Summer at
Pemberley
a Jane Austen fan fiction
by Lucy
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Past is
present
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As Darcy left the gentlemen at the trout stream he could
not deny his sense of pleasure in seeing Mr. Gardiner so quickly and well
integrated. He had the highest estimation in the world of Mr. Gardiner, as well
as sincere and growing affection. When he had first made his acquaintance one
year ago he had been too overcome by astonishment upon finding Elizabeth on his
grounds, too concerned with his efforts to improve her opinion to do anything
more than rapidly admit a certain surprise to find the uncle he had once
categorically defamed because of his condition in life to be a man of such
fashion and obvious intelligence. The discovery had certainly caused him a
momentary pause, but nothing so great as the mortification he felt for having
once dismissed Mr. Gardiner--sight unseen--after having worked so closely
together on the wretched matter of Wickham and Lydia. By the time that business
had been satisfactorily concluded Darcy felt as though he had stumbled upon a
man whom he would wish to call a friend: intelligent, discrete, gentlemanly and
worldly; some years his senior, but not too many, he discovered a man he would
wish to have nearby for counsel and entertainment alike. It did not escape his
consciousness that in his stubborn desire to think ill of all outside his own
circle he had perhaps missed the opportunity to become acquainted with many
fine gentlemen. Darcy was, therefore, particularly satisfied to see Mr.
Gardiner so successful among his guests. It pleased him to know that through
him Mr. Gardiner could establish acquaintances which would be to his advantage
and that of his family. Furthermore, it provided him with added confidence that
Lady Catherine would inevitably be tamed by the natural grace and charm of the
Gardiners and her visit prove much more unproblematic than he had feared. After
all, while Ashton and Bingley were certainly relentlessly amiable fellows,
Thorney and Sir Patrick could be unforgivably cynical, and yet it was they who
were most taken with Gardiner's intelligence and wit by the time last evening's
dinner had concluded, to say nothing of Mrs. Gardiner's winning elegance.
With these positive sensations he made his way back into
Pemberley House in search of his wife, but could find her nowhere. In her
sitting room he instead came upon Jane employed in composing a letter to
Longbourn.
"Jane," Darcy said as he entered. "Forgive
me if I am disturbing you, but do you know where I might find my wife?"
Jane looked up from her letter and found she was somewhat
surprised at Darcy's serenity. She had anticipated that he would be suffering
the same nerves she had earlier witnessed in her sister. Elizabeth had in fact
been with Jane earlier in this very room and upon Jane's inquiring whether she
were apprehensive regarding Lady Catherine's arrival, Elizabeth had replied, a
bit too eagerly and decisively: "Pray, Jane, why should I be? This is my
home after all and she will be my guest." And yet she had quickly
abandoned Jane's company, unable to disguise her apprehension from her sister's
perceptive gaze.
Jane put down her pen. "She has gone for a walk this
half hour now," she remarked sedately.
"A walk?" Darcy cried with no small degree of
incredulity.
"Yes, sir, a walk," Jane replied as she watched
Darcy's face reveal more exasperation than he perhaps intended.
Pulling out his watch he rapidly looked at the hour and
returned it to its pocket. "Time there certainly is. Still, such an
unusual moment to choose. Why would she go for a walk now?" His question
was rhetorical, but Jane felt compelled to reply.
"Mr. Darcy, I am happy that you have not yet had the
opportunity to learn that when Lizzy is anxious she walks."
"Anxious? Whatever for?" he replied stupidly.
"I should think that is evident, sir." Jane would
have wished to offer no more on such a delicate topic, and yet when Darcy
continued to look at Jane with confusion, she added timidly: "Perhaps
Elizabeth feels she has much to prove."
"I beg your pardon, but I am quite at a loss to your
meaning."
Jane had long admired the quality and quickness of Mr.
Darcy's mind--indeed it was what most pleased her on her sister's behalf, for
she knew her sister required in a husband not just goodness and honor, but also
intelligence and wit--and yet, much as her nature resisted passing critical
judgments, she found at the moment he was uncharacteristically slow.
