Into Kent (18 page)

Darcy passed a hand across his eyes as he sank back in his chair; would that all ills were so easily cured, he thought.

Chapter Twenty-One

When next he went to the Parsonage, he went with his cousin Edmund, who had started to find opportunities of visiting there twice daily; the opportunity to escape from Rosings for a time was a very seasonable relief to the Colonel, even though it was scarcely over a week since their arrival; for Darcy, going there with his cousin represented a means of being with Elizabeth, without having to expose himself through conversation.

The Colonel, of course, made himself a very welcome addition to the small gathering at the Parsonage, but, particularly when his rational side was in the ascendant, Darcy could hardly excuse his coming there to himself, let alone to the inhabitants of the house. At times all he could do was sit, engrossing himself in Elizabeth’s wit and beauty; at such times he would observe her narrowly for any indication as to her feelings towards him, but she was unfailingly proper in the presence of others, in which Darcy found additional correspondence in their natures, and more to admire in
Elizabeth’s. At other times all he could think about was the difficulties before him: he then would choose between amusing himself by inwardly condemning the fates, or by casting about for ways to overcome the objections that stood between him and his wishes.

On this morning’s visit, as he sat in contemplation of these varied, yet too-familiar topics, he roused himself to find, as often was the case, that his cousin and
Elizabeth were once again enjoying a spirited discussion. He rose and drifted over to where the Colonel was holding forth; he was telling Elizabeth some anecdote of Army life. As Darcy came up to them, they both stopped and turned to face him; he gestured for them to continue.

“Upon my soul, Darcy,” the Colonel said amiably, “this Kentish air is not good for you; you will surely need a physician when we get you back, for your voice box will have withered away entirely.”
Elizabeth looked at Colonel Fitzwilliam in astonishment, that he should sport with his cousin’s silent dignity in this manner. “But perhaps it is not the voice box, but the brain-pan that has withered,” suggested Fitzwilliam with a grin. Elizabeth began a laugh, but, recalling herself, she lowered her eyes and covered her laughter with a hand.

“What has my cousin been telling you, Miss Bennet?” Darcy asked her, passing over his cousin’s barbs.

She raised her eyes back to his and, smiling, said, “I asked him to tell me about military life, and he was telling me what it was to live among…what did you call them, Colonel?”

“The great unwashed heroes of the Empire,” the Colonel laughed.

“I had thought it ‘
unsung
heroes’,” Darcy said.

“That is just what Miss Bennet said,” cried the Colonel.

“And you said,” supplied Elizabeth, laughing, “‘And they will remain unsung, so long as unwashed’! And that you sometimes went to the stables for a breath of fresh air.” She laughed and coloured; Darcy, looking down at her, felt all the power of her perfect loveliness and delicacy.

“Not even to the Officers’ Mess?” he asked, forcing his eyes back to his cousin.

“The language there is so coarse and unrefined,” the Colonel said with elegant distaste, “that the air in the stables is sweet by comparison.” Darcy and Elizabeth both laughed.

“I should have thought, Miss Bennet,” said Darcy, his thoughts touching on Wickham, “that you would have had your fill of the military.” Turning to his cousin, he asked: “Has she told you that the -----shire Militia is currently stationed in Meryton?”

“Forster’s lot?” asked the Colonel. “Sound man, there.” He laughed and said, “Once, I was invited to inspect his men with him. There were two men in the ranks, though, who looked like they had been through the wars: black eyes, broken lips, great welts all over—a lovely sight, I can assure you. Well, Forster asked his sergeant with perfect innocence, ‘What has happened to these men, Sergeant?’ ‘You ‘eard the Colonel’, the sergeant said to the first man, “What’s become o’ ye?” The man could barely speak, as his jaw did not seem to be in working order, but he mumbled: ‘Trod on a mop, Sir.’ Well, Forster took a close look at him, then at the second man, and said to him ‘And I suppose you stepped in the bucket?’ So that man managed to say: ‘Aye, Sir,” though it looked like it cost him something to say even that much, and one of his eyes refused to open. Forster nodded, saying in the most reasonable manner: ‘Dangerous implements, indeed.’ Then he turned to his sergeant and said: ‘Put these men on clean-up duty for a week or two, Sergeant, so they will know better how to avoid injury with such treacherous weapons.’ We all three then went down the rest of the line, but none of us could keep a straight face, so we had to cut short the whole affair.” The Colonel told the story with great relish, and a fine ear, and Darcy laughed heartily.

Elizabeth
, who had been looking shocked through the majority of the tale, asked dubiously: “Had they been fighting?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked at her with renewed amusement and answered; “Yes, Miss Bennet; they had.”

“And Colonel Forster knew?”

“Yes, Miss Bennet; and every one
knew
that he knew: that was what made the whole of it so entertaining—that, and the woebegone expressions on the two men’s faces.”

