Page 10 of The Power of Refusal

A fter dinner, Elizabeth settled into a cosy chair, her art supplies spread before her. Her young cousins gathered around eagerly, eyes bright with anticipation.

“A dragon!” exclaimed the youngest, bouncing on his toes. “With big green wings!”

Elizabeth’s pencil danced across the paper, bringing the creature to life. Scales emerged, followed by sinuous limbs and smoke curling from flared nostrils.

“Now a fairy to ride on its back!” another cousin chimed in.

With delicate strokes, Elizabeth added a tiny figure, gossamer wings shimmering.

As each new creation took shape, the children’s imaginations soared. They wove tales of grand adventures, magical lands, and talking beasts.

“Write it down!” they insisted, and Elizabeth obliged. Her elegant script flowed around the margins, capturing their words.

“We’re making a real book,” one cousin whispered in awe, watching the pages fill with art and story.

Elizabeth smiled, caught up in their enthusiasm as fantasy bloomed beneath her hands.

Later that evening, Elizabeth recalled the scandalous caricatures in the print shop windows. Elizabeth attempted to recreate the style, but not the scandal, of the drawing, depicting instead a recognisable figure in a gown festooned with yards and yards of lace, reaching for a vinaigrette urged on her by her housekeeper. She entitled the drawing “My salts!” While the cartoon amused her, she tucked it away in her portfolio to avoid possible offence to the brother of the subject.

As Mr Gardiner prepared to don his coat, Elizabeth approached him with a folder. “I made a drawing for your amusement, uncle,” she said, handing him the folder. Mr Gardiner smiled his thanks and opened the portfolio. He quickly laughed. “Come, Madeline, you must see what our niece has done!”

Mrs Gardiner looked over her husband’s shoulder at the caricature. Elizabeth had been too awake to turn in when she went up the night before. Instead, she had drawn an exaggerated depiction of her uncle, his tackle box, and fishing pole at hand, pulling a fish of sea monster proportions from a tiny stream.

“Lizzy! This is quite good! You caught your uncle’s ‘fish story’ expression perfectly,” Mrs Gardiner said.

Elizabeth blushed at the praise. “It is merely a cartoon,” she said.

“It is a splendid likeness, and quite witty. This is going to be displayed in my office!” Mr Gardiner said as he re-wrapped the folder and tucked it under his arm.

∞∞∞

Lady Matlock sponsored Georgiana when she made her curtsey to the Queen, and Lady Julia, and Miss Terry secured the same date for their presentations.

The ballroom echoed with laughter as Georgiana, Lady Julia, and Miss Terry attempted another wobbly curtsey. Their elaborate court gowns rustled, trains tangling around their ankles.

“Oh!” Georgiana gasped, teetering precariously.

Lady Julia lunged to steady her, nearly toppling herself in the process. “Goodness, how does Her Majesty manage these monstrosities daily?”

Miss Terry, displaying great agility, demonstrated again. “Like this, I think.” She sunk into a deep curtsey, wobbling only slightly.

The others applauded, then tried to mimic her movements.

Outside, Darcy paused by the partially open door, drawn by the sounds of merriment. He peered in, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched Georgiana’s flushed, laughing face. Darcy always knew when they were rehearsing by the sounds of hilarity emitting from the ballroom. He allowed himself a peek into the room now and then. His heart lifted seeing his sister so carefree. That she would take her presentation seriously was a given, but for her to enjoy the experience was more than he had hoped for.

Georgiana insisted her ball not be held until her cousin and co-guardian, Colonel Fitzwilliam, was in London on leave. She alone among the young ladies had the privilege of two “fathers” to escort her, she told Darcy.

“I fear I cannot have two partners for my first dance,” she said after insisting on the arms of both her guardians as she entered her ball.

“Perhaps we could split the set, and each take one dance with the belle of the ball,” the colonel suggested.

Georgiana brightened. She was very fond of her cousin and never wished for him to feel slighted.

"Who will take the first set?” the colonel asked in a teasing tone. “I would like to partner with my brother first,” Georgiana said.

Darcy smiled and took his sister’s hand. “Would you do me the honour?”

“You were my brother before you were my guardian. And you will remain my brother after I marry,” Georgiana said seriously. She went on her toes and kissed her brother’s cheek. “I know how much you do for me, Fitzwilliam. You have sacrificed a great deal to ensure I am well cared for.”