"May I speak with complete frankness?" she
inquired with a smile.
"Naturally."
"Perhaps my sister feels she has much to prove to Lady
Catherine."
"That is an absurd conjecture, Jane! Elizabeth has
nothing to prove to any person."
Darcy's disdain of the mere notion that his wife should
have anything to prove to any person was evident; yet Jane instinctively felt
that he must be made to understand, and so conquering her natural reserve she
continued boldly. "Perhaps not to you, Mr. Darcy. But certainly it would
not be absurd to feel that perchance she does believe she has something to
prove to Lady Catherine, and by extension the remainder of your family."
Jane was afraid she had gone too far when she saw the color
drain from Darcy's face. She did not know him well enough to interpret his
reaction, but that he had reacted to her comment with force was apparent
enough, and she sat uneasy and a little ashamed of her boldness as he began to
pace the room.
In truth, Jane's suggestion had disconcerted Darcy in the
extreme. All he could surmise was that he had somehow failed to make his wife
fully understand his unconditional support. Even more, though, his equanimity
was challenged as he considered that just as he had once privately feared, the
presence of Lady Catherine would only serve to rouse the specter of their past
differences, and more particularly of his past misconduct. During their
courtship they had determined they would leave the past alone, think no more of
it, but how realistic had they been? At once he realized that, their
unmitigated happiness notwithstanding, ensconced first in Town and now at
Pemberley, away from all the people who could be only reminders of the pain and
hurt they had each inflicted upon the other--he so much more so, she so
unwittingly--they had simply let it go without truly, fully putting it all to
rest. It had all been too fresh and painful to dwell upon in those sweet days
of bashful union. Yet, had not Lady Catherine come to embody all that had been
painful between them? And today she arrived and the past would be present.
Anxious as he had not felt since he had determined to try for Elizabeth's hand
again, he turned to Jane for further understanding.
"You have requested that we speak frankly, then
please, let us do so. I am sure your sister has acquainted you with all that
has transpired in regards to my aunt, so you must be aware that it has only
been through Elizabeth's efforts that I have sought this reconciliation. I
should never knowingly put my wife in a situation in which she should feel the
necessity to prove herself." The last two words he verily spit out in
disgust at the notion that she should ever feel such a thing. "And in her
own home, no less! Are you quite sure of this? We spoke of Lady Catherine's
arrival just yesterday and she voiced no such concern. Quite the
contrary."
"Nevertheless, Mr. Darcy, I believe that she is more
anxious than she pretends, even to herself. And I am sure that for all the
spirit she customarily displays in the face of difficulties, she feels pained
to have been the cause of a breach in your family, and wishes to demonstrate
herself worthy to those who would question all that you have given her,
likewise all you have shown yourself willing to forgo. She wishes, I am sure,
to prove a credit to the Darcy name. She has not said so to me expressly, sir,
but I am sure from my knowledge as her sister that I am correct in my surmise."
As Jane spoke, Darcy looked her intently in the eyes as
though wishing to extract every bit of insight about Elizabeth that a sister
would possess that a husband of eight months could not yet equal. Jane found
she could not maintain the scrutiny of his intensity and lowered her eyes, a
blush rising to her cheeks. His continued silence was unsettling, and for the
first time she believed that in those first days of acquaintance perhaps
Elizabeth, so unaccustomed to being impressed, had in fact been a little afraid
of this man, a little daunted by his intensity and that her consequent behavior
was, in part, in defiance of such sentiments.
"And that is why she has gone off for a walk?"
Darcy finally replied, matter-of-factly.
"As I said earlier, I am pleased that you have not yet
had the opportunity to learn that when Elizabeth is anxious or unhappy she
walks."
Darcy moved to the window and looked out, wondering where
she had walked to and how he could have been so blind. He had hitherto seen in
his wife such valor and strength, such admirable, enchanting aplomb that he
never really considered her anxiety and he was grateful to Jane for showing him
the way with such grace and delicacy. Throughout this entire business with Lady
Catherine he had been so concerned with his own sentiments, his own anger and
uneasiness he had never really seen, much less attended, Elizabeth's. He turned
back to Jane. "I thank you Jane, for sharing your concerns with me. They
will not go unattended."
