Into Kent (19 page)

Darcy, being very sensible to her nearness, stood observing the sunlight play on the tendrils of hair which escaped to trail delicately down her neck; his eyes found the soft curve of her lips, and his memory carried him back to the first real kiss he had ever known: when he was quite a young man, an associate of his father’s had come to stay at Pemberley, bringing with him his daughter, who was almost of an age with Darcy. Towards the end of their short stay, she had come upon Darcy in the shrubbery, and to his very great surprise, had directly stood on tiptoe to kiss him once, slowly, her hand laid softly on his cheek, before running off down the winding pathway. He had never forgotten how sweet and soft were her lips on his; he smiled gently at this cherished memory, and could not but indulge his fancy in imagining how Elizabeth’s lips might feel on his.

Realising he had probably been silent—and had certainly been staring—too long, he roused himself to say, “The quiet here is remarkable, is not it? I find it exceedingly refreshing, after the clamour of London.”

“Indeed,” the lady replied. “I have found nothing here of more value than its silence.”

Darcy smiled and nodded, then stood without speaking for a time, listening to the sounds of nature; after a while, though, he was moved to say, “Miss Bennet, I hope the time you have spent at Rosings has not been unpleasant.” He wished to know that his aunt had not been too
very
vexing during her visits.

“Certainly not, Mr. Darcy. How could you think so?”

“Well, as you are a guest of the Collinses and cannot choose the coming and the going, perhaps you would have as soon stayed at the Parsonage, as to call upon my aunt.”

“I assure you, Sir, in the main the company at Rosings is every bit as pleasant as that at the Parsonage. I will confess, though, that the last week or so has seen an improvement in each.”

“I am very glad you should have found it so,” Darcy answered, much flattered. Such a very open compliment made him look at her with a regard he could not hide.

“Not at all,” said
Elizabeth, “your cousin is a delightful conversationalist.” She spoke with a slight emphasis and Darcy saw something of a challenge in her look; he understood, of course: she was teazing him again, and perhaps playing for a display of jealousy.

“I am so pleased to have been the means of bringing him to your notice,” said he with a playfully formal bow. That same equivocal smile reappeared; then, returning to the study of the verdure surrounding them, she permitted the silence to fall yet again. Darcy had come to value these moments of silence between them very highly: that two people would be content to be silent together, that they could feel sufficient ease and…
trust
, withal, to allow each other into their silences, seemed to him a very strong indication of their mutual esteem. They stood without speaking for a long while, until at length Elizabeth made to leave, with a brief: “I fear I must be getting back.” She moved quickly past him back up the path, nearly brushing up against him; he moved with alacrity to accompany her. He was disappointed that they could not spend more time together, but she was right, of course. Should their absence be noted, the coincidence of their return must be seen as a very noteworthy circumstance, so prudence argued for an early return. The lady spoke but little on the way back, and they parted quietly at the gate.

Returning to Rosings, Darcy sought out his cousin Edmund. “Fitzwilliam, I have been thinking: I should like to delay our departure another week; I find that my work here is taking rather longer than I expected. This will not inconvenience you, I hope?”

“Not in the least,” the Colonel replied. “Another week with Miss Bennet will be no trouble at all!”

“Yes…by the way, Fitzwilliam, have you had any chance to discover Miss Bennet’s thoughts on Wickham as yet?”

“I have; that is, I have made the attempt: it is difficult to know without baldly asking outright, but I could not detect anything resembling a deep regard, certainly.”

“What did she say?”

“Well, I asked her about Forster’s militia, and how the townspeople felt about them, and whatnot: you know, just in general. Then, over the course of a few minutes conversation, I dragged the subject of his officers into the conversation by the heels several times; she never said anything particular about any of them, or showed any sensibility on the subject at all. Of course, I could not mention him by name…”

“No, of course not,” Darcy agreed. “But this seems to tally with what I know, as well. Moreover, I cannot help but believe that Miss Bennet has too much sense to be taken in by Wickham for long.”

