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 | Главная » 2011 » Апрель » 9 » Strange Bedfellows--Chapter 11
12:56 Strange Bedfellows--Chapter 11 |
He adjusted, eventually, though for the first two…four times, he could have sworn he would fall out of his saddle, dead asleep.Dear readers, whew. This took me a while. As always, I want to know (truly) what you think.
Darcy congratulated himself on having thought of the forfeit. It was a most brilliant idea. Now his little wife watched him cautiously, clearly both entranced and terrified by the idea of what he could ask of her. It was obvious to him that her knowledge of such things was more, perhaps, than for most females her age—for she was a reading kind of girl; but on the other hand, it was necessarily incompleat. Now she trembled every time he looked at her and blushed whenever he arched an eyebrow—not so much in fear, mostly in breathless anticipation.
But of course, he had nothing like that in mind. At first, he intended to use the forfeit—a strange idea that had occurred to him at the sight of her distressed, shamed countenance, a moment before he had said it—to make his life easier. He had told her the truth: her stubborn refusal to do as she was told was driving him slowly insane. He was not accustomed to be constantly gainsaid. She was continuously ready to deny him before giving it a moment of thought. He could never guess what would cause her displeasure. He had wrestled from her the pleasure of her company on morning walks (not that he desired her to be there, but he liked walking out with Georgiana, and Georgiana liked walking out with her new sister-in-law), but she had protested vocally when he had slipped his coat over her shoulders. Lud! What was so unacceptable about that? Though he was not of an incredibly gallant disposition, he was no worse than most, and he had tried to do well by her. It had wounded him greatly to hear her say he played the gentleman. (What a scurvy thing to say. Had she been a man, he would call her out for that. Still, he suspected she had not done with saying nasty things to him.)
He was uncertain why he so wanted peace with her, but he did. Perhaps he wanted to know a way to control her, if only for the sake of tempering her biting, angry tongue. Not unlike breaking a young, restive mare. Then, too, he found her… curious. Fascinating. A riddle, a challenge. Before her, his dealings with females were simple. There was his mother—to adore and grieve; there was Georgiana—to spoil and coddle; there were women like Valerie, who served a particular purpose in his life and would never rise above it… dealing with them was circumscribed by a neat set of rules, which suited him well and never changed. But nothing about Elizabeth was simple, or easy, or even understandable. She left him, quite simply, at a loss. She made him feel awful where he was certain of his rectitude, made him feel touched and amused where he should have been angry, made him feel remorse for having said and done things which would ordinarily have left him quite cold.
Sometimes it seemed to him that she was hopeless—this dour, obstinate, dark girl who was bitter at all the world, and in whose pantheon of monsters he occupied a prominent spot. But sometimes… when she laughed over something she had had read in a book… when she talked to his father, in low, kind tones… when she listened to Georgiana’s incessant warbling… she appeared transformed. She had a smile… more than a smile. A light, which suffused her countenance, from her lips to her dark eyes, turning them a translucent shade of amber. It was not often that she smiled like that—and never at him. He would not admit, not even to himself, that it vexed him… that he wanted her to look at him with something other than annoyance or blank resignation on her face.
Glimpses of her, of a woman she would one day become, aroused Darcy’s curiosity and unsettled his heart. Particularly because she was by no means guaranteed to become anything extraordinary. Leave her to her own devices, he thought, and she would forever remain a gray little mouse with her nose perpetually in the book, mean and dry and difficult… but in the right hands, in hands of the right man… Darcy looked at his hands, wondering, honestly, whether he was up to the task. He scoffed at himself for this foolishness… after all, she was determined to leave him the moment his father died. In truth, he was at not at all certain that he wanted it otherwise.
As it was, he was conscious of having temporarily gotten the upper hand in their unceasing struggles. But he was also aware that it would not last long—should he overuse it, she would snap back at him, upsetting the fragile truce. How would he use the forfeit? What would he have her do?
How would he like her to change?
Yes, he thought, that. First things first.
Make her smile more.
