“Your father has not allowed it, but you have read these forbidden tales on your own.”
She laughed. “How could I not? Though I confess I did not understand all the words, and I could hardly ask Papa to explain them.”
He could not help thinking how he would enjoy explaining it to her, in detail, in the mistress’ suite at Pemberley!
Mr. Darcy enquired about her other areas of interest, and was soon astonished at Elizabeth’s level of education. Not only was she familiar with Middle English, but she also spoke French and Italian, was adept at mathematics, and studied European history. Most young ladies of fashion would have feared being labeled a bluestocking. “Do you not fear being considered too intellectual by a potential husband?”
She put her head to one side and replied, “I would not want a husband who requires me to hide my light under a bushel. What sort of man fears an intelligent woman?”
“Only an unintelligent man, of course,” he replied, adding, “And such a one could not be worthy of you.”
Miss Elizabeth was undoubtedly the most unusual young lady he had ever met. She was lovely, of course, but it was a particularly lovely sort of loveliness. The so-called diamonds of thetonwere all pale, wan girls, who looked as if they might faint at any moment. Miss Elizabeth, on the other hand, was lithe and nimble. Miss Bingley had complained about Miss Elizabeth walking the three miles to Netherfield, but that was, to Mr. Darcy’s ears, high praise. Who wanted a fainting flower for a wife? What he needed was a companion in arms, someone who could help manage the vast business enterprise that was Pemberley.
And then there was that jasmine scent… To think that not long ago she had been a complete stranger to him!
More importantly, he was drawn to her in a way he had never imagined possible. Suddenly, all the poetry he had ever read made sense! He thought of Cowper’s poem, the Symptoms of Love. He quoted it to himself, silently, as they walked in the garden.
Would my Delia– but here he substituted Elizabeth–know if I love, let her take
My last thought at night, and the first when I wake;
With my prayers and best wishes preferred for her sake.
Let her guess what I muse on, when rambling alone
I stride o'er the stubble each day with my gun,
Never ready to shoot till the covey is flown.
Let her think what odd whimsies I have in my brain,
When I read one page over and over again,
And discover at last that I read it in vain.
Let her say why so fixed and so steady my look,
Without ever regarding the person who spoke,
Still affecting to laugh, without hearing the joke.
Or why when the pleasure her praises I hear,
(That sweetest of melody sure to my ear),
I attend, and at once inattentive appear.
And lastly, when summoned to drink to my flame,
Let her guess why I never once mention her name,
Though herself and the woman I love are the same.
She interrupted his silent musings, saying, “I would be very interested in hearing more about your sister; would it distress you to tell me about her?”
Thus recalled to his present circumstances, he considered it. Would it distress him? Perhaps remembering the young girl he had raised would give him comfort. “She was only four years old when our mother died, and twelve years old when our father died. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, is the closest thing Georgiana has had to a mother her entire life, and I have stood in as her father since our father died.”
“Does she play? Sing? Paint?”
