Chapter One #3
Darcy was forced to agree with the young miss that she did have a great many freckles after she referred to them twice as the great tragedy of her life.
He had not noticed them before that. Also, she attempted to impress Darcy by informing him about her sad, yet great, hopes of soon inheriting some ten thousand pounds.
Miss King very, very much did not wish for her grandfather to die, but since he inevitably would, it was a good thing that someone in his family whom he loved would inherit the money, was it not? She had no reason to feel guilty about the expected accession to fortune. Did not Mr. Darcy agree?
No. Nothing further with Miss King.
More dances followed in forced succession—mixed with returning to Georgiana to confirm that she was well and not too scared of the crush. His sister insisted, with some tone of truthfulness to her words, that she was happy.
Halfway through the night, Georgiana did seem happy. When he approached, she was immersed in conversation with Miss Lucas and a smiling and particularly pretty and well-dressed young woman who, from Darcy’s recollection, was the first girl that Bingley had danced with that evening.
Georgiana exclaimed eagerly, “Brother, you must meet Miss Elizabeth! She has been so kind as to sit out with me for the past set.”
“You mean to say that the gentlemen have been so kind as to leave me the leisure to do so,” Miss Elizabeth said laughingly.
She looked frankly at Darcy and smiled at him, then stood to make her curtsey. “It is my pleasure to meet you.”
The way the girl spoke with her hands and the challenging way she looked at him with a hint of mischief in her eyes made Darcy’s stomach jump a little.
Her manner reminded him of Mary. There was also some unfortunate similarity in their colouring, and she was as short as his late wife had been.
Darcy frowned, inclined his head, and muttered something that might have been ‘pleased’. “Miss Lucas, might I ask you for a second dance this night?”
The woman had an unmistakable look of surprise at receiving this compliment, but she accepted his hand and walked with him out to the set.
“Your sister is delightful,” Miss Lucas ventured with what seemed to him a forced sort of cheerfulness. “Quite shy, but Eliza drew her out when I could not.”
Darcy grunted. He had no understanding of how to please a woman, and he would not make any effort to do so.
He despised women who were easily pleased.
“You are of a taciturn disposition,” she noted when he did not reply.
To Darcy’s own surprise he asked, “What is Miss Elizabeth like?”
“Ah, Miss Elizabeth.” Miss Lucas raised an eyebrow, smiled, and seemed more at her ease suddenly. “You found her enchanting at first glance?”
“I merely wish to know about someone seeking to make a friend of my sister.”
“A dutiful brother. The world entire admires.” The woman’s tone implied that she meant something different from what she said.
“You need not be concerned about my dearest Eliza. She will corrupt no one. Quite the opposite. She is as delightful as she is sweet. She devotes herself to the care of her sister, who is blind, and she loves both to read and laugh.” Miss Lucas smiled and then sighed a little. “I do love her dearly.”
“Hmph.” Darcy frowned. He did not wish to think about the prettiest girl in the room.
He should interrogate Miss Lucas to learn about her suitability as the mother of his future heir and a potential mother for Emily. Her lack of beauty, and his own total disinterest in her, was promising but not sufficient.
“What are your thoughts on marriage,” Darcy asked Miss Lucas.
“I cannot imagine what you intend to hear in reply to such a question.” Her eyebrows rose. “I hardly understand you.”
When Darcy did not clarify, she said in the tone of a dull governess, “Marriage, marriage. It is an institution of great importance to the preservation of our British morals. It is an estate instituted by God and church. We believe in marriage, unlike the French.”
Darcy did not laugh, though he did smile. A little.
“Eliza would hate you,” Miss Lucas now said with a laugh. “Marriage creates unhappiness in those who enter it as often as it creates happiness. But I mean to marry if I ever have the opportunity.”
“Why, if it causes unhappiness?”
“It is the best and only way for a woman of slender means to find a situation that is both honourable and comfortable.” She paused and added, “Also, I would like to have my own children. To a reasonable extent.”
Darcy grunted.
Miss Lucas’s raised eyebrow showed more amusement than frustration at his bear-like behaviour. He was acting in a manner true to himself, and if she meant to marry him (as Darcy firmly believed every unattached woman did), she must become used to him.
“And you, Mr. Darcy, what do you think of marriage?”
That question left him unable to speak because of the guilt at how he had failed Mary, mixed with fury at how she had cuckolded him, mixed with shame at the sense of how the society would see him and despise him if they knew—they must suspect—mixed with a loathing of those famous words in the marriage service and awareness that there was nothing in the world he wished to avoid more than a second marriage.
“I contemplate the nature of the married state with some frequency,” Darcy growled at last.
After that, Miss Lucas respected his mood well enough that she did not press him to continue the conversation, and they danced in silence for another twenty minutes before making small formal bows when they parted at the end of the set.
He ought to apologise for his poor manners, but this time Darcy did not do his duty.
Then, instead of doing his further duty and dancing with another woman—many other girls in the room were sufficiently ugly—or following his inclination and dancing with that particularly pretty girl whom Georgiana had spoken with, Darcy walked over to the portrait of the king.
He clenched his jaw.
Must?
Must he marry again? His nature was unsuited to the state.
Emily was a perfectly suitable human being.
If only his grandfather had not established the entail that would send the estate to the grandson of that grandfather’s brother—a second cousin whom Darcy had not met more than three times and whom he had no high opinion of from those occasions—he would not be obliged to marry again.
Darcy stared at the familiar portrait of His Majesty.
No. Not marriage.
Not that sling of fate; not that form of scorn. And he did not want to marry an ugly woman so that he would not ever like her enough to trust her or be hurt when she betrayed that trust.
He should lock himself in his own rooms and drink his way into a senseless stupor like a sensible gentleman.
Everything pressed inwards. Another dance, another facing of the world tomorrow, another rising from bed, another talking in a friendly manner to Bingley, another keeping his sister from seeing what he was like, and another keeping Emily from seeing his intrinsic heartless coldness. It was too much.
Close your eyes.
Deep breath. Settle your posture. Shoulders squared, hands behind the back. Tall. Another deep breath. Let it go.
Feel what you have a duty to feel, whatever that is.