Mr. Darcy's Undoing Read online

  It was as if she could suddenly sense his presence with her entire body. Her arms tingled with an awareness of him, and it became unexpectedly difficult to breathe. “I realized I was marrying him for the wrong reasons,” she said quietly. She would control this vulnerability to him; she was determined.

  “What were those reasons?” He knew how improper it was to ask, but he could not stop himself.

  She bit her lip again. “So as not to disappoint either my family or his.”

  This seemed to be enough to satisfy him, at least for the moment, since he did not ask further; or perhaps it was just that they were arriving at Longbourn. She knew she should be relieved, and could not explain a small feeling of discontent that this should be so.

  “Will you attend the breakfast with me, at least for a little?” His voice held a certain humble supplication she was not accustomed to from him, and it discomposed her.

  “Is it so important to you?” she asked, feeling herself wavering.

  Important, that she would have the courage to appear in public with me? What does she think? he asked himself, but aloud he said only, “Yes, it is.”

  She thought for a moment, then responded with that twist of humour which so enchanted him. “Very well, sir,” she said archly, “if only to demonstrate to you how very perilous it can be to face the ladies of Meryton.”

  He felt a surge of relief, not so much for her decision as for the fact that she had decided it in his favour; in some ways, this was a far greater concession than allowing him to kiss her. “I will do my best to mount a defense against such formidable opponents,” he said dryly.

  She raised an eyebrow knowingly. “The tame tigers, perhaps?”

  It took him a moment to connect the reference to their conversation months earlier. “The tame tigers would be an excellent choice,” he agreed, his tone light but with underlying meaning. “They can be quite ferocious in guarding their own.”

  The manner in which he was looking at her sent shivers of anticipation down her spine. She knew he would not kiss her, not in the house with servants wandering past to set up the breakfast, but she also knew he was wishing to do so, and were the circumstances different, he would. She touched her tongue to her dry lips and said, “It is perhaps fortunate for the ladies of Meryton, then, that I belong to no one but myself.”

  He looked at her intently. “You always will belong to no one but yourself; but there are some who choose to bind themselves with silken cords of love.”

  “And some find themselves so bound whether they choose it or not,” she said with rueful amusement.

  His eyes flared. Elizabeth, abruptly realizing the damning admission she had just made, coloured deeply, and frantically searched for some way of lessen its import. If only she could think clearly! But her mind seemed to lose it usual quickness when he looked at her in that manner. Fortunately, she was rescued by the timely arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Bingley and the wedding guests.

  More alarmed by the prospect of remaining in Darcy’s immediate company than of the gossip and possible shunning she might receive, she made her way quickly to the table where she busied herself with making tea. Having a task to perform seemed her best defense, she thought. She kept her eyes on her work as she poured out the tea, her insides churning, wondering what Mr. Darcy was thinking. She glanced up to see him engaged in conversation with Miss Bingley.

  What was she to do? She seemed to betray herself at every turn, no matter how firmly she was resolved to keep her distance. Her difficulty lay, she decided, in the fact that she did not want to stay away from him; she needed to accept the existence of these traitorous impulses if she was to have any success in controlling them. What was it he had asked of her—not to deny what lay between them? Well, he must be satisfied in that regard now, she thought philosophically. He had known precisely what to ask of her to obtain what he wanted; it was only in her denial of the reality of his love for her that she had remained safe to keep her own impulses towards him in check.

  She handed out cups of tea mechanically. At least he found a way to distract me from worrying over whether I will be ostracized! she thought, her lips curving in amusement.

  “Miss Bennet!” A voice broke into her reveries, and she turned to face Mrs. Covington. She flushed; in her concern over Darcy, she had completely forgotten the Covingtons would likely be present. Apart from a moment in passing at the church, she had not seen either of them since the painful day when she had gone to Ashworth to break off her engagement. She had seen his mother first that day, and, although she had not disclosed to her the purpose of her visit, the change in the older woman’s demeanour had been clear. She would never have tolerated behaviour like Lydia’s in one of her children, and it had been evident that the taint of the Bennets’ disgrace clung to Elizabeth in her eyes. Elizabeth had felt this rebuff quite keenly at the time; she had come to feel a certain closeness to Mrs. Covington over the months of her engagement. That, as much as Mr. Covington’s look of bewilderment and pain when she announced her purpose, had been the reason Elizabeth had left Ashworth House in tears, feeling all her bridges had been burnt. His mother’s coolness had the benefit, however, of saving Elizabeth from feeling something like regret when she considered the implications of her decision.

  “Mrs. Covington,” she said politely, conscious that they would be the object of much scrutiny on the part of the other guests. She noted that the older woman appeared more frail than when they had last met, and recalled with a twinge her prediction that she would not live out the winter.

  “This must be a very happy day for you,” she said, looking over at Jane.

  “I am very happy for Jane,” she replied quietly, wondering at her purpose in bringing up the obviously tender issue of marriage.