Then, make her smile at him.
As it was, both of them were initiated into the management of the great estate—she by Mrs. Reynolds, and he—by his own realization that he had dallied far too long. He threw himself into running Pemberley with guilty zeal: for it was the work with which he had never bothered. The very labor his father had done for years. There was a mound of correspondence on his father’s desk; it took him a good four days to sort through it, answering letters and inquiries about his father’s health, paying all the bills.
The bills terrified him at first; he liked doing accounts exceedingly ill. For the first time, all he saw was the multitude of expenditures—what was paid for food, wine, clothing, timber, lye, flour, soap… For a thousand of small daily comforts of a rich person’s life. For the maintenance of the house, pristine as it was, and for the wages to the numerous servitors, and for the keeping of the horses. Bills, unpaid as yet because of his father’s illness, for Georgiana’s new piano-forte, her dresses, her sheet-music, and a larger one—for the blue curricle and four handsome grays his father had bought days before his illness. The cumulative effect of the money spent was staggering. It seemed impossible that even the most profitable estate in the most profitable year could cover this.
His immediate reaction was to panic; but instead, he doggedly bent his head to the books, intent on settling all the accounts. He stayed awake late after everyone had gone to sleep; for he could not sleep himself, worrying that he might mis-manage something. His game of billiards had gotten exceedingly good, his skill sharpened by the long sleepless hours he had spent playing it (a pastime not at all conducive to riding across the estate nigh-on every morning). Only when he realized, having paid the unresolved bills, that Pemberley was still far from financial collapse, and that all the merchants were ready and eager to forgive their unusual lateness with payment, did he calm down enough to sleep through the night.
To avoid a similar situation, he made it his habit to go over the accounts weekly. As little as he liked it, it helped him to not think of it for the rest of the week. Not that he was idle, or unoccupied, either—for he soon found himself riding out with the tenant overseer Mr. Hawthorne early in the morning, very nearly daily. In town, he had thought himself an early riser, going directly for a ride in Hyde Park every morning… at Pemberley, his London hours would have caused the chickens to laugh. The first time that his man woke him—upon his express instructions—to go out with Mr. Hawthorne, he could not get his bearings, thinking that something terrible must have happened so that he was roused in the middle of the night.
He adjusted, eventually, though for the first two…four times, he could have sworn he would fall out of his saddle, dead asleep. Coming back, he would breakfast and then walk out with his wife and sister, though it happened not infrequently that they were more eager for exercise than he. Oftentimes, all he wished in this world was to go back to bed. He resisted the urge, knowing that it would do him no good to indulge himself. Sooner or later, he would have to accustom himself to the life of a squire.
Elizabeth, on her part, was now formally introduced to the servants as The Mistress. She had met many of them when she was first Miss Bennet… but Darcy was of a mind that announcing her as his wife and their lady would go a long way to establish some respect for her. In particular, he hoped that it would stop the whispers regarding his disinclination to bed her… Therefore, it was done, and she was paraded along the long row of servants, presided over by Reynolds, and introduced to them all. The Mistress. She seemed so young to him, too young for this burden—the burden she would hardly shirk. Sometimes, passing through the portrait gallery, he would stand and look upon Lady Anne’s portrait. His beautiful mother, the former Mistress, all poise and loveliness in her gilt frame, gazed upon them with serenity and detachment.
Darcy watched Elizabeth undertake the duties of the Mistress of Pemberley with surprised amusement. He hardly remembered his mother, but he was ready to bet a part of him that the late Lady Anne was not over-fond of visiting tenants’ households and going over supper menu with Mrs. Reynolds. She had been a gentle, ephemeral creature… Darcy was fairly certain that the lovely Lady Anne had not the faintest idea of the location of the kitchens in the house.
