One Thread Pulled: The Dance With Mr. Darcy (20 page)

“Yes, I believe she is,” Mr. Darcy replied. “May I be so bold as to inquire whether my aunt has provided you with her counsel in this matter, or is her assessment to come at a later time?”

Mr. Collins lowered his voice to nearly a whisper and replied, “It is an honor, indeed, to enter into this confidence with you, Mr. Darcy. The ultimate selection is mine, of course, but Lady Catherine did show great favor to the second eldest, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

Elizabeth shuddered at what she was overhearing, but it gave her hope too. Mr. Collins could make his own choice. Their plan for Mary stood at least a small chance of success.

“The second eldest?” Mr. Darcy's voice had dropped to match the tone of Mr. Collins, although it had developed a hard edge.

“Mr. Collins.” Elizabeth turned and peered around Mr. Darcy, interrupting the gentlemen's conversation. “My sister Mary informs me that she is having difficulty with a passage in Fordyce's sermons. Might you be willing to assist?”

Mr. Collins glanced quickly at Mary, who smiled weakly at him, but he turned again and addressed Elizabeth. “My dearest cousin, if it would please you, I would be delighted to help her make it out. I shall return directly.”

Elizabeth shared a triumphant smile with Jane as Mr. Collins made his way to Mary's side, where Mary was prepared with the difficult passage the three sisters had identified earlier as being one of great doctrinal import.

It was then that Elizabeth noted that Mr. Darcy was intent on Mr. Collins and Mary. It would not do to have him discover what the three sisters were about, and so, with a sigh, she determined that she must divert Mr. Darcy's attention by any means possible.

Mr. Darcy, upon hearing Elizabeth's breath exhale, shifted his attitude to better engage in conversation.

“Miss Bennet? That was a very deep sigh ... is there some vexation that troubles you?” Mr. Darcy asked curiously.

Elizabeth was somewhat perplexed that Mr. Darcy would broach a topic of such intimacy as her troubles as though he were a dear friend rather than an indifferent acquaintance. “I believe, Mr. Darcy, that I sigh ... deeply ... rather often. It is a very bad habit, I know. I hope that I did not disturb you.”

“Not at all” Mr. Darcy mumbled, disappointed that the conversation had died so quickly. He glanced again at Mr. Collins and Mary.

“Although, perhaps...,” Elizabeth waited until Mr. Darcy looked at her again, “perhaps you could elaborate on what you said of Napoleon earlier. It put questions into my mind ... of justice. As you know, that is a topic I have put some thought to of late—one of the dangers of reading Plato, I fear.”

“Justice,” Mr. Darcy looked strangely at Elizabeth, “is a lofty principle, and I believe in it.” He shook his head as he spoke. “Sometimes, however, seeking justice for its own sake serves to further injure those who deserve its protection. Napoleon will be stopped, and in his case, justice meted out, but in the world of common men, justice as a principle is not always so easy to apply.”

“Justice should always be tempered with mercy,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully, “but to abandon the principle merely to prevent pain dishonors those who have been wronged and fails to protect society from the wrongdoer. On this point, we must disagree, Mr. Darcy. The easiness of application should not be a consideration.”

“You are young,” Mr. Darcy said, his brows knitted together with tension, “and innocent. You cannot know of what you speak.”

Elizabeth's eyebrow shot up. “Are you so very old, Mr. Darcy, that your lofty principles are already tarnished with a cynical bent? I am surprised, for whatever other impressions I have had of you, lack of resolve in the face of injustice was not among them.”

“Impressions are brittle grounds by which to sketch a man's character, Miss Bennet. I assure you that my resolve is painfully intact.” Mr. Darcy's voice carried an intensity that was slightly unnerving. “And as for the rest of my character, I fear that any attempt to sketch it at present would do neither of us credit.”

Elizabeth looked up, caught Mary’s eye again, and repeated her reminder signals to her sister.

“You mentioned swordsmanship in your address to Mr. Wickham, Mr. Darcy. That was an interesting turn of conversation.” Elizabeth pursed her lips. “Your counsel to Mr. Wickham intrigues me. Was your advice to him general or specific in nature?”

“It is in general good advice.” Mr. Darcy said, “And in Mr. Wickham's case, it was faithful counsel.”

“How are you acquainted with Mr. Wickham?” Elizabeth asked, curious about the handsome new officer. “We were just making his acquaintance today when you came upon us in Meryton.”

“I have known him since we were children. He was the son of my late father's steward.” Mr. Darcy replied evenly, concerned at the eagerness he detected in her. “We have gone our separate ways.”

“He seemed most amiable.” Elizabeth reflected.

Darcy's eyebrows pressed together in evident concern, and he spoke with an intensity that exceeded his expression. “Miss Bennet,
 
please do not involve yourself with George Wickham.
 
I can say no more, but I beg you, do not give him any consequence.” Darcy abruptly stood and returned to his place at the window.

Elizabeth, astonished by Mr. Darcy's behavior, returned to her needlework, pondering the conversation she had just had with him, including his agitation when the topic had turned to Mr. Wickham.

Several minutes passed, during which time Mary managed to hold Mr. Collins captive to the intricacies of Fordyce's Sermons, Jane to maintain her mother's equilibrium, and Lydia and Kitty to giggle about each officer in the Meryton-based militia three or four times. Mr. Darcy managed to brood and stare at Elizabeth in the window glass, and Elizabeth managed to ignore him perfectly well.

At present, the door opened, and Bingley and Mr. Bennet entered the sitting room together. Bingley's face could not conceal his happiness, so the announcement was made to the inhabitants of the room that Mr. Bingley had entered into a state of courtship with Jane, and in addition, he was prepared to host a ball at Netherfield five days hence.