  “I imagine she will do quite well,” Mrs. Covington predicted in her decisive way. “I hope you will as well. I never had the opportunity to tell you, my dear, that I admired the way you handled yourself when that business arose. I am sorry matters had to turn out as they did; it just demonstrated that I had been right in thinking you had the courage and determination to meet the task of being mistress of Ashworth. It is a pity it was not to be.” She paused to catch her breath, then added, “I hope you have not been unduly troubled by petty gossip.” She tilted her head towards where a group of women were sitting.

  Elizabeth, stunned by both her communication and her extreme frankness in such a setting, could only say, “No, not unduly.”

  “I am glad of it. Well, my dear, I wish you well in whatever the future brings you.” She reached over and, to Elizabeth’s astonishment, gave her a light embrace.

  Elizabeth had time only to murmur her thanks before Mrs. Covington left her to rejoin the other guests. She found herself grateful once more for the business of pouring tea, which allowed her a few moments to compose herself. It was gratifying to know that Mrs. Covington did not think really ill of her—only of my connections, she thought, with a glance at Darcy. The unexpected encounter had moved her beyond what she would have anticipated; she suspected Mrs. Covington had deliberately staged it as something of a farewell gift, aimed at demonstrating to those who might have assumed otherwise that she still thought well of Elizabeth.

  She felt a shiver travel down her arms, and knew without looking that Darcy had materialized by her side. She turned and held out a cup of tea to him. “Tea, Mr. Darcy?” she said.

  He accepted it with thanks, his gaze fixed on her. He could tell she was disquieted, and wondered whether he was the cause. She had seemed to flee from him earlier after her astonishing and clearly unintended disclosure, yet surely she must know that he could do nothing to act upon it in this company. It did not seem to be the case that she was being shunned—certainly the woman she had just been speaking to had seemed happy enough to see her. Perhaps she was upset he had not followed her immediately? “I apologize for failing to remain at your side, Mis
s Bennet; I was… waylaid,” he said, glancing at Miss Bingley.

  With a small smile, she said, “Yes, so I observed. You need not worry, sir; I have been managing tolerably well on my own.”

  His look showed that he was pleased she was doing well, but he teased her by saying, “Pity. I had been hoping to prove indispensable to you.”

  He was quite dangerous to her peace of mind when he flirted playfully like this, she reflected. “I am sorry to prove again a disappointment to you, sir,” she said impishly. “I release you from your pledge to stay by me today, in any case—I fear it might cause some talk.”

  The smile that played about his lips somehow produced a sense of heat within her. “Only if I may then claim the right you offered earlier to name another time to enjoy your company,” he replied, his eyes promising he would take full advantage of such a time.

  She coloured, but saw no choice but to agree. He said, “Tomorrow morning, then, before I leave for London?”

  She raised an eyebrow quizzically to cover an odd sense of disappointment. “You are leaving so soon, then?”

  His lips quirked. “It seems only polite to give the newlyweds a little privacy,” he said. His eyes travelled slowly down her figure in a manner which made her flush. “You may depend upon it, Miss Bennet, I will return soon.”

  She watched as he took his tea and went over to join her father, who welcomed him into a conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. She was again surprised by his agreeable air—he looked comfortable enough that, had she not known better, she would have thought he was well acquainted with the Gardiners.

  There was a lull in the need for her services, and she took the time to look about the room. Ordinarily she would have mingled with the guests, but under the circumstances she thought it best to wait for others to approach her. Finally Maria Lucas came over and asked her about her time in London, a gesture Elizabeth appreciated; then some other girls joined in, and she breathed a little easier.

  She was distracted from the conversation when Mr. Covington brought his cup back himself. She knew him well enough to recognize his look of trying to perform an unpleasant duty with as much grace as possible. “Good day, Miss Bennet,” he said formally. “I hope you are well?”

  She felt a surge of guilt. “Well enough,” she said softly, wishing she could somehow ease the pain she had caused. “And you?”

  “Well enough,” he echoed. “I understand you have been in London. I hope your stay was pleasant.”

  “My aunt and uncle were most kind. I did not go out much; I preferred to spend my time with my nieces and nephews, or in quiet reflection.” She hoped he could hear the unvoiced concern in her words. “I was glad to see your mother still in good health,” she said a little awkwardly. She wished their first meeting could have been at any occasion other than her sister’s wedding; it must have been bitter for him that Bingley, far less tied to Meryton society and with the greater freedom his wealth gave him, had failed to accept Jane’s offer to release him from their engagement following Lydia’s disgrace. He could not have known there was nothing he could have said that would have swayed Elizabeth from her course.

  He thanked her and took his leave, leaving Elizabeth somewhat downcast. Since the termination of their engagement she had made an effort to think as infrequently as possible of Mr. Covington. It had all seemed so very clear at the time; while she had not objected to marrying a man for whom she felt no more than fondness, it became quite a different prospect when she faced doing so knowing she loved another. She had decided it would be better to be alone than to live such a lie, and she had the excuse of Lydia’s disgrace to mask her deeper reasons.

