That night Elizabeth was woken once when Jane groaned awake and needed help to get to the chamber pot.
Jane said several times to Elizabeth that she was being too good to her, and other such Janeisms. When Elizabeth settled back down into the armchair next to Jane’s bed, to try falling asleep in it again, Jane asked, “Lizzy, do you not have your own bed?”
“I am here to stay with you,” Elizabeth replied. That was why she had been sent here. Certainly not to talk openly with the Netherfield party in a manner that perhaps revealed much that Mrs. Bennet would rather hide.
“No, no. I just need to sleep.” Jane moaned. “You had much better go to your bed.”
“Mrs. Bennet would not like it if I deserted you,” Elizabeth said.
“Oh, you should not mind Mama so much. She is very kind at heart.” Jane shivered under her blankets. “I’ve more than enough strength to pull the bell if I need anything. You must sleep. I cannot rest if I do not think you will be able to sleep.”
With that demand Elizabeth gave up and did as she truly wished to. The room that she had was right next to Jane’s, she slipped into it, and then into the bed.
Elizabeth slept unsteadily, and she was woken by the roosters. She immediately returned to Jane’s room. Jane slept peacefully, and most beautifully. Elizabeth’s careful touch managed to not wake her. The fever was still present, but it was much less than before.
A look out the window at the Netherfield park allowed Elizabeth to see Mr. Darcy walking outside. He was accompanied by a fine spotted carriage dog, for whom he regularly threw a stick.
She suddenly felt a longing to go downstairs and speak with him.
Perhaps the way she rustled the curtains caught his attention. Mr. Darcy looked up directly at her. She felt suffused with a glow when their eyes met.
The two of them stared at each other for a long time. Then Mr. Darcy was distracted by a sound from the side, the games keeper came up to him, and Elizabeth watched the two converse before walking off into a collection of trees.
He looked back at her before the two of them went into the thicket, and she still stood there watching him.
Jane had a greater appetite this morning than she had shown at any point the previous day, and Elizabeth was able to give Mr. Bingley a happy report when she went downstairs to collect her own breakfast.
During each meal that day, Elizabeth was suffused with an awareness of Mr. Darcy. Exactly where he sat, how his hair looked. Everything he said. She often had to struggle to keep from staring at him as much as he stared at her.
He was always kind to her, he looked with those intense eyes, and he said at breakfast that he hoped she had slept well, but that he could see that she had not. He encouraged her to take a nap and promised to have a maid sent up to take her place.
Elizabeth of course refused the offer, saying that she left her post quite enough already.
Many times during the day beverages and small items of food were sent up to her, chocolate as well as coffee. The servant always had that look about her which suggested that it had been Mr. Darcy who reminded her to offer the service, and not Miss Bingley or Mrs. Hurst.
He was very much what a great gentleman should be, kind, considerate, and with an attention to the comfort of others.
One time their hands touched during dinner, and Elizabeth felt something shoot up her arm. There was a sort of unreality to that— her hand had touched Mr. Darcy’s.
It thus became the case that Miss Elizabeth Bennet began to have a small suspicion in her heart that she perhaps, maybe, possibly thought rather too much of Mr. Darcy.
Only, what could she do?
No, no. Thinking of Darcy was inevitable.
Mr. Bennet’s warning guaranteed that she would imagine Mr. Darcy kissing her, embracing her, and touching her in other intimate ways. She already had imagined it before, of course. But now such imaginations quite outran their proper bounds, and she often felt flushed and with an odd tightness in her breasts.
In truth all that Elizabeth could say in her own defense was that none of these lurid tales she made up for herself included the sound of wedding bells.
If she tried to imagine that —by pretending that the difference in their state was not so great as to make it impossible, she needed to imagine what he would say when he learned about the sins of her mother and Elizabeth’s true parentage.
Several days into her daughter’s convalescence Mrs. Bennet descended upon the Netherfield party, accompanied by her daughters. It was impossible for Elizabeth to not smile at seeing how Mr. Darcy now looked at Lydia rather more askance.
Almost as soon as they arrived, Mrs. Bennet inquired about the locket which Elizabeth now wore.
