Page 7 of Mr Darcy Gets Angry

A maid attended Elizabeth as she dressed, following the final alterations made by the seamstress, who had succeeded not only in rendering the gown a perfect fit, but in shaping it to resemble a creation newly arrived from London.

On the night of the ball, standing before the mirror, Elizabeth seen the most beautiful garment she had ever worn.

In former days, she had never shared Jane's elegance nor Lydia’s impetuous delight in finery.

Yet she could not deny that such a gown might make any woman look like a princess.

And indeed, as she descended the staircase, she saw that thought mirrored in Mr Darcy’s eyes. He stood amidst the assembled guests, as if awaiting her in the great hall, from which the company would shortly depart.

The moment he saw her, he excused himself with uncommon haste, and advanced to offer her his arm.

Yet what arrested her most was not the gesture, but the look with which he regarded her.

At first, she feared he might be displeased—might resent her for appearing in his mother’s attire.

But that fear soon vanished when she realised that his eyes reflected only admiration.

He pressed her hand to his lips and requested that she remain apart from the bustle of the hall while he arranged the carriages.

He soon returned, having seen to every detail, and with him came only Georgiana.

This particular act, though modest in nature, was not overlooked and became, as expected, the subject of much whispering—particularly from the Bingley sisters.

Yet the evening was too lovely to be troubled by trifles.

“You look radiant, ladies,” said Mr Darcy. Still, his gaze rested solely upon Elizabeth. Georgiana, far from appearing neglected, seemed to take pleasure in his admiration.

“This was one of our mother’s favourite gowns,” he added, and in his voice there was more than civility.

There was wonder. It astonished him that, among so many garments, she had chosen the one most dear to him.

He could ascribe it to no ordinary chance.

He recalled how, in the final years of his mother’s life, a portrait had been commissioned.

She had tried many gowns, all of great splendour, before settling upon this one.

He had been but eighteen, and already possessed of the discernment to recognise true beauty.

In that gown, his mother had seemed almost unearthly in grace.

The portrait now hung in his London library, facing the very seat where he most often read.

At times, his eyes would drift from the page to that painted likeness, drawn not merely by recollection but by a deeper, ineffable longing.

And now—this night—he seen before him the woman he loved, clad in that same gown. He half smiled, as though speaking in silence to the memory that lingered still. What game are you playing, Mama? he murmured inwardly. Are you guiding me again?

For in times of doubt, or joy, or pain, he had often spoken to her thus—persuading himself that she had not wholly departed, that something of her remained, watching, whispering, willing him toward the better path.

Lady Anne had been tall and seemingly delicate, yet her will was as fine and resolute as tempered steel.

When she had made up her mind, her husband would merely smile and yield to her wishes.

In moments such as these, Darcy could not help but wonder whether she had not found some way to guide his course once more.

Elizabeth stood beside him, her smile soft, her eyes distant. She, too, seemed caught in the charm of the moment, though not in the manner she had long imagined. He admired her—yes—but he also admired the stars and the moon. Admiration was not enough for a marriage.

And yet, that night, he scarcely left her side.

Save for one solitary dance, he remained devoted to her company.

The room observed his manner, and no one doubted his preference.

Yet even so, he was unchanged. He remained as he had been for the past week—gracious, admirable, restrained.

He was not, as she had quietly hoped, the man who had once confessed his love with passion in his voice.

He invited her to dance, and she accepted, but it was not enough.

Though he bowed before her and took her hand with grace, he moved away to greet another partner, and the dance that once had delighted her now seemed a torment.

Later that night, when he invited her to walk in the garden, their conversation touched only upon the surrounding estate despite her to speak of what had passed in Kent, even to tell him how deeply she regretted that dreadful manner in which she had met his proposal of marriage.

Yet, it was not possible, for whatever had then occurred, it was evident that at present he had no desire to recall that he had once offered her his hand. Regret was therefore of no avail.

