Darcy and Elizabeth What If? Collection 3 (2 page)

He remembered that look, and the merry smile that had accompanied it, and he wanted her all over again.

If he went down to the parsonage, he could claim her in half an hour.

That was all it would take for him to walk down there, stride into the house and propose.

Although the idea was preposterous – preposterous! – still, he could do it, and then Elizabeth would be his.

It was such an attractive prospect that he almost gave way to his feelings and he was half way to the door before he checked himself and forced himself to walk back to the fireplace.

He would not give way to his feelings for her.

He would not!

If he did, then all his good work so far would be wasted for, when he had discovered her at Rosings, he had gone out of his way to avoid her. He had absented himself when he knew she would be visiting. If that had not been possible, he had endeavoured to ignore her.

Even so, although he had ignored her outwardly, by sitting at the other end of the room, or conversing with his cousin, or some other stratagem, he had not been able to tear his attention away from her. He had listened for the sound of her voice and paid attention to her conversation, even when he was supposed to be talking to someone else. He had taken pleasure in her singing and her performance on the pianoforte, even if he was meant to be playing cards with his aunt.

So that, despite ignoring her, he had come to know her better and to like her even more.

And now Bingley’s visit had stirred up all his earlier feelings again, and he was finding it harder and harder to fight them.

Worst of all, she had been invited to dinner for that very evening and he would not be able to excuse himself. He did not know how much longer he could fight his attraction to her.

And, if he gave way to his feelings, he did not know what the consequences would be.

Elizabeth Bennet did not see the carriage rolling past as she returned from her walk with the Collinses. It was not until much later, after she had been with Charlotte Collins to visit some of Charlotte’s new friends in the neighbouring town, that she learnt Mr Bingley had been there.

Mr Collins was full of the news. He had not accompanied the ladies on their visit but had, instead, gone to see some of his parishioners, and news of Mr Bingley had spread by way of the servants

‘Lady Catherine was most pleased,’ said Mr Collins. He told his wife and guest all about it as they took tea before dressing for their dinner engagement at Rosings. ‘I am sure you will be pleased to see the painting, Miss Bennet,’ he said, attempting a clumsy compliment, ‘for with your discernment you will be able to see that Miss Darcy’s painting is most superior.’

‘It was kind of Mr Bingley to bring it,’ said Charlotte, to forestall any more stupidity on her husband’s part.

‘What will a lover not do for his beloved?’ asked Mr Collins, putting his cup down in his saucer with a self-satisfied smile.

‘A lover?’ enquired Elizabeth, the colour rising in her cheeks.

She could not hear Mr Bingley mentioned without thinking of her beloved sister, Jane, whose heart had been broken when Mr Bingley left the Meryton. And to hear him described as the lover of Miss Darcy was too much for her to bear. It was Jane that Mr Bingley loved, not Miss Darcy.

‘It is well known that Mr Darcy intends his friend to marry his sister,’ said Mr Collins. ‘I am sure there will be an engagement there before long.’

A sensitive man would have noticed Charlotte’s meaningful looks, which were intended to silence him, and he would have seen how unhappy his conversation was making Elizabeth. But Mr Collins was not a sensitive man. Alas for Charlotte, he was a fool. And so he blundered on, without realising the subject was not welcome to the ladies.

At last Elizabeth could bear it no longer.

‘And what of Mr Bingley?’ she demanded. ‘Does he have no say in the matter? Is he to marry Miss Darcy just because Mr Darcy wants it?’

‘My Bingley is honoured to be thought worthy of Miss Darcy,’ said Mr Collins smugly.

‘And is love to have no place in the arrangement?’ asked Elizabeth hotly.

‘Who could fail to love Miss Darcy? She is everything that is exquisite and good,’ said Mr Collins. ‘Why, I have heard Lady Catherine say that Miss Darcy has no equal. She is the most accomplished pianist, the most gifted artist and she has the sweetest disposition . . . ’

Elizabeth could listen to no more. She rose swiftly and said that she must beg to be excused, for she had a headache.

Then she left the room.

It was too painful for her to hear Miss Darcy praised, when her own beloved sister, Jane, was just as sweet and lovely.

‘If only I could have seen Mr Bingley! If only I had noticed his carriage, or known of his visit sooner, before he went on his way,’ she said under her breath as she ran upstairs. ‘Then I could have spoken to him and reminded him of all his happy days in Meryton, for I am sure that he loves Jane. A few minutes would have done it, I am sure.’