"I am sure they will not, Mr. Darcy."
Bowing to her, he crossed the room with determined steps.
As he reached the door, he turned back to her again. "Jane?" he
inquired almost shyly.
"Yes, Mr. Darcy? Is there something else?"
"Why just that, actually. I am husband to your most
beloved sister and a friend of the most near kind with your own husband. Must
it be always 'Mr. Darcy'?"
Jane smiled sweetly and Darcy was impressed by the quiet
radiance of her person. "I am afraid it must be," said she. "Something
about your person demands it. I could not imagine addressing you in any other
fashion."
"I should hope you do not find my manner toward you
unwelcoming. It should pain me to think I have not known how to earn the favor
of those dearest to Elizabeth."
"Respect, sir, does in no way hinder warmth of
sentiments. But if it would please you, one day, if I am feeling very bold, I
shall call you simply 'Darcy', as Charles does."
"I should be pleased if you would."
As he bowed and left the room both felt they had achieved a
greater intimacy, a greater openness and trust, and for the sake of their
respective spouses, they were pleased. Darcy, what's more, was relieved that
his part in once separating Jane from Bingley had never reached her ears, and grateful
that both Elizabeth and Bingley had kept it from her; he was ashamed now of his
grave and impertinent error in judgment. Indeed, as he made his way to the
footpath in hopes of encountering his wife upon her return, he considered how
fortunate he was to have in his life a small cadre of truly good and noble
people. It was certainly ironic, he mused, for he was a man constantly being
thanked for services given, and yet to this small group he felt he owed so much
more than anything another could owe him. To it he must now add Jane. Indeed,
he had discovered more than one incontrovertibly excellent person suddenly in
his life when he had won Elizabeth's hand. He took comfort that he had also
given her at least two equally wondrous souls: Georgiana and Colonel
Fitzwilliam.
Arriving at the end of the footpath that led to a walk
through the Spanish chestnut trees that he knew Elizabeth particularly enjoyed,
he sat on a bench and awaited her return, reflecting on all Jane had said and
intimated. He found it a sort of gratifying irony that while his family
had--with the exception of his sister and cousin--been less than warm in their
reception of Elizabeth, it was to his family's unwitting intervention that, in
some measure, they owed their happiness today. Not only had Lady Catherine's
infamous and ill advised visit to Longbourn cleared the path of doubts, but
months earlier it had been Colonel Fitzwilliam who equally unwittingly had
played a role in the strange and tortured route that had been their acquaintance
and courtship. When Darcy was suffering under the blow of Elizabeth's first
rejection the Colonel had unknowingly led Darcy from the mire of his anger.
He sat perfectly still on the bench and an observer could not
know from his semblance that he was recalling for the first time in many long
months that strange evening when his torment had become too much to endure
alone. Colonel Fitzwilliam had chased Darcy down in the library and had found
him sitting in a chair; perfectly still, with the exception of wild, tiny
contortions that seemed to disfigure his handsome visage. In his customarily
blunt and jovial manner, the Colonel had spared no time with politeness--he was
set on getting to the heart of the matter. He sat in a chair across from his
cousin and began unceremoniously: "Darcy, whatever has been under your
skin of late? You are in a most peculiar mood and I cannot make it out at
all."
Darcy stared back blankly, as if not able to remove himself
from his thoughts. After some moments, silently, he rose, refilled his glass of
sherry and offered another to his cousin. Still silent he took his seat anew.
"Is this then an invitation to remain?"
"You never require an invitation under my roof."
"No. But we both know I was referring to an invitation
to pry, like some gossiping, bored clergyman's wife."
Darcy found he could not partake of his cousin's habitual
sarcasm and humor. "Fitzwilliam, a man does well to keep his own counsel
on some matters."
"Unquestionably. He also does well to know when not
to."
