Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

"Do forgive me, Mr Darcy," Elizabeth laughed. "You have been trying all afternoon to tell me something, and the fates have quite conspired against you. Perhaps we ought to refresh ourselves with Cook's tea and delightful treats before making the attempt once more. Unless, of course, you have other demands on your time."

He allowed his eyes to take her in. Do not stare, he commanded himself, but he knew he was beyond help. Was this the first time they had been alone together, with a real opportunity to talk? No, of course it wasn't! Only days ago, he had come upon her, alone like this, with Mr and Mrs Collins both out, and he had gaped stupidly about, unable to put a sentence together, let alone anything close to conversation, and then, just as stupidly, had left. She must think him quite touched in the head.

And, he now recalled, what of that time at Netherfield, when her sister Jane was ill? They had sat together in the library for… he could not recall how long. Then, he had uttered not a word at all. At the time, he thought he was being the gentleman, preserving her from unrealistic expectations, not allowing her to imagine that he had any regard for her. Now, he realised the truth. He had been pr eserving not her sensibilities, but his own, and he had been rather damnably rude.

"I am sorry." The words sprang from his lips, like Athena, full-grown from Zeus' head.

"Sorry?" Her lovely forehead creased. "You are unable to stay for tea?"

Heavens, how had he forgotten her invitation. He was a fool.

"I am delighted to take tea with you. My apology, rather, is for my atrocious behaviour at Netherfield. In the library."

The serious cast to her jaw and the lowering of her eyes told him that she recalled every second.

"It was rather… cold."

This comment, mild and uttered without rancour, felt like a blade in his side. Cold, indeed.

"I did not know what to say, then. And the other day…"

"When you walked in, said three words, stared at me, and left?"

"My tongue was quite inadequate to my intentions. I have not that talent for acquitting myself well when I am not comfortable. Miss Bennet, you quite disarrange my thoughts."

Her expression softened again. "Am I to take that as another insult, sir?"

A fist to the jaw would be more welcome.

"No! Not at all. It is a compliment, and a deep one. I, who pride myself on my self-regulation, am quite undone by you. I—" He clamped his mouth closed. He was about to confess his deepest feelings, and perhaps this ought, indeed, to wait until after tea.

"I, er…" he managed, "would very much enjoy taking tea with you." He had said that before, but it was safer than the other words that had been desperate for escape.

Her expression softened even more, and she bestowed upon him a smile. This was not the disinterested mirth of her previous laughter, but a genuine smile, soft and sweet, and for the first time ever, now that he thought about it, directed at him.

His heart melted .

She poured the tea. Somehow, she recalled his preferences; she must have noticed them on earlier occasions. It suggested that she had been watching him, much as he had been watching her. He thanked her for the cup, and selected one of the fruit biscuits. It was tasty, indeed. Mrs Collins was hiding an excellent cook in her kitchens.

Conversation. There must be conversation. It was excusable—barely—to avoid conversation whilst dancing, for one might be distracted by the music, or by the need to concentrate on the footwork, but it was quite inexcusable to remain silent whilst taking tea. He desperately searched for a topic, opening his mouth and closing it several times as, one after another, he discarded every topic that came to his mind.

Now amusement lit her eyes. Did she understand his struggles? Perhaps she did, for it was she who first spoke.

"You were very kind to Dorothy earlier, when she broke that urn. I had expected you to behave quite differently to her. Chastise her or threaten to have her put out."

The biscuit suddenly was not quite so tasty.

"This is what you think of me?"

Elizabeth sat back in her chair, teacup balanced between delicate fingers, suspended half-way from saucer to lip. "You must admit that you do not give the immediate impression of a man given to compassion. You present such a hard fa?ade. And your contempt for those beneath you is well known. Forgive me for saying this, but I really had expected you to be very severe on the poor girl."

"No!" The word burst forth from him once more. Did he truly present such a stern face to the world? Could she really imagine him to be the sort to castigate a servant for a mishap? He must correct such misapprehensions, or at the least, try. "I cannot always control how I appear, but I do hope I am not a cruel master. I hope… no, I believe that I am considered kind and fair by my servants and my tenants. When you visit Pemberley, you will see. I am their superior by rank, of course, and I must manage the estate well, which entails maintaining order, but I strive never to be cruel. Accidents will ha ppen. I cannot blame a young girl for that, especially when she was told to do something quite unreasonable.

"Besides," he added in confidence, "that urn was truly dreadful. It is a kindness to the rest of us to have it destroyed, so we no longer need look at it. My aunt was the cruel one, giving it to Collins as she did and forcing poor Mrs Collins to pretend to admire it."

He let out a soft chuckle, and Elizabeth joined him, and it felt like a bridge, of some sort, had formed between the two of them in a way he had never experienced before.

From here, the conversation moved more easily. They went from their disdain of that dreadful urn—made in Sheffield, he was quite certain—to their tastes in art, to Elizabeth's experiences at the various galleries in London, to her thoughts on the recent Romantic tendencies in painting and poetry.

He pictured her, walking at his side, as they explored museums and parks alike, at times agreeing with each other, and at times engaging in playful argument, until, at last, they returned to their house (for in his dreams they were already wed) for a convivial evening at home.

Yes, this was very much what he wanted! And she seemed so disposed in his favour, it must come to fruition. They had long since finished their tea and biscuits, and Elizabeth had picked up her embroidery, carefully working that alchemy of stitches that no man could ever understand, looking up at him when she could with her lovely smile and grinning.

It must be now.

"Miss Bennet, please allow me to say what I had intended earlier. I have long since?—"

"Oh!" She let out a soft cry and held up her finger. She had misjudged her sewing and had pricked herself rather badly. It was only a needle-prick, but her finger was bleeding freely, and it must be tended to at once.

Would the fates never allow him to speak?