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CHAPTER EIGHT

Darcy

I left London on a cold, windy early December day. My sister and her companion sat in the forward-facing seat and I, on the rear-facing bench, was left to contemplate not only Georgiana’s defeated little face, but the road behind me.

A flirtation begun with swords crossed out of irritation, had proceeded along the lines of lightly erotic riposte, and had abruptly culminated in a deadly contest. Elizabeth Bennet had begun to believe she had power over me, so I had skirted directly beneath her guard and sliced through her vanity.

She lunged out of instinct, piercing me to the bone.

My confidence, my sense of consequence, still bled weeks later.

Just as Miss Elizabeth had watched me speak to Sir William Lucas, I watched myself as though through her eyes. Against my will, I observed the subtle and indelicate ways I asserted my superiority over everyone. Had I ever met anyone I felt to be my equal?

The answer startled and appalled me. When I ate a meal in a public room, my every movement was not only meant to feed myself but to show those watching the elegance and refinement of my upbringing.

When I spoke to an innkeeper, my tone demanded, expected, and threatened all at once.

When we changed horses in Highgate, the greeting of a friendly curate elicited the barest nod.

I stood in weary impatience as an innkeeper in Stamford attended a middling sort of gentleman.

People were either useful or in the way, but they were never deserving of my notice.

One evening after we arrived at Pemberley and sat down to supper, I asked, “Georgiana, have I become top lofty, do you think?”

Over the days since my return from Hertfordshire, I had tried to regain some of our former ease with one another.

My sister proved a tough nut, but I was determined to spend the winter chipping away at her dejection.

Having discovered that trying to draw Georgiana out of her turtle shell to confide in me was pointless, I had the dimly lit idea to bring her a little into my confidence.

Her eyes darted up from her plate. “What do you mean?”

“Have I become as insufferable as our aunt Catherine?”

For a second I thought she would reply in her usual mode, which was to blush and stammer and plead helpless ignorance of any topic I brought up. But we were alone. She had no one to run to, for her companion, Mrs Annesley, was in bed with a headache.

“I-I do not know, William. I had not thought of it,” she said, and I imagined another night would proceed without any progress being made between us.

But the clocks at Pemberley had a trick of ticking loudly and accentuating not only reverberating silence, but on certain very cold nights, uncanny isolation. After a moment of profound silence in that great house, Georgiana looked up from her plate again and spoke.

“Why do you ask?”

My heart soared. “I met a lady in Hertfordshire who laughed at me for my manners.”

“She laughed at you?”

“You sound shocked. I suppose no one dares to laugh at me which is answer enough to my question.”

After a moment’s hesitation, my sister spoke again. “Who was the lady in Hertfordshire?”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” I replied, surprised by the sound of conscious pleasure in my voice for having named her aloud.

We spoke no more about Miss Bennet that evening, but at dinner the following night, Georgiana shyly asked, “Were you very angry when Miss Bennet laughed at you?”

Now my eyes were the ones to dart up from my plate in surprise. “Do you know, Georgiana, I enjoyed being laughed at a little.” And after a pause, I said, “But I have begun to wonder if I should try, at least, to be more agreeable.”

“To please the lady?”

“I doubt I shall ever see her again, but if I did, I hope she would be baffled by an altogether better impression of me.”

Georgiana’s brow creased into a tiny, puzzled frown. “Did you argue with her?”

“Regularly. Do not distress yourself. The lady?—”

“Miss Bennet.”

“Yes. Miss Elizabeth Bennet has a penchant for provoking me.”