With a flush, and a wish that she had hid it from her until such a time as Mr. Bennet was present, Elizabeth replied that it was a gift from Mr. Bennet. For some reason she did not wish to say that it ultimately had been from her mother.
“Give it over, Lizzy, let me look closer at it.”
Elizabeth was aware that Mr. Bennet had instructed her to not let the image of her mother be seen widely, but likely there could be no harm in Mrs. Bennet seeing it, and to refuse on the grounds that Mr. Bennet did not wish the painted image within to be seen by her would raise far more questions.
With some anxiety Elizabeth took the locket off her neck and handed it over.
Mr. Darcy watched them with his solemn frown.
Mrs. Bennet turned it about. “Fine craftsmanship. Why ever did Mr. Bennet do this, and why did he say nothing of it to me? It ought to have gone to Lydia. She needs something of the sort. Lydia, come here, try this—”
“Mrs. Bennet, please. It is certainly mine, not Lydia’s. Mr. Bennet gave it to me for a particular reason...”
Mrs. Bennet looked at Elizabeth with some surprise at her unusual obstinacy. Then she said again, “I really do not see why it should not belong to one of his own children. At the very least let us see how it looks on Lydia.”
“It once belonged to my mother,” Elizabeth said then.
“No,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Mr. Bennet never said anything of the sort. That there was anything to give you of your mother’s. Your mother’s jewelry? Did she even have any? Don’t speak nonsense.”
“You may ask Mr. Bennet. I assure you that he will tell you the same.”
“That man! Taking the bread from his own children’s mouth for you. Though I never complain. Even if it was your mother’s it ought to be given over after all we have done for you. It would look much better on Lydia,” she said. “Come, Lydia, try it on.”
Elizabeth looked on helplessly, with a dreadful sense of wrongness to the whole.
Why did she find it so hard to say anything else and clearly demand it back. She could simply tell Mrs. Bennet that she must ask Mr. Bennet, and that this was a matter of importance. If she said it right, she did not think Mrs. Bennet would risk angering Mr. Bennet over the matter.
There was a flashing echo of pain. A memory of being beaten for standing up. A knowledge that she should never oppose the person set over her.
If only she had only let Mrs. Bennet see it while Mr. Bennet was present. He would have made it clear that it was solely hers in terms that his wife could not misunderstand. Though often lazy and unwilling to exert control, he had several times over the course of her childhood acted with real firmness and anger when Mrs. Bennet had crossed a boundary in his mind with regards to her treatment of Elizabeth.
Elizabeth felt it absolutely impossible to make herself complain, or even simply tell Mrs. Bennet once more to refer the whole matter to Mr. Bennet.
She felt sick in her stomach as Mrs. Bennet held the locket to Lydia.
“Madam,” Mr. Darcy suddenly spoke in a sharp voice. “I confess myself to be wholly shocked by this proceeding. If the necklace is a piece of family jewelry there can be no possible question about it belonging to Miss Elizabeth, and she has made as clear as she is capable that she does not wish to have it given over.”
If Mr. Darcy felt any discomfort at interfering in business that was not properly his own, he did not show it.
Mrs. Bennet stared at him, still holding the locket in her stretched-out hand.
Seeing that Mrs. Bennet was still conflicted, Darcy said to Mr. Bingley, “You certainly would agree that as a matter of principle and propriety that the piece should remain with Miss Elizabeth.”
Bingley studied the tableau with a frown.
Much of his cheerfulness was not there, and Elizabeth wondered what was in his mind, and she dearly hoped that this scene would not break his attraction to Jane, or at least that if it did, Mrs. Bennet would attribute the cause to something which had nothing to do with her.
“Yes, upon my honor,” Bingley said, “I agree with you, Darcy. But the matter, of course, is none of my business.”
At this disavowal of it being his business, one which beyond question prompted some anxiety from Mrs. Bennet, that woman immediately returned the locket to Elizabeth, who anxiously took it, and held it in her hand. She wished to put it in her bags where no one could see it, she’d put it right next to the Queen Anne pistol Mr. Bennet insisted she keep.
