Chapter Thirteen

Darcy

D arcy looked up and felt his lips part when he saw the young woman standing at the entrance to the rose garden, looking at him as if she had seen a ghost.

Darcy shifted in his seat and dropped his hands along his trousers, unsure what to do now.

He had hoped to have at least a little bit more peace and quiet before he had to interact with this woman. He had encountered her a grand total of four times so far. Twice she had censured him, and the other two they had interacted more like businesspeople than prospective husband and wife. Indeed, they were great many conversations he had to have with her that he dreaded. Such as their wedding. With a heavy heart, he rose to his feet, realising that procrastination was not the way to go.

"Miss Bennet," he said, "are you lost?"

She blinked at him and for a long moment said nothing. He turned away so that his scars were partially concealed.

"I am not lost, Mr Darcy," she replied. "I was simply going for a walk. I have already been informed that there are certain parts of the house I am not to visit, is this true for the rose garden also? Perhaps it might be beneficial if I was given a list of areas, I am not to step foot into."

A wrinkle formed on his forehead as he took this. No doubt Mrs Potts had told her that he did not wish for anyone to visit the floor where the fire had been.

"You are free to go anywhere you wish besides one area. You already know what area that is. Please, if you wish to come into the garden, you may. Once we are married, all of this will be yours."

"You mean all of this will remain yours, but I will be committed to living here. I am very aware that as a woman, I will not hold any actual property. Nor have any rights to anything."

"If it is your future you are worried about, please rest assured that I will make certain that you are provided for now and in the future," he said, uncomfortable with this conversation already.

"It is not how I had envisioned my life, having to ask my future husband if my needs will be provided for because I do not know him enough to be assured of it." She stopped and took a deep breath. "Mr Darcy, I am unusually vexed these days. It is not my intention to be rude or materialistic. It is not in my nature. Although I do worry. This is not how I envisioned to be married."

He said, "Miss Bennet, I think you understand very well that the circumstances are not ideal for either of us. Let us not repeat this conversation. I think we have already made our opinions on the matter clear."

She ran her tongue over her lips, leaving a shimmer there that made them look redder than they had. She was indeed a very beautiful woman. Her skin was pale, although there was a pinkness to her cheeks perhaps from having exerted herself explored the estate. Her hair stood in contrast to it, he hadn't seen it released from its confines, but he imagined that it was wavy, for a lock of hair seemed to always escape from beneath her bonnet.

Her pretty dark eyes, he found most captivating. There was a fire in them, one that seemed to be eternally burning, either from anger or compassion.

"My uncle told me that you wish me to be mistress of Pemberley, to take up public visits and such."

He indicated for the bench. "Would you like to sit?" Without replying, she sat down, crossing her feet at the ankles and resting her hands in her lap, she did not wear gloves. Her long, lean fingers intertwined, and she rubbed them together, betraying her nervousness.

"When my parents were married, my father always focused on the estate. My mother was a natural hostess. We would have balls and dinners here at Pemberley, which she would arrange. In the summers, people would come to tour the estate. It has been suggested to me that it would be beneficial for Pemberley's reputation if such tours resumed. Obviously, I am not an ideal host."

"Not if you greet all your guests the way you greeted us that night," she said, and he let out a suppressed chuckle.

"I am not accustomed to have people knock on my door in the dark of night requesting shelter."

"People would not be requesting shelter in the dark of night if they did not desperately need it," she countered and saw himself to cede the point.

"I was unkind that night. I am no longer used to having friends, acquaintances, or relations to come calling. But you are welcome to yours, of course. I know you're close to your sister and I am sure you have a great many friends. Any of your loved ones are welcome here at Pemberley as long as you tell me in advance, so I can arrange to dwell elsewhere for the duration of the visit."

Her eyes narrowed as she listened. "You would not greet any visitors we have?"

"No. That will be your role. It is one of the conditions I gave your uncle to agree to this marriage. You will be the public face of Pemberley. I will remain in the shadows where I am most comfortable."

"Have you always disliked engaging with the public or is that because," she motioned in the general direction of his face and he looked away at the blush pink roses before him.

"I have never had a talent for interacting with others. Indeed, I have been told in the past that I tended to be unsocial. These days, I am told I have no social graces. And before you bring the conversation back to the night we first met, I am aware that it showed," he concluded. Silence settled between them. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it was not an easy one either. She shifted a little, adjusting herself while he leaned back against the back of the stone bench. He had entirely forgotten about placing the book down on the bench, as he went to place it beside him it fell onto the ground.

"Perdition," he said, under his breath and leaned backward to retrieve it. He extended his fingers, which always felt uncomfortable as it reminded him how tight his skin had become. Miss Bennet bent down and picked up the book. "Allow me," she said as she placed the book between them, and a smile appeared on her lips.

"You like Jonathan Swift?" She asked. Darcy glanced down at Gulliver's Travels.

"It is a pleasant book, it draws one out of reality."

"It does indeed. Although I had not taken you for someone who enjoys a book featuring talking horses."

Darcy smiled, "It was my sister's favourite. She always liked the absurd. I never used to understand what she saw in this book. I still do not, but I read it anyway. It makes me feel connected to her sometimes."