Elizabeth
now laughed, but looked a little ashamed of herself for doing so, and coloured ever so slightly; enthralled completely, Darcy stared unabashedly until her renewed blushes told him he was now become the source of her embarrassment. Darcy was careful to school his glances thereafter, and the Colonel went on to entertain them both with more tales of Army life, until the two gentlemen took their leave after perhaps an hour more.

On leaving, he had opportunity to ask himself, not for the first time, what Elizabeth’s feelings towards Wickham were now, and whether she still felt offended by Darcy’s supposed treatment of him? He had never got from her any sense of lingering resentment against him on Wickham’s behalf; and unquestionably, during their times together at Hunsford and at Rosings, her open unreserve and her willing acceptance of his society, even when there was no conversation offering, argued for interest, if not attachment. But how did things stand between Elizabeth and Wickham? Had he exposed himself at last? —or did he continue to enjoy her regard? Elizabeth gave Darcy no hint either way. Had he recognized the fact, the jealousy revealed by these thoughts might have informed him how far his feelings for the lady had gone; but, as he did not, he entertained them without alarm.

As they walked back to Rosings, he spoke his concerns: “Edmund—George Wickham has joined Colonel Forster’s regiment; he is a lieutenant. He has been in Meryton since before Christmas.”

The Colonel looked sharply at Darcy. “Lord! Does he know Miss Bennet? He must, I suppose.”

“Indeed he does; I found out that much before I left. You know him, Edmund: I am concerned for Miss Bennet’s sake. Could you not discover what she knows about him, and if he has any designs on her? I feel it is our duty to give her proper warning, if such be the case; indeed, I tried to hint to that effect when I was with her in Hertfordshire, but Wickham had already insinuated himself into her good graces; she more or less warned me off the subject, which is why I suggest
you
pursue this: you might succeed where I failed.”

“It is certainly worth a try. I shall see what I can ascertain.”

“Do, please; it would relieve my mind.”

“Well, so long as he is stationed in Meryton, at least he cannot get at Georgiana.”

“I have had the same thought,” Darcy agreed.

“And Forster is no fool: he may be able to keep him in line.”

“My father was no fool, either—much good it did him,” Darcy said pointedly. The Colonel nodded soberly, and the two gentlemen were quiet the rest of the short trip back to the manor.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Darcy’s visits to Hunsford were not always dependent on his cousin’s pleasure; at times, either when his cousin was occupied by his own affairs, or when Darcy simply ran out of arguments to hold himself back, he would wander off to the Parsonage on his own. One such afternoon, he entered the house to find all four of its inhabitants in the drawing-room.

“Mr. Darcy!” the parson enthused as Darcy was admitted, “we are honoured by your visit, indeed. May I enquire how does my noble…that is, how does your revered aunt?”

“She is well, Mr. Collins, I thank you, as is her daughter. And I trust that all are well within the Parsonage?” He sent a smile around to every one present.

“Very well, Sir, indeed,” answered Collins. “You are most condescending to enquire. And your cousin, Sir…how does our esteemed Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Darcy assured him that the Colonel was well, but found it difficult to speak in an even tone; the parson’s unusual meekness of address Darcy found grating; it was such an odd combination of humility and parade that Darcy hardly knew what to make of it, or what could be the character of the man who could produce it; and seldom was he in Collins’ company but he wished he had a dictionary to hand, as he felt Collins was in need of correction on the application of certain words.

Mrs. Collins here thought it well to intervene and invite her guest to be seated. Darcy sat down by the window in one corner of the room. From this vantage, he knew, while still facing his hosts, he would be able to see Elizabeth without the need to turn his head.

“You seem much occupied, Mr. Darcy, by your aunt’s affairs,” his hostess began pleasantly.

“Indeed, Mr. Darcy,” her husband broke in eagerly, “I have heard in the village how you have resolved instantly the standing feud between Turner and Tilden. Such wisdom! Such judgement! Surely Solomon himself could not surpass such sagacity!”

Darcy saw Elizabeth smile to herself at such fulsome compliments; for his part, Darcy could think of no adequate reply to this
description of what was no more than a two-minute affair: he imagined it had taken the parson longer to prepare that little speech, than had the incident itself. Mrs. Collins enquired: “What have you done, Mr. Darcy? When last I heard, the two men were sworn enemies for life!”

“I assure you, Mrs. Collins, it was nothing.”

“’Nothing’, Mr. Darcy!” cried her husband, “As I had it from the baker’s wife, you quelled in a moment a riotous feud of many months’ standing.” The parson beamed down on Darcy, saying, “‘Blessed are the peacemakers’, Sir.”