Mrs. Bennet said to Bingley, “I did not consider it in that light. Of course, you are right. A family thing. And we are not in such a situation that we must worry about a few simple pieces of ornament. Why I shall buy Lydia a piece much like it today in town. You can see that we do take prodigious good care of Lizzy. I have always thought of her as my own daughter. As dear to me as my own children. But come, I must look in on my Jane. I know I shall find her doing very well, due to the fine care you have given her.”
Elizabeth and Mary spent much of the time while Mrs. Bennet talked with Jane and the apothecary who had come at the same time standing in the back of the room.
“A piece from your mother,” Mary said. “I hardly believe that even Mama tried to steal it from you.”
“I should always be grateful to her,” Elizabeth replied faintly.
“In every thing give thanks: For this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you,” Mary quoted in return. “I admire your commitment to those holy words.”
With some difficulty Elizabeth repressed her giggle.
“It is a very pretty piece,” Mary added, “and if you wish to show it off to me, I promise to praise it ever so much as you can ever wish.”
Elizabeth replied quietly, “It has a miniature of my mother within it. That is why I could not bear to let it go.”
“I am glad you made enough of an effort to stop her to convince Mr. Darcy to help you. He was very much the great knight coming to protect the maiden from a dragon—Papa has a joke planned for us. I do wish you were at home to convince him to tell us what he plans. Or to at least to tell you if we shall find the matter unpleasant. Mama does not even realize yet, but you know how Papa is when he has a scheme afoot.”
Elizabeth smiled. “You overestimate my influence with him. He certainly can keep a secret from me. Usually, they are not particularly unpleasant.”
“Have you had a nice time—I cannot imagine it nice to listen to Jane say how nice everything is, and how kind everyone is a thousand times, when she does not mean it at all.”
“I do think she means it,” Elizabeth said. “Which makes it odder.”
Mary made a face. She then elbowed Elizabeth. “I see your smirk. You are no better at hiding it than Papa.”
“I am merely glad that it is not my place to be compared to anyone, so I need not feel how unfavorable the comparison is.”
Mary frowned. “I do not think it is merely a matter of jealousy. There is something essential missing in Jane.”
“Virtue must be a struggle?”
“For it to be real, to be trusted, to be true? Yes.”
Soon Mrs. Bennet finished speaking to her daughter, but as the family descended to rejoin their hosts in the drawing room, Mrs. Bennet put her hand on Elizabeth’s arm to stop her.
When the other girls had passed on, Mrs. Bennet said, “Lord, I am excessively disappointed. I knew her constitution to be excellent, but despite that Jane is much better than I expected. We must make the most of what time we have. How often does Bingley ask of her?”
“Near every time I see him.”
“Not every time. No, this is not good.” Mrs. Bennet shook her head. “Not enough. Do you always tell him that she is exceedingly ill?”
Elizabeth did not reply, as her sense of honesty refused to let her tell Bingley that Jane was particularly ill, and it also did not allow Elizabeth to tell Mrs. Bennet that she did not tell that to Bingley.
“Lord! I shall go distracted,” Mrs. Bennet said without waiting for the reply. “My nerves torment me so. Lizzy, you must arrange for Jane to be left alone, with the door open when Mr. Bingley shall pass through the hall.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in shock. She felt that unpleasant sensation in her stomach which came from knowing that she would disappoint Mrs. Bennet. And then, after she disappointed her…
“Do not react that way,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Heavens, you look quite as scandalized as Mary would. Just leave the door open.”
“Jane would not like such a scheme.”
“Her mother knows best—oh, I see that I cannot count on you in this matter. But at least bring her downstairs tonight when everyone gathers in the drawing room. She is well enough for that . I wish her fever was twice as hot as it is. There is barely any warmth left.”
Elizabeth had nothing to say in reply to this expression of maternal concern.
“And I hate Mr. Darcy,” Mrs. Bennet added peevishly. “I brought both Mary and Lydia on his account, as you know he has danced with both of them. He did not so much as look . He thinks himself very much above us.”
“He has been very kind to me,” Elizabeth replied. “He is the one who has ensured that I dine with the family, and he makes sure I have tea and coffee sent up whenever the family takes it in the drawing room.”
