4
Fourteen days at Pemberley…
T he bed Elizabeth had been given, and the room in which it sat, was a slice of heaven. The mattress was stuffed with soft feathers, the counterpane was a luxurious down, and the pale blue and silver paper on the walls made her feel as though she was in a scene from a fairy tale.
Fairy tales, however, rarely ended happily. They were morality tales, meant to teach lessons and deter disobedience. Truthfully, she had never liked them. Even as a young girl, she was not formed for melancholy; when misfortune struck, she put a smile on her face and endeavoured to find a silver lining. Why dwell on present miseries when happier circumstances would eventually present themselves and all would be well?
Exhaling a weary breath, Elizabeth smoothed her skirts and walked to the window. Rain lashed against the panes and a low rumble of thunder rose in the distance. The sound it made resembled a loaded wagon rumbling along a cobbled street. Despite the poor weather, her aunt and uncle had gone to Lambton to say their farewells to their friends. Georgiana was learning a new piece of music that arrived from London that morning, and the Bingleys and the Hursts had left five days earlier.
Reminiscing about Hertfordshire and his acquaintances there had a profound effect upon Mr Bingley. One morning, when a footman had brought Elizabeth two letters from Jane on a gleaming silver salver, Mr Bingley had been suddenly seized by a powerful compulsion to return to Netherfield. He declared his resolution at breakfast and by midday his valet had packed his trunks, his driver had readied his carriage, and he was off. Apparently, it was precisely as Mr Darcy had once remarked in Hertfordshire: when Mr Bingley made up his mind, he acted upon it at once.
Miss Bingley had been beside herself with indignation, but she was allowed no say in the matter. Her brother was determined. She was given the choice to accompany him to Hertfordshire or to go with the Hursts to their aunt’s home in Yorkshire. As she had received no invitation to extend her stay at Pemberley, to Yorkshire Miss Bingley went.
Elizabeth was glad to see her go. Her superior looks and snide little asides had tried Elizabeth’s patience to its limits. The false flattery and repetitious platitudes she showered upon Darcy at every turn made Elizabeth feel irritable and ill. It never ceased to amaze her how, in the matter of weeks, her feelings for him had changed so completely as to render them the very opposite of what they once were. Gone was her abhorrence and dislike of him. Gone was her uncertainty. If anyone had told her in April that she would come to love Darcy in July, she would have laughed!
But nothing could be truer.
She loved him!
He had gone from being the last man in the world she would ever marry to being the only man she could imagine marrying. He was warm and generous and funny and sweet.
And thoughtful. When Elizabeth wanted to read, he had shown her his library. When she wanted companionship, he sat beside her. When she wanted conversation, he readily discussed any topic she introduced. He offered her sweets from his kitchens, long walks in his park, and flowers from a meadow whose bounty was painted in every imaginable colour of the rainbow. One day he had brought her a litter of kittens from the barn just to make her smile.
And they talked. Never alone, of course; her aunt and uncle had been ever conscious of propriety. Georgiana was their constant companion, but she was also quiet and easily absorbed in her music and her art. While she ignored them, Darcy had spoken to Elizabeth of countless things; yet he had not once spoken to her of his feelings.
She was certain he loved her. She could see it every time he looked at her, in his every gesture and expression. She could hear it in his voice. Why did he not declare himself? Surely, he could not mistake her feelings for him now, after two weeks of living in the same house together. Not only had Elizabeth taken every opportunity to speak to him, but she teased him. She walked with him. She smiled at him. She welcomed him.
Of course, she had done those things before, but in a very different context. In Hertfordshire, her conversation was meant to provoke him. In Kent, she teased him to amuse herself. When he joined her in the grove at Rosings Park, she had resented his company and secretly wished him away.
And Darcy had misread her intent every single time.
His declaration of love and his poorly worded proposal came to mind. Dismayed and disheartened, Elizabeth sat heavily upon the cushioned window seat before her and momentarily shut her eyes. To say she was embarrassed by her past behaviour was an understatement. She was mortified and ashamed. Darcy had since shown himself to be a good man—one of the best men of her acquaintance. She had hurt him deeply with her harsh rejection and her reprehensible accusations against his character—an honourable character she had since come to admire. Pain and disappointment such as he had likely suffered at her hands was no trifling matter. Such humiliation as she inflicted upon him—she, the woman he had loved and wanted to marry—did not fade with the rise of the sun.
It lingered.
It tormented.
It caused one to doubt.
Is it truly such a wonder he remains silent now?