She laughed incredulously.Oh yes, very indifferent! Admit it, Lizzy, he is the handsomest man of your acquaintance.
It seemed improbable that she should have impressed him, yet her aunt had said men who fancy themselves in love have improper thoughts, and he was the only man ever to profess actual love?—
She gasped and almost stumbled. Her heart pounded. Of all the things he had said to her in the course of his atrocious proposal, she had given the least credence tothat—his declaration of love. It had seemed incredible at the time. She had dismissed it as a passing fancy. Yet, she ought to have known Mr Darcy did not suffer passing fancies. Every report she had of him, including his own, showed him to be a man of profound sensibility with feelings immutable once formed. An avowal of ardentlove from such a man could not have been lightly given. He had truly loved her, and she had refused him—nay, spurned him.
She, who took pride in her natural inclination to compassion, had been hateful in her rejection. She had hurled unfounded and appalling charges, defended the monster who almost ruined his sister, mercilessly vilified his character and acknowledged his heartfelt declaration only insofar as to tell him he ought to have no difficulty in overcoming it. When Mr Darcy was at his most vulnerable, his heart laid open, she had shredded it and thrown it back to him in pieces. She left the path, unable to bear any more guilt and certain anybody she encountered would immediately perceive what she had done.
Had he suffered as Jane had? Did he suffer still? She trudged disconsolately through the woods, wondering sadly who comfortedhim in his distress. The bluebells beneath the trees blurred into a murky blue puddle as tears welled in her eyes. She supposed that office ought to have fallen to his wife. He had wanted her to care for him, to love him. Instead, she broke his heart. Her tears spilt over. She wept—out of shame for herself and pity for the man she had used so ill—and did not return home ’til all her crying was done.
“Lizzy! Whatever is the matter?” Lydia called out from the sitting room as Elizabeth passed it, thwarting her hope of going into the house unnoticed.
“Nothing, Lydia. I am well.”
She came to the doorway. “There must be something. You look awful. Your eyes are all puffy, and your face is a fright. Is it your monthlies?”
Elizabeth huffed a small laugh. “Really, there is nothing the matter.”
“I am not that silly. A ninny could tell you have been crying. Though, if it is a tricky problem that requires a clever answer, then I suppose you had just as well not tell me, for I am sure I shall be no use to you at all.”
Lydia owned it—she was not the sort of girl in whom one confided. Nonetheless, very quietly and quite to her surprise, Elizabeth found herself speaking. “I have made a terrible mistake, Lydia. I have wronged somebody most grievously.”
“Then nothing is so easy! You must apologise.”
Thursday 7 May 1812, London
In his bed, asleep; at his club, drinking; on his horse, hurtling across the countryside; or here, at his uncle’s table, surrounded by pomp and speciousness—it mattered not where Darcy was or what he was doing, nothing eased his sorrow. On the contrary, everything seemed designed to make him miss Elizabeth more. Nobody to whom he talked was quite as witty. Nobody with whom he danced was quite as vivacious. Nobody to whom he expressed an opinion ever challenged it. Life was muted in her absence.
He had little inclination to eat; dinner dragged, and his scant reserves of composure waned thin. He became overly conscious of the din of cutlery scouring china and the ghastly way the woman oppositescraped her teeth on her fork. He raised his hand to run it over his face but caught himself in time and reached for his drink instead.
“Is your cousin always such scintillating company?” enquired Mrs Sinclair, on Darcy’s right, to Fitzwilliam on his left.
Before he could decide whether to be affronted or embarrassed, his cousin replied, “Not always. Sometimes he does not even trouble himself to scowl.”
“I think we can all agree it would be absurd for him to go about grinning at everybody if he does not mean to speak,” the old lady replied. “You had much better carry on scowling, Mr Darcy”—at which they both turned away to pursue other conversations.
Darcy motioned for his glass to be refilled. Though he disliked Mrs Sinclair’s incivility, he disliked more that his own disinclination to converse had caused offence. Again. He had used to pride himself on being an acute and unembarrassed observer, able to discern where it was, and was not, fitting that he participate. He recalled Elizabeth with crystal clarity, dancing circles around him as she teased that he was of anunsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak unless he expected to say something that would amaze the whole room.It seemed suddenly ludicrous that he should not condescend to talk to anyone about anything that did not interest him, but assume that when he spoke, every person should be interested.
How she painted all his actions with a different hue! Though, he realised, that did not signify others found no fault. Had not Fitzwilliam recently teased him for his reluctance to talk to strangers? Had not Bingley accused him of being an awful object when he had nothing to do? It was distressing to consider his incivility was so widely recognised, and he could not fathom why nobody had ever seen fit to object. Perhaps, like Elizabeth, they had assumed he did not care. Perhaps, until Elizabeth held a mirror to his behaviour, he had not. He gulped down more wine and attempted to pick up one of the conversations around the table, resolved to make more effort at being cordial.
“How did he propose?” he heard his sister enquire.
He set his glass down and let out a long breath. That was one conversation to which he would absolutely not be contributing.
“I do not imagine he did,” his cousin Ashby replied condescendingly. “It was no doubt arranged for them.”
“That is a shame.”
“How so, Miss Darcy?” Lady Philippa demanded. “That is the way of things.”
“It may well be the way of things, Philippa,” opined her friend Lady Daphne, “but it is not terribly romantic,is it?”
“What has romance to do with a contract of marriage?” enquired Lord Matlock. “The Pendlebury girl ought to be well satisfied with such an excellent match.”
“I do not mean to suggest she ought to be dissatisfied, my lord. But it would not have hurt the gentleman to give her some assurance of his regard.”
“That is a pretty notion, I am sure,” countered Colonel Fitzwilliam, “though rather dependent on him having any.”
Ashby snorted.
