章節 17: 15. In which Mary Crawford gives some advice
Elizabeth sank into a troubled sleep, and woke early, without feeling the slightest bit refreshed. At first she thought she might attend to some of their correspondence— it seemed like there were always letters to which she owed a reply— but when her letter to Mrs. Kirke devolved into a series of repetitions about leaving for Derbyshire that day, she gave up and leaned back in her chair, scrubbing her face with her hands.
Darcy had kissed her!
Why had he done it?
It was thoroughly inexplicable. And her own reaction to it— she had kissed him back! Why?— cast her into further agonies of confusion.
‘My dear Beatrice ,' Elizabeth wrote, feeling foolish, ‘you must forgive how incoherent this letter is, for yr faithful correspondent is more confused than usual this morning.-' She paused consideringly, pen upraised and wrote, ‘owing, no doubt, to the cowslip wine that Boatswain ruined this past February. Kitty and G told me that they used extra brandy to make up for the loss of cowslips. I had not realized how much brandy they saw fit to add. Yrs ever, E. Fitzwilliam.’
This, however, did not suit her feelings. She had suffered much worse morning heads than this head ache, which was brought on primarily by sleeplessness and emotion, not any negative repercussions from dancing attendance on Bacchus. She cast her pen aside in frustration and rang for Mrs. Pattinson.
“I forgot to return a book of music to Miss Crawford,” said Elizabeth, as this was the nearest book at hand. “What time is breakfast?”
“Nine-o-clock.” Mrs. Pattinson set down toast and chocolate on Elizabeth's writing table. “It has now gone eight-o-clock, ma’am. Shall I have the carriage brought round?”
“No— I fancy the walk, if Mr. Pattinson has no other duties at present.”
Elizabeth put on the walking dress she had meant to wear under her traveling coat, a comfortable, old round-gown of charcoal gray cambric, and to Mrs. Pattinson’s inquiry into the whereabouts of her veil, managed a relatively indifferent, “I do not mean to wear it again. I think I was clinging onto it in the absurd idea I was clinging onto Colonel Fitzwilliam thereby, but... he is gone. Nothing I wear will bring him back.”
“No, ma’am,” said Mrs. Pattinson, arranging the folds of a white fichu about Elizabeth’s neck and shoulders. “White or black cap?”
“White.”
Thus attired, Elizabeth set out. Mary always practiced her harp before breakfast, and was indeed engaged in this when the butler announced Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Mary, very plainly attired and hair undressed, pushed the harp from her shoulder, saying, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam! This is a surprise. It is so early for a morning call, and I thought you were off to Derbyshire.”
“Yes, at around ten, but I realized I hadn't returned this to you.”
Mary opened the book to see it contained music for the pianoforte, which she did not play. She raised her eyebrows, but dismissed the butler instead of saying anything else.
“Out with it,” said Mary, as Elizabeth more-or-less collapsed into an armchair.
Elizabeth, struggling to maintain her slouching, defeated attitude within the confines of busk and stays, said, “Oh, Mary! It is the most horrendous muddle and I really do not know what to make of it! We were playing parlor games last evening and I had to pay a forfeit to Mr. Darcy.”
“Well really,” scoffed Mary. “Offended by parlor games! What a man. I am sorry you have to live with him. Parlor games! As inoffensive as drinking tea!”
“Oh no,” said a Elizabeth. “That is merely the context, not the problem. I paid my forfeit, meaning to kiss his temple, but he's so wretchedly tall, I did not aim properly and—” she was too embarrassed to say it outright, and pointed to the corner of her lips.
“Ah,” said Mary. “And now Mr. Darcy is flustered and outraged.”
“Probably,” said Elizabeth, “although— no. He is certainly flustered, but I—I doubt he is outraged. I went to apologize to him in private afterwards, and he— Mary, he kissed me.”
“He kissed you?” Mary asked, in disbelief.
Elizabeth nodded.
“Well,” said Mary, sounding reluctantly impressed. “I really didn't think he had it in him.”
This was not at all what Elizabeth was expecting. She looked her confusion, and struggled upright in her chair. “What do you mean by that?”
Mary looked amused. “Oh dear, sweet Lizzy, you never notice when men are attracted to you! It is such touching proof of your devotion to Colonel Fitzwilliam. I only mean that Mr. Darcy has been uncomfortably attracted to you since the beginning of the season.”
“What?”
“By that I mean, he is deeply uncomfortable with the fact that he is attracted to you. I noticed it after Wellington kissed you in February. For a moment, Mr. Darcy looked as if he could have gladly taken on the best soldier in Europe in a fight.”
“What?”
“He hid it quickly enough, and, in your defense, you had pleasanter things to occupy you than Mr. Darcy’s sense of proprietary propriety.”
“But I—” Elizabeth shook her head. “Mary, this is— that is ridiculous. The very first time we met, Mr. Darcy said I was not tempting enough to dance with, and the day before Colonel Fitzwilliam proposed, he spent an hour detailing all the ways in which I was unsuitable for his cousin. We have become friends since then, but I cannot— it does not—”
“I am not saying that it is an attraction of long duration,” said Mary. “Just a sixmonth, or so. I imagine it disturbed him a great deal to feel attracted to someone not his soulmate, and he did his best to conceal it, especially as he would not think such an attraction proper— in general, and in the particular circumstance of your being his beloved cousin’s widow. I really thought he’d try and ignore it forever.”
“But— how— why? That is, we have become very good friends since Richard’s death, but I have not been in my best looks. Most of the time Darcy sees me, he sees me weeping.”
