Page 19 of Requirements for Love (Love in London with Mr Darcy #3)
“He was mocking in his reply.” Darcy’s jaw was set, and his tone was one of affront.
“Mr Bennet was sly in his mockery, however. He must not think much of my intelligence, but I know what he meant. He seems to think I am such a great man and I must feel it beneath me to speak of such things to people so wholly unconnected to me. His excessive gratitude for my notice was insulting, and even more so because he assumed I could not discern his mocking tone for what it was.”
Elizabeth grew ashamed and indignant on Darcy’s behalf. “I am sorry for his sarcastic humour.”
He waved away her apology. “I was frank about the danger Wickham can pose, and he agreed to make use of my information. That is what matters. No man of sense could have ignored what I wrote. I ought to have done more myself last autumn, rather than rely on your father,” he added darkly.
Her family’s behaviour could be mortifying. To shift his attention from them, she said, “Wickham’s actions are not your fault, you know.”
He met her eye, but took a moment to find his words. “It was my fault that Wickham’s worthlessness was not so well known as to make it impossible for this Miss King or any other young woman of character to love him. You may blame me, at least, for my mistaken pride.”
He seemed determined to feel responsible for more than his share of it, but Elizabeth would not have it. “It is not unreasonable for you to be reluctant to lay your private actions open to the world. ”
Darcy shook his head. “My character must speak for itself. I had a duty to protect the young ladies where both Wickham and I found ourselves. And now I must rely on Mr Bennet to act on my information and do it for me.” His tone said he resented relying on a man who had treated his letter of concern with such disrespect.
“My father is not typically a man of action or consideration, but he will not neglect this. His quick reply tells me that.”
Darcy idly picked up the Shakespeare volume that was on the table next to him. He seemed to want to avoid further discussion of Wickham or her father. “Did you and my sister spend time on something other than reviewing your list of marital demands?”
He said this lightly, and she accepted his redirection and answered in the same tone. “Requirements, not demands, and suggested ones at that. As for the book, I was reading Hamlet to your sister and Mrs Annesley. We had only just begun when Jane arrived.”
Darcy opened to where a ribbon marked the page, his eyes scanning down. “Hamlet is feigning madness already, but he still utters much wisdom. He says, ‘Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.’ Polonius answers, ‘Not I, my lord.’
‘Then I would you were so honest a man.’
‘Honest, my lord?’
‘Ay, sir. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.’
A rare quality then and now to find a truly honest man, do you not agree?”
The tone of his reading voice had distracted her, and it took her a moment to realise he was talking to her.
Darcy’s reading was capital. She wondered how he would sound reading some of Shakespeare’s more stirring speeches.
She pictured him standing by the fireplace, with his sleeves rolled up, reading a sonnet.
“Miss Bennet?”
“Not so rare, I hope,” she said in what she wished was a steady tone. “I cannot believe there are more swindlers and villains walking London’s streets than those men who speak truthfully. ”
“Yes, but that is not the sort of honesty I meant. Honesty is more than truthfulness. Honour and honesty go hand in hand.”
“Honesty is tied to integrity?” she mused. “I suppose it is.”
“It is as far as I am concerned,” he insisted. “Integrity and courage are all parts of being honest, so it is as rare now as it was in Shakespeare’s day.”
“One needs courage to be honest enough to say ‘I was wrong’,” she agreed, laughing.
He smiled, but he was too earnest to laugh along with her.
“Or the courage to say no or to do the right thing despite what it could cost you. There is a lack of honesty in not facing the truth. I must be honest with other people and myself. I must be able to admit when I have made a mistake. Otherwise, I cannot improve.”
She had thought his efforts to be less selfish and prideful were marks of a good character rather than his ability to be truthful.
She admired him for it, and now admired him all the more.
“Honesty is not just about being honourable with the truth when it comes to one’s self ,” she said.
“It is more than just not contradicting the truth. One also has to be open and frank with others to be honest.”
“Anyone can be candid. To be honest is to not practise self-deception, for being true to ourselves means facing reality. If we cannot do this, we engage in deceitful conduct—both to ourselves and to others.”