“He might very well be kind to you ,” Mrs. Bennet replied. “You are so far beneath him that he need not worry about your opinion of him. You could never have the pretension of thinking yourself his equal. But as for us, he knows that we are every bit as good of him, and that we all deserve his respect, and he refuses to give it. But we are better than he is, because we have more general good cheer—I insist. Make Jane come downstairs, even if you must drag her from the bed.”
The image of herself doing exactly that skipped through Elizabeth’s mind. But she did not let it show in her submissive expression.
“Jane is a biddable creature. Tell her that it is my order. She does as she is told.” Mrs. Bennet patted Elizabeth on the cheek. “You are a good girl, and I am monstrous grateful that you have been here to help with these things. Make sure she is downstairs. And I am determined that Jane shall stay with Bingley for a week entire. Put off any hints of using a carriage before that.”
When they reentered the drawing room, Mr. Bingley inquired of Mrs. Bennet about how they had found the patient.
That good gentleman at long last found what he had sought, and failed to find, in the words of every other person who entered the sickroom: An encouragement to fret and worry about the girl who he had begun to think of in a constantly more serious light.
“She is much worse than I expected,” Mrs. Bennet replied. “She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not move her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness.”
“Removed!” cried Bingley. “It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal.”
“You may depend upon it, madam,” said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, “that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she remains with us.”
“I am so grateful,” Mrs. Bennet began. “So very grateful—Lizzy, do get my shawl. I left it by chance in the carriage. You must see this shawl; it is new arrived and trimmed with some excellent lace.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Elizabeth said immediately, bobbing her head to Mrs. Bennet and going out.
She could tell that Darcy’s eyes were upon her, but she did not dare look at him in Mrs. Bennet’s presence.
Even though those feelings that she had developed regarding that gentleman were meaningless, and they could mean nothing, she was terrified—in part rationally—about how her benefactress would respond if she could perceive how far above her station Elizabeth’s fevered brain had imagined.
Upon Elizabeth’s return she found Lydia pestering Mr. Bingley about holding a ball, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst observing in a sneering manner, and Mr. Darcy standing by the window.
The light from outside caught his hair in a way that made it glow. Elizabeth could not stop herself from smiling at him. He smiled back at her, and that made her heart jump and stutter. Elizabeth hurried in and handed the shawl to Mrs. Bennet.
Mrs. Bennet looked at her with a pinched expression. She studied Elizabeth’s dress. Then after Elizabeth helped to arrange the shawl around her shoulders, Mrs. Bennet said, “I must imagine that Jane needs something, do go back up.”
“Yes, madam.” Another bobbed head, and Elizabeth left the room.
She carefully did not look at Mr. Darcy.
Jane was surprised to find Elizabeth back so soon. A maid sat in her chair talking to Jane of the servant’s gossip, or what parts of it were fit for the ears of the quality, while Jane sat up against a set of pillows.
Elizabeth made a small smile and shrug, and she asked Jane if there was anything she might do for her.
When Jane demurred Elizabeth sighed, picked up her copy of The Iliad , and struggled to read. She resisted the urge to go back to her room to where she’d quickly stashed the locket so she could pull it out and stare at her mother’s image again.
Did she even have a right, as she knew her mother to have sinned terribly, to imagine the ways that her mother, a true mother, might have been better than Mrs. Bennet?
After a while Elizabeth heard the horses and carriage wheels come around to the entrance, and then the clattering sound of them leaving.
Jane had fallen into an easy nap, and Elizabeth took this opportunity to go downstairs. As she stepped out, she carefully closed the door, in opposition to Mrs. Bennet’s wishes.
She knew that there were circles around her eyes, and she felt tired.
But things like the developing connection between Jane and Bingley went off so often.
There was a hollow anxiety in Elizabeth’s chest now that Mrs. Bennet had visited, and she did not like it. She had not yet had any chance to explore the walks around Netherfield, and she dearly wished to see some of it.
Elizabeth rapidly walked along the gravel pathways, and over the flagstones. She was unhappy that they would be here for so much longer. She felt so confused in the evenings, caught between falling into the easy and pleasant chattering that she liked with Mr. Bennet, and the solemn mien that was appropriate to the intendant of Mrs. Bennet of Longbourn.
