Darcy Comes to Rosings, page 2
She would not look into those dark, intense eyes, nor gaze upon the high cheekbones, the firm jaw. She would not be tempted to notice how his sable hair framed his face, nor how his lips curved enticingly.
No. Elizabeth Bennet was sensible, and would not fall prey to a man who considered himself too grand for her. She would put Fitzwilliam Darcy out of her mind as soon as she was out of his company.
But for now, his proximity was torment.
“How do you find Kent?” he asked.
“It is quite fine, or at least this corner of it is. Did you spend a great deal of time here when you were a boy?”
He did not answer at once. She wondered if he would deign to speak at all.
Pride seemed to be a family trait. Darcy’s aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, was every bit as proud in her demeanour as her nephew. Unfortunately, she lacked Darcy’s discerning mind, making her even more tedious than he. Enthralled with her own ideas, she rarely had time for anyone else’s.
Darcy kept pace with Lizzy, walking at her side. “I did not spend as much time in Kent as Lady Catherine would have liked. My father considered it his duty to stay most of the year at Pemberley, and my mother her duty to stay at her husband’s side rather than her sister’s.”
“And do you consider that the duty of a wife?”
“I hope that when I marry, my wife shall wish to be at my side out of affection rather than duty.”
Lizzy raised her brows. “Why Mr. Darcy, I did not realize you were romantic. Hailing from a noble family, I would have thought you more interested in forming a beneficial alliance.”
He coloured at that, which caught her by surprise. As diffident as he was, she had expected him to show no more feeling when talking about marriage than when talking about horseflesh. Indeed, Darcy was such an avid horseman, she would have expected truer ardour from him on that subject.
“What could be more beneficial,” he said slowly, “than perfect domestic felicity? A home filled with the laughter of children? I am fortunate that I need not worry about my place in the world. I am independent and may marry whomever I choose. I intend to marry a woman who will make me happy.”
A strange vibration stirred in Lizzy’s chest, but she willed it away. “And how shall you find such a woman, Mr. Darcy? My friend Charlotte believes that happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance—that it is better to know as little as possible of your mate’s disposition prior to matrimony.”
“That says a great deal about your friend Mrs. Collins, but nothing at all about matrimony.”
Lizzy laughed. It was the first time she had seen a spark of humour in Mr. Darcy, though she could not say whether it had been intentional.
“Mr. Darcy, you are unkind!”
“Come now, Miss Bennet, let us be honest. You give no more credence to Mrs. Collins’ opinion on the subject than I do. I would be quite astonished if you were to marry for anything less than love.”
Lizzy halted. She suddenly felt warm and could not breathe. The intensity of his eyes when he looked at her made her feel as if he had come upon her when she was wearing nothing more than her shift.
“You forget, Mr. Darcy, I am not independent. My place in the world is not settled. I do not have the luxury of marrying whomever I choose.”
A stricken look came over his face. A long moment passed between them that she could not find voice to fill. She wished she could have prattled and teased, to make light of her plight; but in truth, her choices were poverty or marrying well. Given her meagre dowry, it was likely that any man who offered for her would be of a lower station than her father. Marriage would mean coming down in life, but if she was in love, she could endure it.
But what if marrying for love never became an option? If she were a spinster at twenty-seven, as Charlotte had been, would she be forced to take the same drastic measure, and marry a man she could not esteem for the sake of money?
The very idea was repugnant to her. Would not poverty be better than that?
“Miss Bennet, I believe I have distressed you.”
“Not at all.”
“I am afraid that anything I could say on the subject would sound impudent, but I hate to see your spirits dampened in this manner.”
“My spirits dampened!” Ire shot through her veins. She blinked back tears, thinking how dependent she was on a husband for her very survival, whilst he spoke blithely of marrying for love.
“Forgive me, Mr. Darcy, if my company is not as entertaining as you would like. It was your choice to accompany me to the parsonage. I am capable of walking alone.”