Yet Elizabeth seemed to take to it. Beyond her first post-wedding mortification, she seemed to get over the fact that the entire Pemberley knew they had yet to consummate their marriage. She liked the servants, and they seemed to like them back—for she addressed them with kindness and seemed to take a genuine concern in their well-being (except that Mary had been as sour at her as ever, for she had yet to have a chance to practice new London hairstyles on her mistress). Reynolds conferred with her every morning in regards to the luncheon, tea and supper to be served, to the any alterations that needed to be done to the stores of produce, or to the linens and silver to be bought, if any. To his wife’s credit, she did not attempt to evade her duties—though more often than not, she deferred to Reynolds’ opinion, thus firmly securing the old lady as her ally.
As regarded social calls, they talked between them and decided that it was yet unnecessary to begin calling upon neighbors… for she was still in mourning, and everyone in the county knew Mr. Darcy was far too ill for visits. Thus, their make-believe marriage was secure from intrusion…and it suited both of them admirably. It occurred to Darcy that he would not mind it at all if he could cut the social engagements entirely. But it was a daft thing to think, and surely he would think differently, were he in London?
One morning, having come back from his ride with Mr. Hawthorne, Darcy found his wife in the library, looking determinedly over a thick folio, scribbling something on a piece of paper. Her fingers were blue with ink—a sure sign that she was preoccupied.
“What are you doing?” he asked, hanging over her, trying to read the book over her shoulder. An agricultural catalogue, he noted with wry amusement.
“Oh, good morning.” She looked up at him, looking very much preoccupied, and he saw that she had smeared ink over her cheek. He bit his lip, to keep from laughing.
“You are busy this morning, I see, madam.”
“Very,” she said distractedly. “Mrs. Reynolds asked me to choose flowers to plant for the spring—for the conservatory—”
“Elizabeth. Look at me.” He frowned a little as he pointed to the ink spot on her cheek. “You have something—right here. Ink.” He had the strongest temptation to wet his finger and rub at it, but he would not humiliate her so. As it was, she blushed deeply and violently, dropping her eyes to her hands—but the sight of them, ink smeared, only served to undo her further.
“Pray excuse me,” she murmured, springing up to her feet.
“Mrs. Darcy!” he called after her. She stopped by the doors, beet-red, holding one hand to her mouth, looking at him questioningly. “Please come back here… after.”
Darcy sat and waited for her, all the while flipping through the catalog. He had already convinced himself that she would not come back, and was startled—and pleased—when he heard her at the door. Her face and hands seemed freshly scrubbed.
He said nothing, merely rose and moved a chair up for her, so that she could sit next to him. He was pleased… more than pleased she had come back. He told himself it was because coming back showed good sense—he would have expected her to run and hide in her favorite window-seat.
Darcy knew little about plants and planting—but he did remember the conservatory as it was when his mother was giving the orders… flowers, orchids in particular, had been Lady Anne’s favorite pastime. She had spent hours amongst them, as if flowers alone could do nothing to hurt her. Darcy wagged his head, angry at himself for slipping into such maudlin thoughts; for he liked it little, and his bride, it appeared, not at all.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, frowning disagreeably. “You are not listening!”
“Forgive me, Elizabeth.”
“What is appropriate for the conservatory?”
“Anything you desire, madam.”
She stared at him, as if not understanding, he found he had to explain.
“I should order whatever you wish. Perhaps you wish to consult with a man skilled in making gardens—“
“Sir!” she protested, her face growing even redder. “Mrs. Reynolds has asked me—“
But Darcy was already waxing poetic, excited about the possibilities.
“Would you like—“ He flipped quickly through the catalogue. “Would you like an orange tree? Or exotic flowers…Or—I have heard of it in London, a thing called a butterfly bush—it attracts butterflies, can you imagine?” He paused, taking in her surprise, unable to contain a silly grin. “What do you think?”
“I have no opinion on the matter. I should simply like to know what is usually ordered—“
“Whatever the Mistress of Pemberley desires.”
“I desire nothing, sir,” she repeated feelingly. She seemed half-indignant, half-enchanted by the idea. “Faith, sir, there is little need for such luxuries!”
Slowly coming back to earth, fighting his disappointment, Darcy murmured:
“You are my wife, madam. Luxuries befit you. You do like flowers—all women do. Will you tell me that you are so different from the rest?”
