Mr Darcy obviously had no idea there were two or more possible answers to a proposal, and Elizabeth was not inclined to incite his wrath or test his stubbornness. What if he carried on as Mr Collins had? What if he argued with her refusal or became despondent? What if he became loud, angry, and aggressive? All were distinct possibilities, since he was not a man often thwarted.
What if he dragged her off to Gretna Green, or worse yet tasked Lady Catherine or her cousin with wearing down her resistance?
Once again, she opened her mouth for a polite refusal, or a rude refusal, or an acceptance, or a delay, or a request for courtship, or even to ask clarifying questions—such as when he had gone mad—but once again nothing came out. Not a peep. Not a whisper.Nothing!
Her father's appearance beside Mr Darcy was something of an improvement over her mother, but he was singularly unhelpful.
For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?
Who should she make sport of? Mr Darcy? The colonel? Lady Catherine? None of their situations offered more sport than Elizabeth’s own—and she did not particularly enjoy being the object of his sport.
Two proposals in four months were entirely too many. When it came to insulting proposals, she firmly believed a little goes a long way.
Mrs Bennet returned with a vengeance!
TEN THOUSAND A YEAR!
AND POSSIBLY MORE!
Her spectral form was no more impressed with being spoken over by Mr Bennet than her corporeal form. That recollection and many similar ones filled her with mortification. Was this how a man was measured? By his purse?
Mr Darcy had somehow heard that at the Netherfield Ball, yet he returned months later to pay his addresses. It was unaccountable. He could not truly esteem her, unless he was the most inscrutable man who ever lived. He must be far worse than Jane, and nobody but Elizabeth and Charlotte understood Jane. If their acquaintance passed for courtship in his circles, it was no wonder he stayed unwed at near thirty! How was a woman to even know she was being courted?
Elizabeth was adrift in an endless sea of voices rattling around her head as her panic rose to ever greater heights, until she began to feel dizzy and even a touch faint—so much so, she grasped the edge of a chair to support herself.
She kept seeing flashes of her family, Mr Darcy, Charlotte, the colonel, and Lady Catherine without end. Everyone she had ever known was in the room urging her to just quit whingeing, accept a life of luxury, and cease worrying about trivialities such as whether she and her husband could stand each other’s company.
A lady should showmoreaffection than she feels until she fixes his attention.
Even practical Charlotte’s ghost claimed her share of the conversation—though it appeared one could succeed even better by showing not the slightest hint of affection whatsoever!
Even veiled derision and endless arguments seemed effective in bringing a suitor to the point. Could she have hastened the process by bashing him with a club or poisoning him at Netherfield? Would Lady Catherine and her words of wisdom be next?
In a panic, Elizabeth groped for something, anything, anything at all, to guide her in what to say, what to do, and how to act.
Like a drowning woman, she thrashed aimlessly until she finally, desperately, seized upon the first passing bit of flotsam that drifted by, and paused long enough to grasp it.
She was so relieved to have an answer that she accepted it without weighing its merits. She then did the most shocking thing she had ever done in her life!
She followed her mother’s advice.
Well, Miss Lizzy Bennet! If you cannot say something nice, say nothing at all, and take yourself elsewhere until you learn to keep a civil tongue in your head!
Having chosen her admittedly weak device, she clung to it for dear life.
Without a word, Elizabeth Bennet walked to the parlour door and opened it.
Fitzwilliam Darcy stood gazing at Miss Elizabeth Bennet in confusion, torn between the pleasure of finally regarding the woman of his dreams in open admiration, the relief of unburdening his heart, the removal of all doubts concerning the match—and utter bewilderment at her most peculiar manner of accepting his suit.
While he remained rooted to the spot, the object of his affection entered the corridor, donned her pelisse, stuffed her bonnet unceremoniously on her head, took up her reticule, and walked out the front door.
Within five paces she was trotting, and within ten she hitched up her skirts and ran. By the time the utterly confused master of Pemberley grew alarmed and started after her, she rounded the corner out of sight, running headlong towards the village.
Pausing to take his coat and hat, he started in pursuit, but after only a few steps slowed. A lady running towards the village with skirts hiked and flying would excite gossip. It would be embarrassing and injurious to her reputation—even for a Bennet—but not fatal and easily explained.
A woman running through the lanes pursued by a gentleman would incite more than gossip. It would trigger scandal at the very least. A likelier outcome would be a thrashing by protective shopkeepers, a quick trip to the parson’s mousetrap, or both.
Mindful of this, he slowed his pace. While not sedate, he followed as quickly as he could without appearing the lunatic himself.
