Page 27 of Only Mr Darcy (Obstinate, Headstrong Girl #1)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
D arcy headed back to Netherfield wondering if perhaps he could choose happiness after all. Duty pointed him away from Elizabeth and yet she was so calm, so sensible, and full of a sweetness so pure he could taste it. The Miss Bradshaws of the world could not hold a candle to her. Georgiana already liked her, else she would not have confided so much; his sister had been so greatly improved since he had told her that she might remain with him for the foreseeable future, that he wondered now whether he had exaggerated her needs.
At Netherfield, however, he found Georgiana’s fragile peace had shattered while he was with Elizabeth. He did not know why, and she could not tell him; only that she was back, again, to tearful outbursts, to a hatred of everything in life, to a refusal to leave her room even for the evening meal.
Elizabeth herself would probably call it a sign. Yet, even as he berated himself for his urge to drag her back into their lives and Georgiana’s troubles, to ask for her help, he recognised what comfort she had offered his sister had truly been only of the briefest duration. As he had first believed, her problems were deeper than Elizabeth had supposed. How could he involve her in their lives to aid Georgiana, when selfishly he knew the truth? He wanted Elizabeth at almost any cost, and his instinct would always be to turn to her. Doing so would only give Elizabeth unfair hopes, hurting her further when duty dragged him away again.
Darcy slept little that night, his conscience a red-hot poker in his brain. In his mind, it was a choice between duty and happiness—and how happy could he be, truly, if he chose his own over his sister’s? By the morning, he knew what must be done. He went out riding early, restless, and rode the beast harder than he ought to have. He checked the bridge area for Elizabeth’s presence a dozen times before finally, around mid-morning, she appeared, smiling, looking so pretty that his heart hurt. Dismounting, he looped the reins over a denuded branch at the top of the embankment and hurried to meet her. But when he reached her, words—the words he should have spoken yesterday—again failed him.
“How do you fare, Mr Darcy?” she asked happily, proceeding to tell him of her own morning’s activities. He had no idea what she said, only tried to memorise her fine features in the weak sunlight, the way her nose crinkled as she laughed, her eyes twinkling as she related some anecdote regarding one of her sisters.
Oh, to possess a painting of her, looking just as she did now!
Abruptly, she ceased speaking, studying him. “Is something the matter?”
“I have to leave,” he said, hating the words honour forced him to speak.
Her face immediately creased with concern. “Is Miss Darcy well?”
He shook his head, jerkily, and her concern suddenly changed to wariness.
“I must take her to town, find her an appropriate companion, do better by her than I have in the past. I must ensure that with every master I hire, every person I bring into her circle, into her life, she will never suffer again.”
“You will not come back.” She did not make her statement into a question.
“I do not know.” This was the part Darcy had rehearsed all morning, but his words, when they emerged, held nothing of the careful, deliberate statements he had practised. “I want to. I hope to. It may be—it must be—a long while before I am able. Three or four years, I should think. I must see Georgiana launched and happily wed.” He scrubbed his hands through his hair, knowing this was all one-sided and, as he had feared, unfair to her. “You must not, of course, agree to wait. I would not ask it of you. It is only that I have not the luxury of thinking only of myself and my own happiness. I have not put her first in the past and she has been most horribly used. I will not have my personal choices thrown up at her, impeding her opportunities socially. I am sorry beyond words to hurt you, but I will not place a black mark on my sister’s life by giving way to my selfish desires, not until she is settled. It would not be fair to her.”
Elizabeth paled—there was no other word for it, the colour draining from her cheeks. “I am a ‘black mark’ then?”
“Not to me. Never to me. But to the rest of the world, you would not be considered…suitable. It would make her acceptance more difficult, and she is already troubled enough.”
She turned away from him, staring down at the cold, dark water flowing beneath their feet. He made himself say the rest of it.
“While I do not expect nor ask you to wait for me, I cannot prevent wishing it could be so. I hope I shall see you again—I shall not stand in the way of a match between Bingley and your sister. It is possible, even likely, that our paths will cross in the future. It is only that I cannot make you any promises in the present. To do so would be unjust. Unjust and unkind.”
She gave a laugh, but there was no humour in the sound. “I have been a fool again, I see. I thought you were my sun, my moon, and my stars. How silly of me, to believe in such childish notions as fate and destiny.”
It was a wrench to hear it, to watch her shoulders droop, to know that he had hurt her. Every breath he drew inhaled only pain, twisting in a soul that longed only for her, deliberately knifing his own desires and shredding them in an agony of despairing need.
