He told himself it did not matter: a gentleman of his position ought not to be swayed by a country miss, however fine her eyes.
And yet he had not forgotten them.
Nor, he told himself, was there any reason that he should – though he could not quite approve the persistence of the recollection.
It puzzled him more than he cared to admit. He had been admired often enough, courted for his fortune, his name, his consequence. He knew many ladies considered him handsome. It was a new thing to find himself the object of indifference, or worse, of disdain.
She had refused to dance with him, not once, but twice. No one had ever done so. He could not figure her out, nor, he admitted with some reluctance, had he ceased trying. That recollection pricked his pride, though strangely it did not chill his curiosity. Rather, it heightened it.
It did occur to him that Miss Elizabeth had appeared so inappropriately at Netherfield to forward herself in his eyes. But then, he argued inwardly, would she not have made sure she was presented immaculately? Not that her appearance injured her in his eyes. He was a man, and he rather enjoyed her complexion, though he would not, under ordinary circumstances, have allowed himself to dwell upon it. Her state of dishevelment was not without effect upon him either, though he was sure she had not intended it. Also, she spent most of her time with her sister rather than downstairs, so the idea that she wanted to impress him did not seem to hold.
She was quite unpretentious, confident, and witty. He found her person beguiling. He smiled at the memory. There had been that walk at Netherfield on Miss Bingley’s suggestion. He had jested, awkwardly enough, that they sought only to display their figures. She had answered him with such a look, half-mocking and half-playful, that for an instant he could not decide whether she teased or encouraged him. It was not the sort of exchange he was accustomed to having with women, nor one he had been entirely prepared to understand. He was not sure what such an exchange meant, but that he had been drawn into it at all astonished him still.
Darcy tightened the reins, impatient with his own weakness. He had duties beyond Hertfordshire, duties to Pemberley, to Georgiana, to the generations before him. He was not free to indulge fancies, however appealing. Still, as he turned his horsealong the rise, the clear morning granted him an unimpeded view of the meadow path below, and upon it a slight figure, walking with brisk purpose across the open ground. The vigour of her step, the graceful carriage – he knew it instinctively.
Miss Elizabeth.
He watched – at first without thought, and then, when he became aware of it, without immediately choosing to look away. He could do that. He did not approach; he had no reason, no right. But as he paused upon the crest of the hill and looked down, he felt an unwelcome warmth stir within him. It was a mixture of curiosity, vexation, and something more tender, which he was unwilling to examine too closely.
He pressed his heels to his horse and moved on, yet the image remained: her figure outlined against the pale November sky, imprinted upon his thoughts with a force that no sense of duty could quite efface. He rode on for some distance before he became aware that he had taken no notice of the road before him. Such distraction was unlike him, and he checked it at once; yet the effort cost him more than he cared to own.
***
After his ride, Darcy submitted himself to his valet with less patience than usual. The scrape of the razor, the rustle of the brush, the faint sting of soap – all these were things he commonly bore without thought, but this morning he found them intolerably slow. The mirror gave back his own features, steady and composed as ever, yet his mind was far from tranquil.
It was now three days since he had last seen Miss Elizabeth. Even then, he never spoke to her. A glance, a look into each other’s eyes. That was all he was afforded before…
… he saw Wickham.
Why now, why here?Of all places to cross paths, it must be Meryton’s narrow street, and at Elizabeth Bennet’s very side. Darcy recalled, with a tightening of his jaw, the moment their eyes had met. The colour had drained from Wickham’s face; Darcy, on the other hand, had felt his own redden with unbidden anger. It was the first time he had seen him since he quit Ramsgate. Wickham had saluted with insolent ease, from behind the ladies, as if to remind him that the past was not so easily escaped.
And Elizabeth – she had been there, watching.
What she must have thought of him, he could not determine – nor was he easy under the uncertainty.
He adjusted his cravat before the glass, his movements precise, as though order in dress might restore order in thought. But the effort was vain. He saw her astonishment again as she looked between them.Of course, she would be curious.She would wonder at the sudden change in their countenances, the coldness of their bow. And Wickham, with his practised charm, would not fail to offer her some tale. A tale turned to his own advantage, blackening Darcy’s name while winning her sympathy.
For a moment, he considered: ought he to warn her? A word of caution might prevent her from being deceived. But no. To speak would be to drag her into a history she had no claim to share, a history painful to himself and mortifying to his family. He could not expose Georgiana, nor would he condescend to defend himself before a young lady whose opinion should mean nothing to him.
And yet it troubled him – more, perhaps, than he would willingly confess, even to himself, that she might think ill of him. She, with her clear eyes and her lively mind, whose judgementalready seemed too quick to condemn him. He pulled on his coat with a sharper motion than was necessary, fastening the buttons as though each were an act of resistance.
He would be silent. Wickham might whisper what falsehoods he pleased; Darcy would not descend to contradict them. He did not owe anybody an explanation, not even her. And yet, the reflection did not bring him the ease he expected. The thought of Elizabeth’s regard being turned against him lodged like a thorn beneath his composure, small, perhaps, but not easily disregarded once felt.
***
He descended to the dining-room to find Bingley already at table, cheerful as ever over ham and eggs, and Mr. Hurst comfortably occupied with his plate, speaking little, save to request the claret. Darcy seated himself, offering the ordinary civilities, and took coffee.
“You were out early, Darcy,” Bingley said, his face alight. “I never saw such a fellow for riding. Do you find the Hertfordshire air invigorating?”
Darcy allowed a half-smile. “It is fresh enough.”
“That is a recommendation in itself,” Bingley replied, cutting his toast with brisk contentment.
Hurst gave no opinion, save a grunt of satisfaction as he applied himself to the dish before him.
It was not long before Miss Bingley swept in, her voice preceding her with its usual music of complaint. “I protest, this country air will be the ruin of my complexion. Louisa, do you not feel the same?”
Mrs. Hurst, who followed in a more languid state, assented with a graceful sigh. “Indeed, Caroline, I should prefer Grosvenor Street to all Hertfordshire combined.”
