Page 28 of The Power of Refusal

E lizabeth and Jane stood on the pavement outside the Berkley Square rooms to see their mother off. The elegant Darcy carriage had collected Mrs Bennet on Gracechurch Street, but she insisted she must stop across the city in the wrong direction to bid her daughters and grandson farewell. The coachman sat, his expression impenetrable, as that lady spoke on and on.

“Such a luxurious carriage, Jane. You must insist Charles get one precisely the same for you. So kind of Mr Darcy to permit me to take it! I have not seen the gentleman in these many years, but he is such a good friend to Charles. Do you see the squabs? So comfortable,” she went on and on. Elizabeth suspected she was endeavouring to remain so as many passersby as possible would see her board the truly lovely coach.

When at last the footman shut the door on Mrs Bennet’s stream of noise, and the coachman signalled the horses to move, Jane embraced her sister.

“I thought she would sit right down on the front steps and take tea,” Elizabeth said.

“Poor Mary. I must write to her and remind her to delay Mamma when her time comes again. I would not have survived my confinement had she been there from the first,” Jane said. “I know she means well, but her confinements were twenty-two years ago and more. I cannot imagine how I would recover abed for two months drinking nothing but gruel!”

The two ladies returned to the house and sat together in the drawing room. Neither spoke.

Mrs Potter appeared with tea and cakes, setting them down before Jane.

Jane thanked her housekeeper and, smiling, said, “It is quiet here today, is it not, Mrs Potter?”

“Indeed, it is so. Miss Bennet requested beefsteak for your dinner, Mrs Bingley,” Mrs Potter said with a smile.

Jane sighed with satisfaction. “I think I should like to go for a walk. What say you, Lizzy?”

Elizabeth readily agreed.

Elizabeth was useful in Berkley Square. During their mother’s invasion, she had drawn her mother’s attention from Jane and kept baby Peter from the noise. She ordered dinners Jane would enjoy and took the blame when Mrs Bennet found them wanting. Elizabeth hoped now that Mrs Bennet had departed, she would remain of use to the Bingleys.

Since the morning when Mr Darcy had appeared unexpectedly in the drawing room, Elizabeth had not seen him, though Charles spoke of their frequent meetings. When Mrs Bennet crowed she would return to Meryton in his carriage, Elizabeth recognised his generous nature. Everything she heard of him in these many years had shown him to be thoughtful and kind. She replayed the dozen words they had exchanged that morning in her mind, day and night. How did he do? He wore a mourning band; he appeared perhaps thinner, with some few lines deepening around his eyes. Elizabeth longed to see him again, to reinforce in her mind his image. She listened closely to Charles, hoping to gain any information about his friend. Her attachment, long buried, roared back to life.

∞∞∞

Darcy was a man of habit. He structured his days predictably, providing his servants with a clear understanding of his expectations. His routine prevented him from awakening to a vast, empty score of hours with nothing to occupy him.

In keeping with his morning routine, on fine days at least, he began the day with a gallop. He preferred to exercise Llamrei himself and took a route across Hyde Park away from Rotten Row. As he returned, trotting his mare to allow her to cool, a figure arrested him across the sweep of green. A nursemaid walked with a small baby, accompanied by another woman, dressed as of a higher station. A jolt of recognition hit him as he observed the familiar gait. So shocked was he that he nearly halted his horse. Instead, he slowed her to a walk as he gazed at the lady.

From the significant distance, he could not determine whether she saw him. Her features were too far away to be distinct, but he knew her figure, her posture, her lively walk. He drew in a breath. Mrs Couper would be likely to take the air with her nephew, and she would dress so.

No more were the more fashionable bonnets and colourful spencers she once wore. Her clothing was drab and simple, albeit not fully disguising her light and pleasing form. He wished for nothing more than to urge Llamrei across the grass to approach her. But she belonged to another.

Darcy passed beyond the point where he could regard Mrs Couper without looking over his shoulder. He made a mental note to send Mr Hunt to inquire whether there were needs at St Lawrence Parish in Alton that he might address. Had he the right, he would send her to a modiste for a wardrobe befitting her beauty, not the dull and serviceable attire of a parson’s wife. Perhaps Bingley would know how he could discreetly assist, if only he could ask without appearing highly improper.