“I do have hopes,” he said finally, knowing how weak, how inadequate the words. “When my life is my own.”
She continued staring at the blackened water, and when she spoke, her voice was contemplative. “It is truly amazing, is it not? All of God’s creatures obey and exist within the bounds He has set. A carp will hatch and swim within the currents he is born to, live and spawn and die by the rules of his nature, and his species will continue to do so for the next thousand years. All the elements obey. Only man is disobedient. Only man can feel like…like nothing.” Turning, she faced him, her chin lifted. Her expressive, lovely face showed bleakness, but her emerging words were crisp.
“Do not return, Mr Darcy. Do not bother with hopes, and, I promise, I shall not either. I am done with childish things. I wish you a good day. A good life.” Brushing past him, she walked away, her steps firm and unwavering.
“Elizabeth!” he called to her, not sure what he could say that would make this better, frustration filling him that she could not see—even knowing what she knew about Georgiana’s past—that he had to do this. It is not my choice!
But she did not pause, did not hesitate, her shoulders squared as she marched quickly away. He watched as she grew smaller, every part of him wishing to stop her, damning the duty he was honour-bound to fulfil. How could she fail to understand? She had sisters whom she loved! Did she not realise Georgiana’s position in life?
Anger was easier than sorrow.
Elizabeth found a place in Longbourn woods where she could cry, uninterrupted, and for as long as she needed to. After a couple of hours, drained of energy, she contemplated what she should do.
There were not many options to consider. She could try to hope that Jane’s connexion to Bingley might bring new opportunities for love into her life, except why in the world would she ever subject herself to such pain again? She could visit her Gardiner relations, to distract herself from grief and try to forget him.
If she forgot him, however, she might forget how painful it was to be open, to be vulnerable. Believing in romance—the ‘sun, the moon, and the stars’ sort of romance—was stupidity itself.
It was distressing to realise how many hopes she had built, so quickly, an entire future even—upon a lie, a childhood fantasy. Looking at life through a lens of false hopes only brought pain. What had such a na?ve attitude done except attempt to delay the match of a most beloved sister and encourage impossible dreams while humiliating herself in the process?
Someday, perhaps, she might decide that a practical marriage with a stolid sort of man was the answer. Perhaps she would love her children with all the zeal she had once felt for romantic love. But she could feel cynicism creeping in already.
I was a child, and I loved like a child—wholeheartedly, foolishly, embracing it with my whole soul.
She was not reckless enough to love that way ever again.
Elizabeth returned to Longbourn, hoping to quietly slip upstairs to her room so that she would not have to explain her swollen eyes and ravaged face.
She need not have worried. The house was in an uproar. Not only had Mr Bingley called on Jane that morning, but Mr Collins had proposed marriage to Mary and had been accepted. Plans for wedding clothes, dinners, and a breakfast fit for royalty held the attention of everyone. Elizabeth had only been required to offer her congratulations before she was able to slip away. By the time she was summoned to dinner, her face and emotions were under control. If that control had become a frozen lake, in their excitement, no one noticed.
Over the next few weeks, she felt as though she acted a part in a play, her lines scripted of habit and ennui. Some days, she was the supportive sister; at other times, her role was the dutiful daughter. Being with her family was not all that difficult, truly. Whenever her imagination flared, suggesting an adventure—or what her mother would call ‘running wild’—she quelled it. She threw herself into the many sewing projects now in progress, keeping her fingers busy. She listened to Mary’s fears and excitement, only making suggestions of the most practical sort—because those were the only suggestions Mary wanted. Perhaps it was more difficult to throw herself wholeheartedly into Jane’s new happiness, but she forced it for her dear sister’s sake. At least Jane’s distraction was so complete, she did not notice Elizabeth’s grief.
It was not her family who caused her renewed pain, shortly thereafter. It was Mr Bingley who was responsible, with his execrable taste in friends.
He called almost daily, which would not have mattered at all, had he come alone or brought one or both of his sisters. Usually, that was the case. Unfortunately, on rare occasion, Mr Darcy called with him—seldom speaking except for the barest civilities, a dismal companion to his lively friend.
Those visits were excruciating.
Why? Why did Mr Darcy stay on at Netherfield? Why not take his sister and leave the county? If he could not, why must he torture her by visiting Longbourn?
It is my anger at his cruelty, his unfair opinions, I cannot abide , she told herself. It was not something so tedious as unrequited love, for she was done with that.