Darcy indulged in a long, steady gaze. He had always been
impressed by the goodness and amiability of his cousin's awkward, plain visage;
one only need look upon him once to know he was to be trusted. He had been
given an invitation to unburden himself and instinctively, if reluctantly,
comprehended he must accept it, for he was sinking under the weight of his
anger and dismay. He felt, into the bargain, burdened by his recalcitrant
desire in the face of it all: desire to see those bright, intelligent eyes;
desire to hear those mischievously sweet impertinences and to silence them with
his mouth upon hers; desire to touch and posses that light and playful figure;
desire to be challenged by that quick, witty mind; desire to be admired and
loved by that noble, loyal heart. But mostly he was angry, at her and at
himself: at her for her rejection, her contempt and accusations; at himself for
finding that the depth of passion and character she had revealed in her irate
refusal had only made her more desirable, more fascinating still. Do as he
would, he could not escape the recollection of her scornful rejection, nor the
fire that lit her eyes in anger. G-d! At that moment how he had wished to hate
her--cold and unfeeling woman! He had cried in silent desperation.
Perhaps, he thought, Fitzwilliam was right; a man ought to
know when not to keep his own counsel.
Lifting his glass he drank his sherry in one swift gulp,
with an uncharacteristic throwing back of the head like some wild Cossack. He
put the glass down on the table gently, almost delicately, and then ran his
hand down his trouser leg, as though to smooth a crease that was not there.
With a deep breath, he lifted his eyes and looked into his cousin's and spoke
with a steady voice, tinged with a disquieting, deceptive coldness.
"I have recently made a young lady an offer of
marriage and find that her declining said offer has left me in a state which
you so cleverly have described as peculiar."
The Colonel's astonishment was evident and in retrospect
Darcy wondered he did not laugh at the sight of such dismay. The Colonel had
stammered inelegantly: "You have made an offer of marriage?"
"I have."
"And it has been rejected?" The word hung between
them for a moment until with real confusion, born in no small part from his
sincere admiration for his cousin's character, the Colonel spit out: "What
cause could the young lady possibly have?"
"It appears I am not to the lady's liking."
"Not to her liking!" He replied sardonically, for
the Colonel, while all that is loyal and good and charming, was also
unremittingly practical. "She must be in possession of a very important
fortune to decline you on such sentimental grounds."
"No. In point of fact she has neither fortune, nor
property, nor meaningful connections to speak of."
The Colonel was dumbfounded. Firstly, that Darcy should
have made an offer to a girl of apparently no consequence, and secondly, that
she should have refused him. The world, he concluded, had gone mad. "She
has nothing at all?"
"Nothing."
"I have never heard anything so absurd."
"Nevertheless, there you have it. It appears she has
other criteria when choosing a husband than those used by the young ladies of
our acquaintance. She believes me responsible for injury to one very beloved
and to have been scandalously false to one I was bound by honor to protect. My
material advantages apparently could not outweigh my purportedly dishonorable
actions. In the former matter she was perhaps not completely mistaken although
I did what I thought I must; in the latter she had, to my very great
disadvantage, believed as truth falsehoods spread about my character."
"Falsehoods about your character? I am all confusion
to be sure. I know of only one who would indulge in such conjured discrediting
of your character; surely the world can not be so small?"
"Surely not," Darcy replied sardonically,
painfully, as he recalled with what vigor she had defended that very
blackguard's interests!
Completely at a loss by all Darcy was confiding, and the
cold distorted tone in which it was told, the Colonel could think of nothing
helpful to say. "Well then, there you have it, it has nothing to do with
you then."
"Ah! But she had other reasons as well," Darcy
snorted inelegantly.
"Other reasons?"
As if speaking to himself now, revealing more in his now pained
and impassioned voice then he had intended, Darcy continued in a kind of
soliloquy that seemed already half recited. "All the while I was thinking
her welcoming my attentions, expecting my addresses. It seems I missed her
pointed dislike in a most embarrassing fashion. And I all the while thinking it
was all in my hands; I need only decide to have her and have her I would. Lord!