“No, truly,” Darcy demurred. He looked quickly over at Elizabeth, colouring at being given such a flaming character; he could see the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

“This can be no surprise to those of us who know Mr. Darcy,” she commented, looking up at him with an air of mild wickedness. “He is widely celebrated in Hertfordshire as a man without defect.”

Darcy gave her a droll look of reproof, as though to say: “Must you?” Aloud he said, “It was a simple misunderstanding between two friends, which, when allowed to fester, will always turn putrid. It would have blown over eventually without my intervention; I have seen it often enough at Pemberley.”

“You are far too modest, Sir…” began Mr. Collins.

“My Dear,” his wife interrupted his next speech, “You will embarrass our guest.”

“Oh! Of course, my Dear,” said the parson, reacting, as always, to the least hint of blame with abject humility. “I
do
apologise, Mr. Darcy: I hope you will forgive me!”

Embarrassed, and looking rather at his wife than at Collins, Darcy muttered, “Gladly, if only we might pass on to some other topic.” That good lady immediately introduced a new subject, and Darcy was released. Elizabeth, smiling, did look over with one short side-glance for him alone, and his feelings improved.

On the Wednesday morning, Darcy was sitting in his rooms after breakfast, staring vaguely out at the grounds from the window when he spied Elizabeth making her way past the Lodge and into the Park. She was briefly obscured by trees, but after a moment he saw her emerge and walk away from Rosings, towards the heart of the grove on this side of the palings. Darcy knew from his youth that there was a pathway that led in the direction she had taken, and, without giving his rational self time for establishing injunctions and filing demurrals, he quickly changed for the out of doors and set off to meet her. He was no more than five minutes behind her, and, as that pathway had no other return, he simply followed along it, confident that they would meet some where along its length. Nor was he wrong: after less than a quarter-hour’s walk, he caught up to her; she was standing in a secluded dell with her back to him. “Miss Bennet, good morning!” he called.

She looked round in surprise. “Mr. Darcy!” she cried. “How you startled me!”

“I beg your pardon,” was all he could think to say; she was very lovely this morning, framed by the fresh green of the new leaves on the trees behind her, and the sun washing her, too, with the fresh glow of youth. He approached, and they stood together, but neither spoke for a moment. Hesitantly, he asked: “Do you return to the Parsonage, or do you stay?”

“I should have gone back shortly,” she said briefly.

“Shall I accompany you?” he asked: always correct, he wished to ensure that she would not be uncomfortable in his company; they were, after all, alone and unchaperoned.

“If you wish,” she replied. There was a slight emphasis to her tone as she said this, and in this particular response Darcy saw more than acceptance: her answer was actually a tentative invitation that, depending on his answer, would tell her whether he truly wished to be with her, or would as soon go on his way alone.

“I should be very happy to,” said he, answering both the spoken and unspoken question. He smiled at her and turned back the way he had come. She gave him a momentary smile in return, then cast her eyes down at the path.

They walked together some minutes in silence, enjoying the morning and the fresh spring air. Darcy, conscious of her every movement, was careful to observe her silence; she clearly had come out to enjoy a quiet walk, and he did not wish to draw down her disapproval by disturbing her morning with chatter.

“Do you come this way often, Mr. Darcy?” Elizabeth asked after a time.

“Not now, but Colonel Fitzwilliam and I used to play here as children,” Darcy smiled at the memory. “We were hunters, castaways, pirates—mostly the latter. All the things boys will get up to when their elders are not there to scold them. I cannot tell you how many sets of clothing I must have ruined.” He made an embarrassed laugh: “In fact, this very grove is where I got my nickname. I was ‘the Dread Pirate, Dirks-and-Daggers Darcy’. My cousin still calls me ‘Dirks’ from time to time.”

“You, Sir, are Dirks Darcy?’ the lady asked in wonder; her face marked her incredulity.

“At your service, Ma’am,” Darcy replied, bowing with a flourish.

Elizabeth stared at him for a moment without speaking, then quickly cast her eyes down; a sound like a stifled sneeze issued from her, and Darcy offered a “God bless you!”; she repeated the noise twice again in rapid succession, to which Darcy added: “Goodness! —and bless you again.” After walking a bit further without hearing the lady speak, in an attempt at banter he asked, “What seek
you
here amongst the trees? Surely you do not come here to play out
your
girlhood fancies?”

“No, indeed not,” she replied shortly. There was a slight hesitation before she supplied with pointed significance: “This grove is a favourite with me; the tranquillity, the picturesque of the woods, the pleasures of nature without alloy of company—I have enjoyed a great many hours here by myself. As it is inside the paling, I feel secure from unwanted visitors.”

