Page 11 of Epiphany (A Little Bit More Darcy and Elizabeth #2)

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D arcy was in agonies—some sublime, some infernal, all of them insufferable. Elizabeth’s relations embodied almost every trait he had been taught to despise, yet the longer he was amongst them, the more he envied their contentment, the more he resented Anne’s paltry meanness, the unhappier he was not to be with his sister, the more he missed his father and, for the first time in many years, his mother.

And the more drawn he felt to Elizabeth.

It was a confounding and unpleasant state in which to find himself, and it diminished his appetite to the point that eating became a struggle. That was a shame, for the dinner Mrs Bennet served was astonishingly good. Her table and the dining room itself were handsomely decorated with red ribbons and boughs of fir and holly, giving a remarkably festive air to the occasion, but he was too uncomfortable to truly enjoy it.

Further detracting from his pleasure were the seating arrangements that placed him at the opposite end of the table to Elizabeth but next to her mother, from whom he received an excruciating barrage of poorly veiled allusions to Bingley’s departure. By the time he forced down the large glass of mediocre port with which Mr Bennet furnished him after dinner, he was exhausted—and, annoyingly, hungry. Only the thought of his revolting bed at the inn prevented him from announcing his early departure. That, and his unwillingness to part ways with Elizabeth for what would likely be the last time.

It was with no little alarm that he discovered her absent when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room. The possibility that she had retired, denying him his last goodbye, struck a deep, hollow note in his stomach that would not fade no matter how much coffee he drank to drown it. When the door opened and she returned, when she came into the room looking for someone and stopped searching once her eyes met his, when all the air flowed out of his lungs in one, uneven breath, and the hairs on his arms stood on end, he understood how far beyond danger he had strayed. He knew he ought not to engage with her anymore, but he knew he could no more prevent himself than he could prevent the moon from orbiting the earth.

She collected a cup of coffee and came to sit down next to him. “I have something for you.”

She handed him a strange little item—a doll, he realised—small enough to fit in his palm and fashioned from what looked like clothes-pegs. He took it, for he would never refuse anything she gave him, but he looked askance at her as he did.

“Her name is Hegarty. My uncle Gardiner made her for me that Christmas my father mentioned earlier. I had the measles, so I was sent to stay in London away from my sisters. It was the first Christmas I ever spent apart from Jane, and I was wretched. I thought she might cheer you up while you are away from Miss Darcy.”

Darcy looked at it, then he looked at her. He was eight-and-twenty years old, master of one of the largest estates in the north of England, and revered by half the ton . And Elizabeth had given him a wooden peg-doll called Hegarty as a gift. She was also biting her lips against a smirk, her eyes sparkling as she watched him, and he knew she was anticipating his confusion, possibly even his contempt. What he would not give to be able to kiss away her misconception! His mouth fought for a broader smile than the slight one he allowed himself.

“You thought correctly. Thank you.”

She looked surprised though not displeased with this answer and, with a nod, settled back into her seat to take stock of the rest of the room as though catching up with what she had missed.

“Your uncle and mother are playing piquet,” he said quietly. “Miss Mary has been reading a book to your father, and the rest of your family is attempting to explain the plot of Othello to Miss Catherine, though I confess how that conversation came about quite escaped my understanding.”

These observations evidently surprised her as well, though she did not remark on them directly. She only smiled as she said, “Yes, discussions in this house can be rather convoluted. It can get a little lively at times.”

“On the contrary. It has been an agreeably peaceful evening.”

“Indeed,” Anne interposed to Darcy’s consternation, for it signified her having listened to all that had been said before. “We have been expecting the celebrations to devolve into raucous parlour games at any moment.”

Darcy shot her a furious look, but before he could think how he might civilly frame a reproof, Elizabeth had turned to address her over the arm of her chair.

“Alas, my father loathes parlour games, my mother is terrible at them, and my younger sisters do nothing but argue over who won and who cheated. We gave up playing them years ago, but I should be happy to request a bowl of raisins and a bottle of sherry from the kitchen if you would like a game of Snapdragon.”

Anne pursed her lips, and Darcy uncharitably thought to himself it was probably because she had not the wit to extract herself from the situation in which her own incivility had landed her.

“Perhaps another time,” Elizabeth said, more forbearingly than Anne deserved.

His cousin’s enmity towards Elizabeth gave Darcy an uneasy feeling. He wished to apologise for her ingratitude but could not while she eavesdropped his every word, though that problem, at least, was soon resolved. Miss Bennet moved to sit next to her and spoke with such patient kindness that eventually, Anne condescended to converse.

“Jane is very good,” Elizabeth said quietly. “If anybody can make your cousin feel more at ease, it is my sister.”

“I do not know why my cousin should feel ill at ease. You have all been extremely welcoming.”

“Oh, come now, sir,” she replied with a bewitching expression. “Miss de Bourgh has all the same reasons to feel uneasy as you have.”

He ought to have known he could not conceal his disquiet from Elizabeth, studier of character that she was. Still, she was not completely correct in this. “Not all.”

She looked perplexed, and Darcy felt a stab of alarm at having come far closer than he meant to an admission of his feelings.