I hear her now, that lovely musical voice of hers, strained with scorn as she
resolutely informed me that my arrogance, my conceit and my selfish disdain for
the feelings of others had set her sentiments against me quite early on in our
acquaintance."
"She called you arrogant, conceited and selfish?"
The Colonel inquired, unable to conceal a small smile of almost admiring
disbelief in spite of himself. Since his Uncle Darcy had passed away he was
sure not a single person had ever called Darcy to account.
"Yes."
"How uncivil," the Colonel sniggered mordantly.
Darcy did not notice. He continued with his own thoughts.
"Apparently my own mode of address inspired such incivility--if indeed she
was uncivil," he added bitterly, recalling each of her words with the
freshness of the first moment. "She was quite thankful for it really, for it
spared her the pain of refusing me had I behaved in a more gentlemanlike
manner!" At the echo of those torturous, accusatory words, he could no
longer withstand the charade of cool indifference and he slid down the chair,
dropping his head against its back while covering his face with his hands, a
wrenched groan escaping his lips.
Colonel Fitzwilliam was only growing more confused.
"Darcy, how did you behave?"
"How did I behave?" Darcy murmured, his hands now
at his side, but his head still resting on the back of his chair. His eyes
wandered across the exquisitely painted fresco of his library ceiling as he
considered his ill-advised proposal for the thousandth time. Something in the
fresco--perhaps the face with the penetrating brown eyes--made him for the
first time see that terrible argument through her eyes and not through his own
wounded pride and raging anger. What things he had said to her! Had he really
declared in the same breath that he loved her and that she was unworthy of that
love? Had he truly avowed his sense of her inferiority, of its being a
degradation? What offensive, demeaning assertions! How presumptuous he had
been, thinking she would be grateful for his condescension, as though she were
his for the taking because she was relatively poor and he was preposterously
rich, as though she must be grateful for such abuse of her situation and her
character and her patience only because circumstances had been kinder to him
than to her. How had be behaved?
"Heedlessly," was all the reply he made, in a
voice so soft he was not sure if he had indeed spoken the word.
The Colonel was speechless and shocked to see Darcy in such
a state over a girl who apparently not only had nothing at all but who also
thought his cousin an ill-bred and contemptible fellow. "I do not know
about all this Darcy. It seems very strange and I cannot understand why you
should repine such a young lady when you have London's finest at your feet. Are
you perhaps suffering not regret but wounded pride?"
"Pride. Such a complicated word."
"You must not indulge these emotions Darcy. If indeed
she feels such a way about you be glad she did not accept your foolish offer
and be done with it."
"I confess that I should like nothing better than to forget
her and the entire ugly episode; to disdain her would be my relief. Yet I find
that in weaker moments her rejection of my offer--an offer so manifestly to the
advantage of herself and her family--because she would not betray her
principles or sell her integrity, I confess in moments of weakness it makes her
esteem all the more desirable." The words spoken, Darcy felt all of a
sudden he had exposed himself too much. Sarcasm dripping from his words, he
added "So you see, I am no more safe from passion's perverseness than any
other man."
"I am not sure what to say Darcy. It seems a strange
alliance you desired to make. Not at all what I would have expected of
you."
"No, nor what I should have expected myself." He
paused and, permeated with a desire to reveal the simple truth, said quietly:
"Nonetheless, one day as I was looking upon her, as she was doing nothing
more extraordinary than sitting on a settee reading a book, I found I wished
nothing more than to have her at my side for the entirety of my life."
As he said this, there was a sadness and vulnerability, a
gentleness in Darcy's voice which the Colonel was sure he had not heard before.
For the first time in the conversation his dismay gave way to compassion. But
then he wondered where Darcy could have become acquainted with a young lady of
no consequence in a setting intimate enough that he could observe her while she
read a book. He was horrified to think Darcy had fallen in love with the
governess of some fine house he frequented, but he could think of nothing else.
"What will you do when you see her again?"
"That is not likely."
"But London really is small, after all."
Darcy lifted his head and looked at his cousin. "She
does not reside in Town." As Darcy said these words an expression of
comprehension crossed the Colonel's face and a silent understanding passed
between them.