Darcy walked his horse slowly back to the mews. After breakfast, he would undertake his correspondence. He would force himself to accept an invitation to an event acceptable for a widower fresh out of mourning. His lonely life would trudge along, with only a distant vision of the woman he loved to comfort him.

Darcy had completed reams of correspondence, clearing his desk of matters requiring his attention. No appealing social invitations had appeared for that day, thus he was at loose ends.

To stave off falling into the glums, he readied himself to visit White’s. He required distraction, if nothing else. Before he left, his butler approached with a note delivered by a messenger.

Darcy—

I promised to have you to dine, and I will not permit you to refuse. Jane is quite well enough now, and her mother has departed, thanks to your great condescension. We would wish to have you join us one evening this week of your selection. Please send a note around letting me know what night is convenient. We are preparing to return to Lockwood once we have had Peter christened, so time is of the essence.

Yr svt,

C Bingley

At last, a social invitation he would relish. His coachman had conveyed Mrs Bennet to Longbourn alone. He was certain he had seen Mrs Couper that morning, so the invitation was doubly appealing. The easy company of Bingley, the grace of Mrs Bingley, and the opportunity to enjoy the society of Elizabeth shone as the brightest spot in his week. She was near and yet hopelessly far from him, married to another. What harm could it do merely to look upon her again?

∞∞∞

As was her preference, Elizabeth accompanied Peter and his nurse for their morning outings. Whilst the pace taken by the nurse was far more sedate than Elizabeth would prefer, she had the benefit of an escort without troubling the household. The distance to Hyde Park was but a half mile. Despite the lack of a carriage, it was a trifling distance. Once in the vast green, they would walk for as long as the weather and Peter’s tolerance allowed.

It was not the fashionable hour for strolling. Mainly nurses and governesses taking the air with their charges populated the park. Elizabeth lifted her face to the sun and inhaled the relatively fresh air. Lockwood was her preference, but for the nonce, Hyde Park was a green oasis.

From their vantage point, the walkers could see down the gently sloping green to the area where gentlemen exercised their horses. Whilst riding had never been Elizabeth’s passion, she admired the strong and elegant forms of horses. There was a magnificent bay that trotted with such stateliness she stopped to observe it. Only when it slowed to a walk did she take in the rider. Tall, well-built, and with an excellent seat, the figure brought Mr Darcy to mind. In truth, any tall, well-built figure brought that gentleman to mind. But this rider, too distant to decipher fully, had something in his movement which….

It was him. Mr Darcy was astride a splendid horse, likely heading back to his house on Grosvenor Square after a morning gallop. Elizabeth realised she ought not to stand and gawk at the man, as admirable as he might be. She walked ahead, stealing glances as he proceeded, until he was no longer in her line of sight.

Elizabeth knew she was caught up in a hopeless dream. Mr Darcy, once quite thoroughly above her, was now so far from her reach as to render her fantasy merely that. A fantasy. She was an impoverished spinster with no particular connections. Charles, for all his new estate and excellent character, was still considered from trade. Darcy had befriended him, but that was a far cry from marrying someone from that station.

Elizabeth sighed, then directed her thoughts to happier matters. She had a home for so long as she wished, according to Jane and Charles. She had baby Peter to dote upon. Whilst she had no money to speak of, her drawings were still a source of a few shillings to keep her in hose and gloves. It had been sometime since she had attracted the notice of any gentleman, but that troubled her not at all. She would not marry. Whilst they remained in London, she had sightings of Mr Darcy. It would have to suffice.

Charles opened his personal correspondence at the breakfast table to discuss invitations and news with his wife. His secretary sorted the personal letters from the business, which he attended to in his study when he might.

They discussed how best to manage Caroline’s request for funds yet again. Even sweet Jane had lost patience with her constant demands. They agreed to send a token amount and remind Caroline she was no longer in their charge. Then, Charles opened a note which changed his expression from peevish to pleased.

“Darcy will come to dinner any night this week, Jane! Which evening suits you?” Bingley said.

Elizabeth stopped mid-chew. She had barely survived the surprise of seeing Mr Darcy in the drawing room whilst she rocked Peter. That had been entirely unexpected. She had had no time to become anxious. To know he would come to dinner, to have a day or two or three to anticipate seeing him, she knew she would be in a nervous state to rival Mrs Bennet’s. She forced herself to quiet her thoughts in order to hear the outcome.

