Page 3 of Mr Darcy Gets Angry
“Miss Bennet,” Mr Darcy laughed, “that small spirit of adventure might have cost you more than a pair of wet shoes. Oftentimes the sea appears calm and the waves gentle, when suddenly an unexpected gust shatters them with force, and—”
“And I should have found myself with gown drenched and hem befouled by the sand—”
“You would not be daunted by such a prospect, and in any case, it would not have been the first time,” he interrupted, recalling that morning at Netherfield when she had appeared with the hem of her gown stained with mud after crossing the fields to attend upon Jane in her illness.
He had not forgotten, and his voice took on an inflexion new and unfamiliar, which she could not read.
When she drew aside her parasol, this time eager to behold his face, she discovered upon it a smile that made her heart leap.
He jested, yet there was admiration in his eyes, impossible to disregard.
For a moment, they both yielded to that delightful condition in which his explicit admiration was received by her with equal pleasure.
And yet neither quite dared to be entirely certain of the other’s sentiments.
“I remember well how I was received,” Elizabeth said, seeking to steady the beating of her heart.
“With admiration,” he replied with the sincerity; and she laughed again, this time with far greater assurance.
“It is well to know it, even after so many months, yet in that room it was not admiration alone.”
“I did not look about me,” replied Darcy with unexpected candour.
“Then I shall tell you that Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst regarded me with marked disapproval.”
“Perhaps they envied you.”
“I doubt they ever felt the desire to cross a rain-soaked field—”
“Or to be met by a wave from the sea…their loss.”
And as though they had known themselves to be the subject of the conversation, the two ladies appeared on the path. Although both Darcy and Elizabeth cast about in vain for some contrivance to continue their walk alone, that proved to be impossible.
It was nothing but desperation that had brought Miss Bingley into the full sun for a walk, for from the terrace she had espied the pair at a distance, and her single thought had been not to leave them to themselves.
“Miss Eliza,” Miss Bingley said, “I think it prudent to hold your parasol more firmly, for the sun is already very strong.”
Only then did Elizabeth remembered that she had held her parasol on one shoulder merely that she might look more freely at the gentleman beside her.
She coloured slightly, though her blush was nothing compared to that of Miss Bingley, whose cheeks already seemed scorched, though she had been in the open air no more than a few minutes, and those in the shelter of her own parasol.
But vexation had brought the deeper hue.
“You need not trouble yourself on my account. I am used to the sun. We pass the whole summer out of doors, and often, however much we may avoid it, by autumn we are all sun-browned.”
“Dreadful,” Mrs Hurst said with perfect candour and deep disdain.
“Perhaps, yet my father says that the sun is beneficial,” replied Elizabeth. “Besides, gentlemen carry no parasols, and almost all are sun-browned.”
Unwittingly, she glanced at Darcy, whose complexion, indeed, was of a fine warm hue, no doubt gained in his long mornings spent fishing.
“I agree with Miss Elizabeth,” Darcy said. “It can hardly be that the sun is good for us and harmful for ladies.”
“On the contrary, I believe the sun exceedingly injurious to a lady’s complexion,” Miss Bingley replied, and the irritation in her voice was perceptible to all.
She even ventured to contradict Mr Darcy—an unmistakable sign of disturbance.
Perceiving this, her sister took her arm, compelling her to continue the walk, for in her present state, she could only do harm to a relationship that had meagre chances to grow stronger.
Elizabeth and Darcy drew near to Pemberley without further speech. In one sense, Miss Bingley had attained her object, for the two were now again apart.
When they met Georgiana upon the staircase, he politely excused himself, leaving the two ladies together and turning towards the stables, for he needed time to reflect. Half an hour of exertion was all that he desired.
∞∞∞
Far from their unfortunate meeting at the Parsonage, his sentiments were at last untroubled by resentment.
He loved Elizabeth—of that he was certain—yet he was now less assured that he ought to marry her.
The obstacles to their union, which had once appeared so formidable, now seemed of little weight when set against the strength of his feelings for her.
In time, however, following serious reflection, he came to understand that the principal hindrance was not her family but his own.
He had not been deceived by his uncle’s outward civility towards the Gardiners. The earl’s memories made him feel again like a twenty-year-old boy, impressed by the fire and their neighbours’ kindness.
Yet Darcy knew full well that Lord Matlock would oppose any connection deemed beneath their rank, and a marriage to Miss Bennet would undoubtedly be so considered by the family in general.
Lady Catherine’s opinion he held in slight esteem, but her opposition could become a real obstacle to his wife’s reception in London society.
His thoughts turned to the Earl of Sheffield, a man of great consequence, whose chosen lady had endured many years of exclusion before she was admitted into the ton .
He recalled the malicious tales whispered about her, which were afterwards proved entirely without truth.
They had been nothing more than the outward signs of society’s habit of rejecting those it judged inferior.
He was proud of his descent, his family, and his connection with the ton .
Yet the disdain he had once so plainly expressed towards her relatives at the time of his offer had arisen not from their birth, but from the evident want of refinement and propriety that marked their conduct.
Meanwhile, he had learnt that her father was indeed a gentleman; still, this knowledge could not efface the humiliating impression made upon him by her mother and sisters, whose behaviour he continued to view with disapproval.
He was wholly set against the notion that society might presume to exclude the wife of one of its own, whatever her origin.
Such a custom, in his mind, was indefensible and unjust. Yet he questioned whether Elizabeth possessed the strength to endure unkindness, or whether their marriage could bear the strain of such trials as society might impose.
As he seen her walking beside him, his heart was softened by the unstudied grace of her countenance; nevertheless, his judgement compelled him to go further than an admirative glance.
Now that their acquaintance had been renewed on terms of goodwill, he would have ample leisure to consider his course.
Longbourn lay but three days’ journey from Pemberley, and not half a day from London.
He determined, therefore, to act contrary to his present inclinations, to practise forbearance, and above all, not to raise in her any hope which he was not yet prepared to satisfy.