Six Inches Deep in Mud

Chapter 4

E ver since I can remember, I have been proud of my name, of my family, and of my heritage. From a young age, I tried to be worthy of my legacy and to make my family proud of me. I felt their love every day, but the sentiment was exquisite when I saw pride for my accomplishments in the eyes of my father — a man whose excellent character matched his kind heart. It was my inducement to study, to work hard, to strive for improvement in all aspects of my life. I hope my parents would be pleased with the man I have become.

Most of the time, I have been reasonably proud of my actions and achievements too. Yet, to my recollection, I have never been so ashamed of myself before tonight, as I lie in my bed, half an hour after speaking to Elizabeth in the library.

I should be pleased, content, relieved that I cleared up the misunderstanding and apologised for my rude behaviour at that assembly. I should have been thrilled with her teasing and her peculiar smile when she assured me that she would dance with me the next time I asked her.

Suddenly, the prospect of the ball Bingley promised to host at Netherfield does not sound so awful. I shall not miss the chance of a set — it might be the first and last occasion for such delightful enjoyment.

I know what I should feel, and yet my feelings are so much more complex. They are deeper, disturbing and stirring my senses, awakening me from my agitated sleep and making me embarrassed — ashamed.

Those minutes with Elizabeth in the library are replaying in my mind, and all sorts of shocking and inappropriate details are popping into my head. I remember every lock of hair falling on her shoulders, her robe slightly open at the neck, revealing the modest edge of her nightgown, the colour of her skin, which looked different at the boundary between darkness and light. Her figure was disturbingly alluring in the nightgown that caressed her curves, and I spotted an inch of her bare ankles. And that sensation of the brief brush of her fingers over mine when I handed her the book still gives me thrills.

I do not remember feeling such thrills when I was young and touched a girl’s hand for the first time. I do not even remember who she was — probably a family friend with whom I danced. Well, I do remember touching Elizabeth now — very clearly. And I shall probably not forget it soon.

I laugh at my foolishness in calling her tolerable but not handsome enough to tempt me. What a joke — and how fate is punishing and mocking me! Well, I assume I deserve it.

I feel more tempted than ever before; in truth, I did not know that such a level of temptation could exist. The fact that my character and my education curb my temptation provides me little comfort. Even if my actions do not show it, and others do not observe anything, I know my wishes and am equally bothered and embarrassed by them. The more details I remember about our brief encounter, the more I wish I could have embraced her, caressed her, kissed her, filled my nostrils with her scent, felt her warmth, tasted her…

And there are so many other wishes that I do not even dare acknowledge and admit to myself.

A few days ago, I told myself that, if not for the inferiority of her connections, I would be in some danger. I know now I am in great danger, and neither the inferiority of her connections nor anything else I can think of will dissipate the sense of panic that envelops me.

I might have admired women from afar before, and I have enjoyed the company of some too. My senses might have been touched occasionally, but neither my heart nor my mind were, in the slightest, and my self-control was never challenged; now, it is almost entirely crushed.

Yes, I must return to London very soon; perhaps after the ball that Bingley is planning. The distance and different company will surely help me escape this partiality, which has turned into obsession.

I should not have drunk the last glass of brandy; I hoped it would help me sleep but it has only given me a headache. But then, I would not have wandered into the library to search for another bottle and would not have encountered Elizabeth… My head is hurting, as if knives are splitting it open like a ripe melon. I wonder how Elizabeth’s hand would feel on my forehead. A gentle touch, nothing more. Her fingers only brushed over mine. What if they entwined for an instant?

No, I cannot allow myself to indulge in such thoughts; I cannot torture myself even more than I am. And yet, one day, Elizabeth’s hand will surely caress someone else’s forehead. Someone else will be allowed to touch her hair and remove her robe. If only… No, that is enough! No more thoughts about Elizabeth! No more torture! I must conquer this!

***

One thing that I loathe about winter is that the days are so short and the nights so long. I feel like I have been awake for hours, yet it is still dark outside. It must not yet be half past six in the morning, I assume. I am tired; my head is still hurting, and I should sleep some more. I need to sleep, but I cannot! I have no patience to stay in bed either; I have no patience to even ring for my man.

