Men.
Men!
Men had ruined her sleep, and not even in a good way.
She liked men. She really did.
But why did they have to be so difficult?
Last night, Mr. Collins kept hinting—warning—that he would propose today. She had tried to discourage him, but he was such a headstrong, foolish man that there was no telling him anything. If he persisted along this course, which she was certain he would, she would just have to bear up under it and hope Papa would support her.
And Papa! Why could he not have intervened before now? He knew a month ago that his cousin had invited himself here. He might have prevented the visit or sent his daughters away until he knew what sort of man Mr. Collins was. He could have pointed Mr. Collins in a different matrimonial direction or at least shared some of the burden of entertaining him rather than foisting his company on his daughters. And last night he might have dragged Mr. Collins off to play cards after supper so that she could have salvaged something of the ball. Surely someone had been off playing cards after supper. That was where she had assumed Mr. Darcy had gone before he returned with that letter.
Mr. Darcy! She really did not know what to make of him.
And Mr. Wickham! He had such an appearance of goodness! Yet....
Good gracious! She would never get out of here if she stopped to ponder that now.
She prepared quietly and hurriedly and left the house with Mr. Darcy's letter in her hand. She walked at a brisk pace and did not stop until she reached one of her favourite places near the border of Longbourn. She steadied herself on the low wall, tucked her garments around her against the chill, and stared at the envelope.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet
To be opened when she finds herself doubting the honour of a certain new acquaintance, which should occur no later than three months hence, but likely will happen much sooner
Had those who knew Elizabeth best—Charlotte, her aunt Gardiner, Papa (Jane would never deliberately discomfit her, so she was not to be counted for this purpose)—crafted a conundrum to madden and intrigue her almost past the point of bearing, she believed they could not have done better than Mr. Darcy, who had known her only a matter of weeks. He was a clever man!
To open the letter, she had to admit to having doubts about Mr. Wickham's character. She was not certain her little questions about the discrepancy between his words and behaviour qualified as doubts.
To discard the letter unread was to risk—what? A mind unprejudiced by Mr. Darcy's opinion? A curiosity permanently unsatisfied regarding this matter? Ignorance of some minor infraction committed by her new friend?
In actuality, Mr. Wickham was but an acquaintance, and a new one at that, as Mr. Darcy rightly referred to him.
Would she wish to call a man friend if another man, one who had known him since childhood, felt the need to warn her that such a friendship might be regretted?
When Mr. Wickham related his history, she had been so pleased with herself for having disliked Mr. Darcy before. But it was precisely because she and Mr. Darcy were not friends that she had had nothing to lose in hearing what Mr. Wickham had to say.
Would the tables be turned if she were to read this letter?
Would she, as she had entreated Charlotte not to wish upon her for the world, end by thinking better of a man she had determined to hate?
As if her thoughts had conjured him, Mr. Darcy appeared over the rise, reined in his horse upon seeing her, dismounted, and walked in her direction.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” he said, bowing as he reached her.
“Good morning.” As she started to rise, he gestured for her not to get up. She nodded and wondered what he might say to her. It was the height of awkwardness to have him find her here, holding his unopened letter.
As in their dance, she forwarded the conversation, this time not to create more awkwardness for him but to spare them both. “It will not surprise you, I think, to know that I am in a quandary,” she said, indicating the letter.
He appeared relieved at her beginning the subject. “While I have no doubt,” he said, “that you will have cause to open it—if you do not have cause already—I am honoured that you are considering it at all.” He looked away. “I realised last night that while I chose you as a dance partner, you would not have chosen me.” The small sound he made might have been a sigh. “I apologise. I am not usually such a slow top, I hope.”
Elizabeth hoped her shock was not obvious as she rallied to answer him. “Having overheard your initial impression of me, you must forgive me for not expecting I would ever be your choice.”
He turned and looked at her, his face as unreadable as a mask. “Impressions change, do they not?”
She blinked. She did not know what to reply to that until she looked down at the paper in her hand. “You hope to change a particular impression of mine with this.”
“And you hesitate to allow the attempt?” he asked quietly.
She raised her eyes to him and acknowledged his words with a tilt of her head. “I am uncertain if it is warranted by the two minor...inconsistencies I have noticed between Mr. Wickham's words and his subsequent actions.”
This admission elicited a raised eyebrow but no verbal comment.
She almost let out her breath in a puff but caught herself. “Very well,” she conceded. “You win. I shall open it.”
“It is not a matter of winning or losing.” This time the sigh was clear. “Good old George,” he murmured. “He is as he ever was.” There was bitterness in his tone, the bitterness of being right when you wished you were not. “I will leave you to it,” he said, “but I may return in case you have any questions.”
Elizabeth did not know why she found that knowledge reassuring despite not being able to imagine what questions she would have. In fact, as eager as she was to read the missive—she was already tearing at the seal—the biggest question she had at the moment was why she was not now experiencing that burst of relief she usually felt when parting company with Mr. Darcy.
Perhaps that was what made her look up at him as he mounted his horse.
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