She frowned at him again, and then said—not disagreeably, but with unexpected sadness in her voice:
“It is not that, Mr. Darcy. It is only that I—I should not want to plant flowers I shall not see bloom.” Thereupon, she rose, eyes lowered, and quit his presence altogether. Darcy was left alone with the catalogue of trees and flowers. He returned it to Reynolds forthwith, with instructions to choose whatever she deemed appropriate. He felt very much the fool.
It must have been years since the Lady of the House had last visited the tenants, but one morning, as he sat in his father’s office going over accounts, in strode his wife, wearing a bonnet and a spencer, and carrying a basket on her arm.
“Mr. Darcy, I think you should come with me,” she said pointedly, forgoing any other greetings. They had both taken breakfast in their rooms today, and it was the first time he had seen her since supper.
“Good morning, Elizabeth,” he said, looking up at her in amusement.
“Good morning, sir.” She stood in front of his desk, holding that incongruously large basket on her arm. It looked as if it would tip her over presently. “As I said—I think you should come with me.”
“Gladly,” he replied, closing the accounts book: he had been at it for the past three hours and could now hardly see the morning light for all the crisscrossing blue lines and a multitude of numbers. “Especially if you tell me where it is we are going.”
“I am visiting with a few households this morning,” she informed him. “Mrs. Finlay is sick, and so is Mrs. Hogan’s baby—I am taking them some medicine—and I am taking some food to them and some others—“ She looked up at him and uttered: “The basket is too heavy, and I have another one. I need you.”
“Merely to act as your pack-horse?” He toyed with her. “None of the footmen will do?”
“No,” she said, frowning at him as if at a particularly dim-witted fool. “Not merely. I think you should come with me because these people are your responsibility—or very soon will be. It would help if they knew the face of the man soon to be their Master.”
Darcy felt the sting of her words. It was true—he had not paid the proper attention to the people on his father’s estate. Well, he thought, now was as good a time as any.
“You are correct,” he agreed with her, gravely. “I shall drive you myself.”
“I should rather walk,” she replied.
“Very good of you,” he agreed, “but I am not dragging this basket on my arm all the way. Nor am I making one of my men drag it.”
“But do you wish to appear imperious—to drive up in a smart curricle is not the same— “
“Elizabeth,” he said quickly. “Remember my forfeit. Obey.”
She bit her lip. “Very wrong of you to use it this way,” she said. “But very well. As long as you come with me.”
He did, and they had a decent morning of it. Here, once again, he was able to observe the Elizabeth he liked—the easy, sweet girl he did not really know. He watched her pick up a baby, feed an invalid soup with care and compassion, hand out bread and milk to the family whose mother was ill. He had warned her to be careful, to stay away, for he did not wish her to fall ill. He stood behind her, silent, awkward, watching her interact with his people with ease and grace. Her youth was not an impediment—indeed, he quite forgot her age as he watched her. His father had been right about her—she would make a capital Mistress of Pemberley.
On their way back, he stopped the curricle at the side of a meadow, alighting quickly.
“Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “Take a turn with me, Elizabeth.”
She watched him with wary eyes. His first instinct was to be angry with her. To ask her what it was she feared—would he savage her, his own wife, forgetting all about their agreement? Did she think herself so irresistible to him? Mean words, ready to wound. But he fought himself and said, merely:
“Please. I should much like a turn with you.”
She nodded, then, squinting against the sun, and put her hand in his. Having alighted from the step in a tiny cloud of dust and flying skirts, she stood and watched him tie the geldings to the nearest tree.
“We shall not be long.”
It was a breezy morning in late, waning, dying summer. They strolled through the high grass for a while without saying a word to each other. For the first time since it began, Darcy noticed that he enjoyed being silent with her. Not awkward, not bored, not obliged to say at least something, to proffer meaningless statements regarding the weather. It was as if they both had tons to say, but chose this pleasant, tranquil silence instead.