Better that I dress and go and ask for some coffee. Some people say coffee helps them with tiredness and keeps their mind sharp. My cousin Richard says that often; he should know, as he misses many nights of sleep, but hopefully in a more cheerful manner than I did. From my previous experience, I cannot testify to the miraculous effect of coffee, but now would be an excellent time to test it properly. If it helps, I need a lot!

I open the door and step into the hall, then stop, wondering whether I am actually awake or caught in some silly dream. There is Elizabeth, carrying a tray with some steaming hot beverages and a covered dish, and what strikes me is the strong, unmistakeable smell of coffee.

“Mr Darcy?”

“Miss Bennet, good morning… Are you carrying that tray by yourself? May I help you?”

I hear my own words, and I know they sound ridiculous; of course she is carrying the tray by herself, unless there is some invisible help. I am pathetic — a mumbling idiot; surely no amount of coffee will help me enough to regain some wit.

“Yes and no,” she replies, smiling at me. “I am taking Jane her herbal tea and some toast. And some coffee for me. I barely slept last night.”

“Oh? I hope you are not unwell. Or is Miss Bennet?”

Now I sound panicked and still ridiculous. She smiles at me again; she is probably amused by my stupidity.

“We are both well, thank you. I stayed awake because I was worried about Jane, but she slept peacefully, and her fever is gone.”

“I am glad to hear that.”

“Are you well, sir? You look a little pale…”

“I am well enough. I too slept badly. And I have a horrible headache. I am going to ask for some coffee too.”

“Oh… I took the entire pot, and it might be a little while before they make another one. Would you…do you have something I can pour some coffee into? There is more than enough for both of us.” She looks at me expectantly. “A cup, perhaps?”

Her reply stuns me. And her voice sounds strangely sweet and comforting; she seems genuinely worried about my headache. She wants to share her coffee with me. Something to put the coffee in? Do I have something?

“Yes, I believe so… I would love some coffee if you can spare it,” I answer, dazed.

She remains in the hall, waiting, looking at me. I glance around, then hurry to my room to look for something. I find no cups, only glasses, as expected; after all, I have drunk no tea in my room.

I return to the hall holding a glass, and she looks at me.

“Mr Darcy, take this saucer and put your glass on it, or else the hot coffee will burn your fingers. And please take as much coffee as you like.”

She is holding the tray, looking at me, still smiling. I follow her orders and fill my glass with fresh, steaming coffee, then put the pot back on the tray.

“Thank you,” I manage to say. “Shall I help you open the door?”

“No, thank you. There is a maid with Jane. She will help me.”

With that, she walks away, and I remain in the hall, gazing after her, holding the saucer with the glass filled with black liquid.

I return to my room and put the glass on the table. She was right; it would have burnt my fingers if not for her suggestion. Her comforting voice and her gentle smile only increased my agitation. But somehow, my headache seems mostly gone, and I have not even drunk the coffee. Her presence and a few words proved to be excellent medicine.

I sit and hold the glass; slowly, I take a sip, then another one. Can it be more tasty than at other times? Coffee is coffee — why do I enjoy it more than before? Can it be for the simple reason that she shared it with me? Can I be such a bewitched fool? Despite my opposition, this seems like the more logical answer.

I finish the drink, thinking of Elizabeth. I do try to think of some other things, but I fail. Some time passes, and there is finally full daylight, and I go downstairs to find Bingley. Breakfast should be ready soon; once my headache vanished, I felt the hunger.

However, my headache makes itself present again when I happen upon Miss Caroline Bingley, alone.

“Mr Darcy, how glad I am that you came. I have been longing for company. Neither Louisa nor Charles are down yet.”

“I shall ask for some coffee,” I say.

“Oh, come and sit. The servants will bring breakfast soon. You look ill, sir.”

I sit reluctantly, rubbing my forehead with my fingers.

“I must say that you have looked ill since Mrs Bennet’s visit.” Miss Bingley laughs. “I saw how she embarrassed you, so I hope you will give her a few hints as to the advantage of holding her tongue once a certain desirable event takes place and she becomes your mother-in-law.”

