P&P The Untold Stories: Easter Sunday at Rosings

Darcy sees Elizabeth at church

March 29, 1812

It had started at church, which had been the usual affair of attempting to disguise the fact that he could not stop stealing glances at Elizabeth combined with utter disdain for Mr. Collins’s foolish sermon.  Easter and rebirth—he had that much right, but the ridiculous ramblings that followed would have been laughable had they not been so dreadfully dull. Darcy had already steeled himself to the knowledge that he would not have the acute, painful delight of seeing Elizabeth again until the next week’s service when he heard Lady Catherine invite Mr. Collins and his party to join them at Rosings that evening.

He wanted to be dismayed by the news. It was better to limit his exposure to Elizabeth to once a week at church, where he could remember why he could not have her as his own, but no matter how well he knew he should stay away from her, he could not find the least trace of regret in his heart that he would have another hour in her company, another hour of feeling alive, that evening.

Anticipation of her visit haunted him throughout the day, making him unusually restless. Colonel Fitzwilliam even commented on his preoccupation, which brought Darcy back to the present for a few minutes, but the colonel could not compete with the bewitching Elizabeth who filled his thoughts.

After all his agitation, her arrival was anticlimactic.  Since Lady Catherine insisted upon monopolizing his attention with her incessant demands, he could only watch her from across the room while his cousin was fortunate enough to seat himself by Elizabeth and enjoy her lively smiles.  Darcy could only make out fragments of their conversation, but they conversed with such spirit and flow that he could not deny to himself that she seemed to be enjoying Colonel Fitzwilliam’s company more than she ever had his.  It did not matter, though. Neither of them could ever have her, so there was no point thinking about it—and certainly no call for obsessing constantly about it.

It would be beneath him to feel jealous of his landless, often fundless cousin. He tore his gaze away from them and tried to focus on his conversation with his aunt, monotonous as it was, until out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his cousin leading Elizabeth into the next room, presumably to the pianoforte. The sound of their laughter floated through the opening between the rooms.

He was certainly not jealous, but he did not choose to be deprived of the opportunity to rest his eyes on Elizabeth’s loveliness, so he excused himself and stationed himself where even the colonel would realize that he commanded a full view of them.

Elizabeth must have noticed as well, since at the first convenient pause, she turned to him with an arch 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.”

What was it about her teasing that intoxicated him so and sent the blood racing through his body? He smiled slowly before offering his rejoinder. “I shall not say that you are mistaken 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.”

Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, “Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so well able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in 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.”

He smiled, confident that her teasing could have no malice.  “I am not afraid of you.”

“Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of,” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I should like to know how he behaves among strangers.”

“You shall hear then—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! I am sorry to pain you—but so it was. He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.”

Why should he deny it?  “I had not at that time the honor of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party.”

“True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball room.” This time her tone had some bite. “Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders.”

His mind whirled. Why was Elizabeth taking aim at him?  Perhaps she had misunderstood what he meant.  “Perhaps I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction, but I am ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”

“Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?” said Elizabeth to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?”

“I can answer your question,” said Fitzwilliam, “without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble.”

They had both turned on him, and in the most painful way. His cousin knew how he had failed to achieve acceptance in certain circles, that same success that came so easily to the colonel. “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,” he said stiffly.

“My fingers,” said Elizabeth, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practicing. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.”

Relief flooded him. She understood, more than he had ever imagined she would understand, how he struggled to avoid giving offense, yet failed again and again—and she was showing him in the best possible way that it was not necessary to be perfect to be appreciated.  He smiled and said, “You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you, can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”

Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again. Darcy watched her in a daze, his world shifting under his feet. He had seen Elizabeth as witty, amusing, attractive—oh, so attractive!—and temptation personified, but this was a side he had never known existed. How had she known so perfectly what he needed to hear just at that moment?

He had forced himself to ignore his desire for her, but this new realization showed him she was more than just a bewitching woman.  She was vital to him.

Family and duty be damned. He was going to marry Elizabeth Bennet.

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