Longbourn. Darcy stopped just out of sight of the house to take a moment to kiss her hand, and on impulse turned her hand over to place a kiss in her palm, and then one on the delicate skin inside her wrist. He heard her sharp intake of breath with the greatest of pleasure. She was looking at him again, with confusion but neither displeasure nor fear. “Thank you for today,” he said softly before bringing the carriage up to the door.
“Good day, Mr. Darcy,” she said with more equanimity than she felt.
“Good day, Miss Bennet,” he replied. He watched her until she went in the door, then drove off, full of elation.
* * *
That night, as Elizabeth sat at her vanity brushing her hair, she thought back on the events of the day with some agitation. She could no longer say with any honesty that she had no feelings for Darcy. If nothing else, he affected her powerfully on the physical level, more, in fact, than she had thought possible. That it troubled her when he was in distress, and that she wished to protect him, was indubitable; she felt a real interest in his welfare, but still doubted the wisdom of allowing that welfare to depend on herself.
Her chief disturbance lay in the cause, or lack thereof, for her change in sentiments toward him. She enjoyed his company more than she had in the past, and his caring behavior towards his sister was a testimonial in his favor, but the fact remained that he was a man accustomed to being in control of all around him. He was accustomed to making arrangements as he pleased, including making decisions on the behalf of others, and he was managing to do the same with her to a disturbing extent. He did not hesitate to let her know what he wanted, or that he intended to persist until he got it. Try as she might, she was unable to recall any instance in the whole of their acquaintance when he had submitted to another’s will. Nor, apart from his obvious concern for his sister, could she recollect any clear instance of goodness or benevolence to further establish his character.
Some of the appeal of his company at the moment lay in her own vanity and desire for companionship. Since Jane’s engagement, she had but little time to bestow on her sister, for while Bingley was present, she had no attention for anyone else, and in his absence she talked of nothing but him. Thus was Elizabeth deprived of her closest confidante and friend, and, with Charlotte long gone, little other source of congenial company. How could she but be pleased to have a man of Darcy’s sensibilities at her disposal with no goals but to please her and to attend to her whenever she wished? A romance based on her loneliness and his availability would hardly seemed destined for success, and suggested the disturbing idea that Elizabeth was taking advantage of Darcy’s feelings for her own purposes.
Why could she not have fallen in love with someone like his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was amiable, interesting, and calm, someone without the tendency to withdraw and the capacity to brood, who was not always such a mystery? She had watched each step of the way as Bingley fell in love with Jane, and she had seen admiration, affection, thoughtfulness, and delight in her company, but never the frightening intensity that Darcy often displayed towards her. And there really was no question, she finally admitted to her reflection in the mirror, that she was falling in love with him. The idea terrified her.
She had always scoffed at the heroines of the romantic novels who fell in love with the wrong man, yet how else could she characterize this? What sort of basis for a marriage was physical attraction and fondness for a lover’s attention? Courtship was brief and marriage long, and while he was most attentive now, what might happen when the wooing was over and she was won. Would there be a return to days of his silent observation of her?
This is unbearable, she thought. She wanted to be with him, to feel the pleasure
“Good day, Mr. Darcy,” she said with more equanimity than she felt.
“Good day, Miss Bennet,” he replied. He watched her until she went in the door, then drove off, full of elation.
* * *
That night, as Elizabeth sat at her vanity brushing her hair, she thought back on the events of the day with some agitation. She could no longer say with any honesty that she had no feelings for Darcy. If nothing else, he affected her powerfully on the physical level, more, in fact, than she had thought possible. That it troubled her when he was in distress, and that she wished to protect him, was indubitable; she felt a real interest in his welfare, but still doubted the wisdom of allowing that welfare to depend on herself.
Her chief disturbance lay in the cause, or lack thereof, for her change in sentiments toward him. She enjoyed his company more than she had in the past, and his caring behavior towards his sister was a testimonial in his favor, but the fact remained that he was a man accustomed to being in control of all around him. He was accustomed to making arrangements as he pleased, including making decisions on the behalf of others, and he was managing to do the same with her to a disturbing extent. He did not hesitate to let her know what he wanted, or that he intended to persist until he got it. Try as she might, she was unable to recall any instance in the whole of their acquaintance when he had submitted to another’s will. Nor, apart from his obvious concern for his sister, could she recollect any clear instance of goodness or benevolence to further establish his character.
Some of the appeal of his company at the moment lay in her own vanity and desire for companionship. Since Jane’s engagement, she had but little time to bestow on her sister, for while Bingley was present, she had no attention for anyone else, and in his absence she talked of nothing but him. Thus was Elizabeth deprived of her closest confidante and friend, and, with Charlotte long gone, little other source of congenial company. How could she but be pleased to have a man of Darcy’s sensibilities at her disposal with no goals but to please her and to attend to her whenever she wished? A romance based on her loneliness and his availability would hardly seemed destined for success, and suggested the disturbing idea that Elizabeth was taking advantage of Darcy’s feelings for her own purposes.
Why could she not have fallen in love with someone like his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, who was amiable, interesting, and calm, someone without the tendency to withdraw and the capacity to brood, who was not always such a mystery? She had watched each step of the way as Bingley fell in love with Jane, and she had seen admiration, affection, thoughtfulness, and delight in her company, but never the frightening intensity that Darcy often displayed towards her. And there really was no question, she finally admitted to her reflection in the mirror, that she was falling in love with him. The idea terrified her.
She had always scoffed at the heroines of the romantic novels who fell in love with the wrong man, yet how else could she characterize this? What sort of basis for a marriage was physical attraction and fondness for a lover’s attention? Courtship was brief and marriage long, and while he was most attentive now, what might happen when the wooing was over and she was won. Would there be a return to days of his silent observation of her?
This is unbearable, she thought. She wanted to be with him, to feel the pleasure
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