“We might certainly hope so,” agreed his cousin, “the fellow does not seem capable of keeping his sins hidden for very long—that is certain.”

Darcy, satisfied, nodded and let the matter drop from his mind.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sunday varied the scene at Rosings, offering Lady Catherine an opportunity to display her solemn dignity to the admiration of the assembled tenantry and cottagers of Rosings and Hunsford, at church. To Colonel Fitzwilliam, the morning service meant a respite from Lady Catherine’s conversation for a period of two hours; but to Darcy, especially now, knowing Elizabeth to be nearby, the family pew, with its ornate carvings and gildings, served rather to accentuate the gulf that stood between them. Caught as he was between his aunt and her daughter, and altogether incapable of listening to Mr. Collins’ exceedingly grave and excruciatingly unimaginative sermon, his mind was left wholly free to wander. As he ran his fingers vaguely over the freshly applied gold leaf on the railing, and heard the vacuous platitudes issuing from the pulpit, it occurred to him that this was a reflection of his entire stay there at Rosings: splendour and gilding covering over an utter want of substance.

This conceit stayed with Darcy through the rest of that day and evening—spent trying to read and being pulled away time and again by his aunt’s need to express her opinions to an audience; the Colonel stayed most studiously affixed to his correspondence, although Darcy was reasonably sure that he had seen his cousin open some of the letters at least two times over; and his cousin Anne sat silently by the fire being fussed over by her companion. The lack of all reasonable discourse was wearying, indeed; Darcy would have given anything to have Elizabeth walk in to join them, or to be able to justify to himself a trip to the Parsonage. His ruminations eventually led him, with more than a degree of self-contempt, to find another unsettling parallel: this between his circumstances here at Rosings and his life in London—both were what was called “good society”, yet neither was very good, nor very social.

The next Tuesday morning Darcy once more spied Elizabeth setting out along the path through the grove, and, his time being his own again that morning, he started off to meet her without hesitation. He found her this time seated, facing back up the path in the direction of the manor, obviously awaiting his arrival. “Miss Bennet, good morning,” he greeted her with a smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Darcy; here you are again.”

“Yes…another lovely morning, is it not?”

“Indeed: so quiet and still—the perfect morning for solitude, surrounded by Nature’s beauties.”

Darcy did not need this warning to tell him how Elizabeth enjoyed the serenity of the grove without conversation; he therefore smiled and held his tongue. He found a place to sit facing her. After some minutes the lady spoke again: “And so, Mr. Darcy, do you come to Rosings merely to visit this grove and be silent?”

Darcy smiled again at her teazing. “No; each year I come in the spring to look over the plans for the estate going forward. My father was accustomed to do so, and after his passing it more or less fell to me to keep up the practice.”

Silence descended once more. Darcy opened a new topic: “How do you enjoy Hunsford?”

“Quite well. Mrs. Collins is an old and dear friend; she is very much missed in Hertfordshire. We enjoy many hours together while Mr. Collins is occupied in his study, or in the garden.”

The manner in which she spoke of Mr. Collins plainly suggested her pleasure in her cousin’s company was far less than in her friend’s; this could hardly be a surprise, of course. But a most worrying thought occurred to him: Collins could not be the most agreeable husband in the world; perhaps some discord had surfaced within the Parsonage? Did Elizabeth come here,
not
to take an opportunity to meet with him, as he supposed, but rather to escape the house of her cousin? Nothing had suggested it before, but the possibility was unsettling to Darcy in his anxious and minute construction of Elizabeth’s intentions. “How do the Collinses get on?” he enquired with interest. “Mrs. Collins seems to have a most even and gentle temper.”

“Indeed she does. That has always been her way—and I am sure she has need of it, at times.”

“But I think I recall you saying she seemed happy?”

“She does, strange as that must appear to those who know them both.”

Again, Darcy felt the compliment of her sharing such very direct observations, and spoke candidly in return. “Indeed: Mr. Collins cannot be an easy man to be married to.”