Absorbed in her thoughts, she startled when she heard her name spoken from the side. “Miss Elizabeth.”
Mr. Darcy walked up to her with his long strides and a stiff smile.
She could not resist the smile that spread across her face on seeing him.
He had his usual solemn expression, and there was something about it which Elizabeth thought suggested that he was unsettled, and that on occasion he tightened his jaw and looked fiercely about.
They did not speak at first. Elizabeth had full enjoyment of the time, despite the lack of conversation. Darcy had after all sought her out, and she did not expect him to make a constant effort to entertain her. That she believed her presence to be wanted, and to perhaps even have a calming or otherwise pleasant effect on the gentleman was all that Elizabeth could wish for, being situated as she was.
But when the silence had gone for what seemed to Elizabeth to be a whole five minutes, Elizabeth said with a smile to Mr. Darcy, “I do not believe you are in a wholly comfortable mood.”
This shook Mr. Darcy from his abstraction, and he said in a calm enough tone, “My apologies, Miss Elizabeth. I allowed my thoughts to possess me, and I have been extremely rude in ignoring you.”
“I just begin to worry that my conversation is tolerable enough but not entertaining enough to tempt you.”
He looked at her with startlement and laughed. “You have a particular memory of that .”
“I have not had the honor of being slighted by gentlemen often,” Elizabeth replied with mock solemnity, “The novelty of such joy fixed it in my mind.”
“You joke, but I hope you were not severely affected.”
Elizabeth smiled at him. “I in fact speak the truth, though in a jesting manner. I was in fact far more amused than hurt—I like to observe characters. I think you are a man who thinks deeply, who feels deeply. I would force you from your meditations for my entertainment.”
The very idea was amusing to Elizabeth.
He smiled in turn. “You speak both of my silence when we met now, as well as my disinterest in dancing on that night.”
“Are not the best statements those that have two meanings?”
“No?” Darcy asked. “I do not think so. Ambiguity can never help clarity of communication.”
“You think the purpose of words is generally to communicate?”
“And what do you think they are for?”
“To allow us to display our cleverness to each other. And to show that we act out the part on life’s stage that has been thrust on us. If we enlighten each other upon any matter of fact, it is generally an accident.”
“That is a cynical view.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said smiling widely at him. “But is it a clever sort of cynicism or a dull sort?”
“Which answer would suggest that you are best acting out the role you have chosen for this conversation?”
Elizabeth laughed loudly. She felt rather delighted by how he bantered with her. He looked at her admiringly as she laughed. Then Elizabeth said, “I forget my roles too easily when I speak with you.”
He now frowned again, and they walked on together without speech. Elizabeth wondered if she had offended him. But after a minute Darcy said, “I could not help but notice… it was impossible to not see that the fundamentals of your behavior are wholly different when you are in the presence of Mrs. Bennet. You play a different role on the stage.”
“No, hardly. No… what do you mean? Is that so?” Elizabeth did not like that such a thing was seen.
But then she had also said so much about her own behaviour in the last minutes.
Yet she was still not happy that it was so obvious to Mr. Darcy.
“As soon as Mrs. Bennet entered the drawing room—no the transformation came as soon as the carriage was seen from the window, you changed,” Darcy said by way of explanation. “Before you spoke freely, laughed, and you looked us all in the eye. I believe you were telling Bingley some tale of when Miss Bennet was eleven years of age. Then the Bennet carriage was seen, you went to the window to confirm, and then a frown crossed your face. You lowered your head, shrunk your shoulders, seemed to become smaller. When Bingley asked you to finish the story, you said a little, but there was no animation, none of that pretty gleam in your eye. The arch amusement was gone. As soon as Mrs. Bennet enters a room, you eagerly nod your head, you agree with all that she says, except in cases where your intrinsic honesty demands you say nothing—for directly contradicting her decided opinion is something you will not do, and suddenly you will meet no one’s eye. When she asks for a service, whether it be running to the carriage, or attending upon a daughter whose health is perfectly safe, you instantly reply, ‘Yes madam,’ and bow, as though she were worthy of every respect, and do her bidding.”