He was silent again for some moments before saying. “My apologies. I did not mean to be unkind. My only intention was to express concern for you.”
Her anger did not lessen, but she could not ignore his apology. “Of course,” she said. “I thank you for your kindness.” Adopting a teasing air she did not feel, she added, “Perhaps these misunderstandings are bound to arise when you spend time in the company of someone as far beneath you as I am.”
“Beneath me!” He stepped forward, his eyes searching hers. “Miss Bennet, that is nonsense. Except for the disparity in our fortunes, I consider you entirely my equal.”
His words astonished her. Mr. Darcy, always so proud, calling her his equal! But it was preposterous. They both knew it was.
“The disparity in our fortunes is great.”
He did not answer, but instead seemed to sink deep into thought.
They walked on, Lizzy as miserable as she had ever felt in her life. She did not doubt she could match him in a battle of wits. Given her circumstances, however, she could not hope to live in anything approaching the kind of luxury he took for granted.
No. They were anything but equal.
Her throat tightened, and she was glad he said nothing that required a response. She was unsure she could force out a word. Usually she was at peace with her lot—but she could not help longing for more, when the contrast between them was so great.
She was staying at the cottage, and he at Rosings, and that said all there was to say about their stations. Were he the most agreeable man in the world, she could not aspire to him. Not even if he pretended that the material differences between them were as nothing.
They soon reached the parsonage gate. He stopped and said, “As you are perfectly capable of walking on your own, I shall take my leave here. Good day, Miss Bennet.” Turning, he walked quickly away.
Lizzy could only stare. Had she offended him? She thought, as she opened the gate, that she probably had. Why did that trouble her so? The man was intolerable.
He had shown kindness, though—she could not deny that. She had been less generous toward him than he toward her.
But then, Darcy could afford to be generous.
She stepped inside the parsonage and took off her bonnet. He had seemed to feel sympathy for her plight. His treatment of her sister Jane, though, had shown nothing of the sort. Lizzy could not prove that Darcy had persuaded Jane’s suitor, Charles Bingley, to abandon her. Yet she had no more doubt of it than if she had been witness to the entire event.
No; no matter how sympathetic Darcy seemed, he had done material harm not just to Jane, but to her entire family. Bingley would have been a safeguard against destitution. But more than that, he and Jane had been deeply in love. In the five months they had been apart, Jane’s devotion to him showed no signs of abating. Her heart was broken.
It was Darcy’s doing. And it was unforgiveable.
∞∞∞
Stupid, stupid, stupid! Darcy could not stop berating himself as he continued his walk back to Rosings. When he had encountered Elizabeth, he had determined to make an effort to be pleasing. Yet somehow, dolt that he was, he had distressed her.
This was what came of changing his routine. Normally he rode in the morning. But it was such a fine day, he had decided to walk along one of that paths that had been a favourite when he was a child.
Elizabeth had teased him often enough about being too silent in company. So he had forced himself to talk, and made a bungled mess of it. If she did not delight in teasing him, he would have thought her truly angry. Or perhaps she had been angry. Puzzle that she was, he could not tell.
What vexed him more was her ridiculous notion about the inequality between them. She, beneath him! The only way he could picture her beneath him involved a bed on their wedding night.
Yet it was lunacy to think of her that way. No matter how he ached for her, no matter how much he respected her, marriage between them was impossible.
He had been so careful, ever since he had left university, to avoid romantic entanglements. He had a list of criteria for the right sort of woman to be mistress of Pemberley. First, she must be a woman of fortune. How else could he ensure that her interest was in him and not his income?
He wanted a marriage like his parents had had, based on love and mutual respect. He knew well what Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s circumstances were. It had been whispered about enough when he had been in Hertfordshire.
The Bennet sisters were pretty and were expected to marry well. But in their case, it was a necessity. He did not wish for a wife who saw him only as a safeguard against poverty.