“Men who only like women are a mystery to me,” said Mary, with a shrug. “I really could not tell you what it is they like. Perhaps they find weeping attractive. But I will tell you a story I have really been dying to pass onto you for over a week now. At Lady Metcalfe’s party, I was trapped at the supper table with Mr. Robert Ferrars— I am sure you know of him, he's your Aunt Catherine’s friend’s favorite son?— and his sister-in-law, Miss Steele. Mr. Ferrars decided he would like to rattle on about the season’s beauties before his sister-in-law. His sister-in-law talked about smart beaux in return, however, so I suppose it is a common subject with them. To return— Miss Steele exclaimed that really, it was Beau Wellington who had everyone’s attention this season, and Mr. Ferrars replied that the Duke of Wellington really did set the fashion, as Mrs. Fitzwilliam was being held up as one of the beauties of the season, for all she was a widow and only pretty, instead of a stunner— which, by the by, I disagree with most heartily. With the proper clothes, you are the equal of anyone! But to return: Miss Steele rather ingenuously said that though she didn’t consider you a beauty, Wellington did, and that was enough for society. Mr. Darcy walked by then, in a black mood. Mr. Ferrars and his sister-in-law appealed to him, to help them determine whether or not you were really beautiful, or if it was just fashionable to say so. He glared at them both and said that he had for many years considered you the handsomest woman of his acquaintance.”
Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond speech.
“I did wonder, at first,” said Mary, “if he was exaggerating to shut up Mr. Ferrars, but I really don’t think he was. Perhaps he began to think you handsome once you had the money to dress better, and that evolved into a complicated attraction once you were no longer married, or once you had bonded through the aftermath of Waterloo. But who knows? Attraction is always so labyrinthine a drive, when you examine it closely.”
Elizabeth did not know what to say. That Darcy could think her handsome was surprising enough; that he should be attracted to her— but he had kissed her, had he not? And kissed her with such passion—
“So my dear,” said Mary, “there you have it. Mr. Darcy has been struggling against an attraction to you, because he thinks you handsome. He gave into it last night, perhaps thinking you had thrown your forfeit in order to kiss him—”
“He could not have thought that,” said Elizabeth, deeply shaken. “He was so— he kissed me rather impetuously and apologized twice for doing so!”
“Ah.” Mary considered this new evidence. “To think stolid Mr. Darcy could be overcome by passion! That really does put one off-balance. I suppose his attraction to you is stronger than I imagined. Do you like him?”
“He is my friend,” said Elizabeth, tormented, “and I do— I rely on him, I trust him, I admire him very much, but I— oh I don’t know! I have only just come out of mourning! I lost the man with whom I thought I would spend the rest of my life. I cannot yet think of spending all my life with another.”
“I am not asking you to,” said Mary, patiently. “I am only asking if you liked kissing him.”
Elizabeth blushed.
“Then kiss him again,” said Mary. “If only to settle the question for yourself. I still think if you were going to go about kissing anyone, it ought to have been Wellington. You could have gotten a ducal coronet out of it. But as it is, Darcy is a handsome man, and unattached. There is nothing exceptional in a widow kissing an unmarried gentleman— or doing considerably more—”
“Mary!”
“Really, Lizzy,” Mary replied, with a look of wounded innocence. “You needn’t form a liaison with him if you do not want to. He might even be offended by the idea. I’m just saying it’s a possibility, and you oughtn’t to limit yourself.”
“So that is what you think I ought to do,” said Elizabeth, irritably. “Just— just go and kiss him again, and let the chips fall where they may!”
“Heavens, my dear, not at all. I am just pushing you towards the best of the three options I see: one, you pretend it never happened and continue on in an increasingly strained platonic relationship. Two, you acknowledge what happened and decide you were both drunk or something, and perhaps resume a battered, but intact platonic relationship. Three, you acknowledge what happened, and the fact that you are attracted to each other, and enter into a... different kind of relationship.”
“Mary, I live with him! I am his sister’s chaperone !”
“That makes things quite easy. Now, listen to me a minute. I am going to give you some advice from my sillier days of sleeping with men that you do not have to take, but I insist you hear.” Mary laid out these general precepts quickly and succinctly. Elizabeth did not interrupt; she was too mortified. There wasn’t an inch of her that was not blushing.
“But,” said Mary, “that is not only putting the cart before the horse, it is putting the cart before the horse has even been taken out of the stable. You must force a conversation about what happened before anything can be accomplished.”
“What if I want nothing to be accomplished?”
“Then you are a Tory.”
“Mary!”
“Do you really want nothing to be accomplished?”
Elizabeth squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. “I... no. No. I hate to admit it, but I... his attentions were not unwelcome. And....” Her attraction to him was yet incipient, and too new to admit to with ease; she muttered something vague about how Darcy must be tormenting himself and disliking it.
“Give over, my dear, and just admit that women have their needs, too,” said Mary, smugly. “And Darcy, for all his faults, is very handsome, and seems, at least in part, to have met a need you are shy of recognizing.”
“Sometimes, Mary,” Elizabeth grumbled, “I really wonder why I am friends with you.”
“Because I am so charmingly honest? Now go, it is past nine, and did you not say you were to set out at ten?”
Elizabeth could not keep from uttering one of the soldier’s oaths she had picked up on campaign and nearly ran back home, arriving red-faced and out of breath. Georgiana and Kitty were in the middle of their breakfasts and looked rather puzzled to see Elizabeth running in so disheveled.
“Are you quite alright Lizzy?” asked Kitty.
“Miss Crawford and I had rather a serious difference of opinion just now, that is all,” said Elizabeth, grumpily.
“Oh, I am sorry,” said Georgiana, instantly. “I know she is a great friend of yours. I hope it is not too serious a quarrel.”
“Rest easy, Georgiana. It did not rise to the level of a quarrel. I merely wanted her advice on something and did not like everything she had to say in response. I am sure your brother will be thrilled to hear we had a disagreement; he dislikes Miss Crawford.” This reference had slipped out as if nothing had changed, when it was clear to Elizabeth that everything had, or was about to, and was glad her color was still so heightened from running neither girl noticed her blushes.
“Where is your brother?” asked Kitty.
Georgiana dimpled. “His valet said he was not yet up. I think he had too much of our cowslip wine!”
“How much brandy did you put in, to correct for Boatswain’s help in preparing the receipt? I confess to feeling a little out-of-sorts myself this morning, not just from the tiff with Miss Crawford.”
