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Mr. Darcy knew he was nearing Pemberley. His absolute certainty was not merely due to the familiar countryside which surrounded him—though the sounds of the stream he swam in as a boy, the worn footpath to Lambton which could be seen winding among the woods, and the many chestnut trees just past bloom brought him great comfort. Rather, it was the the tension leaving his body and the sense of calm replacing the near constant tumult of thoughts turning through his mind which announced the gentleman’s long anticipated arrival home.
At length the wood ceased, and as his horse crested the final hill of the shaded lane Darcy could see his home settled across the valley below. In spite of having spent the previous days traveling, the long morning’s journey felt less trivial now that Pemberley was in sight. The handsome stone building stood proud in the light of the early afternoon sun, its shape as familiar as the sound of Georgiana’s delighted laugh. Feeling great pleasure, Darcy could not help but laugh himself at the relief, for he had not realized how full his mind had become while he had been away. He slowed his horse to a trot, then eased the animal into a leisurely walk, delighted by the summer air and the look of the grounds. While absence always increased his fondness, Darcy often wished he never had to leave Pemberley; this was the place where he felt most comfortable and at ease of anywhere in the world.
Mr. Darcy descended the hill, crossed the old bridge, and leisurely continued toward the direction of the stables. Greeted by a kind smile from the old stablemaster once he arrived, which he received gratefully and returned in kind, Darcy dismounted from the saddle and exchanged a familiar hello with the old man whom he had known for the whole of his life. He then handed the reins to the boy tending to the water troughs, and, removing his coat, hat, and gloves, he asked the boy to kindly take his things up to the house. Rather than walking directly there himself, Darcy resolved to take the longer path along the river’s edge before attending to the necessary business with his steward which had brought him to Pemberley a day before of the rest of his party.
Lost in the tranquility of wandering the familiar grounds, Darcy did not at first notice the figures ahead of him until he was close enough to hear their merry voices. Perhaps a small party of visitors walking the grounds, he thought. This was not an unusual occurrence at a grand house such as Pemberley; much of his childhood was occupied by making a game of avoiding visitors as they roamed the vast park. He considered turning onto another path, disposed toward the natural inclination to avoid any chance of conversation, but carried by the confidence of being home Darcy continued along the road on his chosen course.
The party was at first obscured by the branches of one of the many trees scattered along the edge of the riverbank, but soon he cleared the obstacle and Darcy could see the group. They were at first turned away from him, their attention away from the river and up the hill, admiring the house and conjecturing as to the date of the building. However, at nearly the same moment he appeared in full view of the party, one of the visitors turned. Frozen, Mr. Darcy locked eyes with an unexpected, painfully familiar face.
She, who he had spent the long summer weeks struggling in vain to push from his mind, but who had been a determined and constant figure in his thoughts.
She, who he expected never to meet again—never to hear another witty remark fall from her lips, nor see the knowing look dance in her eyes when she laughed at him. The woman Mr. Darcy both dreadfully feared and desperately wished to encounter just once more.
Here, at Pemberley, on the grounds of his sure and comforting home, Elizabeth Bennet.
Shocked at her unexpected presence, though yet uncertain if it was entirely unwelcome, Darcy immediately became aware of every aspect of his appearance. His previously tranquil thoughts were now fixed on the obvious blush of his cheeks, his still and stiff stance, and the untidy figure of a loose shirt and boots, still covered in dust from the country road. He could not help but notice, and dwell on, the startled look in her eyes and the rise of colour to her cheeks as well. Darcy imagined her features mirrored his own, although he could not help but think also how nicely the colour complemented her completion, browned from the summer sun. She looked, if possible, even more lovely than when he last saw her in the country months before. It appeared that absence increased his fondness for her in much the same way as Pemberley did. He briefly marveled at the fact that she still enchanted him so—for Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her—but this pleasant observation was quickly buried beneath the crowd of more pressing anxieties.
Mr. Darcy shook his head and silently cursed himself. Why had he not gone from the stables to the house directly? Or turned back when he heard voices, as was his natural inclination? Had he not walked so leisurely from the stables, or urged his horse faster and arrived an hour earlier, their paths may not have crossed. Had he instead made the decision to leave London one day earlier, or gone ahead of the rest of his party before breakfast, or perhaps if he had not said that final goodbye to Georgiana, he would have been spared this mortifying moment of absolute humiliation.
What must she think of him, intruding on her afternoon in such a sudden and discourteous manner. Was she embarrassed to see him this way? Was her blush one of anger, remanence of her clearly expressed resentment from their last meeting rising to the surface? Darcy assumed she still held him in the highest contempt for it. He thought of her impassioned response to his declaration of affection, the offer of marriage which had been so repulsive to her but a few months ago. Since that moment her bitter accusations and derisive speech had been tormenting his every waking thought, a persistent repetition in the back of his mind.
“You are mistaken Mr. Darcy, if you supposed that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared the concern which I might have felt in refusing you had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”
He was distantly aware that he had not moved from his place on the lawn, not drawn a deep breath, unable to break away from her gaze. Deep in thought, he could not be sure how long he had been standing motionless—time is of little consequence when one is fraught with anxiety—though likely only a moment had passed since he first laid eyes on her.
Mr. Darcy considered turning to walk back along the road to the stables without acknowledging the party at all, but fighting the impulse to escape he willed his feet to approach the group gathered near the edge of the river; he did not have the strength, however, to tear his eyes away from her as he approached .