“Never say so, Georgiana. You are my dearest girl. I gain far more by having you than I give up on your care.”

“I cannot help but think you would be married and settled now were you not always needing to attend to me,” Georgiana whispered.

“You worry too much. If I wished to marry, you would be no obstacle. You know I am waiting to find the right lady,” he prevaricated. He smiled, but over Georgiana’s shoulder he saw the quizzical expression of his cousin.

When they sat over brandy after dinner, the colonel raised the issue. Richard held the delicate crystal glass to his lips, savouring the rich aroma. His piercing gaze settled on Darcy, his expression a mixture of concern and exasperation. The crackling fire cast a warm glow over the room, the shadows dancing across the elegant furnishings.

“It has been what, two years? Are you still pining for Miss Elizabeth?” The colonel’s voice cut through the comfortable silence.

Darcy’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around his own glass. The burden of loss weighed heavily on his shoulders, a constant reminder of his past mistakes. He wished he had never confided in his cousin and exposed his vulnerabilities to another soul.

“I do not pine . I am merely selective.” Darcy’s words were clipped, his tone defensive.

“As you say. I fear your selectivity is hampering your happiness. Would you not be able to find tolerable any of the young ladies of the ton?” The colonel leant back in his chair, his eyebrows raised in disbelief.

Darcy cringed. The word “tolerable” sent a shudder down his spine. The cursed word had haunted him since he erroneously used it to describe Miss Elizabeth. He would never forgive himself for that choice remark, how he had allowed his sour mood to poison the one woman he might have wanted against him. Another painful lesson learnt.

“I have yet to meet a young lady for whom I feel more than indifference,” Darcy said in a flat tone.

The colonel shook his head. “Were I in your position, I would find myself a beautiful, wealthy, charming lady and be wed by the end of the month. You are your own worst enemy.”

Darcy’s lips twisted into a wry smile, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “That I can agree with.”

“Come now, Darcy,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, settling into his chair with his brandy.” Surely you could find some way to renew the acquaintance if you truly wished it.”

“How would you suggest I accomplish that?” Darcy's voice held an edge. “I cannot simply appear at her father’s estate uninvited.”

“No, but surely through Bingley—"

“Bingley has not spoken to me since I confessed my role in separating him from Miss Bennet.”

The Colonel swirled his brandy thoughtfully. “What of Lady Catherine? The parson at Hunsford must have some intelligence of the family.”

Darcy raised his brows. “Even Mr. Collins would not correspond with me now.”

“That was a foolish thought. Could you not make inquiries through other channels?”

“About a lady? It would risk damaging her reputation. You know how quickly gossip spreads. A wealthy unmarried gentleman making persistent inquiries about a young lady of modest means...” Darcy shook his head. “I would expose her to speculation and ridicule.’

“And there is no way to write to her directly-to ask after her health as you might a gentleman. An unmarried gentleman cannot correspond with an unmarried lady.”

“It would be grossly improper, Richard. She has explicitly rejected my suit. She instructed me to forget her. My honor demands I respect her wishes.”

“What if you travel to Meryton yourself?”

“To do what? Lurk about the hedgerows hoping to encounter her by chance? I would look a desperate fool at best, a dangerous scoundrel at worst. For all I know she may be in London, to visit her relatives.” Darcy paced to the window. “No, without a proper introduction or mutual acquaintance, I have no respectable means of approaching her.”

The Colonel was quiet for a moment. “You truly cannot forget her, can you?”

“Would that I could.” Darcy's voice was barely audible. “But I am bound by the very principles of proper conduct that she once accused me of lacking. I cannot pursue her without compromising either her reputation or my honor.”

“The bitter irony,” Colonel Fitzwilliam observed, “is that your determination to behave as a gentleman now prevents you from proving to her that you are one.”

Darcy's silence was answer enough.

The fire popped and crackled, the sound echoing through the room. Darcy stared into the flames, his mind wandering to a pair of fine eyes and a sharp wit that had captured his heart and never let go.

