Six Inches Deep in Mud

Chapter 6

I should not have come to the library; I have no business here. What prompted me to come against my feelings and common sense, I cannot imagine. It must be the same ridiculous reason that induces me to spend so much time reflecting on him — the most puzzling man I have ever met.

I cannot understand what is happening to me; I feel I am losing my common sense. Am I becoming Lydia? Otherwise, I cannot account for wasting my night recollecting Mr Darcy’s image in his night clothes. Who does that? Thank God nobody will ever know my thoughts, or I would be mortified for life. Thinking of Mr Darcy cannot bring me anything good. He is a handsome man — nobody denies that. And he can be charming and amiable when he wishes to be, which depends on his mood. Should a man’s character depend on his disposition? Should a woman of some wisdom be impressed by a few stray signs of friendliness amidst many examples of arrogance?

Yes, I am impressed, I must admit that, though with some embarrassment. I have thought of Mr Darcy in the last few days more than I have ever thought of all the gentlemen I have ever met in my entire life. I cannot tell anyone, not even my dear Jane.

I find myself doing all sorts of silly things these days; acting strangely and exposing myself to ridicule. It is nobody’s fault that I have unreasonable expectations and assume people have changed simply because they apologise for a rude comment.

He sounded and looked amiable and kind last night in the library. I was surprised, and that must have been the reason why I felt so shocked when he gave me the book and his fingers touched mine.

I have danced with gentlemen who have touched my hand in the past — gloves are sometimes forgotten — but such a strange sensation I have never before experienced. Something is utterly wrong with me. I pray Jane will be healthy soon and we may return home. Being under the same roof, in the same house, as Mr Darcy seems to be affecting my sanity.

Though, offering to share the pot of coffee with him was evidently not enough incentive for him to check his arrogance and contempt when he spoke about my relatives. It is truly ironic that his partner in conversation and mockery was none other than Caroline Bingley, whose own father made his fortune in trade. That woman’s arrogance is as great as his, though she has far less reason for it. Besides, Mr Darcy does not seem to show much consideration or respect for Miss Bingley either; he seems to enjoy making fun at the expense of others. It is a habit that annoys me even in Papa — making sport, is what he calls it! — and even more so in Mr Darcy.

Fortunately, I had the chance to have my own amusement at his expense when we spoke of his faults; or better said, lack of them. Miss Bingley is pitiable with her need to flatter him for all sorts of nonsense.

Such a strange man as Mr Darcy is rarely found, which is quite fortunate. His changing manners are so confusing that I can hardly sketch his character. His arrogance and conceit are beyond doubt. But why would he pretend amiability and even friendliness towards me? It confuses me. Last night, he apologised for his offence at the assembly, and he explained the circumstances. I was so surprised that I promised I would dance with him next time he asks. I doubt he will ever ask me again, so my offer was rather ridiculous. And he looked ill and thankful when I offered him coffee. It was almost like a discussion between friends, only to hear him talking about my uncles later. Hateful man.

Then why did I come to the library, knowing he might be here? What did I expect from him? No, I have not come to find another book — that would be a poor excuse I might give someone else, but I cannot deceive myself. I knew it was foolhardy, but I entered and I stepped forwards even when I saw Mr Darcy asleep on the sofa.

I should have retraced my steps immediately and left the room. But I did not. I thought he must be ill, after all; he did look ill. It was cold in the library when I entered, with the fire almost gone out, so I put another log on it.

Then I moved closer to the sofa on an impulse that I now deeply regret, but I would have done it for anyone. He was sleeping, and the blanket had slipped off him, so I picked it up and draped it back over him.Who would have expected him to take my hand? Who would have imagined he would kiss it? Who could have guessed I would feel his lips in my palm and that the sensation would shake me so badly that I would forcefully pull my hand away and make him fall from the sofa?

Now I am standing here, watching him as he stares at me from the floor, bewildered. I can still feel the touch of his lips on my palm like a brand. I would not be surprised to see the form of his lips printed on my skin. Feeling it still burning — and only my face is burning hotter — I close my fist, as though I am trying to hide that particular spot. There is just one thing to do next: turn and leave, which I try to do when his voice calls out to me.

“Miss Bennet, please, can you stay for a moment? Forgive me, I still have a terrible headache…”

“Perhaps brandy at such an early hour is not the best medicine,” I reply harshly, noticing the half-full glass.

He finally gathers himself to stand.

“Allow me to apologise. I am afraid I fell asleep…”

“I noticed. I tried to put the blanket over you. You should sleep in your room, sir. It is rather cold in here.”

“Indeed, it is. I need a moment to tell you…I cannot pretend I did not notice. I assume you heard me talking to Miss Bingley before breakfast, and you must have thought—”

“There is nothing to assume, Mr Darcy. I did hear you talking to Miss Bingley about my relatives, this morning as well as on the day I arrived. I am well aware that my family’s situation is significantly below yours, but nobody claimed otherwise. Therefore, I see no reason for you to mock them. They cannot have hurt you in any way, so you cannot blame your resentful temper.”

As I speak, I feel myself growing angry, and I cannot understand why. It should be a simple conversation, and he seems to be attempting an explanation. Why am I responding so strangely, so unreasonably? My voice sounds irritating even to me.

“I understand you are upset. However, the reason behind that conversation was not my sense of superiority nor my resentful temper. I would say…quite the opposite.”

Unnervingly, his tone is calm and his voice low, which makes my own high pitch even more ridiculous.

“I find it difficult to understand your meaning, Mr Darcy.”

“It is difficult to understand, and it might be even more so if you knew the truth.”

“Will you trust my judgment enough to reveal your truth to me, or are you only teasing me?”