Georgiana and Kitty spent the rest of the morning giggling over how they had gotten their elder siblings drunk, and were terrifically amused when Darcy stumbled, bleary-eyed and glowering, out of the house and onto his horse. Elizabeth colored and said, determinedly, “Darcy, I think you have had an uneasy night. We can delay our departure if you wish—”
“No, no,” he said, looking harassed. “It was my own fault I did. I do not mean to inconvenience any of you.” He mounted his horse before she could even open her mouth to respond. Elizabeth turned to the different, but still difficult task of wrangling Boatswain into the carriage. They were not spectacularly cramped when they all climbed in, for the carriage was large and well-padded, and Boatswain was happy to serve as a footrest, but Elizabeth was still uncomfortable.
She had missed her chance to speak to Darcy before he spent the rest of the day full of regret and shame but— she thought, frustrated, what even would she have said? ‘Darcy, I am extremely confused about everything. Why don’t we kiss again? In all probability, it will not make me less confused, but— in all honesty— I would enjoy it.’
As the carriage drove on, and she held onto one of the straps, leaning her head against her upraised arm, she tried more conversational gambits. None of them pleased her. She had reached the point of, ‘Do you want to pretend that we were both too deep in our cups to be rational? We could be irrational again if you like; I admit that the idea holds some appeal for me’ when Kitty sniggered and said, “Lizzy, did we really get you drunk?”
“Three sheets to the wind,” she agreed, grumpily.
“I thought everyone drank a great deal in the army.”
“I have not been with the army in a year and three days,” she groused.
“Is there anything,” Kitty asked, “that I can do to help?”
“Kitty, my dear, you can remedy my headache in one of two ways: sit where I am, facing backwards all the way to Derbyshire, or stop talking.”
Kitty declined the first, and the second was held to be an impossible request, but Kitty and Georgianna at least talked to each other in low whispers, instead of to Elizabeth. Elizabeth tried to rest, but found herself staring vacantly out the window instead. She was not sure what she was looking for, but when Darcy rode into view it seemed almost as if she had willed his appearance. He was not a natural rider, as Colonel Fitzwilliam had been, but he had a good seat, and controlled his horse almost as well as he controlled himself. She found herself admiring the lines of back and shoulder, the capable hands, that had so recently slid into her hair—
She felt a flush rising up her neck to her cheeks and uncomfortably pulled the standing collar of her traveling coat higher. Perhaps it would be better to go back to basics, namely:
Was Mary really right? Had so dignified, so reserved, so controlled a man as Mr. Darcy really been uncomfortably, profoundly attracted to her for a sixmonth? Had he really been overcome by passion? And, perhaps most embarrassingly, why had she not minded?
Elizabeth leaned her forehead against the cool, rattling glass wishing it would jostle out all the complex, confused emotions, so she might have a clear understanding of the evening previous.
She did not feel she had behaved improperly, nor did she feel ashamed. Elizabeth forced herself to revisit Mary’s advice and opinions and then somewhat grumpily admit to herself that Darcy was not the only one feeling an uncomfortable degree of attraction. He was one of the handsomest men of her acquaintance— she had long known this— but that alone could not be enough. She had not even really liked him as a person until well into her marriage to Colonel Fitzwilliam, and even after Colonel Fitzwilliam’s death, he was merely (‘not merely,’ she scoffed at herself, ‘never merely’) Cousin Darcy, on whom one could always depend, to whom she could always turn in her distress.
It was embarrassing to admit she was attracted to him because he had proved himself attracted to her, but really, she thought, disgruntled, that seemed to be the tipping point from their deep friendship to The Kiss in the Bookroom— a kiss that had really deserved the capitalization. Until he had shewn his opinion of her to have radically changed from his first impressions, until he had proved to her his respect and admiration, her own first impressions still held sway.
It seemed now absurd that Darcy had not thought her handsome enough to dance with, or beneath the dignity of her husband’s regard and affection. The insults she knew had been less a commentary on herself than Darcy’s own tendency, when brooding over an injury to someone beloved, to become overprotective to the point of officiousness. The rudeness of youth had faded, too; Darcy would never perhaps be charming, or cut out to be a diplomat, but he was capable of being polite, and tried to be so even when severely tempted to be otherwise. At the heart of it all, she mused, Darcy was a very caring person, of strong feeling and attachment, but had tremendous difficulty in expressing it. The few whom he admitted past his high, prickly walls of reserve he loved and loved devotedly.
Boatswain droolingly put his head on her knee.
“You are making the coach too warm,” she told him, but caressed his ears anyhow and thought to herself, ‘And so Mary Crawford is right. She has the unfortunate tendency to be so. Darcy is uncomfortably attracted to you and therefore kissed you; as a result, you are now you are uncomfortably attracted to him.’ She forced herself to think over the rest of Mary’s advice and opinions, and recalled that Marietta had married four times, and no less a person as he Duke of Wellington had predicted she would be remarried the next time he saw her. So what if they had kissed— many widows did more, without censure. Mary had very graphically given examples of that.
Elizabeth settled it with herself that nothing unwanted or unwonted had occurred, and that she would be well pleased if the same wanted and wonted thing occurred again, if— and this was a dismayingly large if— Darcy would only be brought to agree with her.
But agreeing with her meant talking to her, and Darcy would not talk to her. If she knew him at all, he would spend the three day journey to Derbyshire avoiding her, at which point he would disappear into the grounds of Pemberley and only be seen at dinner. An intolerable idea. She would have to provoke him into speaking with her. Somehow.
The appeal of this plan began to fade when she realized the very real difficulties of it. When they stopped for the evening in a coaching inn, Mr. Pattinson brought the alarming news that Mr. Darcy had gone into the tap room.
“The tap room?” Elizabeth stupidly repeated.
Georgiana and Kitty were equally mystified.
“The tap room downstairs?” asked Georgiana, bewildered.
“Yes, Miss Darcy.”
“The one full of locals and farmers and merchants and all?” asked Kitty.
“Yes, Miss Bennet.”
“Full of strangers, with whom he must converse?” asked Elizabeth.
Mr. Pattinson cleared his throat. “He is not presently talking to any of them, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”
Boatswain made a harrumphing noise that meant he wanted attention, but which all three ladies pretended was the dog entering into their feelings of incredulity.
The three ladies exchanged bemused glances, then Elizabeth said, “Mr. Pattinson, will you be so good as to inform Mr. Darcy that I refuse to make Kitty carve at dinner, and I hope he will return to us soon? We promise no repeats of last evening.”