Jane wished to host Mr Darcy at the earliest possible time, as they were amid preparations for the christening and departure from London. Elizabeth was grateful her period of anticipation would be short.

On the evening in question, Elizabeth had attempted to read, then draw, then sew, but no activity distracted her from her anticipation. At last, she went to the nursery and occupied herself in playing with Peter. His antics diverted her from her worry. Sadly, in the way of small babies, he burbled his dinner onto her only decent dress. She hurried to her room to change with nothing suitable to wear and no time to arrange her appearance to her satisfaction.

As she rushed into the drawing room, late for the dinner hour, a thousand feelings rushed over her. The most consoling was that it would soon be over. And the first encounter was soon over. In two minutes, she was seated in the drawing room. Her eye half met Mr Darcy’s, a bow, a curtsey passed; she heard his voice; he talked to Charles, said all that was right, said something to Jane, enough to mark an easy footing. To her mind, the room seemed full, full of persons and voices. She knew she was overly quiet, unable to join in her usual banter with Charles. He glanced at her with concern, but she smiled and nodded to reassure him.

At the small table, she was across from Mr Darcy. Jane and Charles had intended no entertainments; they were in London for the confinement, not for society. They had no need for a grand apartment. Their small dining room held a walnut table that seated only six. The four of them were close together, and Mr Darcy regarded her steadily, in the manner she had once seen as critical. It had been so long since they were in company; she was uncertain how to read his expression. His reserve had reappeared. Was that a tender regard in his eyes, or did she merely wish it so? She was so dull! For the first time in an age she wished to look well, to be lively, and she was in an old, worn dress and had no conversation.

They did not separate after dinner. The four went to the drawing room for coffee and brandy. Elizabeth had added little to the conversation. She was grateful for the lack of a pianoforte in the small apartment. She could never have performed in her anxious state. What was that foolish quip she had made a million years ago at Rosings? “My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me . ” That Elizabeth was no more. Elizabeth shook her head. Had she become the very caricature of a nervous, empty-headed spinster? At least she did not ramble on. No, she did not ramble at all.

Did it seem Mr Darcy’s eyes often drifted to her? She recalled those long-ago days at Netherfield, where she believed he studied her to enumerate her faults. He had been admiring her, in fact. In all her emotional upheaval, she was unequal to determining whether he even intended to catch her eye. She wished for his admiration, yet she looked at herself with a critical eye and saw nothing, nothing at all, to admire.

When Mr Darcy left, she fought back tears. Jane talked, but she could not attend. “It is over! It is over!” she repeated to herself again and again, in nervous gratitude. “The worst is over!”

She had seen him. They had met. They had been once more in the same room. She would see him at the church, and then, perhaps, never again.

∞∞∞

Mrs Bingley rose to greet him as he entered the Bingley’s drawing room. Her ethereal beauty had not dimmed. If anything, it was enhanced with a softness brought on by motherhood. Bingley’s attraction had always been understandable. Mrs Bingley was a singularly well- favoured lady. Whilst she remained reserved, the warmth of her greeting shone in her eyes.

Bingley stepped into his view, clapping him on the back and speaking words of welcome.

Darcy bowed to them both, then his eyes drifted to seek the one he most wished to see. They were but the three of them in the drawing- room. Blast. Where was she and must it be too forward for him to ask?

The threesome sat and exchanged pleasantries. Mrs Bingley’s eyes trailed her husband as he walked to the side of the room to fetch Darcy a glass of claret. It struck Darcy she had always done so. Her heart was not ‘on her sleeve’, as was the saying. Her heart was in her eyes- in the focused attention on her husband’s every movement. He knew that manner of affection. It was his own. His eyes had ever been on Elizabeth when they were in company. How bacon brained he was to have missed that Mrs Bingley showed her feelings in a manner similar to his.

Bingley spoke of their arrangements to return to Lockwood, now they finally had the use of their carriage.