∞∞∞

The following day, Darcy slipped away. His coachman’s brows quirked as he took the direction to Gracechurch Street. Darcy found himself drawn to the place where he had last seen Elizabeth. His thoughts of her, once the source of excruciating pain, now were a sore but somehow compelling urge. He conversed with Elizabeth in his mind, reporting on Georgiana’s progress, his trepidation at a betrothal, and how he dreaded the years to come, alone at Pemberley, unable to even consider another lady. He wondered about her health and how she occupied her time.

His coachman stopped down the street from the Gardiners’ house, and Darcy descended.

“I will walk for a half hour. Please return here,” he said. The streets were quiet, the gas lamps casting a soft glow on the pavement as Darcy made his way past the rows of well-kept houses. He paused in the shadow of a portico, his eyes fixed on the front windows of the Gardiner’s residence, his mind alive with questions and possibilities. Was Elizabeth still in London? Had she married in the years since their last meeting? The thought of her beauty and vivacity being bound to another man sent a sharp pang to his chest. What might she be doing now? Could such a lively, beautiful woman remain unwed? He calculated her age to be about four-and-twenty now. What had the years changed about her? He dearly hoped her sparkle and wit had not dimmed. If only he could see her eyes again.

As he resumed his walk, Darcy’s thoughts turned to Georgiana and the momentous changes that lay ahead. He longed to share these feelings with Elizabeth, to seek her counsel and comfort in the face of the uncertain future that stretched out before him.

The half hour passed in a blur of wandering thoughts and unspoken hopes. The streets of Gracechurch Street revealed no sign of the woman who still held his heart. A nursemaid and two children emerged from the Gardiners’ house, their laughter and chatter a contrast to the melancholy that gripped Darcy’s soul. They made their way to the nearby pocket park, the same spot where he had once hidden among the trees, his heart racing.

As his coach pulled up to the designated meeting spot, Darcy took a deep breath, steeling himself for the social whirl that awaited him. The memory of Elizabeth’s sparkling eyes and quick wit lingered in his mind. If only she were by his side, he mused, her presence would surely ease the burden of the countless introductions and polite conversations that lay ahead.

With a heavy heart, Darcy climbed into the coach, his mind still lost in thoughts of the woman he had loved and lost. As the carriage rolled through the darkened streets of London, he clung to the hope that someday, somehow, he might find his way back to her.

∞∞∞

Uncle Gardiner scrupulously separated his business from his home. He lived a short walk from his warehouses, but he insisted he would not bring his work into his home. His only divergence from that path occurred when, from time to time, he hosted business associates for a dinner. Those occasions were social and were not meant to be taken up with discussions of leases and ports and cargo.

When Uncle Gardiner had Messers Bradburn, Taylor, and Baxter to dinner, Mrs Gardiner invited Elizabeth to join them at the table.

“Most of your uncle’s business associates are pleasant company. One never knows, Lizzy. I think you ought to join us.”

Elizabeth agreed. Her alternative would be a meal in the nursery or on a tray. She enjoyed society. She could find something of interest in anyone.

Elizabeth took the measure of the men as they entered the drawing room. They varied in height, dress, and manner. Mr Bradburn spoke rapidly, mentioning his wife and her new motherhood frequently. His cravat was slightly askew. Mr Taylor moved with practiced grace, nodding politely. His attire was impeccable, and his manner reserved, with the manners of a gentleman. Mr Baxter’s loud laugh preceded him. He moved less smoothly in the drawing room, nearly tripping on the rug. His collar seemed to constrain him, and he perspired noticeably. Elizabeth was uncertain whether he was uncomfortable with ladies at the table or if he simply lacked the polish of a gentleman. Or perhaps both.

Uncle spoke at length of fishing, an interest he shared with Mr Bradburn. Their stories grew in enthusiasm in reverse proportion to their believability. Uncle Gardiner leant forward, eyes twinkling. “And then, just as I thought the beast would snap my line, I gave an almighty heave—”

“Don’t tell me!” Mr Bradburn interrupted, nearly spilling his brandy in excitement. “A ten-pounder, at least?”

“Fifteen, if it was an ounce!” Uncle declared, spreading his hands wide to demonstrate.

Mr Bradburn slapped his knee. “Tremendous! Why, it reminds me of the time I was fishing on the Wye. That river has nearly everything a river angler could want—salmon, trout, grayling, barbel, chub, big pike, and an array of other coarse species. There I was, up to my waist in the river, when suddenly—”

“A monstrous trout, no doubt?” Uncle guessed, grinning. “Better! A salmon as long as my arm!”

