Thy spirit fierce, yet soft as spring,
Doth make my silent soul to sing.”
Elizabeth gripped the arm of her chair, her jaw tightening against the onslaught of saccharine rhymes. Was it possible to die of secondhand embarrassment? She risked a glance at Miss Bingley, who was leaning forward with a strained but delighted smile, as though determined to absorb the poem as a personal ode.
Darcy’s shoulders were bunching under his coat, but he droned on, apparently oblivious to the collective agony of his audience as his voice rose with an almost theatrical intensity:
“O angel bright, in mortal guise,
Thou art the sun to my sunrise.
Thy every word, a honeyed grace,
Doth lift my heart to heaven’s embrace.”
The silence in the room grew oppressive, broken only by the faint, muffled sound of Mr. Hurst snoring in the corner. Elizabeth’s pulse thundered in her ears. She dared not look at anyone now, certain her composure would shatter.
Darcy drew a deep breath for the final stanza, his voice nearly trembling with conviction:
“And though I’m bound by duty’s chain,
My love for thee shall not be vain.
For fate itself cannot efface,
Thy name, my heart’s eternal place.”
As the last syllable fell into the heavy air, Darcy lowered the paper. His face was ashen and his brow prickled with beats of sweat, as though the exercise had cost him every shred of his fortitude. And his gaze swept the room, as though daring anyone to challenge the earnestness of his expression.
No one moved. No one spoke.
The silence stretched, thick and stifling. Elizabeth stared at her hands, willing herself not to burst into laughter or tears—she was not sure which would win. Jane had turned impossibly red, her lips clenched together between her teeth in what seemed like an attempt to suppress either a giggle or a sob. Mr. Bingley’shand remained firmly over his mouth, though his wide eyes betrayed his disbelief.
Miss Bingley was the first to break the stillness, her voice high and brittle. “Oh, Mr. Darcy! How… how beautiful! Such... passion!”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, his face impassive. “Thank you.”
“I trust,” Miss Bingley preened, her lashes fluttering, “that these sentiments have their inspiration in present company?”
Darcy cleared his throat. “Merely strings of words that I fancied sounded well together, Miss Bingley.”
Elizabeth finally looked up, her eyes locking with his. He seemed utterly unaffected by the devastation his poem had wrought, as though he had read a military dispatch rather than the most cloying verses ever composed.
Forcing a smile, Elizabeth cleared her throat delicately. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice betraying only the faintest tremor, “you have outdone yourself.”
He blinked, tilting his head slightly, as if unsure whether to take her words as a compliment or not. “I appreciate your kind attention, Miss Bennet.”
Eleven
“All secure, Mr. Hill?”Elizabeth asked, glancing at the neatly tied baggage atop the coach. The morning air was crisp and damp, the mist clinging to the hedgerows, but her spirits soared with the promise of escape. At last—freedom. A week at Netherfield had felt an eternity, with every polite exchange and stolen glance a fresh trial. Now, with Jane recovered and the open road before them, she could breathe again.
Jane emerged from the house behind her, swathed in a warm shawl. Though her cheeks had regained some of their color, her movements were still tentative due to her lingering headache. A pity their mother would never heed Elizabeth’s admonishments! Give her another wealthy, single man, and Mrs. Bennet would send her eldest daughter off again in a storm without a second thought.
“Are you certain you are well enough to travel, Jane?” Elizabeth asked, scanning her sister’s face for any sign of fever or faintness.
Jane smiled faintly, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I am quite well, Lizzy. Truly. It will be a comfort to be home again.”
Elizabeth nodded, though she felt far from reassured. Jane’s modesty often led her to downplay her own needs, and Elizabeth worried that three miles out in the cold might be more taxing than her sister admitted. Still, there was no denying the relief of leaving Netherfield behind.