“For we are out of cowslip wine,” said Kitty, attempting to be arch.
Darcy returned then, but he was as taciturn as he had been at the beginning of their acquaintance, and, after the plates had been cleared, announced his intention to retire early. Kitty and Georgianna found it hilarious beyond measure that they had gotten both their chaperones so drunk the aforementioned chaperones were hungover all the next day. This seemed plausible enough, so Elizabeth merely told them that was hardly something to be proud of, and retired to bed herself. She did not sleep very well, but, mulling over the events in the study, she determined that Darcy was so upset with himself because he had violated his strict notions of propriety. It stood to reason that he thought it a moral outrage for anyone to importune a woman in mourning. He had only really withdrawn when he knocked the veil out of her hair.
The next morning she made a mess of her trunks in order to attire herself in a loose, cream-colored round gown and a forest green coat, as a hopeful conversational gambit. This failed. Darcy rose before them all, and was already ahorse when the ladies had finished dressing. Elizabeth was determined not to let another evening go by with wholly unnecessary brooding and so at dinner said, brightly, “I have been reading a new translation of Voltaire’s Letters on the English today. Have you ever read them, Mr. Darcy?”
Darcy looked at her for the first time in two days. Elizabeth offered him a smile which she hoped conveyed both reassurance and apology. He looked confused by it and answered her in some perplexity that he was not sure if he had read them or not.
“It is his commentary on English society and mores— perhaps a little dated, but not by much. I shall not bore the table with the first few letters about religion—” this with an amused look at Kitty, who took every opportunity to avoid Sunday services “—but I find his commentary on English manners amusing. He has a whole letter devoted to our mourning customs. Having exited that state so recently myself, I have found it diverting in the extreme.”
Darcy was beginning to grasp what she was talking around, rather than about.
“I suppose he takes the opportunity to be critical about the English conception of soulmarks,” said Kitty. “I have not met any French person who does not do so.”
“But of course! He has a good line about widows being forced to make themselves into living shrines for the departed, while forced to do so with the dullest altar cloth. I do not think I will ever stop missing Colonel Fitzwilliam, and I daresay if he was still alive, I would still be happily married to him. And yet, he is dead and I am too much a country savage to make myself into a beautiful object for society to gaze upon, in order to feel fatuously virtuous.”
Kitty said excitedly, “Oh Lizzy, that was such a roundabout way of saying you will wear color again! I was wondering at your coat this morning. It is very nice to see you in something that is not black once more.”
“Do you think you will marry again?” asked Georgiana.
This threw Elizabeth considerably; she had been hoping to reassure Darcy he had not so wholly offended propriety by kissing her, not getting into her very nebulous future plans.
“I have no idea,” said Elizabeth, simply. “I had not thought that far, but I suppose I am not opposed to it— at some far later date.”
Darcy looked quickly up at her again.
Georgiana would not take Elizabeth’s total lack of thought on the topic as a reason to cease pursuing said topic. “I hope you will think on it a little, Lizzy. There are... I think there are men who would be very happy to hear you would be open to the idea of marriage, even if you were not sure you would like to marry. I am sure whether or not you would like to be someone’s wife again would depend upon the man asking.”
“I suppose,” said Elizabeth, really unsure what to make of this information.
Darcy hastily changed the subject back to Voltaire.
With more hope than certainty, Elizabeth had ordered tea after dinner, and she was gratified to see Darcy hesitating when Georgiana and Kitty went up to bed.
“I have felt unbalanced all day because we did not have our tea last evening,” said Elizabeth, trying to hit the right note between teasing and sincerity. “Do not make me stagger on again tomorrow.”
Darcy reluctantly took his seat and was for some minutes so imposingly silent, Elizabeth did not know how to go on.
She attempted to broach the subject with, “Please, Darcy— you have done so much for me, and you are so dear to me, I cannot bear to think I have made you unhappy.”
“I am unhappy with myself,” replied he. “Never with you.”
Elizabeth impulsively reached a hand out and laid it on his left forearm. “But why? I told you, I am no longer in mourning. And I said— I told you that it was not unwelcome! What stronger language can I use, without venturing entirely beyond propriety?”
“When you came into my book room,” said he, evenly, though she could feel the tension in his arm, under her fingertips, “what did you intend to do?”
“Give you the forfeit I had intended— the same I gave to Georgiana and Kitty.” She tightened her grip. “I hope you do not think me... fast or—”
“No, I think that I have abused your trust in me,” said Darcy.
Elizabeth released her somewhat anxious grip to pat his arm. “Oh Darcy! Whatever shall I do with you? You are so burdened with responsibilities, you see them in every relationship you have. I was surprised, I admit, but I am flattered you now think me tolerable enough not only to dance with, but to kiss.”
“You must know I have long thought you to be the handsomest woman of my acquaintance.”
“I did not,” said Elizabeth, blushing, “until Miss Crawford mentioned it yesterday morning.”
He raised his eyes to her and said, stiffly, “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, it was a gross abuse of power for me to have acted as I did. You may always make Pemberley or Darcy House your home, if you wish it, but they are legally both my properties. I am well aware that the balance of power is all on my side. If I demanded favors of you, you would feel obligated to return them, lest you find yourself without a place to live.”
“I beg you would not attribute feelings towards me that are not my own. Really, Darcy! My jointure is not so small and my friends are not so few that if I found living with you unpleasant, I would have no other recourse. I am very capable of storming out of any and all of your homes to live with Jane, or my father, or my aunt and uncle Gardiner, or even Lady Catherine, if I found it disagreeable to remain with you. Indeed, if I found England itself intolerable with you in it, I have friends all over Europe who have been pressing me for long visits once my mourning is over.” When he opened his mouth to protest this, Elizabeth gave him a mock severe look and said, “If you say that you should not have kissed me, I warn you, I shall not be able reply in kind. I do not regret what I did.”
Darcy stared at her, utterly bewildered. “Colonel Fitzwilliam was your soulmate.”
“Probably,” she agreed, “and I loved him very much indeed, and shall always think him the best of husbands, but... I do not want to live the rest of my life unkissed.”
“I cannot look on a kiss as lightly as you do,” he replied, seeming almost more anxious than agonized.
