Page 7 of A Good Memory is Unpardonable (Frolic and Romance #2)

Six

P erhaps at this point, something ought to be said of Elizabeth’s temper.

I have seldom met a woman more prepared to leap to the wrong conclusion and then to cling fast to it like a wildcat her prey.

I confess, our first row was bitter and furious enough that I.

.. oh, how this memory agonizes me to this day, for I think of how close I came to not knowing the happiness that has been mine half a lifetime now!

I left Netherfield.

In my defense, it began innocently enough. An ill-judged comment to the wrong person—Caroline Bingley, to name her—and Elizabeth came away absolutely assured that I despised her family, held her sister in contempt, and was, in general, a selfish churl who cared nothing for the feelings of others.

She was correct, sadly. But I did come to repent of it. The tale of how we arrived at that point is in some parts the stuff of family legend, and in others a matter of such treasured, private memories that I will not even share them here.

I would not have the reader conclude that my accidental insult of Elizabeth’s favorite sister was sufficient to cast me out of Netherfield.

She is not quite so hot-tempered and stubborn as that.

It was the following day, when I tried to make amends without a proper apology, that I learned just how savage her devotion to her family was.

And how acid her tongue could be, because no one had ever dared to call me arrogant, conceited, and the last man in the world she cared to listen to.

Young men, take note: it is not a wise tactic when trying to smooth the waters with your favored lady, to maintain yourself to be in the right, even as you declare your expectation that she should come to see the affair from your perspective.

It will end sorely. To illustrate, I believe I said something about her mother’s lack of decorum, her father’s complete failure to govern his daughters, and her younger sisters’ indecent behavior concerning gentlemen.

It did not matter that I was right at each point.

In fact, in later years, she came to agree with me in nearly every particular (though she has taught me to love them despite their flaws, as she does).

What mattered was the harshness of my manner, my absolute inflexibility in declaring my opinion the superior one, and my failure to see both the tears starting in her eyes and her hand raising to slap me soundly.

I departed for London half an hour later.

I returned in less than a fortnight, hat in hand and my sister Georgiana in tow (I am not above employing whatever advantage I can when so much is at stake).

Before I describe my reception and subsequent (successful) apology, I ought to say something of Georgiana.

She was left to my care upon our father’s death, when she was eleven, and I was the same age as Charles Bingley.

My cousin Richard shared in her guardianship on paper, but in reality, he was most often with his regiment, so she was my concern almost exclusively.

Not that I did not adore her. I would have had it no other way, but I see now how ill-equipped I was to raise her.

The mistakes I made were colossal and potentially devastating.

I do not exaggerate when I state that I nearly lost her, and it was only Providence that intervened when I was too blind to see my errors.

When I fled Hertfordshire that October, still nursing my bruised pride, it was Georgiana’s dear face that greeted me again in London.

Thus reminded of my own fallibility, it was mere days before I was resolved to right this second great wrong of mine before it, too, had the power to destroy my life.

Elizabeth consented to a private interview, out in the garden, where we could be observed but not overheard.

She stood mute and aloof, poised as an offended goddess and nearly as lovely to my already appreciative eyes.

I will not say that my heart had determined to claim her by then, but it was probably well on its secret way to making itself her own.

What I can surely confess is that I had come to hold her as a respected friend, one I had mortified and one whose opinion I valued. And so, I merely spread my hands, making myself vulnerable, and invited her, “Speak your grievances, madam.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came forth, which was novel in my experience with her. She studied me with those matchless eyes, taking her measure of my contrition and sincerity. “You are terribly unfair, sir,” she said at last.

“How so? Do you not deserve to have your say?”

“Indeed, I do, but you know perfectly well that I am at my most eloquent when I am bantering your own words back to you. Yet, here you simply open a conversational void and expect me to fill it with insults against your character. How am I to respond without making a shrew of myself?”

“You could never be a shrew. If anyone can craft a conversation from nothing, it is you. As to my character, have I not granted you ample fodder?”

She crossed her arms. “You act as if I have been doing nothing this past fortnight but ruminating on your insults, and the first words out of my mouth will naturally be recrimination.”

“Perhaps I make the mistake of assuming your sentiments are like mine, for I have thought of nothing but my offenses against you. However...” I sighed, a bit more wounded by her reluctance to attack me than I would have expected.

“If leaving matters between us as they were two weeks ago does not trouble you, then perhaps I was mistaken and should simply return to London.”

I turned away, my heart squeezing sharply in my chest, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me and shot my spirits into the heavens.

“Stay, Mr. Darcy.”

I looked back at her downcast gaze and rosy cheeks and waited with my body pounding and tingling with hope.

She drew a shaken breath and lifted her glorious eyes. They were filled with tears.

“Elizabeth!” I whispered. It was the first time I had spoken so informally to her, and I never recanted it. Her lip quivered, and I could not help stepping close and dusting the salt tear from her cheekbone.

“Sir, I would have you know that I count you as a friend, and our disagreement truly has been a torment to me.”

“The fault is mine!” I hastily cried.

“No.” She shook her head. “I must claim the share of it that belongs to me. I am not normally so unreasonable.”

I offered her a tight, painful grimace as an excruciating truth dawned on me. “Nor am I. It seems we are capable of bringing out the worst in each other.”

“I cannot argue with that!” she laughed brokenly. “But consider this; perhaps we are more able to wound each other because we understand where the other is to be found vulnerable. I choose to believe that to be proof of profound similarity of character, rather than the opposite.”

I distinctly recall that was the first warmth I had felt since before I went away. I smiled so broadly that I had trouble commanding my mouth to speak, but speak I did, and to this day, I thank God for that moment.

“I believe you must be right, Elizabeth. If you can overlook my prideful insults, I will do my best to forget your stubborn impudence.”

She burst into a laugh so sudden and so startling to herself that she snorted—charmingly—and covered her mouth.

“Truly, Elizabeth,” I continued, laughing as well, “I would count your continued friendship the greatest honor ever bestowed on me if you will confer it.”

She sniffed back a mixture of tears and mirth and offered her hand. “I shall try not to spread any more unsavory reports of you in the neighborhood. So long as you take care to kiss my feet and kowtow whenever I enter the room.”

“And occasionally lose to you at chess?”

She grinned, and her small, sweet hand gripped mine with the strength of a friend. “Naturally.”