This long speech had a strong effect upon Elizabeth. The fact was that had their stations not been so different she would have been half certain that he was in love with her after such a speech. But Darcy’s seriousness, his concern, and his upright manner made it impossible for Elizabeth to think that there could be anything to Mr. Bennet’s worries.
“I confess that I am at times reserved. I do not forget my role in every company. But I will say this in objection: As my benefactress, Mrs. Bennet is worthy of every expression of gratitude.”
“It would be better if you forgot your place more often.”
“Oh, no! That would be to show ingratitude. There is nothing despised so much as ingratitude.”
“It is not gratitude that drives you. Your behaviour around Mrs. Bennet shows fear.”
“Is it not wholly usual for every young person to have at least one parent with whom they must act very differently? The parent around whom they must be more quiet, more respectful? Does not every child have a parent they are frightened of? Perhaps the oddness is that it is the female guardian that I fear. I understand it to be more usual for the discipline that the father must provide to make him the object of awe.”
“Though I respected them both deeply, I never saw either of my parents as an object of fear. And what is more, Mrs. Bennet is not your mother.”
“ That only signifies that one must judge her kindly. She has raised me out of kindness. My gratitude demands that I never judge her with harshness.”
Harsh, tall, there was the look of a hawk about Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth saw that Darcy’s judgement of Mrs. Bennet had in no way been softened.
This made her glow deep inside.
“Gratitude has a place,” Darcy said. “But it must be bounded and limited, and above all, the object of gratitude must have done something which is actually worthy.”
Elizabeth shooed that notion away with her hand. “You do not understand. You do not know why —But it is correct for me to feel as Ido! It is my place to serve Mrs. Bennet, I am glad I have such an opportunity.”
“You are everything that your conscience demands. But I cannot approve. A woman such as you should not pretend to be less than she is to spare the jealous feelings of that woman who you call your ‘benefactress.’ I can see how you have constructed your mode of life, your way of talking, your habits of dress and hair, for the sake of appearing as she would have you. You cannot wish to do this forever.”
“You have no sense of what it is like to be dependent. You have no constraints upon yourself. You are free, you are proud, you can look any man in the eye and know that you are their equal or their superior—in any room, you know ‘here I belong, here I have a right to be.’”
Mr. Darcy’s expression at this speech was rather odd, at first as though he had tasted too much lemon, and then thoughtful. “Is that how you imagine it must be for me?—I hardly feel as though I belong in every room. Frequently I find myself in rooms that I am unhappy to be in. When I meet many new persons at once, it is difficult. I cannot catch the tone of their conversation or appear interested in their concerns.”
He ran his hand through his hair in a rare gesture of seeming to be unsettled. Mr. Darcy wore very little of the pomade that slicked back Mr. Hurst’s hair.
Mr. Darcy dressed in solid colors, fine fabrics, and conservative cuts. He was not a flashy gentleman, a dandy or a macaroni as Mr. Bennet sometimes called them. But he had a proper concern for his appearance, and how the world perceived him.
Mr. Darcy was the sort of gentleman to whom a servant or other dependent would be happy to belong to. Perhaps an unsociable neighbor, but that was of less importance than his virtues.
“You know that that is not what I meant,” Elizabeth replied with a smile, rather happy that she had given him fodder for thought in return for that which he had given her. “No one will ever think that you are beneath them. Except I suppose at St. James. I often imagine that Sir William must have felt very inferior when he was presented to the king, and that is why he must tell the tale twice to everyone he meets.”
Darcy laughed. “I have on occasion been in the company of a duke, or a gentleman with a truly famous fortune. But… not equality. I am not their equal. But they show me respect. That is what you mean—there is no one in England, not even the king, though I am always his happy and humble servant, upon whom either my consequence, or my daily necessities, comforts and luxuries depend.”
Elizabeth was glad that the tone of their conversation was brightening. “The bounds that politeness place upon a man of great independent fortune cannot be compared to those placed on me by my position of absolute dependence.”