“When was Pemberley built?” she finally asked. She wished him to understand how much she admired his house, and how entirely at ease she felt within it, though she was nothing more than a guest.

Darcy reflected for a moment. Her question was not one of idle civility, and he had no wish that his answer should appear indifferent.

“The truth is, I have always intended to examine every paper concerning the house and the estate; but when I was too young, I cared little for such things, and now—I do not know—I am held back by the pain I invariably feel when I turn over the documents in my father’s study, where we keep… the history of the Pemberley.

“The house, with a small domain of a thousand acres, is recorded from the twelfth century; but my forebears purchased it around fifteen hundred, and from that time continued to acquire arable land and woodland. At present, we possess some four thousand five hundred acres under cultivation, and nearly twelve hundred acres of forest, together with the park of almost eight hundred—”

He broke off suddenly and smiled at her. “Forgive me, I was on the point of telling you what crops we raise and how we manage the timber—”

“And why not? I am interested; otherwise, I should not have asked,” came her amused answer.

“Yet it is hardly a subject for a ball.”

“And what would be a subject for a ball?” she asked; and in that instant emotion overcame her, for she precisely knew the subject she wished to pursue.

She did not look at him, and he remained silent, unable to add a single word.

After all, Pemberley was a safe theme; for what existed between them at that moment— emotion, desire, yet likewise many uncertainties, which now rested chiefly on his side—was too perilous to discuss.

“This assembly room where we dance now and keep the communities gatherings was restored according to my mother’s design.

She believed in the spirit of community and always acted for its benefit.

She knew every person who lived or worked upon the estate, and gave aid to each; and they, in return, loved her unconditionally.

Although Pemberley has been in our possession these three centuries, what stands before you today owes its character mostly to her.

At length, he said, “I am sorry you are leaving…Pemberley.” The simplicity of the phrase made her shiver. A strange, wordless longing coursed through her—not from the heart, but from the blood. It was that troubling sensation she had felt before, quickening in her veins whenever he drew near.

“Will you remain at Pemberley throughout the summer?” she asked, attempting to conceal her emotion.

“Most likely. The Matlocks return to London shortly, and then Bingley and his sisters shall follow. He told me he means to pause at Netherfield…”

It appeared as though he would add more, but the words faltered, and he said nothing further. Elizabeth mourned those that remained unspoken. Perhaps they concerned love—perhaps not even their own—and Mr Darcy had no wish to utter them aloud.

“Do you continue your journey?” he asked, though he was well acquainted with their plans.

“Yes. For another week, I believe. My aunt desires to visit some relations and old friends.”

“How nice. It is a pleasing country—” He paused, and then, meeting her gaze, added, “We too shall pass through Netherfield on our return to London.”

And with that, the moment passed. They danced again, or found one another in the crowd, yet no word of consequence was spoken between them thereafter.

The final day was composed of glances, missed occasions, and subtle disappointments—moments that might have drawn them nearer but were lost amidst company and silence.

Only Georgiana, with her open heart, gave voice to her sorrow.

“You must promise to visit us in London,” she said. “Our godmother, Lady Edwina, is always in residence, and you may remain as long as you please.”

Georgiana understood nothing of the unspoken feelings between her brother and Elizabeth. She wished only to keep a friend she valued. Yet in their case, such an invitation ought to come from Darcy himself, who merely watched from a distance, his heart troubled, his will uncertain.

He alone came to bid them farewell at the early hour the morning of their departure.

As the carriage set out, Elizabeth cast one last look at the house that had so stirred her soul.

She saw Mr Darcy mounted in the distance, already on horseback.

His hands lay upon the saddle, his figure perfectly still, watching, unmoving, until the coach vanished in a veil of dust.

For Elizabeth, the joy ended there—upon the steps of Pemberley. Nothing that followed could soothe her regret or quiet the aching sense of loss. Perceiving her silent distress, her aunt and uncle resolved to curtail the remainder of their travels and return directly to Hertfordshire.