  Her reaction to seeing Mr. Covington now was enough to convince her she had been correct—though she had felt an active concern for him, her feelings were not those of a wife for her husband. Why then, she wondered, was she troubled by the loss of him? Perhaps it was more the loss of the life she had expected to lead with him she regretted. Throughout the previous summer, she had expended significant effort to accustom herself to the idea of being his wife, taking her place as mistress of Ashworth, and accepting his mother as hers. It had become a familiar and easy picture in her mind, at least until her unforeseen response to Mr. Darcy caused her to question it. Giving up that future was more than the loss of an abstract idea to her; it felt more like losing a part of her family. She had particularly looked forward to knowing his mother better—she had a good deal of respect for Mrs. Covington, and more than a little fondness. Now they were both lost to her—no matter what the future brought, there could be nothing between them, not even friendship.

  As she turned back to Miss Lucas, attempting to disguise her low spirits from any watching eyes, she caught sight of Darcy, his gaze fixed on her with an expression of displeasure. Suddenly impatient with his single-minded focus on winning her, she did not acknowledge him, but resumed her conversation immediately. Life, and affairs of the heart, are far more complicated than that, she thought with a certain bitterness.

  She was not in the least surprised to discover him at her side again almost directly. Boldly she turned to him and said somewhat brusquely, “Is anything the matter, Mr. Darcy?”

  He raised an eyebrow at her tone. “I was merely contemplating the attractive idea of sending to Pemberley for the tigers,” he said.

  She was in no mood, after seeing Mr. Covington’s discomfort, to hear Darcy’s banter about his jealousy. “Why, surely we have no need of tigers in Hertfordshire,” she said with deceptive sweetness.

  He smiled, a half-teasing look on his face. “Is that so? I am relieved to hear it,” he said.

  It was no different than a dozen other playfully insinuating remarks he had made to her that day, but for some reason it felt intolerable. She felt a surge of irritation rising at his evident expectations of her, and his teasing in face of Mr. Covington’s pain seemed almost cruel. Her eyes flashing with feelings she could no longer contain, she said emphatically, “Good day, Mr. Darcy.” She brushed past him to leave the room and the assembled guests, and did not stop until she reached the privacy her room.

  The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She sat in a chair and for some time held her hands over her face as tears ran down her cheeks. She was not even certain why she was crying, or what she regretted; it seemed so much had gone awry as to leave no hope of finding her way out.

  It was all too much—seeing Jane’s happiness in contrast to her own confusion and distress, all her sister’s hopes and dreams coming true while her own were in ashes; then being taken so off guard by Mr. Darcy as to admit far more than she ever intended. And to come full face with the mistakes she had made in terms of Mr. Covington—no, it was intolerable.

  She was not at all reconciled to the manner in which her decision had affected Mr. Covington. She knew now from hard experience how painful it was to love hopelessly, and could not forget she had caused him to feel that same pain. It was owing to a long series of misjudgements on her part that he was injured, starting with her cavalier acceptance of Wickham’s story and continuing to her misjudgement and refusal of Mr. Darcy, and not least her failure to attend to her own sensibilities in choosing to accept Mr. Covington. She could not quite forgive herself for that, especially since she could not deny that mercenary sentiments had a role in her decision. She was not unaware that this sword of practicality cut both ways; along with the pain and confusion she had seen in his face when she broke off their engagement had been a certain relief. Just as she could not ignore his position, he could not overlook the effect Lydia’s behaviour would have on the reputation of their family if he persisted in his plans to marry her. She did not blame him; it was only sensible. She supposed she should be grateful he had allowed her to end it rather than disgracing her further by jilting her.

  Nor could she feel happy about Darcy’s return to Hertfordshire. Was love not meant to include a desire for the be
loved’s presence? She could not deny feeling a thrill whenever she saw him, nor an answering response in herself when he gazed at her with passion in his dark eyes. It was not the sort of pleasure which led to contentedness, though, and therein lay her difficulty.

  She had laboured hard to find a kind of peace after he had left Hertfordshire and she had broken her engagement. She had never been under the illusion that there could be anything more between them, and facing her feelings for him was only the beginning. She had ached for him night after night lying awake in London, missing him, missing his dry sense of humour and the familiar look in his eyes, and remembering the sensation of heat that had stolen through her when he had kissed her. It was a long time before she learned to master this pain, to set it aside so as to be able to enjoy the everyday pleasures of life again. Finally, she had reached the point of acceptance. Her lot in life, while not what she would have chosen, was one she had learned eventually to face without being unduly burdened by grief.

  Then he had returned, bringing back all her longings, and refusing to acknowledge they could be nothing more than friends. With each approach he challenged her hard-won equanimity, tempting her to believe in a future that could never be, and then she must face all the pain of loss again.

  She blamed no one but herself for part of it; she wanted so badly to believe in his fantasies, to believe she could marry him without irreparable damage to his reputation. He seemed unable to imagine he could ever face society’s disapprobation. She knew differently—the blow to her pride caused by her fall from grace in the eyes of the community had undershored her natural resilience. He would see it differently once he found suitors shunning his beloved younger sister owing to the disgraceful match he had made. And if the pain of doing without him now was excruciating, she could not imagine how much worse it would be to see him withdraw his affection later, and to spend the remainder of her life knowing he regretted marrying her. She had seen the results of such an inequity of status and reputation clearly enough in her parents’ marriage, and knew she could never bear that.