I really wished not to have any company at all, but I could see from the set of his jaw that he was not going to be easily talked out of it, so I decided it would be best to acquiesce. “All right, butI find I must make haste,” I said to him. “I am ever so ready to get off my feet.”
“Perhaps we should find a place to rest, Miss Bennet.”
“No, no, I must get back to the rectory immediately,” I said, and I took off, practically at a run.
He kept pace with me, however, but we both ended up a bit winded, which precluded any further conversation.
Once back at the parsonage, I said hasty goodbyes to him and threw myself into my room. I did not come out for luncheon. And when everyone left for tea, I did not go, saying I felt quite poorly.
I waited for Mr. Darcy to arrive.
He did not.
Later, everyone returned rather late, having obviously been asked to stay for dinner, and I poked my head out of the room to hear them all laughing together as they parted company to go to their own rooms.
Maria Lucas was staying in the room right next to mine. She looked as though she was floating, her face beaming with happiness. “Oh, Elizabeth, you’ll never believe what happened,” she said to me.
“Oh?” I said.
“Mr. Darcy asked me to marry him!” she exclaimed.
“Did he.” I furrowed my brow. That was very odd.
fitzwilliam
On my thirty-second Thursday (or thereabouts) something very strange happened.
Elizabeth Bennet came to tea.
She had never done that before, and I didn’t know what to think about that. After all, I had been living this day, over andover again, for over a month at this point, and no one else ever varied their behavior unless I did something to prompt it. But I had not seen Miss Bennet that day, so I could not have prompted a change in her behavior. Indeed, I had determined I would not see her at all if I could help it. I was still smarting from the way she’d turned down my marriage proposal.
I had been planning to ask Maria Lucas to marry me again. Yesterday, it had been quite enjoyable. She had been shocked, simply shocked, effusively grateful, and I had been overjoyed to have caused someone some happiness in this day that would not end.
But now, with Miss Bennet here, against all sense, I could not find it within myself to do it. I simply kept gaping at her.
She, for her part, stared mostly at me, which was strange, I realized, because she usually seemed to rather pointedly ignore me.
So, the tea was different. Usually, we all discussed the fact that Miss Bennet wasn’t there, first of all.
But she was there, so we didn’t do that.
Then my aunt would launch into a long and detailed discussion of Miss Bennet’s lack of prowess at the piano. “I have told her often to come and play on Mrs. Jenkinson’s instrument. She would not be in the way there, and I believe I have made that plain. One cannot improve if one does not practice, after all.”
So, my aunt said this, actually, but justtoMiss Bennet.
Miss Bennet gazed at me as she responded to my aunt. “You have informed me of this before, Lady Catherine. It is only that there is a reason I have not practiced the piano-forte hitherto, you see, and that is that I do not enjoy playing it.”
I snickered, in spite of myself. Was Miss Bennet funny? How had I failed to notice this? I held her gaze, raising my eyebrows.
“Well, of all the impudent answers to give, I think that’s quite one of the worst!” exclaimed my aunt. “We do not applyourselves, Miss Bennet, because of pleasure. We apply ourselves because we wish to improve.”
“Yes, well, I suppose I am defective in that way,” said Miss Bennet.
I laughed out loud.
“Oh, Mr. Darcy? You laugh?” Miss Bennet glared at me. “This is because you are convinced you are perfect in every way, as we have well established in our previous conversations.”
“No, no,” I said. “I distinctly remember telling you, Miss Bennet, that there is—within everyone—a propensity to imperfection. And I said your defect was that you willfully misunderstand me.”