“I have no doubt that your sister will be unperturbed by any surliness,” he said hastily. “She is one of the most serene ladies I have ever encountered.”

Elizabeth sighed unhappily. “Aye, though that composure of temper has served her very ill of late. Jane’s uniform cheerfulness hides a great strength of feeling, but once you know it is there, her unhappiness is plain to see. It is in the tilt of her head, and the brevity of all her smiles.”

This speech made Darcy inordinately glad to have written to Bingley, though he was not in a position to say anything on the matter. Instead, he asked, “What of you? How does one know when you are happy or sad?”

She seemed to accept the change of subject well enough. “When I am happy, I laugh.”

“And when you are unhappy?”

“That is the tricky bit, for I usually laugh then, too.”

“Not always. You were not laughing when you came out of the church earlier.”

Her smile faltered. “No, not always. But despite what you might think, my first object in life is not a joke.”

It took Darcy a moment to place the reference, but at length he recalled it from one of their debates at Netherfield. “I assure you I never thought that.” With a pointed look at his cousin, he added, “Yet, it would be to the advantage of some to joke more often. Regrettably, my cousin’s upbringing has not taught her much appreciation for life’s simpler diversions.” He wondered whether the same could be said of him. He hoped not.

“I had noticed, sir. But humour is a fickle creature, and we shall never all be diverted by the same things. It is good that you comprehend Miss de Bourgh’s nature. That will give you the best chance for happiness in the future.”

He was still frowning over this peculiar remark when a servant entered with two expresses, just arrived—one for Mr Bennet, and one for him. Both contained the news that Bingley was, at that very moment, unpacking his trunks at Netherfield. Mr Bennet and all his family were invited to dine there tomorrow. Better still, Darcy and Anne were invited to decamp from their various lodgings and move there that evening.

Mrs Bennet’s rejoicing was immediate and noisy. Elizabeth’s was quieter but sincere. It was Miss Jane Bennet whom Darcy watched most carefully. She made no noise at all but, as per Elizabeth’s directions, he was able now to perceive that she did indeed seem to be holding her head a little higher, and her smiles, though not any broader, no longer vanished whenever she thought nobody was looking. He despised Bingley in that moment, a sentiment that shocked him out of his seat.

“Might I have use of a writing desk, Mr Bennet? I must send word to Lucas Lodge and the inn at Meryton to have our effects moved.”

As he followed his host to a dark room at the front of the house, Darcy sent a silent apology to his friend. He did not despise Bingley—far from it. But he found he did resent his friend’s certain happiness with Jane Bennet. Resented it with an intensity for which he could not account, for resentment implied regret, and he would never regret avoiding a similar alliance with the Bennets, no matter how well he admired Elizabeth. No matter how well he had enjoyed his day, against all expectation. No matter how every reason that opposed inclination was crumbling away to nothing.

He owed his family too much. Duty forbade him from even contemplating it. In fact, he was glad Bingley’s notes had arrived when they did. It was high time he left. Before he fell so far under Elizabeth’s spell that leaving became impossible.

* * *

Elizabeth took her shawl with her as she stole away from the excitement in the drawing room to the quiet but cold entrance hall. She shared her mother’s hopes for Jane, but she also shared Jane’s quietly expressed anxiety, for there had been no mention in Mr Bingley’s note of his purpose in returning. There was every possibility that he had come merely to open his house for his friend’s convenience.

One thing was certain, however. Jane had suffered enough doubt. It was Christmas Day, and Elizabeth would have her dearest sister enjoy this happy turn of events, instead of being tortured by it. It was why she had resolved to eschew all propriety and ask Mr Darcy directly why his friend had come.

“Miss Elizabeth, a word?”

She turned in surprise. Miss de Bourgh had followed her into the hall, which she supposed meant the word was unlikely to be a pleasant one, else she would have said it in company.

“If you like.”

Perhaps she had not expected Elizabeth to agree, for she floundered a little before continuing stiltedly. “You can be at no loss to understand the reason I have been desirous of speaking with you.”

“Indeed, you are mistaken, madam, but if you would come to the point, then we might return to the warmth of the drawing room.”

Miss de Bourgh huffed in displeasure. When she spoke, Elizabeth thought she could detect a note of agitation in her voice, though she was evidently striving to sound superior.

“Very well, I shall speak plainly. The fact that your sister is on the verge of being most advantageously married should not be taken as encouragement for any of your preposterous aspirations towards my cousin.”

Elizabeth looked at her with unaffected astonishment. “I beg your pardon?”

“May I remind you that he is engaged to me? ”

“You may, though it is entirely unnecessary, for I had not forgot.”

“That only puts your behaviour in a worse light. But you have not a hope of ensnaring him. From our infancy we have been intended for each other.” Her words had become hurried, muddling her delivery of what sounded very much like a rehearsed speech. “It was the favourite wish of his mother as well as mine. We are descended from the same noble line. Our fortune on both sides is splendid. We are destined for each other by the voice of every member of our respective houses, and the upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connexions, or fortune will not divide us. Honour, decorum, prudence, nay—interest forbid it. If you are not lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy, you will stay away from Netherfield tomorrow, and you will promise me never to enter into an engagement with Darcy.”