“Take your bonnet off, please,” he said, suddenly, without quite knowing why. Somehow it seemed intolerable that her view of the world should be obscured by this unattractive dark concoction. Not unlike a set of horse blinders, he thought.
Without a word of objection, she set on undoing the laces under her chin—tying them, within a minute, into a Gordian knot impossible to untie. She tugged at them, further tangling them and growling in quiet frustration.
“On further reflection, Mrs. Darcy, you could never be a sailor,” he said. “Come.” She lifted her chin, obediently, letting him start on the knot himself.
As he worked on the ribbons of her bonnet, his fingers brushed the underside of her chin, strayed precariously to the small hollow between her collarbones. The stretch of skin there, warm and soft, was a shock to him, and for a moment he froze, afraid to exhale. Her eyes flew open, too, suddenly too large for her small heart-shaped face, and her hand dashed quickly to cover his at her throat.
The moment stretched interminably, as they stood, petrified amidst the high grass. Darcy could feel her heart, beating slowly and deeply in her very fingertips as she touched his hand. His own resounded hers, pounding wildly against his ribcage, his blood roaring, leaving him in deep confusion.
Then, the momentary enchantment fading, she shrunk away from him with an anguished moan and started walking towards the carriage. Coming to his senses, Darcy hastened after her.
“Elizabeth, please.” She swung around, her face white, her mouth set. “Forgive me, madam. I did not—I forgot myself.”
“No matter,” she said softly. “Let us speak of it no more.” Her voice was unexpectedly hoarse; she sounded, briefly, a grown woman. She looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the sun with the side of her hand. “Mr. Darcy, I find myself fatigued this morning. Kindly take me home.”
He obeyed without saying a word. On the drive home, both of them found themselves beyond conversation, and for the rest of the day, neither troubled the other with his company.
During one of their walks with Elizabeth and Georgiana—on a particularly fine late summer morning—they meandered into a clearing, where he watched the women gather wildflowers. He felt listless, half-dead. It had rained during the night, the rain and the wind blowing away the clouds that had obscured the sun for three days before. Unfortunately, it had also felled a tree of substantial size, trapping a tenant’s horse. Together with Mr. Hawthorne and the horse’s owner, he had spent the earlier hours of the day trying desperately to free the animal. They had succeeded—only to have the tenant ask that the animal be put down. There was little argument there—the injuries were severe enough—but Darcy recoiled when Mr. Hawthorne held a pistol out to him. He had hunted, had shot a stag; but he had never killed a horse before. He was now deeply repulsed by this grim duty that now, too, seemed to be his.
Mr. Hawthorne, having taken one look at the young Master’s face, did the dismal work himself.
Now, as his wife and sister wandered through the high grass, he fell back, sought shadow, and soon found himself sitting with his back to a large ash at the edge of the clearing. It was as if his body had finally—and suddenly—felt all the abuse he had heaped upon it for weeks; his spirit was even worse. Georgiana called to him and he merely raised one hand—but standing up was beyond him. He closed his eyes.
“Will!”
“Sh-sh-sh. Do not wake him.”
A female voice, low and concerned, then disapproving.
“Georgie, no! Georgie! Tsk!”
Something tickled across his face, under his nose, making him frown, and sneeze, and open his eyes.
Two faces leaned in: his sister, a young blond angel holding a long thin blade of grass, and his wife, dark as ever, and improbably--with a red flower behind her ear. His botany skills were never very strong, but he thought it might be a poppy. Where did she find one this time of year?
“Look, Georgie, look what you did,” Elizabeth scolded gently. “You woke him!”
“No, no, ‘tis nothing.” Somehow, he remained sitting, leaning against the tree, and Elizabeth, too, remained, leaning over him solicitously. Looking at him in the way she had never looked at him before. He recognized that expression on her—she had gazed upon his father like that… and upon Georgiana… and upon the tenants’ children that were ill. A look of pity—no, not pity. A look of empathy, of compassion. And though it had never been his ambition to have a woman feel for him, he found himself basking in the warmth of her eyes.
