Page 14 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
W hen Elizabeth returned upstairs to Jane’s bedside, intent upon complaining to her sister that Mr Darcy was impossible, inconsiderate, and possibly irrational, it was only to find Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley ensconced at her sister’s bedside. Elizabeth was forced to withhold all commentary and instead, respond to their company with politeness and civility. She truly did appreciate their kindness towards Jane, and here was an opportunity to ingratiate herself, to appeal to ladies who might, if all went well, become her own sisters someday. Most of her mind, unfortunately, was preoccupied in composing responses to Mr Darcy’s provoking words.
I ought to have told him that he is mistaken if he believes that he could choose any mode of declaration that would disguise his ungentlemanly conduct! It would serve him right if Jane refuses him outright! Who would want such a cold and stubborn husband?
“Lizzy, Mrs Hurst asks if you are feeling quite well?” Jane prompted, bringing her attention back to the conversation at hand.
All three were looking at her, Jane and Mrs Hurst with concern, and Miss Bingley with curiosity; Elizabeth had entirely lost the thread of the conversation. She sought an excuse.
“Yes, I am well. I apologise. I did not sleep much last night,” she said sheepishly.
“Oh, dear. You were up in the night with me too many times,” Jane worried aloud. “I would not see you take ill, too. You should lie down and rest!”
Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley added their admonitions to Jane’s, and the next thing she knew, Elizabeth had been sent back to her own bed, to compose her arguments and retorts to Mr Darcy in a privacy that was anything except peaceful.
Nevertheless, she had not lied when she said that sleep had evaded her the night before. Even her outrage over Mr Darcy’s arrogance could not disguise her genuine fatigue; the mattress was soft, the linens luxurious, and she fell into troubled dreams, despite the indignation that should have kept her awake.
“Lizzy…are you sleeping?”
Elizabeth wakened with a start, peering through the gloom at the figure holding a single candle. “Jane?” she murmured sleepily. “What are you doing out of bed?”
Jane set the candle on the bedside table; Elizabeth felt the give in the mattress as her sister sat beside her, and Jane’s gentle touch as she finger-combed Elizabeth’s wild curls away from her face.
“It is growing late, and I feared you would sleep through dinner if I did not wake you.”
“I can take a tray up here, and remain with you,” said Elizabeth, struggling upright with a yawn.
“Sister, dear, you need to take advantage of this opportunity. Mr Bingley will be at dinner, and this will be your opportunity to speak to him, to allow him to know you as I do. You have not permitted him to truly see you—not yet.”
“I know,” Elizabeth admitted. “It seems so difficult—every conversation weighted, potentially mortifying, my performance in it to be judged. I should not have avoided him so often.” She scooted back against the headboard, and Jane settled in more comfortably beside her.
“No, you should not have,” she said, chiding gently. “Had you put forth the effort, your uneasiness would have dissipated by now.”
“Probably. Jane, you will never believe the conversation I had with Mr Darcy.” With a soft sigh, she recalled it in every particular; her anger had faded, leaving behind in its place a kind of dull, miserable ache.
“Oh?” Jane’s interest in anything to do with Mr Darcy sounded perfunctory from the shadows.
But the intervening hours had left Elizabeth with one thing—a determination to do what was best for her sister. However inelegantly phrased, Mr Darcy was correct—Jane’s prospects were not good. All her beauty had not increased her opportunity for a good marriage. Beautiful or ugly, a girl with no fortune could have few expectations. No matter that he was stubborn, stuffy, infuriating, and condescending. He was eligible and—although she hated to admit it—respectable.
“Mr Darcy is interested…interested in you.”
“Me?” Jane’s voice raised a pitch.
“Of course you . You are all that is good, and lovely as well. However, there is a difficulty.”
“There is more than one. I have no interest in Mr Darcy.”
“Have you ever even considered trying to have an interest in him?”
“Well, no,” Jane answered, in tones still a bit shrill.
