Page 47 of Penned By Mr Darcy
She tried to ignore the disappointment that she felt at the absence of his full assessment. Her vanity was a fierce thing, for she wanted to know if he had continued writing about her – and, perhaps, if he had felt that forbidden desire expressed in the abandoned page she had found in the hearth. It was a sin, surely, to wish to be thought about in that way – she was not an object, nor was she a loose sort of woman…
She wanted to be desired. She was a woman who yearned to be loved, to be cherished…to be gazed upon with fire and lust…
Worse still, some horrible part of her wanted to be desired by Mr Darcy.
∞∞∞
The next evening, Elizabeth made her excuses to stay away from her sister once more, hiding away from the rest of the family – and the odious Mr Collins. He seemed to grow more unbearable with each word that came out of his mouth, and she was certain that another evening in his company would drain any goodness she had about her.
And so, she retreated to the Blue Room, armed with only the confessions of the man she hated to entertain her. Did she hate him? She had begun to understand him more deeply with each word that he wrote. It was not that he did not mean what he had said – she was certain he spoke his inner thoughts with more authenticity than anyone else in Hertfordshire society. As much as she had begrudged his brutal assessment, she had found him to at least be consistent.
She slipped beneath the bed covers and opened the book. The lamp next to her glowed softly, casting a flickering light over the pages. The writing had become so familiar to her, and her heart fluttered with anticipation to read the next chapter. It was absurd, really – he had become something of a fictional character, a story on a page. Losing herself in this fictional Mr Darcy was becoming dangerous; she had separated the man from his literary counterpart. How was it possible that a man who had wounded her pride so gravely had become…what?
Gallant? Fierce? Desirable?
She shook her head. He was nothing of the sort; he was what he always had been. It was not inconceivable that a man could love and protect his sister whilst also being insufferable. A man could be good to his staff and his tenants and still be…be…
Her opinion of Mr Darcy was of no importance. He would depart Hertfordshire soon, for it was clear he had not enjoyed his stay. He looked upon every person with scorn, and held himself in a high regard – or, at least, that is what she had thought. The diary had revealed some new part of him, showing her a man who – yes – believed that he was above others. But he was also a man who held great insecurities about himself, and wrote about his own flaws with an honesty that could only be displayed in private.
Perhaps, too, her own pride was flattered by how he had written of her. The lost pages were a curious thing, and one had to imagine they contained much the same as she had found in the fireplace. It was a strange thing indeed, for she knew that she ought to be insulted. She wasn’t – instead, her own desires and physical curiosity were hopelessly inflamed. She had never thought of a man in a lustful manner before. She had noted that some men were more handsome than others, yes, and she had always held love in a high regard. Love – and the marriage bedalongside it – had always been a notion from storybooks, for she had seen little more than tolerance in her own parents’ union. Her aunt and uncle, they loved each other – but even that was a polite, courteous love.
She had never seen anything like the raw, desperate lust Mr Darcy had shown her in that passage she had found, even if she had not been certain they were about her. Inf act, she was still not certain, for her name had never again been associated with such wanting. She read each word hoping to see her name – and she was not sure why, for there were still so many reasons to believe he held her in the contempt she had formerly held him in.
Could an idea of a person be more attractive than the person themselves? What would she do if he tried to court her, or even proposed to her? Did she truly want a life with this man who was so easily rude and taciturn, or was it the romantic notion of simply being desired for the first time that had turned her feelings so dramatically?
She sighed, setting back against the pillows and focusing on the words before her.
She neared the end of his diary now, for the pages that had been turned were now thicker than those left. How many pages were left unfinished, she did not know, and each time she turned the page she found herself fearing that she would be met with nothing. The sloping curve of his handwriting was strangely attractive, for he wrote with the most meticulous care. His hand was so neat, in fact, that she often had to squint to make sense of the words as he had managed to write a great deal. The pages were full, with barely a space between each line.
We were this evening engaged at the home of Sir William Lucas, a man who is regarded with no small degree ofadmiration by those in Meryton. Among his acquaintances - who are, in truth, more often his inferiors than equals - he and his family are held in considerable esteem. I confess, I find such provincial reverence rather excessive. He seems to hold little merit save for his title, though I suppose he is jovial enough. It is clear to me that he is a man who exceeds his funds in the pursuit of appearances.