“Are you ill?” she asked, quietly. Before he could manage an answer, she reached out, leaning ever farther, putting one cool hand upon his forehead. All his breath left him in one long sigh. “You are too warm.”
“ ‘Tis a warm day,” Darcy mouthed. Elizabeth was looking at him, a small frown lodged between her eyebrows, the red poppy wilting behind her ear, a tiny splash of color. Her bonnet was off, she had done something with it, had dropped it somewhere amidst the grass. Her hair, under it, did not look as severe as usual; and he drank in the sight of her, quickly cataloguing the changes in her that this small alteration had wrought. Her face, softer, more feminine; her skin flushed with all the vigor of exercise; her eyes, no longer dusky, threaded with gold sunlight.
He felt bereft when she took her hand off his brow. Reaching out, he pulled the poppy from behind her ear… drew it gently across her cheek. “Do not worry for me, Elizabeth. I am merely tired.”
She withdrew, quickly, straightening. “I do not,” she said shortly. “I do not worry. But all the same I think you should return to the house.” Thereupon, she went to gather her bonnet, strutting away from him through the yellow end-of-summer grass. He watched her determined little figure, and then he turned to his sister.
“Lend me a hand, Georgie,” he asked. He took her small hand and then heaved himself quickly back on his feet, making it look as if the effort was all hers. They walked back to the house, Georgiana weaving circles between the two of them. They said not a word to each other; and it was only at the front steps of the house that he realized he was still holding the sadly crumpled poppy in his hand.
His fingers opened, letting it fall.
On days when they could not walk out, when the sky turned dismally gray in its prescience of the coming autumn, keeping them prisoners inside… on those days, he sat in the music room, listen to Georgiana practice. His sister, diligent in her musical studies and as talented as their mother had been, was promising to become a true proficient. Elizabeth never played, spending her time with them reading and turning Georgiana’s pages. He had asked her to play, more than once, but she merely shrugged and demurred, telling him that she played very ill. He had no wish to use the forfeit here, afraid that she might play truly ill, and not wishing to embarrass her.
But one afternoon, striding down the hallway, he stopped, strangely disturbed by the sound of the piano-forte coming from the music room. He had only just left Georgiana in their father’s room.
He stopped outside the half-opened doors and listened. Then, he knew not how, but he found himself inside, standing behind her; watching her play more than he was listening. She was wearing one of her dreary gray half-mourning dresses—but it was cut in the back in way, which allowed him an open view of her graceful neck. She played impassioned, with her whole torso, her arms and shoulders moving to the music. Probably consistently incorrect and improper, he thought; but he could not take his eyes off her. He stood close enough to see the line of vertebrae on the back of her neck, disappearing behind the black velvet edge of her dress. The sight did something peculiar to him, filling him with an overwhelming mix of sudden, fierce tenderness, the strongest yearning and a shocking desire to touch, to hold—and then, something more, something even greater. Something nameless and powerful, something never before felt towards any woman of his acquaintance.
Captivated, he approached, with quiet step. He could see her face now, a high rise of her cheekbone, the straight planes of her nose, the dark shadow of eyelashes against her cheek. She played with her eyes closed, and now he knew she must have made a thousand mistakes, but he could not tear himself away from the sight of her.
She twisted on the seat, looked at him with her great dusky eyes, her fingers slipping across the keys, her music discordant, then stopping altogether. For a moment, still absorbed, she looked at him as if failing to recognize him, with a disarmed, serene expression on her face—and he, too, was momentarily beguiled and enchanted. Quick glances, he thought, long gazes, too little time—for it seemed he could stand like so, eyes locked with her, without knowing time. Compleatly charmed.
Then, it was as if a dark veil swept across her face.
“You have been watching me!” she accused. Darcy closed his eyes, for a moment, and swallowed a thick lump in his throat. “Yes,” he said, evenly, opening his eyes to look at her again—to take in the lightning-quick change in her. “I have. You are my wife, Elizabeth. Surely I can do this much.”