“I do not like to see it. You are of great worth, anyone who has been fortunate enough to enjoy your conversation must see that.”
Elizabeth was sure her cheeks burned at the praise.
Mr. Darcy likewise seemed to have some consciousness of what he said, and they did not say anything else for another minute.
The quiet walking together, her arm supported by the tall gentleman, was another joy that Elizabeth was not used to.
So far as she could remember, she had never had such an arm in arm stroll with a gentleman who she found handsome and interesting.
Netherfield park was picturesque. Falling leaves in big, raked piles, the occasional squirrel chittering about, the grasses and the hedges. A variety of ruins, grottos, and many benches. The scope of the park was not huge, lands that did not belong to the baronet who owned the estate could always be seen, and the whole could be compassed about, with all of the chief points seen and appreciated within half an hour.
It was quite odd, Elizabeth considered with a smile to herself, that she could speak so naturally and easily with this great gentleman.
Mr. Darcy’s abrupt and taciturn manner chiefly amused her rather than offended her. And she knew that she need not fear her own manners offending him.
He was the one who had sought out her company, and because he enjoyed her conversation. She felt nearly at her ease with Mr. Darcy, rather like with Mr. Bennet.
There were two chief points of difference:
First, Mr. Darcy was a stunningly handsome man, and the more that Elizabeth was in his company, the more she liked the look of him.
Second, Mr. Bennet knew that she was a bastard, illegitimate, the natural child of somebody . There was an inability on her part to really credit the good opinion Mr. Darcy expressed of her, as he did not know.
As though thinking about this brought it also into Mr. Darcy’s mind, he asked suddenly, “Tell me of your childhood. What do you remember from before you came to the Bennets.”
A fist falling. Screams. Another boy watching, a boy she knew very well. He had terror in his eyes.
That harsh face.
“Bastard. I am going to kill the bastard!”
She’d been scared of that face even before the gentleman had beaten her. Her mother thrashing on the bed. Mr. Bennet is a kind man. He will care for you. Her skin had been so, so hot.
Dead eyes.
It was easier to remember how her mother had looked as she died now that she could study her image in the locket.
“I…” Elizabeth shivered. “There is little that I remember.”
Darcy frowned.
“I do not want to remember.” Elizabeth suddenly felt a need to explain herself to him, and there was that sense of safety she had around him. “And I should not mention it, but I am so deeply grateful to you, for helping to keep her from handing the locket to Lydia. Mr. Bennet would have made Lydia to give it back in time, but—”
“I only did what was right.”
“You acted as a true gentleman. Even though it was not properly your business. You must say that I ought to have refused to give it to her. But…” Elizabeth shrugged.
He smiled at her. There was a sort of warmth there.
“Do you really remember nothing,” he asked some minutes later, “before Mr. Bennet?”
That shivering memory again. “Nothing good. No, no—I would laugh with Mama. I would run about. There had been pretty dresses. Play. A boy…he was named Bobby—Robert, I think. I remember so little. Just when she died.”
“And you do not know who your people were?”
“Mr. Bennet is enough for me.”
“Yes, but…your mother’s family. And what was your father’s station and county? You know nothing?”
Elizabeth could not lie to Mr. Darcy, but she could also not admit the truth. She now refused to look at him, and she felt a return of that anxiety and unpleasantness in her stomach. And the memory echoed, the fists. The sound of them striking flesh. Pain.
There had also been a long carriage trip. Her mother still alive, with a look in her eyes that was horrible.
“Miss Elizabeth, I apologize for pressing you on this matter,” Darcy said. “I can see that it is a topic you do not wish to discuss.”
Elizabeth picked at the sleeve of her dress. “My mother was Mr. Bennet’s relation. I know that. I think. He never says anything about my father’s family. I think he did not like him.”
That was something Elizabeth had not realized she knew, but it was true.
Any mention of her father, the real father, had brought an unpleasant emotion into Mr. Bennet’s manner. His eyes always turned to look at the pistols above the mantlepiece.
The two soon returned to the house.
That night, in the dead of night, at the darkest time when all slept, Elizabeth woke from a nightmare, filled with fists, her dying mother’s face, and the echoing word “bastard”.