Six Inches Deep in Mud

Chapter 3

I still wonder what was in my mind when I admitted to Miss Bingley my admiration for Elizabeth’s fine eyes. Caroline Bingley — of all people! If I were completely honest with myself, I would admit there was nothing in my mind — except for Elizabeth. A dangerous situation that has already gone on long enough. More than two weeks. Too long. Fate has a strange sense of humour and is probably attempting to punish me for refusing to dance with her at that assembly. It is ludicrous that I told Bingley she was not tolerable enough to tempt me; now I cannot get rid of this temptation that I am ashamed to admit.

She has been at Netherfield for three days already; she arrived — on foot — after walking more than three miles to tend to her ill sister. Upon my word, the moment I saw her jumping over the fence, with her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling, with her petticoat six inches deep in mud, bonnet askew, and a few wisps of hair on her nape…breathing a little heavily because of the effort, through her parted lips — lips that looked full and moist — I forgot myself completely. I felt like a simpleton with no other thought but that I wished to kiss her. Kiss her? A daughter of a gentleman, whom I hardly know? What on earth is happening to me? I walked her to the house, whereupon Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst kept talking and talking, and I could only think that she was probably cold…and wet under all those clothes that needed to be taken off…and perhaps she needed to take a long, hot bath. Inappropriate!

As much as I desire her presence, I am not happy that she remains at Netherfield. How can I be happy to be so close to the danger? I have slept little and poorly in the last fortnight, but since Elizabeth has been under the same roof as me, I have been unable to find any rest. My mind has never been so perturbed and my body never so stirred. What a disgrace! A grown man of eight-and-twenty with the education and knowledge of a gentleman and the restraint of a schoolboy. I actually feel a fluttering sensation in my stomach when I look at her, or even just think of her. How absurd! Yes, this is what I have become — a foolish, lovestruck schoolboy.

Yesterday, her mother and her two younger sisters came to visit. I thought it would be useful for me to spend a few minutes with that vulgar, simpleminded woman and her silly younger daughters to help me overcome my absurd infatuation with Elizabeth. It worked for only the length of the call. I feel weaker than ever before; my self-control and my judgment have betrayed me utterly and completely since Elizabeth caught my attention. I am well aware of her situation and the inferiority of her family — from all perspectives — but nothing is as bad or as alarming as her mother’s total want of propriety. Her younger sisters are the same, but I cannot blame them — whom could they have learnt from?

I assume Elizabeth resembles her father in wit; I heard Bingley mention something about Mr Bennet’s interest in books. And in truth, Miss Jane Bennet’s manners are quite pleasant; she does not take after their mother either. If I had to spend more than half an hour with Mrs Bennet, I would certainly lose my sanity.

Well, I have already lost it, or else I would not keep staring at Elizabeth in such a ridiculous way. I know I look like a fool, and yet, I cannot help it. I have become obsessed with watching her whenever we are in the same room, observing her and discovering small enchanting details, like how she frowns when reading her book, her arched eyebrows when she is provoked, the way she bites her lower lip while preparing to deliver a witty reply, her fingers playing with a lock of hair when she is deep in thought — and I could go on. Which again shows just how lost my mind is.

She arrived downstairs later than the rest of us tonight, and I am already tired of Miss Bingley’s insinuations. Since I told her I admired Elizabeth’s eyes, she has persistently provoked me with it. I wonder what she would do if she knew the eyes are only a very small part of all that I admire about Elizabeth. Now that would be amusing — to tell her that! As it is, she keeps herself entertained by sending me veiled barbs about Elizabeth or complaining loudly about Charles promising a ball in this “uncouth society”. I cannot say I approve of the idea either, but I am keeping this opinion to myself.

