Having no settled plan for the next hour, much less the rest of my life, I persisted in radiating a sense of calm in the face of our altered circumstances. Sam, meanwhile, was dispatched to the post office on her behalf with the “note for Susan,” and he returned with a startling packet of letters from Hertfordshire. How long the lady had been without news from her family could only be a matter of speculation.
As Elizabeth read her letters, I slipped into the room and sat across from her, contemplating the unsolvable quandary that followed me everywhere. By degrees, I became aware of her face and began to read it while she read her correspondence. Her primary expression was one of settled resignation, of chagrin perhaps, until something she read caused her eyes to widen, her cheeks to flush, and her chest to heave in agitation.
What in God’s name?I clenched my fists into balls and forced myself to speak calmly. “Is all well?”
She spoke evasively and would not quite meet my eye, beginning with, “Oh well,” and ending with a light jest about living in a houseful of girls.
Georgiana’s ears pricked up at this, and she asked after Elizabeth’s family with keen interest that faded into uncertainty since she had not thought to ask before. With characteristic effortlessness, our guest brushed aside her inquiries. Clearly, she did not wish to be reminded of her family and took my sister in search of trifles for Mrs. Jennings’s entertainment.
I was once again left behind, forced to quell a strong urge to call for my horse and ride somewhere to slay someone. Clearly, someone or something had upset her, and I was again struck by how little support she had. If only Mr. Bennet would—but, of course, if he had been the kind of father he should have been, she would not be in my house.
The pang I felt at the mere thought of never knowing her better caught me quite off my guard, so I called for my steward, and we rode out to survey the southern road taken by the market carts to plan for its seasonal repairs.
Chapter Thirty-Six
As the se’nnight approached marking the date I had dispatched Elizabeth’s letter to Mr. Gardiner, we—she and I, at least—became increasingly conscious that he would, sooner than later, come to fetch her. Concomitant to this awareness was the lady’s increasing introspection. Upon occasion, I caught an expression on her face of perfect sorrow, and twice I saw an unmistakable longing cloud those unforgettable eyes.
I had heretofore intruded upon her notice out of mischief—a boywillfind any opportunity to annoy a girl irresistible. But these haunted looks wrung me dry of mischief, and I began to make myself available to her for the purpose of perhaps lifting her spirits or, if I were lucky, inducing her to confide in me.
She did not want to go home; that seemed clear to me. But she had not beensounhappy at Longbourn when I met her there. The disproportionate nature of her despondency to the penalty she would incur for not having written to Mr. Gardiner weeks ago led me to entertain a rather dangerous conclusion.
I still clung to the last ray of hope that I could escape whole—arms, legs and wits intact—and that the experience of love would make me a better man, much like the completion of a formidable expedition to Egypt would forever expand one’s perspective. Even in my father’s generation, brushes with romantic attachment were forgiven so long as they did not disrupt one’s duty to marry where one should. But if Elizabeth returned my affection? The notion of escape was impossible! If she wanted something, I would give it to her, and this applied to my life and my name.
Strange indeed to have lived my entire life with the assumption that I wasalwayswanted, only to discover—shockingly—that one person at least had begun so indifferent to me that, if she changed her mind,Iwould consider myself fortunate!
My father’s voice harrumphed and grumbled, barking that if I were to go to London and offer foranyonein thehaute tonas yet unmarried, I would be accepted with amazed, grateful humility.
I went in search of Elizabeth then, for I wished to test out my suspicion and to know her feelings with certainty. Did she remain indifferent, or had she developed an inclination for my company? Either way, I was torn into ragged halves.
She was in the gallery again, and I went up the flight of steps with a settled intention to at least know my fate.
“There you are,” I said briskly.
She broke from her pensive contemplation of the lake and turned to me in surprise. “Have you been looking for me, sir?”
“Everywhere. I see you have found the judge.”
She effortlessly engaged my sense of humor with regard to that portrait, and I took her down the receiving line and introduced her to my forebears. She sometimes looked with interest upon various portraits, refraining from comment, and she sometimes felt compelled to laugh.
“The poor man,” she said with a chuckle, staring up at one of the D’Arcy notables from long ago. “Hemusthave been bald. Only a bald man would wear such a monument to hair upon his head. What must a wig of that immensity weigh, I wonder?”
“Yes, but consider the size of our necks in consequence.”
“Oh? Is that a feature deserving of pride? I suppose it must be since such enormous heads must be supportedsomehow.”
What choice did I have but to laugh aloud at that? It was pointedly true and, at the same time, ridiculous that we thought so much of ourselves.
When we came to a different kind of painting—a small and casual portrait in the modern style of two young women dandling infants in their laps—she looked up at me in curious enquiry.
“My mother and her sister, Lady Catherine,” I explained.
“My word, Mr. Darcy! Is that you? What were they feeding you?”
“Far too much, apparently.”
“And that is your cousin? I wonder whether you were stealing all her portions. She was rather small, was she not?”
“That is Anne de Bourgh. She was born sickly and has always been so.”
