Elizabeth did the only thing she knew how to do: she laughed. It threw a picture of confusion over his features, which of course it would, since she had told him only moments ago that she laughed regardless of her sentiments.
“Forgive me,” she said, attempting to collect herself.
“Darcy, I wish to go,” said Miss de Bourgh. “I am feeling unwell again.”
He inhaled deeply but conceded.
Elizabeth was glad. Her thoughts were awhirl, and she could not recall ever feeling so awkward. She excused herself to return to the others in the drawing room, where she picked up the first book she could find, sat in the farthest seat from the door, and pretended to read in the hope that she would not be required to speak to anyone. Mr Darcy and his cousin soon followed to wait in the warm while their carriage was readied. Elizabeth did her best to ignore his persistent gaze but was eventually required to join the whole party in going outside to wave them goodbye.
She did then look at him—and instantly felt awful for not having done so sooner. Mr Darcy’s expression was profoundly pained. He looked at her as though he wished to say a thousand words. His eyes, shining black in the wintry darkness, seemed to hold myriad questions, all of them urgent. And there was something in the intensity of his pose, the way he leant slightly towards her, the way he watched her with his brow almost imperceptibly furrowed, that convinced her a good deal of his anxiety was for her, rather than himself.
All she could do with so many people about was smile, but when she did, he all but staggered with relief. It was not something she had ever thought to see the proud and forbidding Mr Darcy do—certainly not at a look from her. She wondered whether she had imagined it and cast her eyes around to see whether anybody else had noticed, but nobody remarked upon it, so she supposed they had not.
“We shall look forward to seeing you both again tomorrow,” said Mrs Bennet. “Pray, tell Mr Bingley we are all anticipation.”
“I shall, madam,” Mr Darcy promised. He handed Mrs Jenkinson and the utterly silent Miss de Bourgh into the carriage, then turned back, ostensibly to continue talking to Mrs Bennet, though he looked at Elizabeth when he said, “I am particularly anticipating introducing my sister to you.”
“Your sister?”
“She is at Netherfield,” Mr Darcy explained as he climbed up behind his cousin. “Bingley has brought her with him.”
Jane’s small gasp was drowned by the sound of the carriage door slamming closed and the horses pulling away, but Elizabeth heard it, and her heart broke to see the dismay overspreading her sister’s countenance.
11
“Caroline is furious. I am not sure whether at me or you,” Bingley called over the sound of pounding hooves. “You, I think.”
“Would she have had me conceal it from you?” Darcy shouted back.
“Probably. She still does not believe Miss Bennet’s affections are genuine.”
Darcy was inclined to think Miss Bennet’s affections, genuine or otherwise, were of no importance to Miss Bingley whatsoever, and she only claimed to be unconvinced to justify her continued opposition to the match. If she had expected him to do the same, she had severely misjudged his character. He might yet oppose it, but he would not manipulate his friend out of it with falsehoods and concealments.
“Either way, Caroline refused point-blank to come, so we shall have to do without her,” Bingley grumbled. “Are you sure your sister will not mind playing hostess? She agreed, of course, because she is a dear, but I must say, she did not seem overly enamoured of the idea.”
“Mrs Annesley will assist her. As will my confounded cousin. She owes me a favour.”
“That she does,” Bingley replied with a laugh that was curtailed into a warning shout. “Dash it! The blasted gate looks shut. Think you can jump it?”
“I shall not even attempt it in this weather,” Darcy called back. “In any case, is it notthatway?”
He smirked to see Bingley look all around him in perplexity. It had snowed slightly overnight, and the light dusting had rendered the landscape unfamiliar. Not enough to put Bingley off coming out, however. At three o’clock that afternoon, he had appeared in the doorway of the library, thrown Darcy’s own hat at him, declared that he had not come all this way to watch him stalk about the place like a cantankerous old bear, and insisted that he join him to ride off his snit.
Darcy was sorry to have dampened his friend’s festive spirits, though he fancied Bingley might be rather more grateful if he comprehended his efforts to limit himself to mere sullen silence when what he wished to do was rage and storm.
He had not managed to make Anne divulge what passed between her and Elizabeth the previous evening. She had demurred, prevaricated, and—he was convinced—outright lied. It mattered not. He could guess without being told. Had she not undertaken in her letter to Georgiana to ensure Elizabeth ‘dropped whatever false hope’he might have given her?
“Ride faster!” Bingley shouted. “And do not give me any more of your objections about the blasted weather. Cantering is clearly not sufficient. You still look as though you might bludgeon the first person to come within ten yards of you, and I shall have no violence under my roof at Christmas.” He kicked his horse into a gallop and sped off in the new direction.
It was a fine idea. Darcy spurred his horse onwards and soon overtook his friend, who hooted his enjoyment of the chase. Earth and snow were flung into the air in Darcy’s wake, and icy wind whistled past his ears as he raced ever faster across the field.
His miseries kept pace with him the entire way, inescapable, unconquerable. How he reviled that despicable creature, Providence, for taunting him thus! The one woman—who in temperament and understanding, deeds and thought, liveliness and loveliness, who was perfect for him and would bring him happiness in every conceivable form—had been thrown notintohis path, but near enough to torture him with the knowledge that she would never be his. He reined in his horse. There was no point laming the beast attempting to escape troubles that could not be outrun.
Bingley thundered up behind him and came to a skidding halt, his horse steaming with exertion. “I hope that did the trick, for any more of that nonsense and one or both of us will end up with a broken neck.”
“Forgive me, Bingley. I have much on my mind.”
“As always, my friend. You are the master of weighty problems, the original troubled soul.” He dropped the sardonic tone with which he had said this to add more seriously, “I think you take too much upon yourself, Darcy.”