As the two men’s laughter filled the room, Elizabeth glanced at Mr Taylor. He sat perfectly straight, a polite smile fixed on his face. His eyes, however, held a hint of amusement as they flickered between the enthusiastic storytellers.

Uncle Gardiner turned to him. “And you, Mr Taylor? Any fishing tales to regale us with?”

Mr Taylor inclined his head slightly. “I’m afraid my experiences are rather... modest in comparison, sir.”

This only spurred Uncle Gardiner on. “Nonsense, my good man! Why, I’m sure you’ve—"

“Did I mention,” Mr Bradburn cut in, “the time I nearly fell out of the boat pursuing a monstrous pike?”

As the improbable tales continued to grow, Elizabeth caught her aunt’s eye across the room. They shared a knowing smile, both well accustomed to her uncle’s penchant for embellishment.

Across from Elizabeth, Mr Baxter’s eyes wandered from the animated fishing discussion, settling on Elizabeth. His gaze lingered, unabashed. As the next course arrived, he hesitated, fingers hovering over the array of silver utensils.

Elizabeth noticed his uncertainty. “The weather has been delightful lately, has it not, Mr Baxter?” She pointedly reached for her soup spoon.

He startled, grabbing the nearest fork. “Oh! Yes, quite... delightful.”

Across the table, Aunt Gardiner caught her husband’s eye, giving a subtle nod towards their guests.

Uncle Gardiner cleared his throat. “I say, I hear the new exhibition at the British Museum is quite extraordinary. Has anyone had the opportunity to visit?”

Mr Taylor nodded politely. “Indeed, the antiquities are—”

“Speaking of ancient things,” Mr Baxter cut in, “did you hear about old Jameson’s textile mill? Practically ancient itself, and now he’s selling at a loss!”

Mrs Gardiner’s fork paused midway to her mouth, her eyes widening slightly.

“Terrible business, really,” Mr Baxter continued, oblivious to the sudden tension. “If he’d just lowered wages last quarter like I suggested. And the profits we could be making if not for these blasted—”

"More wine, anyone?” Aunt Gardiner interjected hastily.

But Mr Baxter was undeterred. “As I was saying, these imports are crippling businessmen. We should put higher tariffs on all imported goods. The people who cannot afford them can do without.”

“Britain’s trade privileges with Brazil have created a ready market for low-cost British goods. That seems to be the reason for our record exports—” Mr Gardiner began to say, but Mr Baxter interrupted.

“We must increase tariffs on imported grain to favour domestic agriculture. Permitting cheap grain to flood Britain is an imminent danger to the best interest of the country.”

Elizabeth noticed Mr Baxter glancing at her as he pontificated, as if to gauge whether he impressed her. He did not. Elizabeth read newspapers and observed the surrounding markets. She had more than a rudimentary understanding of the impact of tariffs on grain. What Mr Baxter advocated would place the greatest financial pressure on those least able to bear it and benefit only the wealthy. If the poor could not buy bread, starvation would ensue. She wished to show the deficiencies of his reasoning but bit her tongue.

Mrs Gardiner’s cheeks flushed. She shot her husband a pointed look.

Mr Baxter did not control his facial expressions and thus communicated a great deal he might better contain. His opinions he considered the most persuasive, whilst his reasoning lacked substance.

“Mr Baxter,” Elizabeth cut in smoothly, “I believe you mentioned an interest in horticulture earlier? Aunt, did you not recently acquire some new rose varieties?”

Aunt Gardiner seized the lifeline gratefully. “Oh yes! From a most respected nursery in Kent...”

Mr Gardiner continued the discussion in a more neutral area. Whilst the others spoke of the weather and, inevitably, its impact on trade, Mr Baxter addressed Elizabeth directly. “How do you find London? Are you a girl who prefers the entertainments in the city?”

“I enjoy the theatre and museums, and, of course, there are many more entertainments here. But I am a country girl, and I miss my walks in the countryside,” Elizabeth answered.

“But you have been in London for many months, have you not? Why do you not remain in the country if that is your preference?”

Elizabeth wondered at the man’s cheek. He had little sense of impropriety in asking personal questions of a new acquaintance.

“I have, I hope, been of use to my aunt and uncle. I remain to assist them. In my heart, I prefer the countryside.”

