My aunt, too, kept looking towards them, until at last she said: ‘What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is.’

Colonel Fitzwilliam replied that they were speaking of music. My aunt joined in the conversation, praising Georgiana’s abilities on the pianoforte, then mortifying me by inviting Elizabeth to practise on the pianoforte in Mrs Jenkinson’s room. To invite a guest to play on the pianoforte in the companion’s room? I had not thought my aunt could be so ill-bred.

Elizabeth looked surprised, but said nothing, only her smile showing what she thought.

When coffee was over, Elizabeth began to play, and remembering the pleasure I had had in her playing before, I walked over to her side. Her eyes were brightened by the music, and I placed myself in a position from which I could see the play of emotion over her countenance.

She noticed. At the first pause in the music she turned to me with a smile and said: ‘You mean to frighten me, Mr Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me. But I will not be alarmed, though your sister does play so well.

There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me.’

‘I shall not say you are mistaken,’ I replied, ‘because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own.’

Where this speech came from I do not know. I am not used to making playful exchanges, but there is something in Elizabeth’s character which lightens mine.

Elizabeth laughed heartily, and I smiled, knowing that we were both enjoying the exchange. So well was I enjoying it that I forgot my caution and gave myself over to an appreciation of the moment.

‘Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me,’ she said to Colonel Fitzwilliam. Turning to me, she said:

‘It is very ungenerous of you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire – and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too – for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out, as will shock your relations to hear.’

I smiled. ‘I am not afraid of you.’

Her eyes brightened at my remark.

Colonel Fitzwilliam begged to be told how I behave amongst strangers.

‘You shall hear all then,’ said Elizabeth. ‘But prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball – and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances!’

In her eyes, my refusal to dance became ridiculous, and I saw it so myself, for the first time. To stride about in all my pride, instead of enjoying myself as any wellregulated man would have done. Absurd! I would not ordinarily have tolerated any such teasing, and yet there was something in her manner that removed any sting, and instead made it a cause for laughter.

It was at this moment I realized there had been little laughter in my life of late. I had taken on the responsibilities of a man when my father died, and had prided myself on discharging them well, as my father would have done. I had tended my estate, looked to the welfare of my tenants, provided for my sister’s health, happiness and education, seen to the livings in my patronage and discharged my business faithfully. Until meeting Elizabeth that had been enough, but now I saw how dull my life had been. It had been too ordered. Too wellregulated. Only now did I begin to see it, and to feel it, for the feelings inside me were wholly different from any I had known. When I laughed, my disposition lightened.

‘I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party,’ I pointed out, catching her tone.

‘True: and nobody can ever be introduced in a ballroom.’

‘Perhaps I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction, but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers.’

She teased me, wondering how it was that a man of sense and education could not do so, and Colonel Fitzwilliam joined her, saying I would not give myself the trouble.

‘I certainly have not the talent which some people possess, of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done,’ I agreed.

‘My fingers do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do, but then I had always supposed it to be my own fault – because I would not take the trouble of practising.’

I smiled.

‘You are perfectly right.’

At this moment, Lady Catherine interrupted us.

‘What are you talking about, Darcy?’

‘Of music,’ I said.

Lady Catherine joined us at the pianoforte.

‘Miss Bennet would not play amiss, if she practised more, and could have the advantage of a London master,’ declared my aunt. ‘She has a very good notion of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne’s. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn.’

I scarcely heard her. I was watching Elizabeth. She bore with my aunt’s comments with remarkable civility, and at the request of Colonel Fitzwilliam and myself, she remained at the instrument until the carriage was ready to take the party home.

I thought I had rid myself of my admiration for her. I thought I had forgotten her. But I was wrong.


Monday 14th April

I was taking a walk round the grounds this morning when my steps led me unconsciously to the parsonage.

Finding myself outside I could not, in all politeness, pass by, and I called in to pay my respects. To my horror, I found Elizabeth there alone. She seemed as surprised as I was, but she was not, I think, displeased. Why should she be? It must be satisfying for her to think that she has captivated me. She bid me take a seat, and I had no choice but to sit down.

‘I am sorry for this intrusion,’ I said, feeling the awkwardness of the situation, and wanting to make sure she knew it had not been by design. ‘I understood all the ladies to be within.’

‘Mrs Collins and Maria have gone on business to the village,’ she replied.

‘Ah.’

‘Lady Catherine is well?’ she said at last.

‘Yes, I thank you. She is.’

Silence fell.

‘And Miss de Bourgh? She, too, is well?’

‘Yes, I thank you. She is.’

‘And Colonel Fitzwilliam?’ she asked.

‘Yes, he too is well.’

Another silence fell.

‘How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr Darcy!’ she began at last. ‘It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr Bingley to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?’

‘Perfectly so, I thank you.’

‘I think I have understood that Mr Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?’

‘I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in future. He has many friends, and he is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing.’

‘If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But perhaps Mr Bingley did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle.’

I did not like the subject, but replied evenly enough.

‘I should not be surprised if he were to give it up, as soon as any eligible purchase offers.’

I should have left the parsonage then. I knew it. And yet I could not tear myself away. There was something about the shape of her face that invited my eye to follow it, and something about the way her hair fell that made me want to touch it.

She said nothing, and once more there was silence.

I could not say what was in my mind, and yet I found I could not leave.

‘This seems a very comfortable house,’ I said.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘It must be agreeable for Mrs Collins to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends.’

‘An easy distance do you call it?’ she asked in surprise.

‘It is nearly fifty miles.’

‘And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day’s journey.’

‘I should never have considered the distance as one of the advantages of the match,’ cried Elizabeth.

‘It is a proof of your own attachment for Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far,’ I said.

‘I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family.’

Ah. She knew the evils of her relations and would not be sorry to escape them. When she married, she would leave them behind.

‘But I am persuaded my friend would not call herself near her family under less than half the present distance,’ she continued.

‘You cannot have a right to such very strong local attachments,’ I said, pulling my chair forward a little as I spoke, for I felt an overwhelming urge to be near her.

‘You cannot have always been at Longbourn.’

She looked surprised, and I was halted. I had almost been carried away by admiration and tempted into saying that she could have no objection to living at Pemberley, but I had gone too quickly and I was thankful for it. Her look of surprise saved me from committing myself to a course of action I would surely regret. I drew my chair back, and picking up a newspaper, I glanced over it.