Page 43 of The Riches of a Life Well-Lived

D arcy convinced Bingley to arrive early at Mrs. Phillips’s that night. When their hostess greeted him, he gave her what he hoped was an unbothered smile and suggested that dancing might be a pleasant way to pass part of the evening.

Bingley’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, but Darcy ignored him.

Mrs. Phillips chuckled. “You are quite right. Perhaps before we bring the card tables out, we might have a few dances.”

Darcy inclined his head. “I am certain the young ladies will appreciate it.”

“My nieces will.”

Bingley firmly steered Darcy into a corner of the room. “Darcy!” he hissed. “What are you saying? You hate dancing!” Bingley took a deep breath. “If this is some way of avoiding conversation, or, or I do not know what―”

“You do not believe that I simply wish to dance?” Darcy asked, one eyebrow raised, as he surreptitiously wiped his sweaty palms on his pants. Elizabeth loved to dance—it was something he had learned about her. And though he could (and still might) suggest they dance alone in the field on some rest day, he wished to give her pleasure by dancing with a group. In addition, it would give him another opportunity to make his feelings clear.

Express his feelings for her, listen, and do the things she enjoyed—that was what Bingley had said. Suddenly he wished he had spoken to Bingley of his feelings for Elizabeth today; then he could have asked Bingley to investigate more of Elizabeth’s likes and dislikes via Miss Bennet.

Ah well. Tomorrow.

Bingley stared at him. “You hate dancing. I have never known you to dance of your own free will, let alone suggest the activity.”

“Someone recently told me I ought to re-evaluate various things in my life, and I believe dancing is one of them. I have spent so much time avoiding it that I have not given it a fair chance.” Darcy sighed. “You enjoy your dances because your partners are not harpies who see only your wealth when they dance with you.”

Bingley frowned. “Not everyone is pursuing your wealth.”

“I agree. Therefore, I shall attempt to dance tonight.”

“I see,” Bingley said, confusion still plain on his face.

Fortunately, Bingley dropped that line of conversation as others approached them. Darcy suppressed a sigh. It would be much easier to have the conversation when they were not in a crowded room. Probably. Possibly. Truthfully, he did not know how to convey the changes in his character to his formerly dearest friend. A part of him mourned at the gulf that had grown between them, even though the rest of him rejoiced at his closeness with Elizabeth.

He remained at Bingley’s side, involved in conversation with several of the officers, until Elizabeth arrived.

As had been the case ever since his conversation with Mrs. Engel, seeing Elizabeth stole his breath and his feet carried him to her almost before she had finished greeting their hostess.

Elizabeth stared at him, her mouth dropping open as Mr. Darcy requested her hand in a dance.

“Miss Elizabeth?” he prompted, concern coating his tone.

She shook herself. “I would be glad to stand up with you.”

They took their places, and the music began.

“May I ask the reason for this change of heart?” she said archly. “As I recall, dancing has never been one of your favourite pastimes.”

Mr. Darcy smiled at her. “Are you not the one who expounded upon the importance of taking joy in the moment?”

A surprised huff of laughter escaped her. “And dancing constitutes taking joy in the moment? I would rather have believed you would characterise it as the opposite.”

“Not when dancing with such a beautiful woman.”

Elizabeth blinked at him before the movement of the couple next to them recollected her to the dance. As the music separated them for the moment, she took a breath, forcing a smile as Mr. Denny stepped in front of her.

Mr. Darcy was not normally flirtatious. Perhaps she had read too much into his words. “Delicate compliments” were certainly a part of common courtesy, as even Mr. Collins knew. And were her heart untouched, she would simply accept the compliment with a laugh. As it was, Mr. Darcy did not find her beautiful and she refused to wear her heart on her sleeve. She would simply have to endure his latest foray into polite behaviour, no matter how much pain it caused. With an effort, she smiled tranquilly up at him when the dance brought them back together.

“Not to mention that you enjoy dancing,” Mr. Darcy added.

“I do.”

The man gave her fingers a slight squeeze. “Does it not bring you joy to see a dear friend enjoying herself?”

“It does,” Elizabeth agreed, her mind continuing to whirl. For someone who feared to raise expectations, his polite flattery was overly pointed. A beginner’s mistake. With an admonition not to read too much into it, she allowed herself to be swept away. Who knew whether she would ever have another opportunity to dance with Mr. Darcy?

Day 74/46: Tuesday, November 19, 1811

Darcy’s jaw tensed as he and Bingley drew near their usual meeting place with the Bennets. He longed to see Elizabeth, but as he had realised last night, he could not neglect the cords that bound him to Wickham.