She flew to her feet. “I am not—yes, I am your wife, but you know precisely the nature of our relationship! You are forgetting yourself, sir!”
“Of course.” He had gotten a better hold of himself within seconds, able now to speak in a pleasant, remote tone. “And is it such that would prohibit me from listening to you play the piano-forte?”
She bit her lip, lost for a moment. He had done nothing criminal in simply listening, and she could not admit—would not dare admit—that it was the look that had undone her so. Little coward. For she, too, had looked at him.
“You played beautifully, Mrs. Darcy.”
“Thank you,” she said awkwardly, dropping her eyes. “But I—not faithfully at all. You could not have seen it… but I fudged and slurred my way through the difficult passages.”
“It may be so. Mayhap my sister would detect it. But I am much more of a listener than a connoisseur. And to a listener, you played beautifully.”
“You flatter me.” She looked away, drawing the tip of her foot across the rug before her. He noted that her boots were old, worn and rather too serviceable. “I am but middling.”
Darcy gritted his teeth. “Why are you like this?” he demanded, with perhaps too much vitriol in his voice. He tried—Lord knows he tried every day—but even a saint would lose patience with her!
She seemed taken aback. “Like what?” she murmured, looking up at him.
“Why are you so determined to prove to me that you are not good?” he asked, impassioned.
She shrugged. “Because I am not good. I am tolerable—at most things. Certainly less than tolerable at the piano-forte.”
“Well,” he said gruffly. “I did not see tolerable just now. ” He paused, hesitating, not knowing how to put into words that, which had taken hold of him while he watched her play—nor certain whether he even should. “Madam, I want it as my privilege,” he said firmly, imperiously. “As long as I am your husband, Elizabeth, I want the right to admire you any time I wish.”
She shrugged. “You know I cannot refuse you. Not under your rules.”
He exhaled, his outrage dissipating slowly; the remainder of it lent his tone a brusque, masterly quality.
“If every time I say a word you will find it fit to disagree with me, I might as well stop saying it altogether. I see little sense in playing a fool to you. So yes, even under our rules, you can make me stop. But I am not some insipid youth, eager to throw compliments around.” He paused, breathing heavily. “I should not flatter you if I did not believe it myself.”
She seemed lost and sheepish, and a little ashamed. Darcy could not believe his eyes. Looking up at him, she gave him a shy, tiny smile.
“Well, it appears I have every reason to feel a graceless shrew, Mr. Darcy.”
He was surprised and not a little gratified to hear her say that. Biting down a smile himself, he murmured:
“I am very glad you admit to it. But I could not possibly compliment a graceless shrew, Elizabeth. Something must be done, or let my compliment go to waste.”
“Perhaps we could begin again, then?” Cocking her head, she regarded him thoughtfully. Darcy was of a mind to torture her, but he lost his heart before he opened his mouth. So he said, instead:
“Not a bad idea at all.” He walked over to the bench, sitting down with his back to the instrument. Patting the bench next to him, he said. “Come, madam.”
Somewhat cautiously, she sat down next to him, facing the other way. He watched her make small feminine movements—cross her ankles demurely, gather her skirts about her, draw one finger along the ivory keys. Darcy thought to ask her to play more; but was suddenly afraid. What if he should feel such upheaval again? He yearned for it, but he also feared it. So instead of asking, he claimed her hand on the seat between them and gave it a light squeeze.
“Mrs. Darcy—Elizabeth—you played beautifully tonight,” he said gravely.
She bent her head to him. “Why thank you kindly, Mr. Darcy.”
A happy, exultant laugh escaped him, despite his best intentions. Much as he strove to make her behave, he had never expected it, and was surprised—constantly—by the every little moment of grace on her part.
“Whom do you favor?” he asked, toying. It was so good to talk to her about small things, like music. “Mozart? Handel? Haydn?”
“Haydn more than Mozart,” she admitted. “Alas, Miss Darcy has but little of his music. And I have left all my music back at Longbourn. Do you play, Mr. Darcy?”
