Page 66 of Regrets

He wondered, yet again, what he had done to offend her. It disturbed him, as he liked her. In fact, he liked her very much. As he sat down beside her and felt his heart begin to pound faster, it occurred to him that he was very much in danger of falling in love with her.

“Have you enjoyed your evening, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, sitting beside her.

“I have, yes,” she replied. “I had not known that Miss Bingley played so well.”

“Ah, she performed for you, did she? Yes, she plays quite well.”

“Though not as well as your sister,” Elizabeth added.

“Well, no one plays as well as Georgiana. I am required to hold that opinion, as I am her brother,” he said, smiling.

“We are told that Beauty is brought by the judgement of the eye, so you are not wrong in feeling so,” Elizabeth agreed.

“You enjoy Shakespeare?”

“Enjoy Shakespeare? How is it possible not to do so?” Elizabeth said. “He is the master of the English language, is he not?”

“I think he invented a good deal of the language we speak today, so it is reasonable to regard him as a master, if not the master.”

“Who might compete for that title, then, in your view?”

“Perhaps Christopher Marlowe,” Mr. Darcy suggested. “It is a shame he died so young; his work would likely have equaled Shakespeare’s, had he not.”

“He was only nine and twenty when he died; is that not right?”

“Quite right, Miss Elizabeth.” He smiled at her, enjoying her quick understanding. When had he last met a young lady with whom he could have such a conversation!

Why did she not like him? He suddenly discovered that he had actually voiced that thought aloud! He reddened as she stared at him.

“Why do you think I do not like you, Mr. Darcy?” she said at last.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. “It is in your eyes when I sit beside you; but then we have such a good conversation, that I wonder if I am wrong.”

She was silent, and looked down at the floor. He began to think he should apologise for asking too personal a question, when she looked up and said, “I suppose it is because you remind me of my father.”

Of all the answers he had been expecting, this was the last. “Your father?” he repeated in astonishment.

“Yes.”

“But –“ He stopped. In what ways was he like Mr. Bennet? Bookish, educated, master of an estate. “There are similarities, I suppose,” he said at last. “But any educated master of an estate would have such qualities, would they not?”

“I suppose so,” she said. “I shall have to marry an uneducated merchant.”

“What a terrible waste that would be,” Mr. Darcy said at once. “What is it you do not like about your father?”

“This is hardly the place for such a conversation,” she replied.

“Then where is the place?” he found himself asking.

“Perhaps we will go for a walk one day,” she said, looking away.

“One day? You are putting me off, then.” He came to his senses with a visible start. “You are quite right to do so, as it is hardly my place to make such enquiries. I apologise, Miss Elizabeth.” He rose, bowed to her, and went to sit with Mary and Georgiana.

What on earth had possessed him, he wondered, as he listened to Mary and Georgiana discussing the different parts of Herr Beethoven’s latest wonder. He had been unconscionably rude to Miss Elizabeth; he had no right whatsoever to ask such things. But the knowledge that she did not like him, for she had confessed it outright, haunted him. Haunted? More like distressed him. Saddened him. His heart actually hurt, and he found himself rubbing his chest, as if that might ease the ache.

Georgiana was telling Mary about her summer at Rosings Park, and the miraculous cure that the new doctor had effected.

Feeling awkward sitting alone, and aware that she had wounded Mr. Darcy and should make amends, Elizabeth came to listen to Georgiana’s story.