“I do hope we can entice you to spend some weeks with us there. It is nothing to Pemberley, but it is a comfortable house with a splendid piece of property. I think you might enjoy seeing how we have set things up.” Bingley filled the air with warmth and openness, basking in the admiration of his wife’s expression. How marvellous it would be to be in such harmony with a woman. An old wound rent open in his heart. He had loved Hattie, in a way, much as he loved Georgiana. He cared for her, wanted all good things for her. But the nature of the devotion he saw between Bingley and his wife stirred a type of envy he had long forgotten. He wanted love- deep, passionate love. This bedrock urge surged in his heart, breaking through the bands of iron he had contained it in. Aware his face was warming, fearful his expression might betray his discomposure, he adopted the stern, lifeless mask that was his social armour.

The side door to the drawing room opened. With a rush of deep brown skirts, she entered.

“Lizzy! Where have you been?” Mrs Bingley said with a teasing smile. Both Bingleys chuckled at her entrance, then Bingley gestured to him.

“Mr Darcy is here already, sister. You are late again!” Bingley said. His expression showed they had a standing jest regarding something.

Elizabeth turned to him, her cheeks flushed. She dropped into a graceful curtsey without meeting his eyes, murmuring, “Mr Darcy.”

As Darcy made his bow in return, Bingley began to speak over him. He did not complete his “Mrs Couper,” as Bingley teased Elizabeth.

“Lizzy, has it been so long since we have had guests, you have forgotten the dinner hour? Well, any guest but Mrs Bennet and then I suspect your tardiness might have been intentional.” He looked around at the three of them. “This is lovely- as if we were back so many years ago at Netherfield,” Bingley bore a satisfied smile. He turned his eyes once again to his glorious wife, whose quiet admiration again shone in her expressive eyes.

Darcy’s pulse accelerated. He followed Elizabeth’s every move as she glided to her sister, spoke quietly in her ear- he could make out the words “Peter,” “gown” and then she sat in the chair furthest from his. So that was how it was.

Bingley kept the conversation flowing, asking Darcy about his sister, his plans, his next return to Pemberley. Darcy did his best to respond like a normal man, but his brain-box was rattling. He was sitting across the drawing room from Elizabeth, something that had been no more than a dream for so many, many years. Whilst in his fantasies she would be beside him on the settee, at least in this reality she sat in his direct line of sight.

As the light conversation continued, with Bingley the main contributor, Darcy’s mind raced with questions. Was Elizabeth still angry with him? She did not meet his eyes, but in their first abbreviated meeting she had been teasing. She spoke but little. Had she confided their horrible exchange at Hunsford when she had rejected him to her sister? They were very close.

How he hoped Mrs Bingley had never learnt what a fool he had been that day. Before he was lost to the present, staring at Elizabeth more than he ought and attending to Bingley less than he ought, he forced himself to concentrate on Bingley’s words.

“It was a tossup, whether we travel to Lockwood and have him christened there, in our home church, or stay in London for it, to ensure our choice of godparents. We agreed having Darcy stand as godfather was the deciding consideration. We would not ask you to leave London before you are ready to. So, we will depart the very morning after the ceremony,” Bingley said.

“I am honoured,” Darcy said. The words were customary, but the feelings behind them were not. The return of his warm, open friendship with Bingley was a boon. Given he would have no children of his own, being godfather to the son of his old friend was of significance. He would use his standing and connections to ensure Peter’s acceptance in the ton. He had ample resources should the boy require anything, although his father was not struggling from what Darcy could see. No, the honour was his, and he knew it.

Darcy could not recall six words said that evening when it ended. He had conversed and laughed with the Bingleys and Elizabeth, but his entire focus had been on drinking in the presence of his love. Over time, she grew more comfortable, more talkative, but she never reached the level of impertinence he had once enjoyed. His seat, to the left of Mrs Bingley, at the small dining table, provided a perfect view of Elizabeth across the table. It took great effort to refrain from staring at her throughout the meal. Once or twice, their eyes met, and her blush and averted eyes told him he had discomforted her. He must restrain his desire to look upon her. To have her. It was of no use. He could not use his fleeting time with Mrs Couper to drive her away! They exchanged few words. He knew not how to ask her about the past seven years. There was at once too much and too little to say. If only he had reconciled with Bingley years ago, before Elizabeth married. Rather than dwell on recriminations, he endeavoured to enjoy this chance to be in her company.