“Miss Bennet, your preference for rural life is quaint, to say the least. Your devotion to the country is charming but ultimately misguided.”

“Opinions on such matters are subjective. I find the countryside provides a genuine and unpretentious backdrop to life. I believe the beauty of the countryside surpasses the artificial allure of the city,”

“Beauty? Dirt, more like. The endless fields and monotony of the country are dreadfully dull. I prefer the vibrant pulse of the city—the theatres, the social events. Life in the country is a snail’s pace.”

“One person’s dullness is another’s tranquillity. There’s beauty in the quiet rhythm of nature. Not everyone seeks the constant rush. I fear you mistake simplicity for a lack of sophistication.”

“I suppose you find more sophistication among the cows and sheep than in the bustling streets of London?”

Elizabeth schooled her expression. “Sometimes, the company of animals is far more genuine than some city dwellers.” Elizabeth smiled guilelessly as the insult flew over the boor’s head. “As for country or city, each has its merits, and I respect those who find joy in both.”

“Miss Bennet, your wit is truly unmatched. I sense a certain playfulness in your tone,” he said. Elizabeth restrained her exasperated expression. What he took as playfulness was, in truth, an insult disguised as a tease, rather as she had done with Mr Darcy so many years ago.

Elizabeth’s mind wandered to the banter at Netherfield, forgetting for a moment about the company. A soft smile played on her lips; her eyes were unfocussed. How long ago that was.

Mr Baxter took her expression differently. “I am rather singled out by your delightful banter,” he said, leaning rather closer to her than she would wish. She straightened and let herself lean away.

Elizabeth pressed her lips together. She would not smile, for fear the man would misinterpret that as well. “I appreciate the compliment, but I believe we are better suited to the realms of friendship.” She sent a beseeching look to her aunt. Would she never escape this boorish man’s impertinence?

Aunt Gardiner saw Elizabeth’s discomfort. After silent communication between Mr and Mrs Gardiner, the hostess rose rather sooner than would be expected. The ladies withdrew to the relative silence of the drawing room. Elizabeth sighed with relief.

Mrs Gardiner put a hand to her forehead and laughed as she leant back in her chair.

“Well, Lizzy, I said, ‘One never knows’ and I have surely been proven correct. I cannot think any of these gentlemen would interest you, yet Mr Baxter seems to have no limit to his forwardness. Unless perhaps Mr Taylor improves on further acquaintance?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I am not inclined to find out.”

The gentlemen lingered at their after-dinner discussions, and Elizabeth was near to heading up to bed when they emerged. Mr Bradburn excused himself to return to his “darling.” Mr Taylor looked about himself languidly. Mr Baxter situated himself next to Elizabeth and began speaking in an overly loud voice. Elizabeth detected the odour of spirits as he spoke. He continued his habit of casting his eyes over her as he pontificated. She began now to comprehend he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would least suit her. Loud, opinionated, forward, and self-important, he brought every deficit of character she most despised. He might be worse than Mr Collins!

Mr Baxter, oblivious to Elizabeth’s inching her chair away from him, monopolised her whilst Mrs Gardiner gave every hint the evening should draw to a close.

“Men of business are on the rise in Britain. The landholding class is learning to fear those of us who know how to create riches. We will dominate society in time,” Mr Baxter proclaimed.

Elizabeth gave a pleading look to her aunt, who subtly nodded. “Please excuse me, I must retire,” Elizabeth said as she rose.

“Why, Miss Bennet, I had hoped to converse with you further,” Mr Baxter objected from his seat as the other gentlemen rose with Elizabeth.

“I am sorry to disappoint you. I am an early riser and require an early retirement,” she said as she backed away.

“Perhaps I will call on you of an afternoon,” Mr Baxter said, still not recognising he rudely sat in the presence of a lady who had risen.

Elizabeth knew not how to let this man know she was not in the least interested in his company in front of his business associates. She could not very well insult a guest, but neither could she encourage his forward behavior.

Mrs Gardiner stepped in. “Goodnight, Elizabeth,” she said, as if Mr Baxter had not spoken. Elizabeth took this as permission to pretend she had not heard him.

“Goodnight, all,” Elizabeth replied and hastened out of the room and up the stairs to her chamber. She hoped her uncle could discourage the unwanted attentions without harming his business concerns.