Monday morning dawned, bringing with it the happy thought that it was the last day Elizabeth would have to watch Mr Collins plough through the breakfast offerings as though he would never see food again. After watching as he stacked enough kippers on a slice of toast to sink the British fleet, she collected her coat, slipped out of the house, through the kitchen garden plot, and hence to freedom. Mrs Bennet intended a grand send-off for the vicar, possibly shoving poor Mary into the carriage with him. Elizabeth wanted no part of what was likely to be a dramatic farewell.
It was going to snow, she surmised, and she wondered whether her coat was warm enough, even with the scarf she had wrapped around her shoulders. The cold would not prevent her escape from Longbourn, regardless. After leaving Mr Darcy yesterday, a plot had begun to form in her mind, if not to thwart her father utterly, at least to cause significant delays. Why not write to her aunt, confess the betrothal scheme, and beg for a visit? Once in Mr Gardiner’s home, surely her uncle would argue on her behalf, help her father see reason. She was not asking to live with him or that he overrule Mr Bennet, only that her father’s edict change into a conversation, a discussion in which she had some say.
A simple enquiry of Jane’s at dinner had ruined it all.
“Did you finish your letter to Aunt Gardiner?” she had asked. “You always write such charming, long letters to her—I can never think of half so much to say.”
Her father’s head had turned to Elizabeth sharply, his look repressive. “Perhaps you relayed to her tales of your sister’s romance and of your mother’s plans for wedding bells to ring. I only hope you did not name the groom, for whether it is Mr Bingley or some other lucky fellow, we have no news to impart, do we?”
Jane had blushed and looked down at her plate, but to Elizabeth, his message had been clear:
‘Put those fancies away, Elizabeth.’
If she did not marry Goulding, obedient, persuadable Jane, although deeply in love with another, must do it. She dared not even speak of it to her; Jane would sacrifice everything for her sisters.
Since that moment, Elizabeth had been possessed of a deep desire to flee Longbourn—to lose herself amongst the trees, to return to Oakham Mount, and most foolish of all, to see Mr Darcy.
I am not thinking of him—only notnotthinking of him,she tried to assure herself.
She paused at the fence stile. If she took the same path again and they met, he might believe she was seeking him out.
Why should I not?she thought defiantly.If my life is only my own for a few short months, why should I not walk where I wish, regardless of who I might see?
Still, she hesitated, wondering what he might think of seeing her again.
How she enjoyed talking to him! No, that was not quite it. She enjoyednottalking to him regarding all the things in her life upon which she did not wish to dwell. He knew of her misery, thus understood her silences. Yet, she had not always been silent, had she? She had spoken to him of pain, of coping, of hope, and of her struggle for courage. In fact, the only subject she had not mentioned was the future groom himself.Didthat make Mr Darcy a friend of sorts?
Or, perhaps, he only provided some company in her grieving, and any reasonably astute companion would do.
And if he did not wish tobethat companion, knowing her habits as he did, he could easily avoid the path she was about to take. This was her favourite walk, and she would not choose another simply to avoid appearing interested in a man for whom she held no interest. With a determined lift of her chin, Elizabeth crossed the stile.
The trail was a circular one, winding through wood and field. Not only was the footpath beautiful, it allowed her to remain out of sight of any tenant settlement as well as the great house.
The wind was brisk, and she kept her pace a quick one, wishing she had worn a warmer hat and brought Jane’s fur muff. She wrapped the scarf more tightly around her neck. The first snowflakes materialised at the worst possible moment, exactly at the halfway mark of a long lane, with no trees to block either wind or snow. There was no point in turning back, for it would save her no time in finding shelter. The chill was growing bitter.
Mr Darcy did not appear.
You were stupid to half-anticipate him, to expectanyoneto be out of doors in this frigid, damp cold. Stupid, foolish Elizabeth!
Genteel, refined Mr Darcy had more sense than to wander through the countryside on such a day.How could I have imagined he would wait out here in the weather for someone such as myself?
She had discovered something else within his absence—and it was all the more shocking, humiliating even, because she had been unaware that she would feel it.
Disappointment.Profounddisappointment.
Did I truly think he felt anything more for me than pity, simply because he happened upon me at the most pathetic moment of my life?Hubris was the only explanation.
For shehadthought it, or hoped it—not that he was in love with her, but that he was her friend, happily lending her strength and support during this awful time when she had no one else.
A freezing gust nipped at her, and Elizabeth increased her already quick pace, hoping to reach the trees and escape more of the wind’s rage.
Merely because he chose not to venture out during a snowstorm—which is a bit of exaggeration, but my feet are blocks of ice—does not mean much, she assured herself. He might still wish to be a friend, and a sensible one, who would stay indoors when the weather turned foul.
She was forced, then, to face another question. Hadshegone out, ignoring the threatening clouds, largely for the purpose of seeinghim?
She was three-quarters of the way to Longbourn’s borders when she heard her name.
“Miss Elizabeth! Miss Elizabeth!”
