Page 22 of Not Without Me, Miss Elizabeth

For nearly ten minutes, Mr. Darcy endured the silence. He stood rigidly, his gaze fixed upon the opposite wall, though he had long since ceased to see it.

Elizabeth's words had lodged themselves in his mind, each one returning with renewed force. His nostrils flared as he struggled to contain the indignation rising within him. Darcy had endured insult before, and from her especially, but there was something about hearing her judgment of him spoken so plainly, here, in their present circumstances, that made it impossible to dismiss.

Indeed, Darcy told himself to let it pass, but he failed. A flash of, what he deemed, righteous anger surged through him, and Darcy turned around to start at Elizabeth’s back. However, she heard his sudden movement, and Elizabeth could not help but look behind her; their eyes met.

He took a deep, fortifying breadth, as she stared at him, with those piercing eyes. “So this, then, is your opinion of me, Miss Elizabeth?” his voice controlled but edged with unmistakable hurt. “That I am proud, and consider myself above thecompany in which I find myself?”

She heard the unmistakable frustration of a man who had spent a little time pretending he did not care what she thought of him.

In truth, Elizabeth was tempted to answer with another sharp remark, but held her tongue, attempting to keep a cool, neutral voice, but kept her chin lifted instead. "Mr. Darcy, since your arrival in the neighbourhood, I have observed your manner, and I confess it seems to me that you consider yourself superior to nearly everyone you meet, excepting, of course, Mr. Bingley and his family."

He was silent a while, weighing his answer. "I do not converse so easily as Bingley. His manners are light and pleasing; he can charm any room he enters. That has never been my particular talent."

She looked momentarily towards the ceiling, then back at the man in front of her, "How is it, sir, that Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, a man who has seen a great deal of the world, and studied it besides, should find himself so ill at ease within it?"

He took no time to reply, "I suppose my parents taught me to respect all men. They did not, I think, teach me how to speak easily with all men."

Elizabeth looked at him with sharpening eyes, "Perhaps, sir. Or perhaps you have simply never taken the trouble to practise."

Darcy inhaled, before replying, "You are not wrong, Miss Elizabeth."

She knew she was right, and he could offer no argument against it. However, she found she had no wish to prolong their quarrel. "Come, Mr. Darcy, let us not say things that will only anger one another further. We might try, instead, to be friends. We shall need to work together if we mean to see our way out of this."

He shook his head. "You are right. We have wasted enough time in disputing. I should like that, to be friends." He regarded her again, a small smile forming.

"Come, then. Let me have another try at your bindings." She beckoned him back toward the bed, and the invitation, however practical its intent, brought Mr. Darcy an unguarded flash of pleasure.

He returned to his place upon the bed, turning to give her access to his bound wrists once more.

"You are a determined woman, whether the matter is walking, refusing to dance, or defending your opinions. I find I cannot help but admire it," he said, with something like a jest.

"A jest, Mr. Darcy? I had not thought you capable of good humour." Elizabeth raised her eyebrows slightly in response.

It was rather saucy of her, but he laughed at the remark all the same. "I am, in fact, quite capable of both wit and humour. You need only ask my cousin Fitzwilliam to confirm it."

She regarded him for a moment before a small, teasing smile appeared “My, my. I find the accounts of your character growing more puzzling by the hour.”

“And what is it you hope to discover, in gathering so many accounts of me, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, regarding her with the same grave attention he had always given her.

She looked at him squarely, “To make out your true character, sir.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, uncertain of her reply to his looming question, but he asked it nevertheless, “And how does your study proceed?”

“Poorly.” Her smile widened. “You say one thing and do quite another. At one moment, I am convinced I understand you, and the next, you behave in a manner that entirely contradicts my conclusions. I cannot make you out at all.”

Darcy's mouth twitched, though whether in amusement or resignation she could not tell. “I would beg you not to attempt it just now.”

“Why ever not?” Elizabeth asked, turning her head slightly.

“Because,” he replied, with a quietness that made the answer more serious than she expected, “I fear you may discover that I am not nearly so simple a subject as you would prefer.”

Elizabeth studied him, uncertain whether he meant to tease her or confess something more. “I had not supposed you simple, Mr. Darcy.”

“No,” he said, his gaze lingering upon hers. “I have never accused you of that particular error.”

She looked away, towards the door, and replied tartly, "However, if I do not attempt it now, Mr. Darcy, I may never have another opportunity." Sensing the conversation drifting once more toward dangerous ground, and mindful of their new resolve, Elizabeth turned it deliberately aside. "How do you come to know Mr. Wickham?"

"I wish I had never known the man at all." He fell silent a moment before continuing. "We were boys together. His father served as steward to mine, old Mr. Wickham was an honourable man, though he raised a son of a very different character. When his father died, mine took the boy under his protection; housed him, saw to his schooling, sent him to university, and intended him for a living in our parish. But after my father's death, Wickham declined the living, and asked instead for its value in money. I gave it to him. Upward of three thousand pounds."