Elizabeth looked at him uncertainly and wondered, for a moment, if Darcy had ever kissed anyone besides her— then thought, well yes, very probably, but has he ever done anything else? She pulled her filmy evening shawl over her neck and bosom, to hide the blush rising there, and thought, ‘he is not a rake; he would never take advantage of anyone within his power; he would find any illicit relationship offensive— perhaps he has not? Or if he has, it would have been in a very limited fashion.’ “Darcy, I think you are being overscrupulous. I lost a parlor game. I gave you a forfeit. It is a forfeit I would enjoy paying again. There is nothing unusual or unacceptable in that. I shall — ah!”
Darcy was a little startled by this, and from her suddenly starting out of her chair to fly to her traveling bag, and stared at her as if she had suddenly revealed herself to be Napoleon Bonaparte in disguise when she produced a much battered, much beloved travel chessboard.
“I purchased it in Oporto,” said Elizabeth, setting it on the table, and opening it. “Colonel Fitzwilliam and I used to play when it was raining too hard to do anything else— and before you protest, I used to play with Mrs. Kirke, too. We used to play for each others’ hair ribbons, but you may name your forfeit.”
“I have not the pleasure of understanding you,” said Darcy.
Elizabeth set up the board, assuming Darcy would wish to play as white, and said, “I think you are too nice in your manners. As far as I can tell, neither you nor Georgianna ever played parlor games with kissing forfeits, and I believe that did you a great deal of harm. I shall endeavor to fix it.”
Darcy said, flatly, “What.”
“You are acting very oddly about something that— that is quite normal. And you know, there is— in our situations, there is nothing so wrong in it. I am a widow, out of mourning; you are a bachelor. There is no one injured or offended—” She was growing flustered. It was hard to keep from her mind the passion with which he had kissed her only two days ago. “Darcy, I am saying I want you to become used to something so inoffensive it is a common forfeit in parlor games. There is nothing objectionable in this.”
“Nothing?”
“You need not say it quite so disbelievingly,” said Elizabeth, tartly. "If you are displeased with the idea, come out and say so."
“I am not at all displeased.”
“Yes, and the flat monotone in which you said so was very convincing. White goes first.”
Darcy hesitated, and then moved a pawn seemingly at random.
Elizabeth forced herself to talk as the game continued, nonsensical prattle that Darcy replied to confusedly if at all, but then, when she captured his rook and put him in check they both fell silent. She tried to be light and teasing but her voice came out a little tremulous, as she said, “You owe me a forfeit, sir.”
Her hand trembled as she withdrew the rook from the board; she was dreadfully afraid he would now reject her, that the tide of self-recrimination would now turn towards her, but with the same look Elizabeth mentally decided meant, ‘oh to hell with it’ Darcy put a hand on the table to balance, leaned across the chessboard and pressed his lips to hers. This was gentle, uncertain— quite the opposite of the unrestrained passion he had shown two evenings previous— and though Elizabeth thought of saying, ‘do you call that a kiss?’ she thought she might damage what little progress she had made if she had.
“There,” she said, when he sat down again, his expression unreadable. “Was that really so bad?”
To Elizabeth's confusion and delight, he blushed and cleared his throat. "There is nothing objectionable in this, as you said."
"Yes, a very common forfeit."
"Permissible even between strangers."
"Yes." She decided to try her luck. “Perhaps, if you are not tired, we might have time to play another round.”
He cleared his throat. “I believe I was... perhaps... overnice in my previous objections. That is, if you truly do not object.”
“Not at all,” she said, perhaps too hastily. “I should not have said I was embarrassed before; I will reassure you on this head however many times you need. I am so far from objecting I am in fact near entreaty. Another round, then?”
They played three.
***
The next day, after seeing Elizabeth come down to breakfast in her green coat, Darcy joined them in the coach. Elizabeth treated him with a determined, friendly affection, to prove that, despite his unvoiced worries, they could kiss without ruining everything.
Kitty and Georgianna seemed relieved that Darcy was acting more like himself again. They were cheerful, played stupid word games, and tried to teach Boatswain how to shake paws. Darcy smiled once or twice, to the astonishment of all. After dinner Darcy made vague noises about teaching Boatswain how to shake in earnest, as an excuse to remain awake; Kitty and Georgiana were faintly anxious at this, but the appearance of the tea things restored them to equanimity, and they went up the stairs trying to work out how Kitty’s heroine (an expy of Elizabeth’s friend Mrs. Kearney) could realistically escape capture by the French.
“Laudanum,” Elizabeth called at their retreating backs. “Laudanum and clever housewifery!”
Darcy had Boatswain’s paw in one hand, and a bit of the chicken leftover from dinner upraised, which Boatswain found a perplexing arrangement. Darcy looked up and said, “I think it speaks to the success of your military career that I had forgotten you had been captured by the French and managed to escape."
“Prettily phrased, Darcy! You may as well say with Caro Lamb that I am a wild, muddy sort of creature and ought to be turned loose in the countryside rather than foisted on the notice of society."
“I would never agree to anything Lady Caroline Lamb has said,” Darcy replied, flatly. Boatswain harrumphed, trying to regain his master's attention. Darcy shook his paw and then gave him the bit of chicken. “I meant a compliment. You told me once, your spirits always rise with every attempt to intimidate you.”
Another proffered morsel was met with a head cocked to the side and another high whine of confusion.
“My boldness probably did not need much encouraging,” she replied, but then, after only a moment’s hesitation, she drew out the chessboard. “Shall we play?”
“Do you care to set the forfeit?” There was something forbiddingly formal in his question.
She did not know whether this meant he had liked the forfeit she had set last time or not.
Darcy’s attention was still determinedly on Boatswain; he gave her no clues at all as to his thoughts.
She floundered and asked, “Oh... how about the lone ginger biscuit the innkeeper sent up with our tea?”
He accepted the terms with a solemnity that somewhat depressed her. Elizabeth wondered why she should regret the reestablishment of so close, so valued a friendship, and chided herself for intemperance and impropriety. Surely she ought to rejoice that things were back to normal between then?
