The very opposite of sensible, Mr Collins tore past her without noticing, intent upon his goal; he marched directly up to attack Mr Darcy, of all people, with introductions he had no business making. Mr Collins prefaced his speech with a solemn bow, and though she could not hear a word of it, Elizabeth saw in the motion of his lips the words ‘apology’, ‘Hunsford’, and ‘Lady Catherine de Bourgh.’ Mr Darcy was eyeing him with unrestrained wonder, and Elizabeth, unable to bear observing any more, moved away.
At that moment, she caught sight of her father—fortunately turned away from her, heading towards the card room.To gamble away some other daughter, she wondered?Perhaps to secure another of my sisters in reserve on the chance I perform inadequately?After all, my history suggests a feminine prejudice.Smiling bitterly, she imagined Mr Goulding in the garb of King Henry VIII, demanding her head for a failure to produce male offspring.
Continuing to avoid anyone who knew her well, Elizabeth at last discovered an empty alcove where she might watch the dancing in peace. Unfortunately, her feelings were too raw, too hurt, and when Mr Bingley and Jane promenaded up the centre together between two lines of dancers, both smiling in obvious elation, she had to turn away.
Iamhappy for my sister. I would not see her suffer as I do.
Nevertheless, it was too hard to remain an isolated spectator to Jane’s rosy future, a happiness Elizabeth was unlikely to know unless she could find a way to avoid marrying Mr Goulding without it destroying her family. If she could not, contentment was the best she could hope for—should she produce a male child. If she bore only daughters, as her mother had, or no children at all, she would face the resentment of a spouse who would hate her, ruining even that pale ambition.
Four and twenty hours ago, all her hopes would have been answered by a dance with Mr Wickham; at present, she could not imagine dancing with anyone.
Somewhat blindly, she made for the large double doors leading to the terrace; despite the chill of the November evening, perhaps she could hide there until the first of her neighbours departed. She might beg them to return her to Longbourn.
Unfortunately, several others had escaped the ballroom’s heat, and the terrace was almost crowded. The garden seemed to be the only place of retreat remaining. Elizabeth had barely pierced the shadows edging the garden’s entry, when she found herself suddenly addressed by none other than Mr Darcy.
“Oh!” she gasped. “How you startled me!”
“It is an odd time to view the gardens, especially lacking a warmer garment,” he said in his usual sober tones. “Far be it from me to suspend any pleasure of yours, however. May I accompany you?”
This application took her so much by surprise that she accepted without knowing what she did.
Why am I such a simpleton?she thought.Could I not think of some excuse to avoid his gallantry?
“Would you take my coat, were I to offer it to you?” he asked.
“I would not,” she replied. “If there is any chill, I do not feel it.”
They strolled along the lamplit paths without speaking a word. She was glad to believe their silence would last through the night; fancifully, she pictured him as only part of the surrounding darkness, losing herself again in her morbid thoughts.
It was almost startling to hear his voice finally split the night. “I daresay the ball is an agreeable one, should you care to return to the dancing.”
Her resentment produced a caustic answer. “Heaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a ball agreeable which one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil, but please, feel free to discover your own joy in it.”
Their silence resumed as though it had never been broken. Why did Mr Darcy not return to the party? It was politeness, she supposed. She wanted only one thing in this world, and that was to be left alone. After several minutes, it occurred to her that if she tortured him enough by obliging him to speak, he might leave her to her misery.
“It is your turn to say something now, sir. I expressed my opinion of the ball, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the garden, or the number of couples avoiding its beauties.”
“How foolish to allow a slight November nip in the air to keep one confined to a ballroom. Shall I comment upon the shadowy silhouette of Bingley’s shrubberies? Or the relative size of the garden’s bench, which appears just wide enough for two to sit and gaze at the blackness—or bleakness—surrounding them.”
She was very nearly roused from her apathy by her astonishment at his words—there was wit in them, perhaps even an acknowledgement of the desolation impelling her into a cold garden obscured by night. With a lift of her brow, she noticed the bench he named and, with a shrug of her shoulders, made her way to it and sat.
The silence lingered. Mr Darcy was, perhaps, slightly better company than she had expected—or at least, she must admit, a little more astute. Then again, Mr Wickham had never claimed him to be stupid. Besides, Mr Wickham, with his troubles concerning Mr Darcy, belonged to another world—a world wherein one might take an interest in the doings of their neighbours, in their flaws and foibles, dreams and dramas. There was no room in her listless heart for sketching the character of either gentleman.
“Very well,” she replied, with only a trace of her old spirit. “That reply will do for the present. Perhaps, by and by, I may observe that private gardens are much pleasanter than public ones, but now we may be silent.”
The air was cold, and her dress was designed for a heated ballroom, but she was numb to such inconveniences. She had no desire to converse, think, or even be aware of Mr Darcy—or anyone else. Her mind instead tried to design some plan or scheme to thwart her father’s wishes. Yet how could she allow her family to be wholly ruined? It was one thing to fight for her own happiness; it was quite another to be the only means of securing her mother and sisters’ future welfare. She could probably bargain for time in exchange for docility. But what good would time do her other than give her endless hours to think, to develop her disgust, her terror, even, of the future? And yet, to face such a marriage so quickly, it was impossible to contemplate! Looking up at the unusually clear night sky, she saw the gleam of a perfect moon with some disbelief—how could the heavens retain their beauty when life had become such an ugly, untenable thing?
“Miss Elizabeth, what is the matter?” Mr Darcy suddenly asked with a greater feeling than she had ever heard from him, his voice startling her from her reverie. “Let me call your mother. Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A glass of wine—shall I get you one? You are very upset.”
She stared at him blankly as he held out a handkerchief, only then realising that tears fell down her cheeks, dripping off her chin and onto her bodice, leaving spots that would stain the delicate fabric.
He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. “You must take my coat—you are chilled. It is much too cold out here. I ought not to have brought you so far into the garden, where the walls do not protect from the night breezes.”
“No, I mean, I thank you,” she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. “There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well.”
“Oh, certainly you are,” he said with a touch of sharpness. “Whom can I bring you? Miss Bennet?”
“No!” she cried, with some acid of her own. “No one!”