“You need not worry that he will ask you to marry him at the first opportunity,” Elizabeth reproached, unaccountably feeling compelled to defend him. “It is hard for him, he said, to come to know any young lady well enough for honest feeling to develop, and to believe she could like and respect him. He says that everyone makes a fuss when he shows the slightest interest in anyone. You know this is true, Jane, for you experienced it yourself over a couple of dances. He does not want pressure placed upon you to accept an engagement you do not want. He only wants to know you well enough to determine whether you could love him someday. Your virtue is unassailable, and you would never agree to marry him simply because he is a wealthy man—unlike many of the females he meets in society.”
It was not exactly what he had said, but Elizabeth felt she could take a little licence since his actual words had been too stupid to bear repeating. Probably, she would have to tutor him a little in the future. He would never get anyone to marry him if he insisted on behaving like an arrogant pig.
“It is just that I feel certain that our…our mutual, current lack of feeling is fixed,” Jane insisted.
“If it is, it will not matter much, will it, whether you give him a few opportunities to become better acquainted?”
“Why waste his time, and mine? It is bound to be uncomfortable and embarrassing. I find him intimidating at best, and taciturn and remote at worst.”
Jane’s intransigence was beginning to annoy Elizabeth. Yes, Mr Darcy could be formal—but it was easy to see that he was no frozen statue, unable to express emotion or be at ease amongst his friends. How many men would have stayed to fish with her, in the face of such ingrained disapproval as he possessed?
Taking a deep breath, she told Jane the rest of it. “In our discussion, Mr Darcy agreed to help Mr Bingley see my-my finest attributes, and even encourage him towards me…in the marital sense,” she stumbled over the words. “That is, if you will take the time to know him, and not immediately rebuff any, um, attempts he makes to know you better as well.”
Jane swivelled to face her. “He did not! Truly? How did he know—Lizzy, this is astonishing!”
Even in the shadowy candlelight, she could see Jane’s incredulity, which further piqued Elizabeth’s irritation. “He is not so difficult to speak with as you have built up in your imagination. He was telling me about a certain ghostly legend at Pemberley and I told him about our grandmother Gardiner’s prediction, and really it was nothing at all before we were comparing our mutual requirements and finding that they were compatible. He wishes a chance for you to find him less intimidating, and I need help putting my best foot forward with Mr Bingley. What could be more natural than that we join forces and help Fate along?”
“Ghosts?”
“It seems simple enough to me. Mr Darcy does not want to raise expectations—not yours, not Mama’s, not our neighbours’. Why is it so difficult to simply talk to another person, and learn their likes and dislikes, their opinions, their views—on any except the most shallow of points? Had Mama and Papa ever had this opportunity, they would never have wed. Neither is there any fear that he will marry you against your will—the whole point is that your choices remain your own, and his choices remain his. I do not understand your reluctance.”
Elizabeth had been, perhaps, more passionate in her arguments than she had meant; certainly, Mr Darcy had not waxed nearly so eloquent. “Naturally, if you find him disgusting, I would not subject you to any more time in his company,” she said more quietly. “I suppose if Fate has truly designed me for Mr Bingley, I shall win him without Mr Darcy’s aid.”
Jane was quiet for long moments, but at last, she sighed. “Mr Darcy is not disgusting, not at all. While I cannot think that it is any use trying to further our acquaintance, obviously his willingness to use his influence with Mr Bingley is a valuable exchange. I do not quite understand why he does not simply, as a gentleman, use it with or without my accord—but we must see that you have occasion for progress. As you wish. I agree.”
“Thank you, sister-mine,” Elizabeth said, placing her head on Jane’s shoulder, and wondering why she did not feel more triumphant.
Without her intervention, Jane would have hidden from Mr Darcy with all her might and will. Perhaps, even, this was nature’s design after all—not that Elizabeth should ever become Mrs Bingley…but that Jane should have the opportunity to become Mrs Darcy.