Elizabeth’s mind is as enchanting as her appearance. I have met many educated women and even more beautiful ladies. Elizabeth is different from them, as neither her education nor her beauty is flawless by society’s standards, but she is just perfect in her imperfection. I wonder whether she is aware of the effect she has on me. I hope not; I pray not! I can see she is not indifferent to me either. I can see her smiling at me, her teasing, her pleasure in arguing with me. It pains me to know I shall disappoint her when I leave for London. I try to behave cautiously, so she cannot guess how deeply I actually admire her and form expectations that cannot be fulfilled. She certainly favours me, and without doubt, such a marriage would be beyond her hopes. And she certainly deserves such happiness, but I cannot be the one who offers it.

The mere thought of Elizabeth marrying another man — which I am sure will eventually happen — makes me shudder. To imagine another man sharing her bed, touching her, kissing her, gives me chills and makes me sick. Only my own bed knows — and I am ashamed to admit it even to myself — how many times I have dreamt of her being in it, in my arms. Tormenting, delightful, secret dreams I have never had about any other woman, nor did I ever imagine I would experience them. I am definitely losing my sanity. If I were wise, I would leave immediately; but I am not strong enough to do so. I need a little more time in her company, and then I shall put the memory of her behind me. I wonder whether the distance will finally release me from this hold she has on me, from this sweet, unbearable turmoil. I cannot say; I have no experience at all to call on. I have never harboured such feelings, nor have I ever fought against them.

There are moments like this, when I watch her replying to Miss Bingley’s rudeness with a smile on her rosy lips — lips she was biting just moments before while preparing her answer — when I allow myself to dream that I do not have to fight after all. I do not know Elizabeth well enough, but as little as I do, I see nothing wanting in her. I doubt that any other would honour the Darcy name more than she would. However, I cannot possibly consider the daughter of an insignificant country gentleman, with no fortune, no connections, and with such an ill-behaved mother as the future Mrs Darcy. Or can I?

“Mr Darcy, what are you doing there so secretly, sir?” Miss Bingley asks, and I can hardly refrain from rolling my eyes. I hate her insinuating voice, which she probably believes to be alluring, when she tries to catch my attention; it is terribly annoying.

“It is no secret. I am writing to my sister.”

“Dear Georgiana, how sorely I miss her! How I long to see her! I cannot wait to be back in London. Has she grown since I last saw her?”

“Yes, I believe she is now as tall as Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” Elizabeth glances at me, and Miss Bingley comes to sit by my side. What luck!

“How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!” she continues, glancing at my paper — another thing that I absolutely loathe.

“You write uncommonly fast, Mr Darcy.”

“You are mistaken, Miss Bingley. I write rather slowly.”

“You must have occasion to write many letters, I suppose. Letters of business, too, which I find odious and tedious.”

I struggle to stay calm, wondering how much nonsense she can say in one evening.

“It is fortunate, then, that it is I who must write them, not you,” I reply.

“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.”

At this, I pause and look at her to see whether she is serious. She is!

“Thank you. I always mend my own.”

“How can you contrive to write so even?” Miss Bingley continues. Somehow, I feel that Elizabeth is looking at me; I turn to her and see the broad smile that brightens her face. She is entertained, amused even, by my ridiculous exchange with Miss Bingley, without a doubt. And it is not even over yet.

“Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp. And pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table.”

Being enraptured myself with Elizabeth’s fine eyes, I hear little of Miss Bingley’s sentence and understand even less. But her words, echoing through my inner thoughts, startle me, so my instant — expressive and distinguished as one could expect from me — reply is, “What?”

I see the astonishment on the faces in the room, so I clear my throat.

“Forgive me, I did not understand what you said.”

“I was talking about Miss Darcy’s improvement on the harp and her design of the table. Can you please mention it in your letter?”

“I am afraid I must postpone your raptures till I write again. At present, I have no room to do them justice.”

“It does not matter. I shall see her in January,” Miss Bingley says.

I really feel I deserve congratulations for my forbearance, inner strength, and self-control. Not only in regard to Elizabeth but even more so in regard to Miss Bingley. My appreciation of and friendship with Bingley is a strong inducement to keep my words under good regulation.