When he had quitted Hertfordshire five months earlier, he had expected to forget Elizabeth in a few weeks’ time. Instead, the absence had only proven how strong the attachment was. He was in love, body and spirit—violently, passionately in love.
The news that she was staying near Rosings had come as a shock to him. He had determined that this visit would rid him of his fever for her, once and for all. Instead, he found himself in a setting made for love. Trees bright with blooms. Birds singing their mating calls. Streams bursting their banks from the spring rains.
And Elizabeth, wild as a colt, traipsing through the countryside, her cheeks aglow. Could anything be more lovely?
He burned to make her his.
As he had said to her, he had the means to marry whomever he chose. And Elizabeth, though she might not be in love with him yet—surely, she could be persuaded?
But he had more to consider than her own fair self. There were significant objections to her family. He had saved Bingley from the greedy clutches of Mrs. Bennet. The family matriarch had sought out Bingley as husband for the eldest daughter, Jane, from the moment she had met him—possibly before.
Should Darcy have to endure such a woman as his mother-in-law? And the younger Bennet girls, wild and ignorant, as his sisters? What sort of influence would they have on his own sister, Georgiana?
No, it was unthinkable. And yet, so was life without his dear Elizabeth.
Ever since arriving at Rosings, he had come to think of her as his own. But it could not be. He must rid himself of this mad desire.
He reached the lawn and headed toward his aunt’s house. The façade was beautiful but imposing, turrets framing the portico. As a boy, it had frightened him, even though he had grown up in a great house himself. His home at Pemberley was a jewel, not a fortress. The thought of Elizabeth as its mistress raised a longing inside him he could hardly bear.
The fawning of Bingley’s sisters and their ilk—ladies who had attended one of those awful finishing schools that spent more time training their charges on how to win a husband than on improving their minds—turned him cold and cynical. But Elizabeth’s lively spirit and irrepressible humour kept him rapt. He needed a woman who could challenge him and keep his mind sharp.
When he had quitted Netherfield back in November, he had been determined to forget her. To seek a wife who matched his own social standing. An earl’s daughter, perhaps.
The fact was, Darcy had certain expectations to meet. He must think of his children. Their circumstances would be diminished if he married a woman of negligible fortune. Although Pemberley had no entail, he did not intend to sell off property to arrange a suitable dowry for his daughters.
His chest grew heavy. What a blackguard he sounded, even to himself. If another man had suggested a woman anywhere on earth was superior to Elizabeth Bennet, Darcy would have called him out.
He walked up the stone steps and entered the house. The wrath of Lady Catherine would be formidable if he married a woman who was virtually penniless, regardless of the lady’s other qualities.
A brilliant match would benefit everyone in the family—and he was expected to make a brilliant match. An alliance with the Bennets would likely do his family no ill, but it would do them no good, either. It certainly would not help Georgiana’s prospects.
He climbed the curving wooden staircase to his room. He could not bear to be in company, not when he was in such torment. How had he allowed this to happen?
He had seen other men besotted, and thought them weak. He had not understood how love could destroy all logic. How it could make every disadvantage seem desirable. Elizabeth Bennet was not an impoverished gentlewoman with country manners. She was an unspoiled jewel who constantly surprised him.
He had been a blockhead, thinking that if he came to Rosings and saw her again, she would not shine as bright—thinking that the longing of his heart had conjured up some idealized version of her.
On the contrary, his memories had been but dim imitations of the lady herself. She was even more delightful, more beautiful, more perfect for him than she had been in Hertfordshire. In the comfort of his aunt’s home, without Elizabeth’s country relations to distract, he could see even more clearly how poised she was, how playful, how she fulfilled every longing of his heart.
He entered his room and stirred the embers in the fire. What a damnable fool he was! He had got himself into this predicament, and he would have to get himself out. He ought to leave this place, go back to London and never see her again.