Darcy was truly astonished that he had said as much, for he hadn't had a lengthy conversation with anybody about anything other than estate matters for a long time. Mrs Potts and Mr Lightower would try to entertain him with tales of their own lives, or with things that they had overheard in town, but he generally just nodded his head and supplied little in terms of conversation.

"It is a lovely way to try to connect to her memory," she said beside him. "I know the book is difficult to grasp at times. My father judged it a silly book for silly girls when my sister Jane and I read it. My mother was highly alarmed, as she thinks that Mr Swift is a rather scandalous man."

"I have no opinion on the man, one way or the other, but I will admit I find his book perplexing. The horses of which you speak, are particularly difficult to comprehend. Why he chose to portray humans in such an unfavourable light I cannot grasp."

"I believe he wanted us to understand that all is not as it seems. The humans in the story, the yahoos, are inspired only by finding their pretty stones, the same way our society is interested in symbols of wealth. We have tapestries, grand furniture, and bonds whereas they had their pretty rocks. As for the horses, they might speak to the fact that humans assume themselves superior to all other beings, while there may well be others more intelligent than we are."

Darcy found himself smiling. "You mean to say the horses in my stable are having captivating conversations which we cannot understand?"

"Perhaps that is what Mr Swift implied. You see? You understand the story," she said, her lips turned up into a smile.

"I would not go as far as all that," he replied, "but it is an interesting perspective."

Could it be that he was having an actual civil conversation with Elizabeth Bennet? And about such a peculiar subject too? Darcy found himself rather grateful not to have been rebuked once more by the young woman. Encouraged by the chatter he cleared his throat.

"I have a rather large library here at Pemberley. It was spared from the fire due to its location on the ground floor. If you like, you are welcome to any book that you fancy," he said.

"I adore books. Indeed, I always anxiously await the circulating library, and I have read every book in my father's library."

He noted the pride in her voice before replying. "It is good to be well read. There are so many ladies who claimed themselves to be accomplished, but when it comes to literature, they lack severely."

"Are you acquainted with a great many accomplished ladies?" He detected a hint of teasing in her voice, something he hadn't heard in anyone speech when directed at him in years.

Darcy took a deep breath. "Once upon a time I knew many. Pray, you are familiar with Miss Caroline Bingley and her sister Mrs Louisa Hurst?" For a split second, he thought he saw her grimace, but then she recovered herself.

"Of course. They are my sister's, sisters-in-law."

"Of course. Silly of me to forget. But are you quite friendly with them?" He personally had never cared for Caroline Bingley and while Louisa was pleasant, he always found her rather birdbrained. Both had been primarily occupied with increasing their social standing, selecting pretty gowns, and talking about frivolous matters.

"I would not say I am friendly with them, I am afraid. Indeed, they do not care for me nor Jane." The subtle twitch under her eye betrayed her true feelings.

"And why might that be?" This surprised Darcy because he had found the new Mrs Bingley rather refined, polite, and if her outburst at Darcy was anything to go by obviously attached to Charles.

She let out something between a cough and an awkward laugh.

"If I tell you, perhaps you will change your mind regarding our marriage."

This reply he had not expected, as he had been as thorough as possible when it came to asking questions about the family. He sent word to his solicitor in Sheffield, who had conferred with Bingley's solicitor and gathered background information. As he thought about this, an idea formed in his mind.

"Is it because your family is not titled nor wealthy? I assure you that does not concern me."

She turned, one hand held against the side of her face to shield against the sun.

"That was my thought, yes. I did not think a wealthy man or his family might consider this a good match," she replied.

"Well, let me relieve you of that notion. This might've been a factor before, but it no longer is. Indeed, I think this entire situation suited my family quite well. They were eager for me to marry anyone. Anyone at all," he said, and then grasped that this had been incredibly rude. "I beg your pardon. I did not mean for it to come out as it sounded. Before, I was often accused of being a little rash in my judgments, and I am afraid this has not improved since the fire. I did not mean to imply you were insignificant."

"I did not take it as an insult," she said. "I am aware those of a certain standing might look down on my family, even though my father is a gentleman. Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley certainly did, thought my father outranks their brother."

He had no chance to reply because footsteps pounded over the sand then and he looked up to find Cogsworth hastening his way.

"Excuse me, Mr Darcy. Sir?" Cogsworth said.

"What is it, Cogsworth?"

"A caller has arrived," Cogsworth said, with that wary tone he used whenever addressing Mr Darcy. Darcy hated that sometimes even his most loyal servants looked at him as if he could fly into a rage at a moment's notice. Of course, that assessment was not entirely based on fantasy.

"Do not sound so worried, Cogsworth, old friend. No need to announce me so formally, I am practically family, eh wot?" a familiar voice said and Darcy's shoulders grew stiff immediately.

"Wickham," he said under his breath. Beside him, the woman let out a gasp, and he turned to her at once. It was clear from the look of shock on her visage that Wickham was not someone who was entirely unfamiliar to her. The paleness that had suddenly chased away the rosy hue told him they were perhaps not friends—or was there more to this? It seemed with every passing moment his entanglement with Elizabeth Bennet was become more and more complex.