Page 32 of The Briar Bargain
He was still speaking. "I make it a point to share interesting works with those capable of appreciating them."
Miss Bingley's eyes narrowed as she processed this information. "How generous of you, Mr. Darcy. Though I confess surprise that you should lend your books so readily. I was under the impression that you were most particular about your library."
"I am," Mr. Darcy replied with a meaningful look. He stood.
Miss Bingley's complexion took on an alarming shade that clashed unfortunately with the colour of her morning dress.
"Miss Elizabeth has been perusing Shakespeare’s sonnets. Perhaps you would like to join us, Miss Bingley, and share with us your thoughts on Sonnet 75."
Elizabeth looked at him, her mind racing. Sonnet 75. Was that not the one about pride and jealousy? She turned the pages to find it, hoping that no one would notice.
“Or perhaps Sonnet 98?” Mr. Darcy added.
Silently she willed Mr. Darcy to make up his mind. She flipped through the pages again. This one was about the absence of one’s lover in April, making the speaker feel as though it was winter again.
Elizabeth was very confused.
"Sonnet 98?" Miss Bingley repeated.
"Indeed." Mr. Darcy's expression was solemn. "Your insights would be most valuable."
Elizabeth caught the meaningful look in his eye and realised this was her moment to perform. She glanced at Miss Bingley, who was watching this exchange with visible irritation, then back at Mr. Darcy.
He lifted his eyebrows at her in an invitation to speak.
"Ah yes," Elizabeth said, warming to her role. "It is a poignant expression of loss"—she glanced at the sonnet in her hand—“expressing how even sublime beauty cannotpenetrate it.”
"Some think it rather overly sentimental, Miss Bingley. Are you among them?" Mr. Darcy inquired.
The woman had no idea how to reply. Presumably she had read the sonnets when at her seminary, though perhaps not. Even if she had, that was some years in the past and she clearly did not recall anything at all about them. She opened her mouth but only an unintelligible noise came out.
“I see,” Mr. Darcy said and turned back to Elizabeth. “Have you anything to add, Miss Elizabeth?”
Her mind scrambled for something that might sound plausibly critical. “Well, one cannot help but remark upon Shakespeare’s rather . . . melodramatic assertion that spring itself becomes winter in his beloved's absence. There is a want of restraint that borders on the theatrical, which of course he was. But surely the beauty of April's flowers exists quite independently of one gentleman's romantic disappointments?”
She congratulated herself and then thought that it was a good thing that sonnets were so short.
"Fascinating," Mr. Darcy murmured, nodding thoughtfully. "I had not considered that perspective. To have lost one’s love even to a mere undefined absence seems to me a very grievous sort of blow."
What sort of game was this, where Mr. Darcy took the side of the romantic and she the sceptic? Her entire world was being turned upside down.
Mr. Darcy nodded at her, and although she felt as though she were skating on rather thin ice, Elizabeth continued. "Indeed, whilst one must admire his technical skill, there is something rather self-indulgent about his claim that all of nature's beauty is rendered meaningless by the absence of a single person. A more mature sensibility might find solace in spring's return regardless of one's romantic circumstances."
"And yet," Mr. Darcy said thoughtfully, "is there not truth in the observation that love transforms our entire perception of the world? When we are truly attached to someone, their presence does indeed colour everything we see."
Elizabeth stared at him. Was Mr. Darcy defending sentimental excess? "But surely," she said, feeling increasingly disconcerted, "there is great risk in allowing one's happiness to depend so entirely upon another person? Shakespeare's speaker seems to have no independent capacity for joy."
"Perhaps," Mr. Darcy replied, his voice growing softer, "but there is also honesty in admitting that some attachments become so central to us that their absence leaves the world feeling fundamentally altered. Is it not better to acknowledge such feelings than to pretend indifference?"
Miss Bingley, who had been standing forgotten during this exchange, cleared her throat with obvious irritation. "How . . . philosophical," she said through gritted teeth. "Though I confess I find such overwrought sentiment rather tiresome. Surely respectable people do not allow themselves to be so completely overcome by emotional attachment?"
Mr. Darcy turned to her with polite interest. "I have often found, among the members of my club, for instance, that those who claim immunity to deep feelings often simply lack the capacity for them."
Miss Bingley fell silent. Elizabeth could not tell whether she had understood the barb.
She found herself studying Mr. Darcy's profile with a new appreciation. "You speak as though you have experience with such attachments," she said.
His eyes met hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. "I begin to understand Shakespeare's speaker better than I once did."