But no, it was apparently not enough to have kissed Darcy multiple times. This realization vexed her. She had secretly rather been hoping that to kiss Darcy again would have rid her of the desire, but it seemed only to have increased it. Elizabeth was constantly, painfully aware of him, wherever he was, and irritated that she must have misread the situation. If Mary Crawford had been right, and Darcy had been swept away by passion, surely he would not have been so forbiddingly formal when she got out the chess set a second time? Perhaps he had just been drunk and lonely and then he had gone along with her wishes a second time to try and smooth everything over and reestablish their former, platonic intimacy. He seemed happier now they were friends again; perhaps that was all he had really wanted.
Fortunately, the last day of travel was a trial on everyone’s nerves, and at the point where Elizabeth thought she would snap, she received a very disappointing note from Jane, and had an excuse to be out of temper.
The banns between Caroline Bingley and Mr. Elliot had been posted now for two weeks and Caroline insisted upon Mrs. Bingley’s assistance and constant presence— she even added a paragraph to Jane’s letter listing everything that still needed to be done before her marriage. Elizabeth, Kitty and the Darcys were of course all invited to the wedding breakfast... in two weeks time.
“There was never such fuss about my wedding,” groused Elizabeth, showing the note to Kitty.
“It is only a fortnight until we see Jane,” objected Kitty. “It is not so very bad.” Then, in rather a sulky tone, Kitty said, “I dislike Jane’s being claimed by her sister-in-law, away from her real sisters, as much as you do, but you need not look quite so much as if you'd like to set something on fire.”
Elizabeth put an arm about Kitty’s shoulders and said, “I am sorry, Kitty. It is only the anniversary of Waterloo and... everything... that has me in so fractious a mood. I have wanted Jane extremely for the past week and it strikes me as profoundly unfair I must wait longer.”
“Jane always was the best of us at comforting people,” agreed Kitty. Then, hesitantly, “I am sorry, Lizzy, if I ought to have done more than I did, but Darcy seemed to know better how to help you.”
“All three of you were perfect,” said Elizabeth, kissing Kitty’s temple. “You must not fret or reproach yourself. It shall pass.”
Still, she retired to bed with a sick headache and ate dinner on a tray in her room. The next morning she tried for cheer, but Mary Crawford sent a very impertinent note (apparently written as soon as Elizabeth had left her drawing room) that just read ‘?’ and there was an end to Elizabeth's peace. She stuffed the note in her work bag and got into a rather stupid tiff with Darcy about the best method of preparing lamb for the dinner party he was holding the next day, in honor of the opening of the Lambton Poor Hospital. Darcy won this argument by virtue of having already written ahead to his chef with his proposed menu, which did not improve Elizabeth's temper. After dinner that evening, when Georgiana was playing a very long concerto, he seemed to be looking about for something; and when a servant discreetly appeared, informing him that tea was available in the library, he looked uncertainly at Elizabeth.
Feeling that she was out of charity with him for entirely stupid reasons, Elizabeth roused herself enough to say, “Good Lord, I had not known it was late enough for tea. I was off among the fairies with this piece, Georgianna.”
She went out with Darcy and, after a moment’s hesitation confessed that she was sulky and out of temper at the absence of Jane. “I really had my heart set upon seeing Mrs. Bingley again soon,” Elizabeth confessed, pouring out the tea. “I did not admit the wish during... everything in London, and I did not feel her absence too painfully then; I had you after all. And Kitty and Georgiana,” she added, hastily, handing over the cup. “But I so wanted Jane, and now I cannot bear to hide it. It is a very selfish wish, for I know how many claims she has upon her time; I know the responsibilities and duties she has; I know the realities of her life dictate that I am not of first concern, and that propriety demands my wishes go unfulfilled....”
But she was wandering away from wanting to talk to Jane to wanting something very different from Darcy. She made an impatient gesture. “In short, I am childishly vexed that the sister with whom Jane is concerned is not myself but Caroline. I was the same way when Mary was born, which is probably why Mary and I never became close as adults.”
Darcy said, dryly, “Elizabeth, no one who knows both you and Caroline Bingley would voluntarily give Caroline Bingley the preference.”
Elizabeth cracked a smile. “As it said, it is childish of me, to realize the difficulty and inconvenience of my desire and still feel put-out not to have it. My life is very good; I ought to be contented with my lot.”
Darcy looked curiously at her and seemed on the verge of several different questions. He settled on, “Would you care for a game of chess?”
“I would probably lose,” said Elizabeth, dubiously, “but if you should care for it, certainly. Would you like to name the forfeit?”
He got up from his desk and going towards the handsome chess stand with all its elaborately carved pieces, said nonchalantly, “I think it is your prerogative to name it.”
Elizabeth felt a surge of utter exasperation. Vexing man— why couldn't he have just named a kiss and put her torments at an end? It was a thoroughly unreasonable expectation but it still annoyed Elizabeth that it had not been met. Pettishly she said, “Very well, method of lamb preparation.”
She lost, which was probably for the best. Darcy’s French chef, when not given sufficient time to create his masterpieces, became despondent and wasted what time he did have lamenting to all his kitchen maids that he had once been a chef at Versailles— “Versailles, nom de Dieu!”— and had it not been for that dreadful revolution, he would not be in this horrible country of roast beef without sauce, and these English philistines who did not understand the art of eating.
***
At the ceremony to open the Poor Hospital of Lambton the next day, Elizabeth had the very great pleasure of seeing Colonel Dunne once more. Colonel Dunne was the sort of friend with whom she could pick up lapsed threads of conversation, several months old, as if no time had passed at all; they had a very happy time filling each other in on all their news, and that of their mutual acquaintances. Elizabeth was roused out of any last sulks upon hearing that not only would Colonel Pascal come for a long visit in August, to set up his vinegar trials, but Captain Kearney had sold out, and was thinking of buying an estate not four miles from Lambton. To have Mrs. Kearney as a neighbor sent Elizabeth almost into a state of giddiness. She had profoundly missed all her friends from the regiment. The only better news, she thought, would be hearing that Mrs. Kirke had decided to retire to Derbyshire as well.