I roll my eyes but choose not to accept the challenge; after all, it was my stupidity and my own failure in holding my tongue when I mentioned my admiration for Elizabeth’s fine eyes that exposed me to Miss Bingley’s mockery.

“And it would be helpful if you could cure the younger girls of their habit of running after the officers. If you take them to London for the Season, they will surely embarrass you.”

“I shall take note,” I reply curtly. But she continues.

“And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses.”

“On that, I must contradict you, Miss Bingley. I happen to admire and approve of a woman’s wit, even if it does hold a hint of conceit and impertinence. I find it quite refreshing.”

I can see my answer discomposes and, I hope, silences her on this subject.

“I hope you do not have anything else to propose for my domestic felicity.”

“In fact, I do. Do let the portraits of her uncle and aunt Phillips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different lines. And I understand there is another uncle, a Mr Gardiner, in London, somewhere near Cheapside.”

I am annoyed and growing angrier, and I am about to reply sharply when we are suddenly interrupted.

“Forgive me. Are you talking about my relatives?” I hear Elizabeth enquire.

I am too stunned to respond, and my mind is not completely alert yet. Miss Bingley’s face changes colour several times, and Elizabeth continues, “I am quite sure I heard Miss Bingley mention my uncle and aunt Phillips and my uncle Gardiner. Please be so kind as to enlighten me as to how it is that they are the subject of your conversation.”

Elizabeth is looking straight at me, and her gaze is neither sweet nor caring. I wonder what I can say to exonerate myself and that will not sound like a ridiculous, pitiful lie.

“It was nothing,” Miss Bingley quickly says. “Mr Darcy and I were talking about what Jane told us before you arrived.”

Elizabeth’s frown does not disappear, nor do the sharp arrows she is throwing from her eyes, mostly in my direction.

“Miss Bingley and I forgot our manners,” I say. “Talking about people who are not present nor part of our families. We apologise, Miss Bennet. We should have enough subjects of conversation regarding our own families and ourselves.”

Elizabeth’s countenance changes slightly, but there is no time for further conversation before Bingley enters, followed by the Hursts, and we all settle down to eat our breakfast.

As we eat, Bingley talks to his sisters. I have nothing to say, and Elizabeth only gives short answers whenever she is asked something directly. She is upset and with good reason. I wonder how much she heard of our conversation, and I fear she might believe I colluded with Miss Bingley to make sport of her family. How horrible would that be, after her kind gesture of sharing her coffee?

Strangely, the preposterous conversation with Miss Bingley remains clear in my mind, though for other reasons than she intended.

Miss Bingley’s mockery about the Bennet family matched my own thoughts, but somehow, hearing it from her mouth changed my way of seeing them.

Yes, Mrs Bennet’s manners are disgraceful, from the little I have seen. But my aunt Lady Catherine’s behaviour is no better most of the time. In fact, all the silliness I have heard from Mrs Bennet, I have heard from Lady Catherine too, only in a different form and in a different tone.

Mrs Bennet’s obsession with marrying off her daughters is distasteful, but most mothers, even those from the most illustrious families, share the same obsession. Including Lady Catherine.

As for Elizabeth’s relatives who make a living as attorneys or in trade — well, they are no different from Bingley’s father. Besides, Hurst is in no way better — quite the opposite, in fact — and there are many other men in his position, living off nothing but their names and their wives’ dowries.

I know Miss Bingley entertains some unreasonable hopes that I shall offer to marry her; ridiculous of course, just like my aunt Lady Catherine’s hope that I shall marry my cousin Anne. If Miss Caroline Bingley considers herself suitable to be my wife, why could a gentleman’s daughter not be considered from such a perspective?

Yes, I fell in love with Elizabeth against my will, against my reason, and choosing her would be against my family’s expectations as well as mine.

But — shockingly! — Miss Bingley has shaken my reason enough to understand that it does not mean it is impossible.

After all, the line between appealing and appalling is very thin, and tremendous could mean something very bad as well as something very good.

I gaze at Elizabeth across the table and meet her quizzical gaze. Has she noticed something? Have I been staring at her again? I watch her lick her lips and sip her tea.

For the first time, I truly imagine the possibility of having Elizabeth at my side, sharing breakfast and dinner together every day. What could be more appealing than such an image?