“Aye, but very poorly, indeed.”
She cocked an impudent eyebrow at him. “Shall I hear you play?”
He felt himself flush with pleasure. “Mayhap.”
“I have no forfeit to use on you.”
He caught himself smiling at her; all he felt, all the warmth inside him, gathered in his heart when she was like this, must have shown plainly on his face. He did not care.
“You need only ask.”
She tilted her head to one shoulder, raised her chin a little, regarding him curiously.
“Very well,” she said slowly. “I ask. Play for me.”
He was tempted, sorely, to ask for an exchange: that she change the severe hairstyle that made her look like a novitiate, that made it impossible to truly see her—but he knew, far too well, what her reaction to that would be. He rifled through Georgiana’s sheet music, pulled out a Mozart Fantasy.
“I think Mozart infinitely more musical than any other composer of our time,” he explained, giving her a glance and a smile. “But do not judge me too severely.”
She shrugged, in a strange non-committal way, as if she could not agree to it, could not promise him she would not laugh him down. What a strange girl. Standing up, she leaned on the piano-forte, prepared to turn his pages.
He played, and was even worse than he remembered himself to have been. But when he finished, he found Elizabeth a rapt audience: indeed, she had tears in her eyes. He was alarmed, for a moment, thinking he had distressed her… but she smiled at him as she rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes.
“This was lovely,” she said softly. “You should play more often.”
He was ridiculously pleased—and proud—of having earned her approbation, even though he knew he did not deserve it. Seized by a sudden impulse, he extended one hand.
“Come,” he said. “Sit by me, Elizabeth.”
To his surprise, she put her hand in his without argument. With agonizing slowness, he pulled her towards him, forcing her to sit down next to him; knowing that she might spring and run at any moment. But she obeyed, sliding onto the bench next to him, her face turned to him, high-cheeked, pale-lipped and somber.
He pressed her hand, softly, to the bench cushion between them. It was smaller than his, and it turned, slowly, entwining her fingers through his, pressing her palm to his. Darcy held his breath in a surge of violent, sudden delight.
In the next moment, there were steps outside. Startled, she flew to her feet and was gone, without as much as good-bye. Darcy remained on the bench, restless, unhappy. Feeling, all of a sudden, as if he had been robbed.
The next morning, he woke with the knowledge that he had dreamed of her. He remembered little of it, and every moment he remained awake—surly and tired as he rode out with the overseer—the dream slipped away from him by degrees. Still, there remained the overwhelming feeling of her presence, the memory of how she had turned her head upon apprehending him, of how she looked at him, of how she sat, still, while he watched her. It haunted him still, even as he passively murmured something in response to his overseer’s questions. I must seem to him a fool, he thought, but he could not shake off the dream. He could not remember it anymore, and still it pervaded his day, filling his heart with such longing he thought it might burst. He was disturbed, too, by the very fact of having dreamed of her.
Still, upon returning home, he went in search of her. They had not spoken all of last night, for she had claimed a migraine, remaining in her room for most of it, leaving Darcy to wonder about her reasons. He did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved she had not come down: for he had wanted to see her, and yet had dreaded it terribly. Now his feet took him straight to her, to thee one place he knew he could find her.
She was sitting in her beloved window-seat, with her feet tucked under her, not reading, leaning her head against the window.
“Elizabeth,” he said, and sat down next to her, without asking her permission to so. She looked up at him, then, and asked, in an easy, familiar way, how his ride had been.
“Very good. Shall we walk out today?”
“I am tired this morning.” She did, indeed, look fatigued. Darcy stifled a surge of disappointment and concern. “Will you present my apologies to Georgiana?”
“Of course. But you—you are not unwell?”
She shook her head. “Not at all. Merely weary.”
Moved by a sudden urge, he put one finger under her chin, lifting it slightly.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, a warning in his voice. He put a finger, quickly, against her lips—a tiny liberty that gave him inexplicable pleasure. His one hand gentle on her shoulder, he forced her to remain where she was, kept her from shrinking away from him.
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