“I do. It is large enough to imagine we have left the city.”
“Do you miss the countryside, then?”
The corners of her lips twitched. “I do at times, but not often. Unlike my father, I have always enjoyed coming to London. My uncle used to take us around when Jane and I were children. There are so many enjoyable things to see and do. At the same time, I sometimes feel hemmed in. I like to roam the countryside and enjoy the sweet freshness of the air, to hear birds and sheep instead of hawkers and carriages.”
“I understand perfectly. I, too, sometimes long for Derbyshire and the wide open spaces of the Peak District. I love it when the heather blooms in August. Everywhere you look, the ground is covered with purple flowers thrusting up from between the gray rocks. If I were a poet, I would write about that, instead of Wordsworth’s daffodils.”
“Not having seen the purple heather, I feel I must defend Wordsworth’s daffodils, and daffodils in general. Not only do they herald the arrival of spring, but their necks are so graceful when they bob their heads up and down. I cannot help but favor them. What do the heather do?”
“They feed the bees. Is that not enough? Daffodils have no function but to look pretty, like young ladies at a ball. Bees do not usually forage on them. Heather is life, asserting itself, reminding us that without it, there would just be rocks and bare crags.”
“You sound more like a philosopher than a poet.”
He considered her statement. “Do you think we cannot be both at the same time?”
“Philosophy deals with the rational. Poetry deals with the irrational, with fleeting moments, with emotions that are difficult to define.”
She had hit the nail on the head. He tried not to smile, but his lips moved of their own volition. “You have expressed itvery succinctly, Miss Bennet, in a manner more convincing than Wordsworth himself.”
“I have no intention of surpassing Wordsworth, Mr. Darcy. I am not even claiming to be original. I am merely making an observation. You may call me a bluestocking if you wish, however, I cannot claim that honor. I only read novels and poetry.”
From her careless tone, Darcy could not tell if his remark had offended her. He had the feeling it had. He wanted to say he meant to express his appreciation of her astuteness, but how could he say such a thing without implying something else? What if she interpreted it as a sign of his regard? It would be only too easy for her to misconstrue his statement.
“I expressed myself poorly,” he said, “I meant that Wordsworth’s arguments are often too convoluted. It was a reflection on Wordsworth, not you.”
There, he had managed that very well.
“In that case, let us abandon Wordsworth and talk of something lighter,” she replied. “How did your visit with your aunt go?”
Lighter? The irony of it! She could not have chosen a worse subject. A sudden impulse to unburden himself took hold of him. He tried to keep it in check, but the bitterness just seemed to spill over.
“Very badly indeed. I have no idea how I left things with my aunt, but I am worried Mr. Preston will suffer the consequences.”
She stopped and put her hand on his arm, her eyes full of sympathy. Her touch felt warm and comforting.
“In what way? What happened?”
He turned towards the maid and the footman and gestured for them to fall back to give him privacy.
“It took me two weeks to reach an agreement,” he said, digging his fingers through his hair, “I was so patient. I kept reminding myself that the fate of Mr. Preston rested in my hands.” He stopped. “I do not know if you have ever experienced it, Miss Bennet, but there are some people who seem determined to test the limits of your patience over and over again. My aunt is one of those.”
He gave a wry smile and shrugged. “For years, I have kept my head. I do respect my aunt in many ways. She is a strong character, always meddling in everyone’s business and running roughshod over everyone, but she is – generally speaking – well intentioned. She is my mother’s sister. She and my mother were fairly close. I can see some aspects of my mother in her.”
He looked at Miss Bennet, wondering how much she understood what that meant to him.
She nodded, as if in response to a question. “Understandable,” she murmured. “You have lost both your mother and father.”
He nodded back, grateful that he did not have to explain. “In my last visit, I managed to convince her – to haggle my way, really – to an agreement. It came at a price. My aunt wanted a payment in return for keeping Mr. Preston on for a trial period. It took some time to convince her to make it three years.”
“Then you actually achieved your goal?”
“I thought we had reached a final agreement. Sadly, on the last day, she suddenly decided to set a condition. She would allow Mr. Preston to stay, if I agreed to marry my cousin Anne.”
Elizabeth paled and made a choked exclamation.
He waved his hand. “Oh, it is nothing new. She had been trying to convince me to do so for years. That is not what bothered me. It is that she went back on her word, and resorted to extortion to force my hand.” His fists clenched and unclenched at his side. “It was the last straw. My patience reached its limit. I snapped.”
Elizabeth was staring at his fists in alarm. “What exactly happened?”