What Wickham had done mattered a great deal, but how Darcy handled it mattered a great deal more. It would be so easy to give in to the darkness inside, to the hatred and thirst for revenge. He had seen that in himself. A part of him would have gladly killed Wickham. But every day that he followed that path, he would give the darkness, give Wickham another piece of his soul. Last night, lying awake in bed, Darcy had imagined looking out over the years, watching himself eaten alive by that darkness, until it tainted everything good in his life. Georgiana. Elizabeth. Pemberley. Wickham would consume them all if Darcy did not stop the darkness inside himself right now.

What Wickham had done was despicable, but no one could undo the past. Punishing Wickham would never repair the damage the man had caused, and the wound would only fester and grow the longer Darcy let it.

He had to let go. Not for Wickham’s sake, but for the sake of his own soul. For the sake of freedom. For Georgiana’s sake. For Elizabeth’s sake.

And so, Darcy had determined to try the same tactic that had worked previously: to allow the emotion to simply be there without suppressing it. The trick would be not attacking Wickham.

Elizabeth beamed up at him and he returned the smile, glad for a moment of brightness. After exchanging greetings and offering her his arm, he knew he had only moments before Mr. Collins would prevent further conversation.

“I am trying something with Wickham today,” he whispered to her. “Would you draw my attention should it become necessary?”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by ‘necessary’?”

“If my abstraction becomes too obvious, or should I appear on the verge of throttling him again.”

“I shall do my best,” she promised.

“Thank you.”

As they approached Meryton, Darcy mentally prepared himself to allow his rage free rein—at least internally. Ignoring Mr. Collins, his attention shifted to the bend around which Wickham would appear. And there he was. Bile rose up in Darcy’s throat, and his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. It had been some time since he had allowed himself to pay more than the most cursory attention to the man’s presence—clearly, any acclimation he had gained had been lost over the past few weeks. He stared at Wickham, eyes boring into him, as his thoughts turned towards all the pain Wickham had caused—

No, wait. Wickham had certainly caused a great deal of pain, but not all that pain had belonged to his boyhood companion. Darcy took a deep breath. His hate was tying him to Wickham and might contribute to Elizabeth’s sister marrying the wretch. If Wickham hurt Elizabeth’s family—

Darcy tore himself away from that mental path. He took another deep breath. It was too hard to allow the ocean of animosity to flow freely, but what if he merely opened the container for a short while? What if he let out a part of the all-consuming hatred?

His chest grew tight and his fingers once more tensed. Dipping a metaphorical toe in the water, Darcy simply stood as the man was introduced, allowing a thread of emotion to escape without judgement. Suppression had failed. Judging the emotion had failed. Perhaps the only way out was through.

Something was different. He let the ocean rage without adding fuel to the storm by reciting all of Wickham’s wrongs and yet did not suppress the storm or try to control it.

Darcy firmed his resolve. Elizabeth was worth the difficulty. Saving her sisters was worth enduring this. More than that, his freedom was worth completing the task.

Wave after wave of emotion crashed through him, and he allowed them, not stopping the waves nor inviting them in, simply letting them be.

What felt like eons later, Wickham finally took his leave.

“Are you well?” Elizabeth murmured. “You looked positively stoic until your eyes nearly glowed. For a moment, I thought you might incinerate Mr. Wickham with the force of your gaze alone.”

“I—I do not know. I am attempting something new to rid myself of the cords.”

“If you want help....” Elizabeth said, laying a hand on his arm.

Darcy smiled down at her. “I shall certainly let you know.”

It had taken nearly an hour to convince Bingley that he was serious about pursuing Elizabeth (and that he was not opposed to Bingley pursuing Miss Bennet) and to enlist his help. Darcy only hoped the effort had been worthwhile.

“She likes chocolate tarts,” Bingley told him that night. “Miss Bennet said that they are one of her favourites. I do not know how you will be able to utilise that information—it is not as though Miss Elizabeth were coming over for dinner,” he said dubiously.

“Call it a whim,” Darcy said. “And thank you.”

Now he just needed to find out if Bingley’s cook had the ingredients for said tart and if it could be made in time for him to bring it to their next rest-day picnic.

Darcy lay in bed that night, considering the events of the day. His attempt at changing the cords with Wickham had not failed. Nor had it precisely succeeded. When he imagined seeing Wickham now, the restless waves of emotion were diminished—still far above his ability to comfortably manage, but no longer such that allowing it to crash in felt like it would destroy him. Yet the ocean remained.

He would continue the experiment.