“Perhaps not,” the lady agreed. “But one must not judge. No one can know a couple’s happiness but the couple themselves, and I must say she seems perfectly content.”

Here was the intelligence he looked for: her friend was content: there was no discord to escape from. His mind relieved, he offered: “To each his own, then?”

“Yes. Of course, Mr. Collins would not be the man of my choosing, but we are told that every one has a mate some where, are we not, Mr. Darcy?” She turned her gaze to him.

In her look Darcy saw such meaning as captured his particular notice. “That is the established wisdom,” he replied carefully; he was all attentiveness, and he felt a tension in his chest not unlike that at the culmination of a long hunt. With a certain emphasis, he said, “Of course, some of us must look longer than others.”

“This is undoubtedly true: but surely, in this matter, the wait is more than rewarded, if one truly finds the right person. Failing that, of course, one might just as well marry the odd parson who might happen by and express an interest.”

As she spoke, Darcy felt she again looked at him with pointed meaning. He smiled at her clever turn on Mr. Collins’ character, but his interest was aroused most decidedly by the statement itself: she seemed to be telling him she had refused Collins for his sake. Was that the reason Mr. Collins’ interests had shifted to another object? Had Elizabeth, in spite of every thing, been aware of his own interest at Netherfield? After all, both his sister and Miss Bingley, he knew not how, had been able to penetrate his feelings: why not Elizabeth, as well? He was silent, pondering her words and her air; she had never spoken of it directly, to be sure, but if he was not mistaken it placed an entirely new light on their time together here at Rosings; if she were aware of his feelings, his long-continued silence must surely have pained her greatly, and his heart sank at the thought. He was very tempted to say straight away that he understood her, and how much he agreed—how well assured he was that she was the one he had waited for through nine weary Seasons, a full third of his life: in her presence he was far less sensible of those objections that plagued him in his solitude. But his lingering doubts, especially on his having correctly read the lady’s feelings, held him in check; and so, while longing to speak, he simply smiled and nodded with a certain wistfulness—but he did give his eyes license to hold hers for a long moment.

Another long silence ensued. This time the lady broke it, asking: “I never see Colonel Fitzwilliam in the grove, Mr. Darcy: does he not care to walk?”

“I believe he likes the exercise quite well, but his rooms on this present visit are in the rear wing, and so he is more likely to walk north from the house. But he has been preoccupied with affairs, and with keeping Lady Catherine’s hunters from a life of complete senescence, so I believe he has taken little opportunity to walk. But he will, I am sure; he always does.”

“I do not know that I was aware the house had a rear wing.”

“It is not much used, but he requested it especially, as it is quiet, and close to the stables. I like it too, but it is rather removed from the library, where I spend most of my time. I have no doubt you will find it answers your ideas of comfort, in future.” As he spoke the words, Darcy realised with a start that he had formed the unconscious expectation that they would be coming there again together—and that he had now given it away! —for she
could
only assume that he meant she would be coming there with him. He hoped his embarrassment did not show, and held his tongue, watching Elizabeth’s reaction carefully. She offered no reply, but Darcy could see in her momentary expression of surprise and confusion that his words had not passed unnoticed; as had happened before at Netherfield, however, her delicacy and regard for him made her act to spare his feelings, and she forbore to speak her own. He, on the other hand, knew not how to chastise himself too much for injuring her feelings in this way, making it so very clear that his silence concerning his sentiments came from nothing but want of resolution on his side; what must she think of a man whose lack of decision and will would thus force her to endure months of pain and suspense? In his embarrassment he could say little after this, and after a little while spent without hearing anything further from him, or finding anything to say herself, Elizabeth kindly released him by standing and announcing her intention to return; Darcy followed dismally along behind her like a scolded pup; on parting from her at the Parsonage, mortified and repentant, he went to sit by himself in the library to worry at this crisis; he deliberated on both the assumption that had made him speak so, and the lady’s reaction to it: she had understood his meaning, of course; but what heavenly disposition would let words of such import to pass off unchallenged? To spare him, when her own interests must urge the severest reprimands—surely only the deepest regard could explain such an act of forbearance.