She became positively merry after toasting a little too much to the success of the hospital. When after dinner a cavalry officer took down Georgiana’s guitar and began playing some of the songs he’d learnt in Spain, she even allowed herself to be persuaded into demonstrating the flamenco with Colonel Dunne. It devolved rapidly into them circling each other while clapping and vaguely snapping their fingers, as neither of them had ever learnt how to actually dance the flamenco, and the skirt of Elizabeth’s dark red silk gown, even with the hem of fashionable ruffles her Parisian modiste had put on it last year, was not full enough to flow in the elegant patterns actual Spanish dancers managed to achieve. (Part of the problem with her gown, Elizabeth sourly admitted to herself, was the fact that she had put on weight while in mourning, and an outfit which had once been vexingly loose, now fitted rather more tightly than it ought; she had to avoid the more dramatic steps for fear of accidentally spilling out of her bodice.)
It was the first dance Elizabeth had had since the Duchess of Richmond’s ball; this made her bubbly and distracted, even after she had settled into the library with Darcy for what was becoming their customary game of chess. When he asked what forfeit she would like, she replied, airily, “Oh, my head is too full of dancing to think seriously just now.” A little pressing and she suggested, “Let the loser surprise the victor with something pleasant.” It was the last of her clever ideas; every move she seemed to make that evening resulted in capture. Within five minutes she was futilely moving her queen about, without hope of escaping.
“Humbugged me, by God,” said Elizabeth, in what she thought was not a bad attempt at Wellington’s voice. “Darcy, did we leave His Grace’s chair in London?”
“Yes. I can send for it, but first, madam— check.” Elizabeth moved her queen again. “Check. Check... which I believe means a checkmate.”
“I wish I could swear at you,” said Elizabeth. “Very well, I submit.”
“I believe you said the forfeit was a pleasant surprise?”
“Blast, now I shall have to think of one.”
She rose and shook out the folds of her gown, attempting one of the skirt-swishes she remembered from seeing the flamenco danced, but had never been able to successfully emulate. It was on the tip of her tongue to offer a dance, but then into her head popped a question she had been avoiding: ‘Was my object in kissing him at that inn really to prove a kiss would not change our friendship?’
This had been the unintentional result and Elizabeth suddenly realized, looking down at Darcy, who was smiling slightly, and looking unfairly handsome with the shirt points of his collar wilting, his cravat loosened, and his hair tumbling across his forehead, that a reestablishment of Platonic friendship had not been her object at all.
“A pleasant surprise,” she said, consideringly, and then bent quickly to kiss him.
It seemed to surprise him as much as his kiss in the book room in London had surprised her, but he responded eagerly to her, holding lightly onto her dangling wrist to pull her closer, until she had to brace herself, with her other hand, on the arm of the chair or fall into his lap. Which, she reflected, as he kissed her with increasing passion, she would not much have minded. Darcy shifted, and before she toppled into his lap entirely, Elizabeth pulled back and said, “Pleasant enough?”
"Certainly a surprise," he replied.
Darcy’s look was unreadable again; Elizabeth scowled at him and said, “Darcy, I wish you would be more open— I really cannot tell if you like kissing me, or only go along with it to be obliging.”
"People seldom kiss," said Darcy, "to be obliging."
Elizabeth threw up her hands. "If anyone would, it would be you!"
He looked incredulous.
"If someone kissed me specifically, to be obliging," said Elizabeth, vexed, "just me, not someone hypothetical. For God's sake Darcy, you traveled to an active war zone because a letter of mine made you uneasy."
“I beg your pardon,” he said, haltingly. “I am not... in the habit of displaying what I feel.”
“No, you astonish me,” said Elizabeth, dryly. “Darcy— answer me this at least, will you? Would it please you if I set a kiss as a forfeit again?”
He struggled with himself, and then said, “Elizabeth, few things would please me more.”
The admission sounded wrenched out of him. Elizabeth felt decidedly disgruntled that admitting the wish to kiss her was said like a confession got out by the most aggressive inquisitors under the Spanish inquisition.
But still, it was what she had wanted, and the next evening, he seemed to play deliberately badly so that he could catch her up in his arms and kiss her with as much passion as he had done in London.
It seemed Darcy could only offer or accept the proofs of affection Elizabeth most longed for as part of a game, removed from the ordinary seriousness of life. Elizabeth saw he took care to always, conscientiously ask what forfeit she would set, and did not dispute whatever she said. Any overtures had to come from her, a dynamic created partly from Darcy’s reserve, and of his consciousness of the power on his side; but partly because Elizabeth was happy to maintain control over something which— should it have become commonly known— would damage her far more than it would him. That was not to say they lived in any real fear of repercussions; the servants at Pemberley would no more disturb Mr. Darcy in the evening than they would have ladled soup into the laps of the dinner guests. Even if it did get out that Mr. Darcy liked to play chess of an evening with Mrs. Fitzwilliam, Elizabeth varied the forfeits she demanded enough that their games were seen as a way for Mr. Darcy to provide what little things Mrs. Fitzwilliam could not either afford on her jointure, or think proper to ask for when she was not mistress of the household— a particular tea to be served at breakfast, something for the stillroom that could not be easily got, a scrambling party up the Peaks Darcy would otherwise have refused to go on.
The greatest forfeit she demanded— at least, within the fortnight before she could see Jane— had been for Lord Byron's Hebrew Melodies, a book of poetry she had wished to purchase for about a year. Each time she saw it in a bookstore she had taken it down and sighed for it, but ultimately replaced it on the shelf; Elizabeth had spent so much on her mourning clothes, and the various supplements necessary to Kitty’s wardrobe to make it acceptable for the London season,she could not countenance spending a whole guinea on a single book.
By the time she was no longer indebted to her dressmakers, she was at Pemberley, and no bookshops or lending libraries in Lambton or any of the surrounding villages thought it right to purchase any volume by so notorious a poet as Byron. That evening's chess game was equally as difficult as that day's search had been. After having managed to hold Darcy in check for some ten minutes without having managed a definitive checkmate, she was vexed rather than triumphant when she finally achieved her object. “Oh, hateful man,” said she, kissing him nonetheless. “I should have set a forfeit for you as impossible as ending this game was for me.”
“You may do so if you wish.”