She went into her bedroom and closed the door. Then she went over to the washstand and bathed her temples in lavender-scented water. She was angry with Mr Bingley for quitting Netherfield and leaving her sister heartbroken. She was disgusted with Miss Bingley for humiliating Jane in London by refusing to return her letters, and then returning her call in such a rude manner that Jane had been forced to realise all friendship was at an end. And she hated – yes, she positively hated – Mr Darcy, for the part he had played in her sister’s unhappiness.

She sank down on the bed. Oh, if only she could see her sister! If only she could spend an hour in her company, how happy that would make her. But her sister was in London and Elizabeth was in Kent, where she was bound to stay for the next few weeks.

She had not intended to visit so soon, in fact she had not intended to visit until Easter, but when Charlotte had caught measles, Elizabeth had offered to nurse her because she had already had the disease. In truth, it had been no sacrifice for Elizabeth because her home had not been agreeable to her. Jane, her favourite sister, had gone to London to visit their aunt, leaving Elizabeth with the rest of her irritating family. Mrs Bennet complained constantly of her nerves, Mary spent all day hammering away at the pianoforte in an unmusical manner or singing out of tune, while Kitty and Lydia argued over bonnets and officers.

Hunsford parsonage was peaceful by comparison, and once Charlotte had recovered, Elizabeth had started to enjoy herself. To be sure, there had been some vexations to be endured. Charlotte’s husband, Mr Collins, was a pompous, silly man and his patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, was arrogant and conceited. But Mr Collins was out for most of the time, visiting his parishioners, and they did not see Lady Catherine every day.

But then Mr Darcy had arrived.

She could see him now, in her mind’s eye, with his dark hair and aristocratic looks and his fine figure. If Mr Darcy’s inside had matched his outside, then he would have been desirable indeed! But his handsome exterior hid a proud and arrogant man who was disdainful of the feelings of others, and who had caused a great deal of unhappiness to the person Elizabeth loved best in the world, her dearest Jane.

He had done it by encouraging his friend, Mr Bingley, to leave the neighbourhood just as Jane and Mr Bingley were falling in love.

As if that was not enough, he had also gone back on his father’s promise to give Mr Wickham a valuable living. As a result, Mr Wickham was penniless, when he should have had a comfortable income and a comfortable home. This was particularly depressing to Elizabeth as she liked Mr Wickham very much and he had paid her marked attention. If he had had the living that rightfully belonged to him, then Mr Wickham could have afforded to propose. But as they were both poor, there was no chance of a marriage between them.

Nevertheless, she still thought of Mr Wickham as her model of perfection, and Mr Darcy was her model of a proud, arrogant and unjust man.

Mr Bingley’s visit had stirred up all her resentment against Mr Darcy and she did not feel she could sit down to dinner with him. If she was forced to see him, she feared she would be rude. And so, gathering her wits, she went downstairs.

‘Miss Elizabeth, you are not dressed for dinner!’ said Mr Collins, shocked.

He really looked most comical, standing there with his mouth open, and if Elizabeth had not been so unhappy she would have been tempted to laugh. As it was, she could not even muster a smile.

‘You will have to hurry,’ Mr Collins continued with an anxious air and a glance at the grandfather clock. ‘We are due at Rosings in less than an hour.’

Elizabeth said she was sorry, but her headache was worse and that she would rather not go.

Mr Collins was very put out.

‘But my dear Miss Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘You would not wish to disappoint Lady Catherine after she has shown you so much kind condescension?’

‘Indeed, I would be no use to her at present,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Lady Catherine likes to play cards after dinner and I would not be able to concentrate.’

‘If that is so,’ said Mr Collins with a frown, ‘then perhaps you had better remain here. It would not do to disappoint her ladyship by playing badly.’

Charlotte cast an apologetic look in Elizabeth’s direction. Mr Collins’s reply had been extremely rude. He had not expressed any sympathy with Elizabeth’s headache. His only thought was for Lady Catherine.

However, Charlotte echoed her husband’s words, though for a far more sensible and sympathetic reason.

‘If you are not well, of course you must remain here,’ said Charlotte. ‘Would you like me to give you a powder?’

‘No, thank you. I will just spend the evening quietly and hope it passes.’

Charlotte and Mr Collins were already in their evening dress and they soon departed, leaving Elizabeth to have her supper on a tray in front of the fire.

