it, and could not prevent the smile she tried, nevertheless, to hide.
“Should I provide you with my assessment of Miss Lucas as an, ahem, wifely candidate?”
Immediately, all the pride and temper she had so recently cursed, swelled once more. She was determined, however, that this time, she would overcome both. “Oh, please do,” she said, and if her voice was colder than her usual manner, it was the best she could manage.
“Her charitable works are numerous, her conversation sensible. Any vicar with her at his side must be pleased with her noble character,” Mr Darcy opined.
“She is a paragon of sense and virtue,” Elizabeth agreed—stiffly, certainly, but fairly.
“I wonder, are Miss Harrington and Miss King equally altruistic?” They turned up the path to Oakham, where the path narrowed and grew more steep.
“Charlotte definitely takes charge of more committees than either Miss Harrington or Miss King,” Elizabeth made herself answer. “I would say, however, that they are all similarly virtuous.”
He nodded seriously. “I would never wish to be indelicate, but when one marries, one must contemplate gazing at a single face across the breakfast table, especially before one has consumed one’s coffee, for the rest of one’s life.
Miss Lucas, while worthy, has a set of teeth which are, unfortunately, just a bit oversized for the mouth they inhabit.
I am certain one could become accustomed to it, in light of her other virtues.
But I have to wonder—are Miss Harrington and Miss King slightly better… favoured?”
She considered the question, determined to be just. “Miss King is a sweet girl…it is only that she has a tendency to squint, if just a little. And she possesses a very few freckles. Well, perhaps more than a few.” The path split in two directions, and she nodded towards the less travelled one.
“But her teeth are perfect,” she added hurriedly.
“And Miss Harrington?”
“She is lovely,” Elizabeth assured. “Her complexion is perfect, her eyes luminous, her smile charming.”
“Missing a leg? A bit…rotund, perhaps?”
Finally, she caught the amusement in his tone, although his face remained perfectly impassive. The man had been teasing her! The brute! But even more, she felt all the attraction she held for him… double. Perhaps triple.
“Miss Harrington is a great beauty,” she promised vehemently. “Everyone says so. Second only to Jane.”
He looked at her, just looked with his deep brown eyes soft upon her.
Honesty compelled her to forthrightness. “Well, her laugh is like a mule’s. But you need not worry about that. She seldom finds anything amusing.”
At last he smiled, his dimples showing, his eyes crinkling. Already, he had lines at the corners of those eyes, as if he smiled often.
“There is one other little problem,” he said, stopping in the middle of the path, his tone still grave despite his warm expression.
“Oh?” She gazed up at him innocently.
“How am I to even contemplate conversing with any of these women, when all I can think of is stealing a kiss from you?”
“As a clergyman, I do not believe you ought to consider theft,” she said, her smile blooming from somewhere deep within her heart. “However, perhaps if one is freely given?”
He pulled her into his arms, his lips sealing across hers, and Elizabeth could never have guessed just how passionate and exciting a man of the cloth could be.