“Catch a falling star or tell me where lost years are— no, let us have done with Donne, he is quite horrible about women and their loves. Though most poets— ha, I have got it— you must find a copy of Byron’s Hebrew Songs !” She made very merry on the difficulties she had encountered in procuring the book, spinning it into one of the lost adventures of Don Quixote, and very nearly made him laugh; he was still in a good humor when she changed her mind and instead forced him to tell her his favorite poem instead (Shakespeare’s ‘My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun,’ which Elizabeth liked too much to laugh at.)
But when the silver ribbon she’d ordered came from London, three days later, it was accompanied by a package from her favorite bookseller’s. Elizabeth paid no mind to it, for Darcy was forever buying books, but Darcy slid it to her rather purposefully across the tea table that evening.
“It has your name on it,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes, but it is for you.”
She was too curious to refuse to open it, or make any noises about the propriety or impropriety of such an action; and, anyhow, no one would disturb so sacred a ritual as their evening tea. “I notice the string has been rather hastily retied.”
“Yes, I opened it.”
“Oh, some mistake of the bookseller’s? I left no orders with them. How odd.”
“No mistake. I am merely bad at wrapping things.”
The knots gave at last and out tumbled—
“Byron’s Hebrew Melodies! ”
Darcy smiled.
Elizabeth beamed at him across the table. “Oh Darcy, really, you sent to London for it?”
“It was part of my forfeit, was it not?” Darcy asked. “I am scrupulous in my accounts.”
“It was not seriously supposed to be so,” said Elizabeth, “but I am a selfish creature and want the book— oh you rogue, the pages are cut! You have read it already.”
“The other part of my forfeit,” said Darcy, looking at her with clear affection, “was to tell you my favorite poem, was it not?”
“Yes, but I liked the one you chose! You told me early on that disguise of any sort was your abhorrence; it suited you to choose so honest a poem. Though I do wonder what Shakespeare’s mistress said when he first presented it to her. I have never seen a declaration of love more likely to give offense.” But she was delighted to find that staid Mr. Darcy’s favorite poem was one by Lord Byron. “Which one is it?”
Darcy opened the volume and handed it back to her.
Elizabeth read,
“She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes—”
and then had to pause, as she blushed in confusion. She was very conscious of the fact that she was in the spangled black muslin that Georgiana referred to as her constellation gown, and that Darcy had, however subtly, had complimented her. Her first thought was, ‘oh what a bluestocking way of paying a compliment!’ but she felt so fond of him, Elizabeth really did not know what to do with herself. So she laughed and said, “I think I am trying to read too much between the lines to pay close attention to the poem itself.”
Darcy had been watching her, with his usual unreadable expression, and said, merely, “There are times, in passing over a favorite poem or novel, I fear someone reads on the page all I have brought to a text, rather than what was printed.”
“But,” said Elizabeth, catching this inference, “you do not fear it, in this case?”
Darcy regarded her steadily, smiling slightly. “I am not afraid of you, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth looked down at the page and felt as if she was missing something. What had he brought to this text? She had been in something of a mood before coming into his study— she and Mrs. Pattinson had been trying to alter the gowns she had bought in Paris as the lack of exercise enforced by the restrictions of mourning, and the long rich dinners given at Matlock House, meant Elizabeth could not fit into most of them. She was determined to try and gain back the light, sprightly figure of which she had been rather proud, but until that was accomplished had to try and make some of her half-mourning more colorful (hence the purchase of silver ribbon), or alternate between three off-white morning gowns and two evening gowns that fitted rather tightly about the bust and stomach. Darcy’s compliment came at perhaps the most flattering time, but also the one where she was aware her own vexations were difficult to overlook.
She looked up from the book, to see Darcy looking at her with unexpected warmth. A flush began to creep up her neck; she laughed a little and said, “Darcy, my dear Darcy, if you mean to compliment me with your choice, you have too high an opinion of me. My days are unfortunately not all in goodness spent. Most of the time they are spent in pleasing myself.”
Darcy looked his question rather than ask it outright.
Elizabeth, a little tentatively, put down the book and held out her left hand to him. “ You please me—perhaps more than I ought to be pleased, but I cannot bring myself to care about that. Complicated as our circumstances are, the thought serenely sweet and foremost in my mind is how much I like and trust you, and how glad I am to be able to shew you even a little affection, and have it returned.”
Darcy, with a sort of awkward gentleness, as one unaccustomed to loverlike displays, took her hand across the table. His grip was firm, almost immovable, though his gaze swept over her rapidly, almost as if he could not believe he was seeing her say these things to him.
“We may go as slowly as you like,” she replied, with a reassuring smile. “My own griefs are still recent and harder to release myself from than expected. I realize your own sense of propriety is very strong, and indeed, I do not mean to force you to act wrongly, if you think it a mortal sin to kiss someone to whom you are not engaged, but for my own part, I can see nothing wrong in this. We have been through too much together, Darcy; and I know the essential goodness of your character.”
“I wonder that you think my character good,” he said, in a low, rough voice, “when I cannot deny what I ought to.”
“I know my gown implies otherwise, but I am out of mourning, Darcy. I will repeat it as many times as you need to hear it, but—”
“It is not that,” he said, haltingly. He pressed her hand, almost involuntarily. “I have long admired you.”
February did seem several decades ago. She said, “Oh poor man— I am sorry for any pain I have caused you; it was most unconsciously done. You understand why I could not return your interest before?”
“I was painfully aware of why,” he replied, a little wryly.
“I forbid you to be ashamed now , however,” said Elizabeth. “I can think of no reason why a mutual admiration should cause you pain. There is more in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy, Mr. Darcy. Borrow some of mine, if you like, and think on the past only as its remembrance gives you pleasure.”
She was uncertain if he would listen to her, or if she ever might kiss him outside the context of a parlor game (even one as private as they had been playing), but at the very least he played another game of chess with her and embraced her with enough enthusiasm part of the silver ribbon she had just attached to her gown became unattached. She was still a little dazed from this unexpected triumph when Mary Crawford's note came tumbling out of her workbag instead of the thimble she had been looking for.
Surely, Elizabeth thought, smiling, Mary was owed some response.
Three days later Miss Crawford received a note from Pemberley reading only, “!”
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