His voice held censure, whether in affront or indignation, she could not tell—but clearly he did not like this idea, not one little bit. The disapproval gave her the courage to moveout of his embrace. Immediately, the chill of the grotto surrounded her; once again, she was very much alone. She kept her voice even, pretending not to care.
“My marriage, to me, felt as though my life ended, instead of simply my girlhood. My husband’s library was not a very good one, but it did hold several books about foreign climes—France, Italy, Egypt, Austria, Germany, and others. Those tomes were my greatest comfort in those first awful months. I vowed to myself that I would see these places myself, the moment I could manage it.”
There were other reasons—from the practical, the ability to live more cheaply abroad, to the emotional, the opportunity to leave behind, physically, the place where she had experienced the greatest grief, betrayal, and heartache. But it was more than enough explanation to this near stranger, despite the pleasure of his attention.
“There are great dangers faced by women abroad.”
“Women face great danger no matter where they are. When was the last time you felt afraid, Mr Darcy? Really, truly afraid?”
He seemed to think about it, and at least did her the courtesy of giving a real answer. “I suppose last summer, when in town with my cousin. He occasionally likes to frequent less, hm, dignified alehouses, and we found ourselves at the Hawk and Swan at far too late an hour and…” He stopped mid-sentence. “Let us just say, he has a tendency to open his mouth when it would be much better shut.”
She nodded. “For me, it was last week. Ask any woman—she will tell you the same. Women live with fear as you live with your responsibilities. We consider it, we deal with it, we move on despite it.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who frightened you?”
“You misunderstand. The world is a completely different place for me than it is for you. I need not point out that men are stronger, physically, by a considerable margin. I might take a maid with me rather than walk alone, I might be alert and cautious in my surroundings, but what good does it do, truly, if a man is determined to misbehave?”
His fists clenched, jaw tightening, obviously disliking her point.
“Therefore, I shall do abroad what I always do in England. I shall be sensible, I shall take what precautions I can, and I shall trust in God for the rest.” She forced herself to rise to her feet; he immediately stood as well. “And it appears that the most sensible measure I next can take is to return to the house.”
“I would never hurt you,” he protested.
“You would not mean to,” she corrected. “But as I have already pointed out, I do not live in the same world as you. Not socially, not physically—everything about you, every moment we spend alone, puts me at risk.”
He stared down at her, his eyes alit with a fire her body instinctively understood. She compelled her mind to make decisions her body would not like and walked out of the grotto, letting the cold raindrops cool any answering blaze.
13
A MIND DISTRESSED
Instead of returning to the house, Darcy went to the stables. Heedless of the rain, he cantered across the fells on the back of his stallion, trying to outrace his passion. It only partially worked.
Gallant did not mind it at all—he had been chafing for some real exercise. But during a significant cloudburst, as he took shelter under cover of trees at the park’s forested edge, Darcy could acknowledge that only the symptoms of immediate desire had been mitigated. The fire still smouldered.
If only he could remove the image of her from his brain! He was well accustomed to restraining his baser self, but this attraction was not purely sexual. There was something about her that incited more than simple desire. He wanted to know her, to know her thoughts and why she thought them. Curiosity? Perhaps. Why, for instance, did she so zealously guard the sister who withheld Longbourn from her?
Family loyalty, he supposed—and understandable to some extent. After all, was he not devoted to his sister? Sheremained with their aunt at Matlock in the present, because she was so angry with him. Still, he had every hope that she would see the truth of her situation, once she matured a bit more. Gossip insisted that Elizabeth had refused Longbourn, not the other way around. How could Mrs Collins—older and wiser than Georgiana, it was to be hoped—refuse to house her sister? It made no sense; however, did it make sense for Elizabeth to live alone in what amounted to a hovel, when she plainly had expected to live elsewhere? Or to care so lovingly for the sister who had denied her?
Well, he would discover what he could, and find a way to help—perhaps even have a conversation with Mrs Collins, to learn how he might. Wickham, whose spiteful machinations led to Georgiana’s humiliation, had fuelled rage, but it seemed the anger Darcy had felt towards his now-deceased former friend was the closest thing to depths of emotions he had experienced since his father’s death. He had been coasting along the surface of life—staying busy, throwing himself into Pemberley’s needs, and occasionally, such as he was now at Netherfield, lending his expertise to friends. These activities filled his hours, yet also allowed him to avoid a goodly amount of human interaction. Especially since the conflict between himself and his sister, he had been very…solitary of late, and Elizabeth’s situation had touched a chord of pity within.
Simple Christian compassion. Any decent, honourable man would feel the same. Resolutely, he remounted Gallant, forcibly attempting to turn his mind away from her problems. Still, he rode as if chased by the denizens of the Hawk and Swan in all their drunken fury, and yet could not forget the feel of her within his arms.
That evening at dinner, Mrs Collins remained upstairs. Apparently, some—if not all—of her illness was lingering, and Mr Jones had commanded that she remain abed. Elizabeth, Darcy saw, avoided his gaze.
She returned upstairs after dinner, but re-emerged later, as he attempted, once again, to finish his letter to Georgiana with Miss Bingley interrupting like a giant gnat, buzzing about his head. She was a pathetic mixture of jealousy and overindulged resentment, having too much money and not enough purpose. Naturally, she was anxious to compensate for angering him earlier, even though he had been angry most of all with himself for encouraging her to mock Elizabeth. Why had he done it?
Cease thinking of her!he ordered his brain.
Yet he could not help but notice Elizabeth and Bingley striking up a conversation on the other side of the drawing room, or that Bingley participated in it with what seemed unusual enthusiasm. Not that there was aught else to do, since Hurst snored on the sofa whilst Mrs Hurst seemed preoccupied with her bracelets and occasionally, half-heartedly, repeating her sister’s compliments towards Georgiana.
“Georgiana is so fortunate, that you should write letters of such length,” Miss Bingley remarked.
“Sometimes so long that they are never completed enough to actually send,” he replied wryly, trying fruitlessly to overhear what Elizabeth was saying.
“But think of the joy she must receive at such an obvious demonstration of devotion!” she prattled on, oozing admiration. He held onto his patience, reminding himself that he had spoken rudely to her earlier. Still, it was a near thing,and he bit down on a more sarcastic reply.What is Bingley telling Elizabeth that she finds so captivating?It was obvious that whatever the topic, Bingley was very enamoured of it, which was not particularly noteworthy; Bingley had several enthusiasms. Nonetheless, Elizabeth seemed riveted as well. Probably, they were discussing Mrs Collins—perhaps childhood anecdotes. Bingley’s obsession with the woman was unfortunate, and she could not recover soon enough to suit him!
When she did, however, Elizabeth would leave as well. The thought was disturbing, and he had to fight to keep his expression amiable.
