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They were together in the book-room after tea one afternoon, sitting innocently, even sedately, side by side on the settee but several polite inches apart, as she read aloud from an epistolary novel.
When the heroine indulged in her fifth swoon in as many chapters, she looked up at him. “How did it begin?” she asked. “Your illness, I mean. Mr Goulding was lifting a heavy chest on his own, without benefit of a footman’s assistance—even though one was within calling distance—when he collapsed. Was it sudden? Or a fever?”
Instead of answering, he leant forward, forearms on his knees, his head drooping.
“I am sorry!” she cried. “I should not have asked. I have an unhealthy interest in the details of illness, my friend Charlotte has often informed me.”
But sighing, he sat up again; when his arm moved around her shoulders, it seemed only that he had need of a closer connexion before he spoke, rather than an impropriety. When his hand delved into the mass of hair beneath her cap, it was an absent gesture rather than an intimate one.
“It was…sudden, in a s-sense,” he said. “Collapse, I mean. But…had not felt well…pish…no…precisely, for month or two p-previous, although symptoms…vague. And then…devil it…no…directly preceding c-collapse…I…lost temper. Utterly, completely. Lost…all semblance of control.”
“I can hardly fathom it,” she said, giving in to the luxury of his warmth, his strength, his nearness. “You seem the epitome of restraint.”
He looked upon her, cradled in his arms, his dark eyes intense, their faces mere inches apart.
“You…have no idea,” he said lowly.
Dangerous,a voice within whispered. You pretend a connexion that does not exist. Still, while he seemed as unable to resist the joy of touch and closeness as she, he had never taken advantage, not even one stolen kiss. He did have feelings for her, she knew, strong ones. And who was to say that later, once he was healthy and had regained his life…well, she did not allow her thoughts to stray too far, but hope was alive within her heart. It seemed prudent, nevertheless, to provide some distraction.
“Shall I continue reading?” she whispered.
He nodded curtly but did not let her go.
The novel was an amusing one, with a self-deluded heroine making terrible choices based upon excessive sensibility and utter foolishness. Tension easing, they both laughed at her antics until he added, chuckling, “Miss Ly-dee.”
Lizzy felt her smile disappearing. “My sister, you mean? Lydia?”
That he did not recognise her affront was obvious by his continued smiles, his head shaking. “Wild.”
She knew that Lydia had given no good impression of herself. None of her family had, it was true, especially at any party where punch was served, with both Kitty and Lydia likely overindulging, and neither parent restraining either. It was why she had thought him joking when he declared himself—he was so plainly and fully disapproving of her every connexion. She shuddered to think of how foolish those two girls would be with a regiment in nearby Meryton; she could only hope that her father was extending himself a bit more, with such an obvious onslaught of masculinity afoot.
She sat up, putting some space between them, looked him in the eye, and tried to explain. “Mama had difficulty carrying Lydia, and she was born early. It is amazing that she lived.” She did not explain her father’s nonchalance on the subject of her survival after learning he had another daughter. “It was plain Mama should have no more children, and she clung to her last infant. Lydia learnt early that the best way to persuade my mother to do her bidding was to be very, very noisy about it. She is not stupid—she simply does what works for her. It is not an effective tactic for the rest of us, however,” she added wryly.
Mr Darcy only frowned. “Spoilt.”
“Yes, she is much indulged. However, you do not understand what she could have done with the power she wields. My father pays little attention, and my mother caves to her every demand. She is spoilt—spoilt, selfish, and careless. And yet…she can be kind, when she notices.” It was true. Lydia had stood for Lizzy more often than Jane ever had. It was only that she so seldom noticed anything beyond her own needs and desires.
He rolled his eyes. “No dis-discip…wild.”
“She is also brave, fun, and clever.”
He shrugged, as if there were nothing redeeming in those traits. Even though she well understood her sister’s flaws, something in his dismissiveness irked her, and she could not simply let it go.
“If I were put into a hospital and she wished to see me, she would not merely wring her hands and accept refusals. She would not take no for an answer. If she wanted to see me, she would see me, and no one would be able to prevent her.”
It was not, perhaps, fair to pit Lydia’s strengths against Georgiana’s weaknesses. After all, if she found herself in Mr Darcy’s position, would Lydia sacrifice for Lizzy the way that Georgiana had sacrificed for her brother? One could never tell with her youngest sister, for she was nothing if not capricious. Nevertheless, he did not know Lydia. Lydia at her best was fearless, bright, and curious. She was also still very young; it was surely too soon to label her uncivilised.
“Georg-anna,” he said, in frigid though broken accents, and she knew he resented the comparison. “Miss Darcy of Pember. Behave. Higher…” He made an encompassing gesture to cover the words he could not summon.
“Miss Darcy of Pemberley? She is held to a higher standard, I take it, than the Bennets of Longbourn?”
“Yes,” he said, a note of defiance in his voice.
“You must be relieved, indeed, that I did not take seriously your offer. Think what a foolish family you might have tied yourself to so inextricably! Think who would, even now, be your relations!”
Ever after, she did not know why she had goaded him. Too much pride and not enough sense, most likely. Even though her family had hardly given Mr Darcy cause to respect them, it hurt that he did not think them as good and as worthy as his own. Even though she had accepted it, it hurt to know he’d had second thoughts regarding that proposal. Most pathetically, within that hurt, perhaps she had even imagined that if confronted, he would confess that his antipathy towards them was nothing compared to his deeper feelings for her.
“No!” he said, his throat working as he tried to speak.