Miss Bingley is, sadly, not to be interrupted in her attempts to flatter me, and she continues the conversation on the subject of my writing, then Bingley joins it and we begin a little argument over our writing styles. I do not even know why I allowed myself to be drawn into this, perhaps for the pleasure of hearing Elizabeth subtly disagree with me. I adore this battle of words, this duel of wits, particularly the sparkle in her eyes and the little wry smile crushed between her lips.

“I do not know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions. At his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has nothing to do,” Bingley claims.

Elizabeth is smiling, and Bingley seems pleased. I am vexed with his statement, but in all honesty, I cannot contradict him. So I smile back, refrain from answering, and turn to finish my letter.

After dinner, during which Miss Bingley again sat next to me and affected my appetite with her repeated praise, Bingley asks the ladies for the favour of some music. Elizabeth declines, but his sisters play for a while, from Italian songs to a lively Scotch air.

Elizabeth is listening rather absently, and I cannot help but notice the heightened colour of her cheeks and the unruly locks of hair dancing on her nape. The line of her jaw, her collarbone, her shoulders timidly revealed under her dress, her lips, which she worries sometimes, and her long eyelashes, all are exposed to my admiration. Before I realise what I am about, I find myself walking towards her and asking, “Do you not feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?”

I am astonished by my own words. She smiles but makes no answer. I sit down next to her on the sofa and repeat the question, with some surprise at her silence.

“I heard you before, sir, but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. I assume you wanted me to say yes so that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste. But I take delight in thwarting such schemes and cheating such premeditated contempt, so I made up my mind to tell you that I do not want to dance a reel at all — and now despise me if you dare.”

Her long reply puzzles me; why would she assume I wish to despise her?

“I assure you that is not the case, Miss Bennet. Despising you was never in my thoughts. I simply asked whether you wished to dance.”

“Come now, Mr Darcy, we both know that is not true. You cannot convince me that you intended to dance a reel with me, here, in your friend’s drawing room.”

“I intended to dance with you at Sir William’s also, and you refused me,” I reply, trying to insert a lightness into my tone.

“Only because Sir William insisted on it. You would have never asked me, or any other woman, to dance at that party, since you refused to do so at an assembly.”

“Oh…Miss Bennet, I…” I need a moment to choose my words carefully, wondering what she knew of that particular circumstance.

Her smile broadens. “Please do not make yourself uneasy. I did feel a little offended that you called me tolerable, but you are entitled to your own opinion, and I respect your honesty. Besides, I am well aware I am not the most beautiful woman, and there must be many men not tempted to dance with me.”

I am stunned. Somehow, she knows too much and too well. That evening at the assembly I did notice — too late — that she was standing close to us, next to a pillar, but I never presumed she heard my statement.

Before I can speak further, the music stops, and Miss Bingley asks me something. I rise, bow to Elizabeth, and leave her, returning to my previous seat. From here, I keep my eyes on Elizabeth as the music resumes. She looks at me with an air of suspicion, and our eyes meet briefly.

I stare at her, though I know I should not. There is a mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner that leaves me confused. Sitting so close to her, her scent intoxicated me, but now I hope to regain my composure. I have never been so bewitched by any woman as I am by her.

But her words sound in my mind with a new, different meaning, and her arched eyebrow expresses more challenge than teasing. Can she really believe that I intended to despise her and to mock her? Does she still hold a grudge for my offence at the assembly? But how is it possible for her to know I admire her and also assume I despise her? How is it possible to return my admiration if she holds a grudge?

Unless… Good Lord, can it be possible? Can I have been wrong all this time? Can she know my feelings but not welcome or return them? Am I caged in an admiration that neither myself nor the object of it desires? If that is the cruel truth, how shall I ever escape from this trap?

I hear Elizabeth excuse herself and retire for the night, and I do not have the chance to respond.

My head is becoming heavier by the minute, and it fills with puzzling, unwanted questions, all spinning around Elizabeth. Better said, around my obsession with her — which suddenly becomes even more unreasonable.