“I am not teasing you, Miss Bennet, and I do trust your judgment. But I am…um…concerned about your response, nevertheless. I am not sure how such a circumstance can be explained.”

“Mr Darcy, you make the situation sound serious, when I am sure that is not the case. Miss Bingley seems to spend her life attempting to flatter you, and for some strange reason, she finds enjoyment in offending me and my family. I try not to respond to her as I would wish to since I am grateful for the care my sister has been offered during her recovery.”

“Your sister’s comfort is entirely due to Bingley.”

“I assumed as much. And I remember your timely insistence on calling Mr Jones.”

“I am happy Miss Bennet is improving,” he says, and I feel annoyed again. He is certainly trying to change the subject and to avoid providing an explanation that likely does not exist.

“Is there anything else that you wish to tell me, Mr Darcy? I believe you began to but apparently changed your mind.”

“I would like to tell you. It will surely offer you a better understanding, but you will be no less upset with me.”

“I doubt that. Regardless, we must end this conversation one way or another.”

“Very well,’” he says, then turns his back on me for a moment, then turns again. “Miss Bingley’s behaviour towards you is mostly due to an indiscretion on my part. I was imprudent and careless in mentioning something to her. Something I should have kept to myself.”

“I am not sure why your confession to Miss Bingley would concern me in any way.” Truly I am not, and his strange explanation has only annoyed me further.

“It does, Miss Bennet, as the confession was in regard to you.”

“To me?”

“Yes…” He paces a little, with visible agitation and reluctance, while I am losing my patience.

“Miss Bennet, do you remember Sir William Lucas’s party? When I asked you to dance and you refused me?”

“I do remember. Your invitation was not serious, so there was no other possible answer. But we have already canvassed this subject.”

“I confess I enjoyed your witty answers and admired your spirit,” he says, and I frown. Did he? I certainly did not notice on that particular evening.

“Miss Bingley caught me in some sort of reverie and asked me about it. She assumed I was tired of the party and the company, so I told her she was wrong. Paying little consideration to my words, I admitted I admired you… To be entirely honest, I mentioned I particularly admired your eyes. Since then, Miss Bingley has been teasing me about it and making all sort of jokes about…a union between us and our families… That is how the conversation about your uncles arose earlier.”

He finally stops, looking at me. His speech had been difficult to follow, as both his words and his tone were hesitant. He appears unsettled, which is no wonder, considering what he just said. I knew I was staring at him as he spoke and waiting for him to laugh; it must be a joke — what else? He told Miss Bingley that he admired my eyes? I can hardly repeat that; no part of that statement could be real — or serious.

“I am sorry that my indiscretion gave Miss Bingley ammunition for her ridiculous jealousy and fed her rudeness. I shall have a serious conversation with her and make sure she ceases making such improper jokes.”

“But…” I am still staring at him, not knowing how to reply. “But was it true?” I ask and regret it a moment later. Lydia! Get out of my head!

“If you are referring to my admiration for you — of course. I do not take pleasure in mocking an honourable young woman, nor do I joke about my admiration,” he answers seriously. “Please know my confession was made with all due respect, though I understand if it has upset you.”

“It has not upset me, sir, but it does amaze me. In truth, of all the gentlemen I have met, you are the last man in the world whom I expected to admire me.”

“Really?”

“Really. I was convinced that you only looked at me to find fault or to criticise.”

“My thoughts have never even been close to that assumption, Miss Bennet. As I said, please be sure there is nothing disrespectful in my feelings, nor I hope in my behaviour towards you.”

“No…of course not,” I whisper. I am completely bewildered, and the place where his lips touched my palm is burning even more powerfully. It is a struggle to resist looking at it. He is still looking at me, but somehow his gaze has changed, and the heat from my palm is spreading into my body. The strength of the sensation is overwhelming.

“I apologise if my confession has made you uncomfortable, Miss Bennet. I just wished you to know that I did not speak of you or your relatives in an inconsiderate manner. I am guilty of not stopping the hurtful mockery and inappropriate jests of Miss Bingley, but no disrespect was meant on my side.”

“Thank you. I understand…” I whisper. I am indeed uncomfortable, like never before. And dazed and doubtful of my judgment and my observations.

I am in a real storm of feelings of all sorts; some of them I cannot even name. But I am not upset. In fact, I congratulate myself on my boldness in coming to the library when I knew he might be here. Many questions need answers, but I do not feel confident enough to enquire further at present.

“I shall return to my sister now,” I say.

“Very well… Miss Bennet, did you need something from the library?”

“No…I mean yes…I came to find a book. I am sorry for disturbing you.”

“Please do not apologise. I am grateful for the opportunity to have had this conversation. Is there any particular book you would like to read?”

“As you are more familiar with Mr Bingley’s library, do you have any recommendations?”

He pauses for a moment and appears thoughtful. “I believe I do,” he says and stretches to a higher shelf, then hands me a book.

I look at it for a short moment, then turn it so I can read the title.

The Lady of the Lake, Walter Scott.

The title is not familiar to me, though the poet is — for who has not heard of the author of Marmion — and I take it from his hand. I am embarrassed to admit to myself that I hope our fingers might touch again; but they do not.

“I am curious to know whether I was right in guessing your preference,” he says.

“I shall let you know.”

“Please do. I shall be in the library most of the day.”

“Very well, then…”

“Miss Bennet, one more thing… When I woke up abruptly…if I did something improper…please know I was asleep…”

My cheeks are burning again.

“Yes, I know. You have nothing to worry about, sir,” I reply as I walk towards the door, the place where his lips touched my palm still scorching.