“You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it—”
What had possessed him to declare his love in such a way? Against his better judgement, what had possessed him to declare his love at all?
“From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you—”
He had not noticed the rapid beating of his heart until now.
“Your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance—”
He was unable to draw a deep breath, his rapid pulse pressing painfully against his lungs.
“Your conceit, and your selfish distain of the feelings of others—”
And that damned letter. He had written the pages of dense script in a sleepless passion, fueled by his anger toward her accusations regarding Wickham and his unacknowledged pain at being so decidedly rejected. In this moment of panic, Mr. Darcy could not remember the words he had written. Had the contents of the letter offended her further? Were his words, no doubt incoherent and deranged, at the forefront of her mind as well, fueling her current disgust?
“Were such to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike—”
He stopped on the path yard away, unsure of how close it was appropriate to approach her, or if was appropriate at all.
“And I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
Mr. Darcy cleared his throat and spoke, “Miss Bennet.”
He willed himself to appear as the paragon of composure—or if not the paragon of composure, at least of civility. Though he could scarcely hear his own words through the disorder of anxiety, embarrassment, and agitation in his head, Mr. Darcy resolved to maintain this conversation for as long as he could manage.
She returned similar greetings in hurried words, though she spoke with the perfect civility he longed for. Why were her words hurried? She had turned her body away upon his approach and averted her eyes from his. Was she so eager to be out of his presence? He was now certain her blush must be one of anger, for her abhorrence was clear in her every manner.
Mr. Darcy felt himself growing more anxious every moment, yet he continued to talk of small, inconsequential pleasantries—the weather and grounds, the health of her family, her business in the country—desperate to keep her in his presence. He focused on keeping his voice steady and appearing engaged in the conversation. The thoughts in his head distracted Mr. Darcy, and he was not master of himself enough to succeed. In spite of his determined efforts, he felt his anxiety escape the mask of composure he worked so hard to maintain. Quite sure she saw through the thin disguise, Mr. Darcy supposed only propriety spared him from her mocking laughter at his lack of composure.
He was running out of pleasantries. Had he just asked about the health of her family twice?
While visiting Rosings in the spring, Mr. Darcy had gathered his courage and succeeded in capturing her precious attention near the pianoforte one evening. In a moment of complete candor—for she had the power to draw the natural truth from him with nothing more than a tilt of her head—he had confessed his difficulty conversing with others. She suggested he practice. Now he felt the deepest regret for not considering her advice.
Every word which passed between her lips betrayed the deep intellect she possessed. He longed to understand the inner workings of her mind, to ask for her opinions and discuss her thoughts on matters of the world. He had never met another person with a mind as rich as hers. She had no equal on this earth. How had he once dismissed her on her looks alone? How could he have missed the intelligence on her face when first introduced? He hated to remember that he had once called her “tolerable”. Standing in the sunlight, a glowing figure in the forefront of his beloved gardens, she was anything but.
She met his eyes and his breath caught in his throat.
Mr. Darcy’s words died away and a heavy silence settled over them. The distance between them felt both too near and too far. He was bewitched by her presence, by his desire to be near her; he was caught in an internal battle between his violent affection for her and a barely contained urge to run from her.
For in this moment there was no doubt in his mind that his feelings were unchanged from what they were in the spring. The clarity of the realization was startling. Now, however, he resolved to keep his affection buried deep within his soul, never to be uttered again.
Her eyes fell from his face, and in this action he felt sure she had seen the depth of his affection rise to the surface before he had the chance to tuck it under the thin mask of civility he was struggling to maintain.
His sentiments had remained unchanged, he now knew this to be true, so surely hers had remained unchanged as well. He had no evidence to convince him otherwise, she had been painfully firm in her refusal and her behavior here had been incomprehensible.
“I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”
Yet, in her gaze he saw no lingering animosity, none of the anger or barely contained resentment he assumed she was harboring. Had her affections changed? It was impossible to imagine. Equally, it was impossible not to long to know. With that thought, he began to hope as he had scarcely allowed himself to hope before.
In a miraculous moment of clarity he pulled himself together, bowed, turned his back on her, and took his leave. He walked back along the path and up the hill, all the while fighting the impulse to look back at her. He recalled the mortifying interaction, incessantly analyzing every moment of it. He regretted every inarticulate word he had uttered and every stiff and awkward motion.
Had he appeared rude to her? Detached and conceited as she had often accused him of? Were his manners disagreeable? She had once called him proud, though in this moment he felt anything but. He closed his eyes and continually berated himself for his foolishness. At any moment he expected her indignant laugh to ring across the lake, a laugh of mockery or relief at his cowardly retreat. But it did not—no sound followed him into the house.
What did this say, her uncommon silence coupled with a mysterious and strange manner throughout their recent encounter?
His heart began to beat fervently once more, a tumult of thoughts consumed his mind, but the object of his anxiety changed. He no longer dwelt on the assumption of contempt, instead he wondered at the existence of her affection.
Before he lost the wave of confidence encouraged by her silence, Mr. Darcy quickened his pace up the hill toward the house, resolved to return and discover the degree of her indifference. He hurried through the halls of his home, trying desperately to find a trace of insincerity in Elizabeth’s words—
“I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”