Or—and this possibility struck him with particular force—might not she be disguising her own sentiments for much the same reason he did his? —recognizing the difficulties that must attend their union, perhaps she concealed her feelings from
her
sense of propriety. That she hesitated to relieve her feelings and speak her mind on
these
grounds, rather than out of concern for his peace, was certainly credible; she was undeniably a very proper lady, for all her playfulness; indeed, that was part of her special charm—her ability to maintain the strictest propriety while managing still to be lively and fascinating. She was infinitely more captivating than Miss Susan Chesterton, but, unlike the latter, Elizabeth never failed to heed the demands of civility and decorum, regardless of any feelings she might be harbouring. Of course she would have concealed her feelings for him: her delicacy and propriety would demand it.

As to her having discovered his attachment, there could scarcely be any doubt: whether she knew of his attraction in Hertfordshire or not, he had often enough been unguarded; fool that he was, she surely must have been aware of how he struggled not to stare, and how difficult he found it to speak in her presence. Could any mooncalf be more obvious than he had been? Add to that to-day’s slip of the tongue, and it was impossible that she should remain unaware of his interest. He found, however, that the conviction that she understood his feelings did not release him and enable him to speak; rather, it rendered speech more difficult still, and at the same time made his silence all the more inexcusable. He longed to rise up and go out to Elizabeth, wherever she might presently be, to declare himself and offer his most heart-felt apologies; but his doubt and mortification held him back.

The following evening the Parsonage once again came to Rosings. Embarrassment and indecision do little to stimulate conversation, and Darcy was even less talkative than usual.  He held a book, and would occasionally refer to it, but it could not hold his attention. Very much occupied by his wavering inclinations, he sat quietly in a deep chair by the low fire, content to let the evening unfold around him whilst he sought to bring some clarity to his mind. Elizabeth had nothing to say to him, nor could he blame her, but he could contrive no means of mending the rift he had created between them.

As his thoughts drifted about, his attention was captured by Mr. Collins, who was trailing after his aunt as she walked here and there in search of a conversation to command, or a behaviour to correct. As was his habit, the parson took a place behind her to the left; Darcy caught the Colonel’s eye and directed his glance to Mr. Collins with a nod; the two shared a grin, as the Colonel had some days previously whispered “Heel!” as they had watched a similar procession.

“Mr. Collins, how do the preparations for the Spring Festival get on?” asked Lady Catherine as she swept a disdainful finger across the dust on the base of a lamp.

Collins clasped his hands happily in front of his chest and, beaming, replied, “The suggestions Your Ladyship so condescendingly offered regarding the decorations have made every thing easy.” Darcy gave a discouraged shake of his head; five days prior he had left the dictionary in Lady Catherine’s library open to the definition of “condescending”, and had done the same with one he had found in the Parsonage: evidently Mr. Collins was not one to trouble himself with such matters.

“And who is to ring the peal?” Lady Catherine enquired.

Mr. Collins now turned his beaming countenance upon Mr. Darcy. “We have two new ringers, Your Ladyship: Turner and Tilden! They have joined together, in a show of fellowship. And we have but one man to thank for this blessing,” he finished with enthusiasm, looked pointedly at Darcy.

“How is this?” enquired the Colonel.

“Have you not heard?” asked Collins in surprise. “Why, your honoured cousin has shown himself to be possessed of the wisdom of the ages.” Darcy winced, and winced again when his cousin asked delightedly for the tale. It had lost nothing during its residence in the parson’s memory, and Darcy, embarrassed and annoyed, had to bear with his cousin’s merry grin as the tale unfolded;
Elizabeth, on the other hand, registered no particular interest. When the parson had done, Colonel Fitzwilliam chafed Darcy happily and mercilessly, and at some length, before Elizabeth finally stepped in, coolly urging the Colonel to desist in the name of civility. Darcy could not be insensible to the change in the lady’s manner towards him: her intervention on this occasion was an urging on the strength of her good breeding, not of her regard.