Elizabeth’s incredulity had increased with Miss de Bourgh’s every word, but now that she was silent, it began to ferment into indignation. “I wonder at your believing my word necessary, if you think so highly of his honour.”

“I have seen how you try to work on him! You are relentless in your flirtation, but you will not draw him in. Do not be fooled by what you think are his attentions. He is only being civil.”

“And barely that!” Elizabeth tugged her shawl tighter, not chilled but greatly discomfited. “Miss de Bourgh, you really need not have mortified us both in this manner. Before today, I should have said your cousin did not even like me.”

Miss de Bourgh gave a bitter laugh. “Gratifying though it is to hear you believe that, I would still have your promise.”

“I hope you will not be too disappointed when I tell you that you will never succeed in extracting any promise of the kind from Lizzy,” said Mrs Bennet, appearing out of the shadows like a menacing pantomime dame. “She will no more marry your cousin than she would marry her own, for she dislikes the one even more than she did the other, but you can be sure that she will neither accept nor refuse any man because someone else demands it of her. She will do as she pleases. She always does.”

Miss de Bourgh blushed deeply enough for it to be visible even in the nocturnal gloom of the hall. “This is a private conversation, madam.”

“I am afraid I must correct you there, also, for I heard every word. I must say, I really think you ought to concern yourself less with Lizzy’s aspirations and attend more to your own. Mr Darcy would be a terrible match for you. His fortune may be as splendid as yours, but you are ill-suited in other, more pertinent ways. You are too sickly, too inactive. Besides, he is in desperate need of a wife who will teach him some liveliness, and you are hardly qualified in that regard. No, you ought to aspire to a man of the cloth, or better yet, a physician. He could practise on you and make himself rich.”

“You presume to address me in such a way? Do you know who I am?” Miss de Bourgh spluttered. Then, looking as though she were anxious this was not threatening enough, she added, “Who my mother is?”

“I know who your cousin is. I have just fed him Christmas dinner.”

Elizabeth had never enjoyed her mother’s impropriety so well, though she was too shocked to laugh properly. It came out more as a nervous exhalation that halted altogether and turned into a held breath when the door to her father’s library opened, and Mr Darcy himself stepped into the hall.

That he was surprised by the scene before him was obvious. He looked alarmed and inordinately wary as he took it in. In fact, he looked a lot of things, and Elizabeth suddenly could not comprehend how she had ever thought him inscrutable.

Mostly, however, he looked at her piercingly, as though he were trying to know her thoughts. Elizabeth’s heart began to hammer against her ribs as the implication of Miss de Bourgh’s speech, indeed the entire purpose of her visit to Hertfordshire, dawned on her. Mr Darcy did like her—possibly more than liked her. At least, so his cousin suspected and strongly enough to think she needed to intervene.

Elizabeth did the only thing she knew how to do: she laughed. It threw a picture of confusion over his features, which of course it would, since she had told him only moments ago that she laughed regardless of her sentiments.

“Forgive me,” she said, attempting to collect herself.

“Darcy, I wish to go,” said Miss de Bourgh. “I am feeling unwell again.”

He inhaled deeply but conceded.

Elizabeth was glad. Her thoughts were awhirl, and she could not recall ever feeling so awkward. She excused herself to return to the others in the drawing room, where she picked up the first book she could find, sat in the farthest seat from the door, and pretended to read in the hope that she would not be required to speak to anyone. Mr Darcy and his cousin soon followed to wait in the warm while their carriage was readied. Elizabeth did her best to ignore his persistent gaze but was eventually required to join the whole party in going outside to wave them goodbye.

She did then look at him—and instantly felt awful for not having done so sooner. Mr Darcy’s expression was profoundly pained. He looked at her as though he wished to say a thousand words. His eyes, shining black in the wintry darkness, seemed to hold myriad questions, all of them urgent. And there was something in the intensity of his pose, the way he leant slightly towards her, the way he watched her with his brow almost imperceptibly furrowed, that convinced her a good deal of his anxiety was for her, rather than himself.

All she could do with so many people about was smile, but when she did, he all but staggered with relief. It was not something she had ever thought to see the proud and forbidding Mr Darcy do—certainly not at a look from her. She wondered whether she had imagined it and cast her eyes around to see whether anybody else had noticed, but nobody remarked upon it, so she supposed they had not.

“We shall look forward to seeing you both again tomorrow,” said Mrs Bennet. “Pray, tell Mr Bingley we are all anticipation.”

“I shall, madam,” Mr Darcy promised. He handed Mrs Jenkinson and the utterly silent Miss de Bourgh into the carriage, then turned back, ostensibly to continue talking to Mrs Bennet, though he looked at Elizabeth when he said, “I am particularly anticipating introducing my sister to you.”

“Your sister?”

“She is at Netherfield,” Mr Darcy explained as he climbed up behind his cousin. “Bingley has brought her with him.”

Jane’s small gasp was drowned by the sound of the carriage door slamming closed and the horses pulling away, but Elizabeth heard it, and her heart broke to see the dismay overspreading her sister’s countenance.