“ That kind of honesty is rare. But I still say honesty also involves sincerity with other people, and not just with yourself.”
“Who are you open with in your own family? Or amongst your closest friends?”
He looked at her carefully, as though he were genuinely curious about the answer. It was one of the reasons she was attracted to him. Elizabeth felt compelled to be honest. “Very few people.”
Darcy tilted his head. “You are such a frank and candid person. I would have thought it was a long list.”
She suddenly felt shy to admit such a thing to the man she wondered if he could be the person she might marry, the person whom she would value the most, who she hoped would be that honest with her and she could always be honest with.
Someone who would love her back with the depth of love she knew she was capable of sharing with them.
But who could she currently unburden herself to with the sort of honesty Darcy was talking about? “Jane has a generous candour that I often disregard, but I can be myself with her. But I rarely see that kind of honesty you speak of on display.”
He gave her a solemn look. “Are your parents honest with one another?”
Neither her mother nor father had that kind of inner strength Darcy meant.
“Theirs is not a happy union, or one of equal affections and talents. I don’t think they feel safe enough with each other to share the kind of honesty you talk of.
” She gave him a sad smile. “I think I would like to share that sort of honesty with someone.”
Elizabeth watched how his eyes fixed on her, and she feared she had been too forward in her wishes. She could not be sure that Darcy had any serious designs on her. From his actions and his looks, he might be a little partial to her, but who was to say if there was, or could be, any love behind it?
She suddenly very much wanted Darcy’s feelings to match hers. She was certain what she felt for him was the first stirrings of love.
“You should add ‘honest’ to your list of requirements.”
He spoke with a sort of smile that she dared not ascribe deeper meaning to. But if she did not give him a hint as to her own feelings, Darcy might not even consider himself as the man best suited to make her happy.
“Add it,” she said, pointing toward the writing desk. “I should not be ashamed to be the wife of an honest man.”
He laughed a little, and it sounded nervous and pleased at the same time. It charmed her. He took up a quill and carefully wrote on Georgiana’s list. “There, number eight reads ‘honest’. You now have a fine list.”
They stared at one another for a moment, and she foolishly wondered if she was brave enough to tell him he met every requirement.
They heard the front door open and close, and ladies’ voices on the stairs. Georgiana and Mrs Annesley were back. Dinner would be soon, and then Darcy would go out for the evening and their tête-à-tête would be over.
Darcy carefully put away the list and the writing supplies, saying, “Would you like to return to your room before dinner?”
She tested moving her ankle. It was not ready to bear weight.
“I had hoped the surgeon would allow me to get about on crutches.” Darcy opened his mouth, and she interrupted what she knew he was going to say.
“I do not mind you carrying me about, and I know you do not mind it, but I hate being entirely dependent.”
“The surgeon implied you had a bad sprain and that the limb should never be in a pendent position.”
She leant forward and said, in a conspiratorial whisper, “You could send for a different surgeon for a pair of crutches.”
“And if you were entirely in my care, I would do that. Not because I mind carrying you from room to room, but because I know you are annoyed at being dependent. But would Mrs Gardiner approve of you defying the surgeon?”
“How would she know?” she asked hopefully.
Darcy laughed. “She will eventually visit you and see for herself. And I will not lie to her.”
“Perhaps you are too honest a man,” she teased.
“I fear you would always move about if you had crutches, and you might injure yourself further.”
She sighed, knowing he was right. It was so vexing.
After gazing at her for a moment, he asked, “How tall are you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What is your height? I cannot recall since it has been so long since I have seen you standing. You are not as tall as Georgiana; she is five foot eight, but you are not much shorter. Are you about this tall?” He held a hand at about his own shoulder.
“I am five foot five, or nearly so.”
He nodded his agreement and left the room. She could not guess his mission, for he left with a determined look on his face. She resumed Hamlet and had only finished the scene Darcy had begun when he returned with two walking sticks.
“You may take your pick, but it is only to be used when I am not at home,” he insisted, “or when Georgiana and Mrs Annesley cannot help you across the room. For short distances only. It will not be comfortable as a crutch, but you can get from the table to the chaise, or from your chamber to the drawing room, if you must.”