As she stared miserably into the flames, she thought the day could get no worse.

But she was wrong.

Mr Darcy was not enjoying his dinner. He had been dreading seeing Elizabeth, but when the Collinses had arrived without her he had experienced a sinking feeling, and his disappointment had intensified during the meal. The evening without her was dull and dreary. Mr Collins’s obsequious nonsense grated on his ears. His aunt’s pronouncements irritated him. Anne’s timidity bored him, and Mrs Collins’s presence was a continual reminder of Elizabeth, whose wit and beauty should have been enlivening the evening.

Elizabeth had a headache, so Mrs Collins said.

A headache was nothing. Ladies always had headaches. And yet he could not help being concerned for her health.

He had tried to fight his feelings for her. He had tried to forget her. But it had all been in vain. He felt the pressure mounting inside him as the meal drew to a close and he knew he must do something about it. When the ladies withdrew, he told Mr Collins he had some letters to write.

‘Stay here and enjoy my aunt’s fine port,’ he said. ‘I will rejoin you shortly.’

Mr Collins was always willing to do what Mr Darcy told him to do, and he helped himself to a large glass of port. Mr Darcy went along to the library, but instead of settling down to write any letters he opened the French window and stepped out onto the terrace.

A sharp blast of cold air hit him but he did not feel it. Closing the door behind him, he strode towards the parsonage. His one thought was to find Elizabeth and make sure she was not too ill; to offer his services and ask if there was anything he could do for her; and to claim her for his own.

Elizabeth ate little of her supper, for she was not hungry. When she had finished, the maid took the tray and she settled herself on the sofa with a book. The fire was crackling in a friendly fashion and its warm glow would, on any other day, have cheered her. But today it could not warm her sadness.

She tried to concentrate on her book but it was no good. She kept thinking of her dearly beloved sister, who had been made so unhappy by Mr Bingley’s departure. She thought in vexation of her missed opportunity to speak to him that very morning. And she thought of the pain and suffering that had been caused by the arrogant Mr Darcy.

She was roused from her thoughts by the sound of the front door opening. She thought it must be Charlotte, returning for something she had forgotten. But to her astonishment, when the door of the sitting-room opened a moment later, it revealed Mr Darcy!

He was not dressed for a cold night in February. He wore no coat over his cream breeches, black tailcoat and frilled white shirt. His hair was damp from the light rain. What could have brought him out in such a hurry and in such weather?

Well, whatever it was, she was not going to help him. Mr Darcy was the last man in the world she was inclined to help. She had risen in surprise on his entrance, but now she sat down again and looked at him with hostility. But her hostility soon gave way to curiosity. He seemed to be in a state of some agitation and he paced the room before asking after her health.

‘Mrs Collins told me you had a headache,’ he explained, as he stopped pacing and turned towards her.

That he should come to the parsonage in the middle of dinner to ask about her headache was very surprising, but nevertheless she was determined to be polite, for Charlotte’s sake, and so she answered him with cold civility and expected him then to leave.

However, he started pacing up and down again, as if trying to make up his mind about something, before turning to face her and saying, ‘In vain have I struggled. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’

Elizabeth’s eyes widened in astonishment. She could not believe what she was hearing! Mr Darcy admired her? Mr Darcy loved her? Oh, no, it could not be. It must be a jest. But if so, it was in very poor taste.

But, watching him running his hand through his hair, she had to admit it did not seem likely, since he was looking anguished instead of amused.

She could not understand it. She had come to know him when he had stayed in her own neighbourhood before Christmas and, more recently, they had met often at Rosings. And yet nothing she had seen or heard of him had prepared her for this declaration. She would have said, if asked, that Mr Darcy looked down on her, and disliked her as much as she disliked him. Indeed, he looked like a man who was in torment, not a man who was confessing himself bewitched by her.

And yet his words were starting to sink in. Despite herself, she felt a twinge of gratitude, for she could not be insensible to the compliment he was paying her. Mr Darcy, who was pursued wherever he went by matchmaking mamas and their equally matchmaking daughters . . . Mr Darcy, who could not walk into a room without drawing the eye of every female . . . Mr Darcy, who had ten thousand a year and owned the Pemberley estate and he was asking her to marry him!

She felt a tug of compassion for him, and for the disappointment he was about to receive when she rejected him. It would cause him pain, and she was sorry for it. Because Elizabeth was a lady, and she would never willingly inflict hurt on another person.