I am in no disposition for vain conversation, so I retire too, shortly after Elizabeth. I had hoped the solitude of my chamber would bring me some peace, but I am wrong again. I dismiss my valet for the night after only accepting his help to remove my coat, and I fill a glass of brandy. So, her entire opinion of me is based on my behaviour at the assembly. And yes, it is true I would never have asked her to dance that evening at Lucas Lodge if that annoying man — Sir William! — with his pathetic pride in his title had not insisted. But I regret that she refused me. If she had accepted, I would have certainly danced with her.

I lie in bed, trying to recollect all our previous encounters, all our conversations. What I said, what she said. Her looks. Her smiles. Everything with a different meaning now — so different that I feel an icy claw gripping my chest. I do not even know why, since I have dismissed any possibility of a further connection to her. I am about to leave Hertfordshire and never return, so why should I care if she despises me? Perhaps it is even better that she will not be hurt by my departure. Then why can I not get rid of this weight on my heart?

I rise and pour myself another drink in an attempt to induce a drunken slumber. With all the disdain I have felt and expressed for the gentlemen who do not know when to stop and the scorn I have delivered to my cousin and to W—

But I need to rest my mind. The bottle is empty; I cannot sleep without one more glass at least. I know I am not acting like myself, but I leave the room in search of a new bottle. I know Bingley has several in the library. Thank God everybody is asleep and cannot see me wandering around clad only in trousers and a shirt. The library door opens with a creak that sounds like thunder in the silent house. I leave it open a crack and go to the cabinet, grabbing a bottle, too distracted to care what it is.

It is so cold that I am suddenly shivering, and only then do I realise I am barefoot. As I step towards the door, a soft sound holds me still like a stone, and I stare at the image in front of me: Elizabeth, wearing her nightgown and robe, with her hair falling loose on her shoulders, her chest, and her back, looking at me in shock, her eyes wide open and lips parted.

“Miss Bennet!”

“Mr Darcy…forgive me, sir, I came to find a book to read… Forgive me, I shall leave…”

“No, no, please do not leave. What book would you like? I am quite familiar with them…I might help.”

“There is no need to bother yourself, sir…”

“No bother at all, I assure you.”

“Then…any work of Shakespeare’s would do,” she says, and I feel she is in a hurry to be away from me. I notice her measure me briefly with her eyes, and only then do I remember my attire, which must be outrageous to her.

I hand her the book and she takes it; her fingers brush over mine briefly, and she withdraws them in haste, like they burn. Surely it is not the same delicious burn that I felt at that fleeting touch.

“Miss Bennet…only a moment please… This is hardly the right time or place, I know, but there might not be a better one.”

She looks at me, flustered, confused, flushed from unease, looking around nervously.

“Yes?”

“You must allow me to tell you how deeply I regret my horrible behaviour at that assembly…and to assure you that, regardless of my words, they do not express my feelings. Which are, in fact, quite the opposite.”

Amazement transforms her beautiful face, and a frown of doubt appears between her eyebrows. I continue in haste, as I do not feel secure either on my feet or in my response.

“I hope you will accept my sincere apologies. That evening at the assembly, I was distracted by some personal troubles, and I did not wish to attend at all. Bingley insisted and I — feeling I owed him as his guest — finally agreed. I hope you will believe me when I say I would not have danced that evening with anyone, but I would be honoured and delighted and grateful to dance with you on any other future occasion.”

Her astonishment seems now complete, and she stares at me in silence. I do not know what else to say, so, feeling I have made a fool of myself again, I bow stiffly to her and slowly step past her immobile figure, almost reaching the door. I shall berate myself when I am no longer in her presence.

“Mr Darcy?” I finally hear her low voice and turn. “Thank you for telling me… I have no reason to doubt your words…”

“Thank you,” I whisper back, ready to finally leave.

“And sir,” she adds, stopping me again, “I would be delighted to dance with you whenever you ask again.” There is a smile in her eyes and on her lips. A different kind of smile. One that I have not seen before.

With that, she walks past me and leaves the library first, while I gaze after her, smiling like a fool; but a fool who suddenly feels light-hearted, albeit cold, and can breathe with no effort. It seems I shall not need that bottle to sleep better, after all.