Jane and Mr. Bingley were ecstatic and warmly received the flow of compliments that were directed at them. Lydia and Kitty began whispering about how much more handsome Mr. Bingley would be if he were an officer in regimentals, but that was no matter as the officers would, of course, be at the ball. Mrs. Bennet followed Mr. Bennet to the study, where she insisted upon knowing why it was merely a courtship Mr. Bingley had initiated rather than an engagement. Mr. Collins was put out, for Mrs. Bennet had informed him that Jane was to be
 
engaged,
 
causing him to rule out the eldest too soon, which had spoiled his chances at the most beautiful sister
.
 
Mary returned to quiet contemplations, quite satisfied with the time she had spent with Mr. Collins. Elizabeth held her needlework in her lap and simply smiled delightedly at the scene before her. Darcy gave up using the glass to observe her and returned to his previous habit of openly staring at the lovely Elizabeth Bennet.

Chapter Twenty-One

Mr. Darcy's Dilemma

F
ive Days!
 
Can a man go mad in five days?
 
Darcy had been up long before sunrise, pacing the floor, keeping company with his insomniac, unruly mind. Bingley had set the date for the ball, five days hence, and now that the date was fixed, the torture of its anticipation was acute. Five days was not nearly enough to tend to the urgent business at hand, and yet it seemed an eternity away in light of his proximity to Longbourn and the distraction of its occupants.

When Charles Bingley had requested his counsel on letting the Netherfield Park estate, his friend had promised him a pleasant month or two in Hertfordshire, should the house prove acceptable, where he could forget his troubles for a time. To shed his burdens in an idyllic, obscure country setting had seemed, at the time, an offer of respite he could not refuse. He had been, although he would deny it if pressed, deeply weary and in need of restoration of his spirits.

The location had seemed perfect. He knew no one in Hertfordshire and doubted that any of his acquaintance had ever heard of the village of Meryton. His aunt had no connections in the county, and only a select few of his most trusted servants knew the location of his retreat. He had informed but two relations of his whereabouts, his sister, Georgiana, and his cousin Richard Fitzwilliam, in order to maintain his correspondence with them. Here he could hunt and ride and forget, for a time, the grief and trauma of the past year. In some degree of anonymity, he could evade the soul-crushing social press of London and remove himself from his Aunt Catherine's increasingly annoying interference in his life.

It was a disaster. His aunt, who he was certain had never entered the county in her life, had suddenly appeared at the neighboring estate with her new parson—their cousin, no less! He could not have foreseen that.
 
At least that idiotic clergyman seems oblivious to my evasion of Aunt Catherine, fool that he is, or he would call my aunt back to Meryton in a trice.

Meryton, Darcy thought, must be a capital place for evasion. He reflected on the several months he and Richard had unsuccessfully chased George Wickham to seek some private retribution on him. Wickham deserved to pay dearly for his dalliance with Georgiana, but the search had been fruitless. George Wickham had escaped them and disappeared. To find him suddenly in Meryton, speaking to those same neighbors from Longbourn, had been a shock and an unforeseen windfall of opportunity, which he was already pursuing.

Oh, those neighbors from Longbourn! How much better it would have been for him had he remained unaware of that house, and most particularly, of Elizabeth Bennet. She had ruined him. Thoughts of leaving Hertfordshire to avoid her presence depressed him, thoughts of staying to be near her tortured him equally. She haunted his dreams by night; she ignited his passions by day. Never before had he allowed himself to indulge in unattainable fantasies, and yet of late, he found himself drifting into that realm, a place where Elizabeth Bennet was graced with better, nobler relations and a fortune of her own. In that place, he could seek her hand without censure, and his duties and obligations to his family were not offended, for her place in society was no longer so decidedly below his own.

Duty to family—what an insidious concept inhabited that phrase! The darkness that had gripped him the evening before returned and filled him with nausea at the knowledge that Mr. Collins would most certainly make an offer of marriage to Elizabeth. He knew her duty to her family would only be served with acceptance. There was no way out for her, yet the thought of Mr. Collins bedding Elizabeth as his wife could not be borne. It was unthinkable. Mr. Darcy was filled with an inexplicable rage toward Mr. Collins. Salvation indeed! What was salvation if it took its recipient to misery? There was only one answer—
Elizabeth must refuse him!
 
Defy her family and act in her own best interests!

He knew he could not dare to hope that she would refuse. Just last night, he had seen with his own eyes that Elizabeth had changed her appearance to better appeal to Mr. Collins' sensibilities of propriety. Her dress had been modest and humble, her hairstyle plain. What could explain it if not her desire to prove herself an acceptable parson's wife? Jealousy ripped through Darcy like a blade, to know that she had never done the same for him—taken extra care in her appearance to please him—but had done so for the sanctimonious, odious Mr. Collins. Worse, it was humiliating to know that she never would, for she could never know of his growing love for her. He must bear that burden alone.

Mr. Darcy looked through the window toward the rosy lavender light of the breaking dawn. Although Longbourn was three miles away, he imagined he could see the smoke rising from the chimneys there. What was Elizabeth doing? Was she still abed, her hair tousled, her exquisite eyes still touched by sleep? Was she seeing to her toilette, washing herself in the floral waters that made her smell like spring? Perhaps she was dressing, slipping into a frock that would tantalize him with the way it clung to her pleasing figure.

Yes.
 
He answered his earlier question.
 
A man could easily go mad in five days with such thoughts as these.