It was half past eight o'clock on the morning after a ball. He ought to be in bed. He ought not to be pacing, fully dressed, listing in his mind the many places to which he could possibly flee.
He had done it now. All his circumspection had been for naught. He had handed that woman the means necessary to compel him to marry her.
He had handed her correspondence where others might see. He had addressed it to her and signed it.
Had Miss Bingley been the recipient, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. Miss Bingley, however, would never have dared to disagree with him about George Wickham—or about anything else, for that matter.
But Elizabeth had a letter from him in her possession, to use as she saw fit. She could show it to her father and hint at enough to have Mr. Bennet pounding on Netherfield's door at the earliest respectable hour, and he, being a man of honour....
No. He was overreacting. A letter and a hint or two would not be enough to force Mr. Bennet to act. His two youngest daughters were flirts, and his wife was an inveterate matchmaker. If something so slight as this would have done for the purpose, between the mother and the girls themselves, surely all five daughters would have been engaged or married by now.
Still, a girl like Elizabeth would be treasured by her father, and if she were to convince him there was cause...
This was Wickham's fault.
Yet it galled him to find himself beholden to Wickham for such a jewel as Elizabeth.
Still, to be fair, Wickham owed him for a lifetime of vexation and grief. Dropping Elizabeth into his lap could be construed as Wickham's making amends, however belatedly and unintentionally done. After all, it was hardly a perfect gesture, considering his future mother and father and sisters. He could not even swear Wickham would not be delighted to know Darcy had got himself into such a scrape as to align his ancient family with people so decidedly beneath him. The cur would probably laugh to hear it.
He would laugh even harder knowing Elizabeth was sympathetic to him, Darcy's enemy.
But if Elizabeth sided with his enemy, then why...
He stopped pacing.
Why would she marry him, unless it was for his money?
No. She might have taken Wickham's part, but she was not Wickham. She would never marry him for his fortune alone. She would not scheme. She had integrity. She had compassion. Surely compassion was behind her wrong-headed championing of Wickham's cause! She was nurturing and kind. She loved to laugh and would never condemn herself to a joyless union.
She had not laughed during their dances. She had not even smiled at him.
Any other single, young, sensible gentleman's daughter would marry him. He was a gentleman but also the nephew of an earl. He was wealthy and well connected. He was not ill favoured. He was in excellent health. He was companionable with those he knew well.
Elizabeth Bennet was aware of these things, but she would not marry him because she did not like him.
He felt relieved.
He felt miserable.
What if she refused to even read his letter?
This was madness. Staring at the walls of his room had not provided any helpful insights. He needed to be out of doors. He decided to go down to breakfast first.
Bingley was there before him.
“Darcy! I did not expect to see you!”
He frowned. “Good morning to you too, Bingley,” he said.
“I did not mean to be rude, old man” Bingley said, laughing. “I would not be up at this hour myself if I did not have to go to town.”
Darcy remembered hearing Bingley talk to Miss Bennet about having to be away for a few days. The lady sighed and said she would be glad to see him again as soon as he could call after his return, or some such thing. That seemed a little forward, but there was nothing objectionable in expressing her honest reaction to Bingley's news.
“What brings you down here so early?” Bingley asked him.
“I could not sleep. I think I shall go for a ride.”
“Going to jump a few fences, eh?” Bingley peered at him. “You are not planning anything too adventurous, are you? You don't look quite yourself.”
“Not likely. Too tired.” He was not terribly hungry. The restless energy he had felt in his room was suddenly gone. Conversing required effort.
Fortunately, Bingley was more than capable of carrying the conversation without any help from him. He spoke of a field just perfect for a good gallop, and another nearer Longbourn, and from there he began to sing the praises of Miss Bennet. His voice sounded so melodious and rhythmic that it really was almost like singing. “So if you happen to ride towards Longbourn,” Bingley concluded with that look he often wore when giving a broad hint, “and you happen upon any of the Bennets, do convey my deepest regards to them, particularly Miss Bennet.”
“Of course,” Darcy said. What else could he say?
He might as well ride towards Longbourn. Perhaps he would see one of the Bennets. Perhaps, as at Netherfield, despite its being the day after a ball, they would not all still be asleep. Maybe Elizabeth would be up earlier than the rest and out for a walk.
He felt his energy returning.
No comments:
Post a Comment