“And I am the happiest woman! I wanted so desperately to believe that you could love me despite my mother’s frailty, but I confess, I had all but given up hope. Especially after my clash with your aunt. I take it you have heard about that?”
“I have.” With an expressive smile, Darcy tucked her hand over his arm and gestured for them to begin walking.
“What did she say?”
“Exactly what I told you she would say—that she likes you. She thinks you will do very well for me.”
Elizabeth looked at him in disbelief. “That cannot be true! She spent the entire evening eking out every ounce of proof as to my unsuitability.”
“It is perfectly true. She spent the evening appraising your sense and disposition, and concluded that, in the circumstances, it would be better for the family if I married you instead of Anne. Her ladyship is nothing if not pragmatic.”
“But she was furious.”
“Yes.” He nodded, a small smirk on his lips. “She does not like being gainsaid. Having decided in favour of the union, she disliked being told it did not exist.”
“What of your cousin? I thought she would choke when I blurted that I loved you.”
His smirk broadened into a fully-fledged smile. “As did she, but not for the reason you are thinking. I have told you, she and I have never considered ourselves engaged. She was only shocked because she had never heard anyone speak to her mother in that way before. She is quite in awe of you.”
Elizabeth puffed out her cheeks. “I am not sure that is something of which I ought to be particularly proud! I was unpardonably rude to Lady Catherine. Mr Collins has yet to forgive me.”
“It is my aunt who ought to be ashamed of her conduct. Anne said she was more than commonly high-handed.”
“Pray, let us not begin comparing the conduct of our relations, for we both know mine would come off worse.”
Darcy gave her a sympathetic look but said nothing as he turned them up a small rise into a wooded area. It did not escape Elizabeth’s notice that it was in the opposite direction to both the parsonage and Rosings. She smiled to herself at the thought that Darcy was keeping her to himself for as long as possible, and squeezed his arm a little tighter, more than content with his scheme.
“What exactly did you promise my mother?”
“That I would look after her and your sisters.” He looked at her with the tenderest affection. “And you.”
“Thereby proving what I already knew—that you are as generous as the most generous of your sex.”
“It was an easy promise to make.”
“But it was not. I have four sisters, at least three of them with questionable marriage prospects. And my mother is…well…you are very good to overlook her offences.”
Darcy’s brow contracted into a pensive frown. “She is not the only person I know who is guilty of having behaved, in an unguarded moment, in a way which they later regretted.”
“You mean Mr Bingley?”
“No, although I have spoken to him, too, and he has expressed his deepest regrets. I was referring to my sister.”
“Georgiana?” Elizabeth could not have been more surprised—nor any more incensed as she listened to Darcy explain how, the previous summer, Mr Wickham had persuaded his sister to believe herself in love and consent to an elopement. “I had worked out that he was not to be trusted, but I had no idea he was so despicable as this! Your poor sister!”
“He used her infamously, for his chief object was unquestionably her fortune of thirty thousand pounds. Believe me, I lay the blame for what almost happened entirely at his door. But my point is this—Georgiana, however briefly, however misled by her youth or encouraged by more knowledgeable parties, did willingly consent to the elopement. Among other liberties.”
“Oh. I see.”
He nodded, confirming that she had not mistaken his meaning. “Even believing herself engaged, she ought to have known better. As ought your mother and Bingley. We are all fallible.” He laid his hand over Elizabeth’s and said, resolutely, “I would never dishonour you in such a way—but I have my own weaknesses, as you have taught me.”
Elizabeth scoffed. “If I have taught you anything it can only be forbearance. You have shown me nothing but patience and kindness throughout this entire affair.”
“On the contrary, my behaviour has been deserving of the severest reproof. I shall always regret telling you about your mother. It has permanently marred your relationship with her, yet it was wholly avoidable.”
“Perhaps, but I doubt you would have felt obliged to tell me if I had not accused you of treating my relatives with contempt when all the while you had been trying to protect us from scandal.”
“Would that I could be so easily absolved, but you have hit upon the exact reason why I cannot be. I was brought up to care for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. To my shame, it was on these foundations that my opinion of your family was formed, and to which subsequent observations and discoveries only gave substance. I thought, when I came to you to propose the first time, that you would be grateful I was overlooking your connexions.”