The prospect filled him with dread. He ought to, but he would not. His heart would not allow it.
No, he had three weeks to overcome this impossible desire before they would part forever. That was time enough to fall out of love, to discover her faults, to teach himself to feel disgust at her impertinence. He would—he must—forget her.
∞∞∞
Lizzy sat down to dinner at the parsonage that evening, a simple meal of pork and mashed turnips. The aroma was heavenly. It made a nice change from the sumptuous feasts they enjoyed during dinners at Rosings, which could sometimes overwhelm the palate.
It was a quiet family gathering, just the four of them. Maria was in a state of distress after a letter from her younger sister earlier that day. She cried to Charlotte, “But how can my parents hold Hannah’s debut ball two weeks before I return home?”
“I understand your disappointment,” Charlotte said. “I was hoping to attend her debut as well. But with the officers decamping to Brighton—”
“To Brighton!” Lizzy cried. She should not have been surprised. The militia officers had been stationed in the town of Meryton for the winter, a short walk from her home at Longbourn. But of course they would head out to defend the coast now that the fair weather had rendered an invasion more likely.
The presence of the officers had created no little excitement amongst the gentlewomen of the town. Lizzy’s youngest sisters, Lydia and Kitty, were quite mad for them. She herself had remained more circumspect, but had nevertheless developed a preference for one of the lieutenants. In the end, he had served as nothing more than a reminder of the inadequacy of her fortune.
“Oh, yes,” Maria said. “The militia is leaving for the coast at the end of May. Hannah is determined to come out before they do. But surely she shall not find a husband from amongst them in the few weeks before they leave!”
“My dear sister,” Mr. Collins said to Maria, “it is my experience that a long acquaintance is not required in order to discover that person who possesses exactly those qualities one most desires to ensure marital felicity.”
Lizzy bit back a smile. That had certainly been true in his own case—for he had proposed to Charlotte but two days after Lizzy herself had refused him.
Maria sawed angrily into her slice of pork roast, metal clanging against china. “I think Hannah is coming out now because she fancies Mr. Wickham.”
Lizzy berated herself for the little ache that rose in her breast at the sound of the man’s name.
Charlotte’s brows rose. “I do not think much of Mr. Wickham’s constancy, given how his head turned when he learned of Miss King’s inheritance.”
Charlotte’s cutting words only increased Lizzy’s discomfort. Her cheeks burned at the memory. Wickham had seemed to prefer herself until Miss King unexpectedly came into ten thousand pounds. As he had no more fortune than Lizzy, she could hardly blame him. The pay of a militia officer barely sufficed to meet his expenses.
That did not stop George Wickham from being one of the handsomest, most agreeable men Lizzy had ever met. She could admit to herself, at least, that the loss of his attentions had been disappointing. She did not suffer a broken heart, though, as Jane did. Wickham had not played false with her affections. She could not lay that fault at his feet.
Had Charlotte misunderstood the situation between Wickham and Lizzy? “Perhaps such censure is too strong,” Lizzy said to her friend. “To my knowledge, Mr. Wickham had made no promises to another.”
Charlotte eyed Lizzy. In a gentle voice, she said, “Nor had he shown any interest in Miss King until word had spread of her sudden fortune.”
That much was true. Lizzy had been his favourite. It had been a fine thing to be admired by the most sought-after of the young officers. The memory of losing his partiality gave her a pang—not least of all because her neighbours had observed how he had transferred his interest to Miss King.
But even if he had not, a match between him and Lizzy would have been disastrous.
“Miss King seemed most pleased by his attentions,” Maria said. “One cannot help wondering why she removed to Liverpool.”
“Liverpool!” Lizzy’s mouth grew dry, and she sipped her spruce beer. The prospect of exciting Wickham’s attentions to return to herself lifted her spirits, but only for a moment. He would be gone a fortnight after she returned to Longbourn. In any case, unless he miraculously came by a living, a union between them was impossible.