In this earnest return Darcy could feel that she was sharing something of herself, in answer to his admission of his childhood absurdity; but just what she meant was equivocal; as he thought about it, though, it came to him that she might very well be telling him how they might be together, without interference from ‘unwanted visitors’. He glanced quickly down at her; something in her manner, or perhaps how near to him she walked on the narrow path, convinced him: she was inviting his company, here in the grove. He tried to see her face, but her eyes were modestly cast down, no doubt from the consciousness of her daring, in offering such a bold suggestion. When he compared this behaviour with that of another he had recently had occasion to observe, he could not but be struck by Elizabeth’s superiority over that lady in every way: indeed, her superiority over any lady he had ever known.

As he considered, Darcy was, at first, very encouraged by this allusion to how much she desired his company, but this was instantly followed by all his accustomed doubts; these he immediately suppressed—he did not wish his time with
Elizabeth squandered on such thoughts as these. He turned his mind instead to their dance at Netherfield: the feeling of her hand in his, watching the flow of her form in the graceful lines of the dance; these memories, combined with her quiet loveliness beside him, brought back that coursing warmth to his heart which he had felt at Netherfield. “England’s heart is in the country…” he murmured, musing over the particular aptness of the phrase in his present circumstances.

“I beg your pardon?” asked
Elizabeth.

“Oh—I am sorry,” he apologised. “I was merely thinking aloud.”

The lady did not press the conversation, and he was content to walk along beside her in silence for most of the way back to the Parsonage.

When they reached the gate in the paling across from the Parsonage,
Elizabeth dropt a quick curtsey and hurried away; to Darcy it seemed almost as if she were embarrassed, and he knew not why she should be so, until it occurred to him to realise that he had not answered her daring suggestion with an acceptance, which must naturally have left her embarrassed and uncomfortable in his presence. Recognising in himself the “stiff and clumsy” fellow condemned by Miss Chesterton, he nearly called Elizabeth back; but she had by then already reached the far side of the lane. He watched her until he was sure she was safely inside the Parsonage, then walked slowly back to Rosings, his thoughts, feelings, and imagination all deeply engaged.

For the next two mornings, Darcy was forced to stay within by affairs. But on the morning of the third, he saw
Elizabeth again enter the Park and walk down the same path. He directly went to meet her. He found her, as before, not far from the centre of the grove, where she stood quietly watching back along the pathway, almost as if she was expecting some one to come down it. “Mr. Darcy, here you are again,” she greeted him, “in this place where I have had so much time to myself.” The smile on her face was again difficult of interpretation; Darcy was unsure if she were rebuking him for not having come back the last two days, or simply remarking on the seclusion of the grove.

“I beg your pardon; am I disturbing you?”

“Of course not, Sir—how could you be? I have neither claim nor cause to be here, save by your leave—or Lady Catherine’s, perhaps, as the case may be.” As she spoke, a satirical smile played on her lips; Darcy was decided: she was teazing, rebuking him for his absence—it was for his cause that she had come, yet he had not been there.

He excused himself as well as he could: “I had much rather have been here myself, but it was necessary to remain within, labouring on Lady Catherine’s affairs; and you must know you are free to come and go any where on the grounds without leave,” he assured her. “At least the weather has been fine,” he finished apologetically.

The lady looked at him pensively a moment. “Indeed, it is more pleasing to be out of doors than within,” she said at last, “but should you not rather be riding than walking?”

“Colonel Fitzwilliam has taken upon himself the exercise of Lady Catherine’s horses this year,” he answered without thinking. “When the Colonel is on a horse, he is not a companionable sort; he is too fine a rider, and is always intent on getting the most out of his mount.” Then, realising she must mean she wished to hear him say how he would rather be with her and not riding—if indeed, she meant anything at all—he added, “When one is in want of good company at Rosings, one needs must look elsewhere.” He smiled at her to convey his meaning; she smiled back at him briefly before releasing him from her gaze; Darcy was relieved: she had absolved him of his sin in absenting himself the past two days.

He took a spot to stand not far from her, where the sun came from behind her, that she need not face the bright of day. As was her way when they were alone together, she allowed the silence to stretch between them; he thought, at first, perhaps he ought to apologise for having failed to answer her explicitly the last time, when she had hinted at the possibility of their meeting in the grove together; but as his presence now had already made that reply for him, logically there was no point in speaking the words. The lady being preoccupied with her thoughts, he was content to respect the tranquillity of her morning retreat; indeed, he preferred the quiet himself: coming as he did to enjoy the morning by her side, he did not wish to waste his time with her on empty formulæ. “Where words are scarce they are seldom spent in vain,
for they breathe truth that breathe their words in pain,” Darcy quoted silently to himself. Certainly this must apply to him, he thought ironically. His feelings towards Elizabeth were becoming more Shakespearean by the day. Would Pender laugh at his comedy, or sympathise with his tragedy? He shook free from these thoughts and devoted his attentions to Elizabeth.