"Darcy, am I acquainted with this young lady?"
The question seemed to answer itself.
"What does that matter?"
"It doesn't I suppose," the Colonel replied, now
sure he knew who the mysterious lady was and with that information he suddenly
understood it all: Darcy's behavior now and in Kent, his unusual reaction when
their aunt had first said her name; no, Darcy would never notice a governess,
it must be her, the Colonel thought, she would be a girl daring enough,
independent enough to refuse a man like Darcy and in that bold, forthright
manner as well. Had not he also admired her? But admiration could always be
conquered.
"Regardless of whether you shall see her again or not,
perhaps, if this has tormented you so, you ought to consider her reproofs and
your own behavior in as dispassionate a manner as possible. There may be
something to be saved out of all this. So that next time a young lady takes
your fancy you do not make the same mistakes."
"Perhaps," Darcy replied, but he comprehended at
that moment there would be no other young lady. At eight and twenty he had
never before experienced more than a passing, paltry inclination--he was not a
man to love easily and often. He understood in a pained and wretched fashion
that he would remain silently, privately faithful to his unquenched desires and
this newfound respect. For he had desired her, he loved her even now with a
passion he loathed for its uselessness, its senselessness, but he had not
respected her, that was but newly born. He was shocked by the realization and
all it implied about his behavior and his character. That he should love a
woman, approach her with an offer of his hand and all without once treating her
with respect--admiration, yes--but not respect. It was an overpowering insight,
shocking and unsettling in the extreme. What kind of man was he, after all? And
why would he wish for as a wife a woman who would accept such disrespect as her
due? It was not many days' reflection in this direction before he comprehended
he was not in all respects the man he should be, nor that he could be. With
these new thoughts Darcy thereafter resolved to become a better man, not in the
vain hope of seeing Elizabeth again and improving her opinion of him--that was
unlikely at best--it must be for his own sake alone.
That evening Fitzwilliam had said no more, but when Darcy
became engaged to Elizabeth some months later he had said to him simply:
"I suspected it was her all along; it was, was it not?"
"Yes."
"Then I congratulate you Darcy for finding a woman
strong enough to demand more of you."
"The family does not approve."
"True. Fortunately you are your own master and such approbation
is not strictly required for your happiness."
"I intend to be very happy, Fitzwilliam."
"I liked her very much when we met in Kent," the
Colonel had replied mischievously. "If I were free to choose for
inclination alone perhaps I should have tried to win her first."
"Then how fortunate for me that such an alternative
was never before you." The Colonel had laughed and Darcy had felt grateful
for one ally within the family.
Now as Darcy sat on a bench in the footpath so unexpectedly
ruminating on those painful days, he did not sense the arrival of she for whom
he waited, nor the picture that he presented. Sitting on the bench, perfectly
erect and fastidiously dressed as was his wont, his hands resting on the
walking stick that was planted between his legs, his head upturned and his eyes
looking somewhere atop the trees, he was a picture of serious concentration and
the memories he was indulging gave to his mien a tightness Elizabeth was no
longer accustomed to seeing. She could only suppose as she quietly approached
her husband that he was filled with anxiety at Lady Catherine's impending
arrival. And why, she wondered, should he not be? He had assured her forcefully
enough when that infamous letter had found him at Netherfield that where their
union was concerned he would never feel remorse for the loss of anyone, be it
Lady Catherine or anyone else who should choose to disapprove. Still--it was
all so painful and unpleasant and somehow fresh.
She recalled how he had tried to keep that letter secret
from her, but the day it had arrived at Netherfield he had been so cold and
distant with her--she understood now in an attempt to manage his
indignation--that at last to appease her unease he had revealed the existence
of the letter and its intention if not its specific content--and she had
misinterpreted his demeanor completely.
"Sir," she had said. "I would not have you
marry me for honor's sake alone. If this letter has made you reconsider, I will
not hold you."