Miss Lucas, his eldest daughter, is a woman of sound understanding and gentle manners. Though her countenance lacks distinction, her conversation is intelligent and composed. It surprises me that she has not yet married, though perhaps her situation or prospects render her less appealing to men of ambition. Still, she would do well for someone of moderate means.
The meal was, I must admit, superior to many we have encountered during our stay in Hertfordshire. Lady Lucas must have overseen the arrangements herself - the table was set with a formality that bespoke effort, if not innate elegance. I find myself fatigued by such performances. There is a particular weariness in being constantly received and examined, as if I were some curiosity. I long for the stillness and sincerity of Pemberley. Here, the conversation is endless and empty, and the hospitality - though generous - is laced with expectation. They court Bingley, not me; it is his good opinion they seek.
There are moments when I wonder what it might be to be another man - one less bound by duty, less encumbered by scrutiny. But such indulgences are idle.
Upon our return to Netherfield, we were informed that Miss Bennet had dined with Caroline during our absence. The rain, which we had heard quite plainly at the Lucas’, had ceased, but apparently Miss Bennet arrived on foot, and has since takenill. Bingley was much aggrieved to have missed her - indeed, I have seldom seen him so affected. The news of her indisposition brought to his face an expression alarmingly close to delight. That he could rejoice in her suffering - even innocently - struck me as absurd.
I do not understand his attachment. At the Meryton assembly, Miss Bennet showed him only the most proper civility. The dances they shared were without note, much as one might dance with a brother or other such relation.
Her mother, on the other hand, made no attempt to disguise her intentions. Yet Bingley is utterly convinced of Miss Bennet’s regard, persuaded by little more than her smile and her manners. He is so easily swayed - so eager to believe in affection where little has been offered. I must remain vigilant on his behalf. The Bennets, though not without charm, are far from discreet. Five daughters, all presented at once - an imprudence that speaks more of desperation than propriety. I cannot allow Bingley to become the means by which they advance themselves in society.
Sir William made reference to the Bennets’ entailment during dinner. Such a situation explains Mrs Bennet’s desperation to marry off her daughters, a task she has found little success in thus far, and I found myself momentarily reflecting on my own situation. I would not see Georgiana deprived of her home - yet I would not parade her about in pursuit of security. There must be a balance.
Later, the conversation turned to Miss Bennet and her sister. Miss Lucas, in particular, spoke warmly of Miss Elizabeth - "Lizzy," she called her, with unguarded fondness. I listened, though I said little. It is troubling to admit, even in writing, that I have thought often of Miss Elizabeth. Her presence unsettles me. I find my mind drawn to her in unguarded moments,though I can scarcely explain why. She has made no effort to endear herself - on the contrary, she seems to relish her disdain for me.
And yet - something in her manner lingers. I cannot name it. Nor do I wish to.
He paused there, and Elizabeth scrunched her nose as she read. He was so scathing of her family, insulting her mother without regret. He had a point, perhaps, but it was not his to comment upon! He knew nothing of their family, of their circumstances – and even if he had cared to enquire, she doubted he would have understood. Shoulders tight, she moved onto the next day’s entry.
I saw Miss Bennet with my own eyes this morning - pale, listless, unable to lift her head. My earlier doubts now seem ungenerous, even shameful. She is truly unwell, and Miss Elizabeth, ever loyal, has taken residence at Netherfield to tend to her.
Miss Elizabeth is tirelessly devoted to her sister, and yet never once cares to draw attention to her efforts. She moves through the house with quiet purpose - never idle, never insincere. I have watched her from afar - and increasingly, from near - and still cannot account for the strength of feeling she stirs in me. It is foolish. Worse than foolish. And yet I find myself drawn to her - against judgement, against reason, against every line I once set for myself.
It is no mere admiration of beauty, though she is undoubtedly handsome. It is something more disquieting - more dangerous. Her laughter lingers in the air long after she has gone, and I catch myself hoping for it. My feet, traitorous things, carry me to wherever she is. I loiter where I ought not; I seek her eyes before I can stop myself.
She is admired by everyone. Not because she flatters, but because she does not. She is wholly herself - sharp-witted, unyielding, honest to a fault. She unsettles me. She makes me wish I were better.