Darcy's face had gone pale at her words, but something
within him--perhaps the same perseverance which had at last allowed him to win
her--got the better of him and he pushed his anger aside. She was sitting on
the settee in the parlor and he came and sat by her side. Their knees touched
and he took her hands into his own. Asking that she look him in the eyes he
said simply and forthrightly: "Can you truly have so little faith in my
constancy? I will not allow Lady Catherine or any other person who may
disapprove our union to impose upon our happiness. I do not marry you for
honor's sake. I desire you to be my wife. I put it to you now: I would not have
you marry me for honor's sake alone. If this letter has made you reconsider, I
will not hold you. Do you still desire me for your husband?"
Elizabeth was ashamed of her foolishness, ashamed that
after he had proven himself over and again, she should even now rush to judge
him ill. "This is all still so new and I have again judged you unfairly.
But I do still wish for you to be my husband."
"Why?"
"Because I esteem you, I admire you and respect you.
Because you are the best man I have ever known."
Not quite satisfied, Darcy replied: "That is
all?"
And he was pleased to see her blush under his gaze, and more
pleased by her words, for she understood what he sought: "Because I love
you, Fitzwilliam Darcy."
He smiled and pulled her into his arms. "As I love
you, Elizabeth Bennet. So let us have no more of this foolish talk!"
Before she could answer he was kissing her and they left Lady Catherine and her
invective for another day.
Now, all these months later Lady Catherine loomed again.
Elizabeth arrived at her husband's side and he did not
sense her presence until she put her hand on his shoulder. She was determined:
their happiness had been hard won and she would not allow Lady Catherine to
undermine it. Oddly, such assurance only increased her anxiety--for it seemed
to suggest that Lady Catherine could indeed impede their further happiness.
"What a pleasant surprise to find you here," she
said softly, warmly. But before Darcy could tell her all he desired, she had
kissed him lightly on the lips and said simply, "but my darling, there is
no time now to indulge in your presence." And as quickly as she had
appeared at his side she had scurried into the house to refresh herself before
Lady Catherine's arrival.
In her impatience and rush, Darcy understood how blind he
had been to her anxiety. He admired her so thoroughly, held her in such high
esteem and respected her so fully that he saw only strength when he looked upon
her. He had come to depend upon her so quickly that he had perhaps forgotten
that she could be vulnerable and unsure as well, and it was only natural that
Lady Catherine's arrival should inspire such uneasiness. He regretted that he
had not understood this earlier and had not had the opportunity to make her
comprehend that she need not conceal her apprehension in order to ensure his
readiness to improve the distressing state of affairs between Pemberley and
Rosings.
Later as Darcy offered her his arm and they made their way
to the front drive to await Lady Catherine's carriage he could not help but
wonder if it was her afternoon toilette that made her look so becoming in her
simple, rose colored silk gown, or perhaps their secret knowledge that she was
with child that made her look so especially beautiful to him. In the face of
such natural grace and charm he thought Lady Catherine must relent.
"Ah, Lady Catherine," he listened to Elizabeth
softly whisper as the carriage was heard coming down the long drive.
At her words he took her hand into his own and spoke her
name in a tone so serious that had it not been for the warmth in his eyes
Elizabeth may have been made uneasy. His words were unexpected and heartfelt.
"Elizabeth. I am privileged to be your husband, proud to have earned your
respect and immeasurably pleased to have won your love. I would ask you to
always remember that."
She smiled and felt her courage rise. "I shall never
forget."
"Good!" said he, as he tenderly pressed her hand.
Moments later the carriage was at their feet and Lady
Catherine stepped out in all her rarified glory and poor Miss De Bourgh in all her
paltriness. The greetings were everything proper and polite, executed to
perfection, if coldly, and no one observing could have seen anything at all
amiss. But Elizabeth was surprised to find that her initial observation on
meeting Lady Catherine in Kent, that Darcy was like her--which she had later
rejectedÑhad not been all wrong. As they stood facing each other exchanging
civilities, she could not dismiss the similarity of their tall, elegant frames,
nor the manner in which their handsome visages were set in identical,
unyielding challenge.
This visit, she concluded, would require all the talent she
might posses, and a little more.
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