The Rising Hysteria of Miss Elizabeth Bennet (Third edit)

While the Bennet sisters are staying at Netherfield they receive bad news about their father's health. Elizabeth's grief may cause her to act erratically. But what's Mr. Darcy's excuse?

Chapter 1

Mr. Darcy had never seen her so melancholy. It was not in her nature. Elizabeth's posture on the sofa was informal, to say the least: one leg on the seat, her body twisted away from him. She rested her chin on her forearms, folded over the back of a chaise longue as she stared out the window.

Darcy took a moment in the doorway to decide how he would approach her at this awkward time: when in doubt, he would always retreat into himself, but found he could not now do nothing. He quickly schooled his face into its usual inscrutable frown. He took a breath, preparing to present himself with a stiff expression of condolence, when her shuddering sigh pulled him up short.

This one sound overcame his caution. Elizabeth's evident distress discomposed him sufficiently to forget his affected indifference. Seeking only to be useful, he strode to the couch, forgetting even to announce himself and neglecting to decide what he would do once he got there. He halted a few steps from her and her start on noticing him, and confusion on peering up at his imposing form, brought him back to his senses. Lud! What now? Should he pull back from her and don his mask once more? With a self-conscious cough, he clasped both hands behind his back, aware of her growing unease. Quick, stop staring, man! He should go to the window- that always helped.

Elizabeth witnessed the tumult in his eyes, still glued to her face, and mistook it for pure sympathy. This display of emotion and sensitivity from such a cold, stoic man caught her off guard, so that she momentarily forgot her resolve to offend him at every opportunity.

"I…", Darcy tried, still staring down at her, before abandoning that thought. Elizabeth took up the mantle of conversation in his stead.

"I came in here for a change of scenery- to think. My sister is asleep", Elizabeth stated simply. Her tone was neither confrontational nor conciliatory and she gazed at him openly. She didn't have the energy for hidden meanings.

She was at her lowest, unable to console or find consolation in her family. Only Jane was immediately available and she was too ill to spend much time awake, never mind offer her sister any support. Elizabeth had given her only the barest details: that Longbourn had been infected with scarlet fever, that Papa and Mary were gravely ill and that the doctor had put the house under quarantine. The note Doctor Verney had sent last night did not give Elizabeth much hope of recovery, for her father at any rate, though she spared Jane the knowledge that they would probably never see him again. She could only imagine the hysterics and flutterings in which her mother was indulging at this very moment, and her relief at missing the performance mingled with immediate guilt at such an uncharitable feeling.

She was roused from her musings by Mr. Darcy's voice. "Miss Bennet, I was sorry to hear about your family's… situation." He could see her face fall at his vague words and stilted delivery.

There had been a moment in his regard of true, albeit wordless, understanding, she had thought, and now Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, killjoy extraordinaire, was back. Turning her head from him she sighed again. "You are too kind, sir." She must have been desperate for comfort, to look to him.

Indeed, he was desperate to provide it and had wits enough to recognise what was needed, little though he knew how to provide it. Hesitant to start, Darcy took a seat on the chaise longue, all intentions of fleeing to the window now forgotten.

"I know… when my father died… '' Here her head whipped around to glare at him for daring to allude to the event that she knew so overwhelmingly likely.

"I felt terribly guilty for not having come home from Cambridge sooner". Mr. Darcy rushed through this, though it hardly seemed to help, as her scowl deepened. Nothing was going as it ought. After a few moments of frosty silence, he spoke again.

"I would ease this burden for you, if I could".

There. He had said it, and surprised himself in the expressing of it. He managed to meet her eyes when she turned to face him, though he was certain he was flying his colours in embarrassment (1). Elizabeth had never witnessed such open sincerity from the man before and, realising that he had been waiting for a response for some moments, rewarded him with a minute smile.

"I thank you. I must confess, I find this endless waiting to be a torment." With this she was quiet again, though without the previous undercurrent of hostility. Darcy was composing his thoughts for another advance, buoyed by his recent success. However, before he could engage her again, a rather uncertain footman entered the library and delivered a letter into Miss Elizabeth's hand. She accepted it mechanically and silently as her whole body stiffened as she stared at the black seal (2).

Darcy dismissed the servant, Elizabeth having forgotten to do so. When he returned his eyes to her, she had opened and was reading the letter, her breathing shallow, her plump lips parted. Darcy was mesmerised, thinking all the while that he should leave her to her correspondence. That is until she collapsed, sobbing, with her head in her hands, the note forgotten on the floor.

She was oblivious to anything around her and had practically fallen off the seat. Eyeing the open door, Darcy dreaded the thought of Miss Bingley coming on the scene and the snide approximation of sympathy that she would extend. Without further deliberation, he crossed the room, closed and locked the door and quickly resumed his place on the chaise longue, perhaps sitting a little closer than before. Elizabeth gave no indication that she had been aware of any of this and continued to cry heedlessly.

Now Darcy was stumped: every fibre in him was focused on her, but unable to act. He was reminded of his sister's reaction when he had informed her of their father's death. But that was different. He had scooped her up on his lap and held her, head tucked under his chin; it had been natural and instinctive to console her with such physical comfort. He could not do that now.

Yet, as Elizabeth cried, he felt drawn towards her. His hand stretched out to touch her, about to make contact– his fingertips barely grazing the muslin of her gown. Darcy pulled back suddenly as Elizabeth sat up and turned to him. She was now so close that he could see the yellow flecked in the irises of her eyes. Tears streamed down her face and he had never seen anything more beautiful. He wanted to wipe them away, kiss them away, but he didn't. He would have settled for touching her in any way, but he didn't.

"I am sorry you had to witness this humiliating display", Elizabeth managed to say through her sobs. She had gained some control over her tears and went to move away. Darcy thought that she meant to quit the room and, somehow, he had to stop her.

"Your father is dead, I take it," he said rather than asked, his voice flat and lifeless.

A beat of silence followed. Elizabeth nearly laughed at this, too distraught to take offense at Mr. Darcy's lack of tact. "Yes", she replied concisely. All weeping had ceased and a heavy stillness settled between them.

"I do not think I can bear it", she eventually confessed. Darcy was not insensible to her small, fearful voice.

"I perfectly comprehend your feelings," he replied. "I was younger than you when my mother passed away; I thought my heart would burst in my chest". Elizabeth made no reply. Even in her grief, Elizabeth recognised the vulnerability Darcy had just displayed, and that it was done for her relief.

For his part, Darcy thought nothing of his behaviour, hardly aware of the intimacy of what he had said, though, if he had , he would have been shocked by his own candour. Presently, all his thoughts were of her: his sorrow for her loss; his need to help her; to comfort her; to run his hand up her soft leg and lay her delicate quim open to him, as if peering into a newly shucked oyster.

Good God! What is the matter with you? She has just lost her father! He had never known till that moment what a selfish beast he truly was. To contemplate taking advantage of her in this state, for his own satisfaction, was despicable, but he could not stop himself. His mind wandered to imagine all the ways he could take her, from soft and sweet to hard and frantic like a dog on a bitch. An image of him pounding into her on the creaking sofa burned in his mind. What a scoundrel you are!

He knew then that he could never trust himself to console her as he had his sister and this knowledge brought a renewal of his previous hauteur; this time for her protection, rather than his. He sat up straighter, edging away from her, and bunched his fists in the tails of his frock coat. He refused even to glance at her, for fear of her reading his wicked thoughts.

Elizabeth hardly noticed. She was still pondering his words–how accurately they described her own feelings at that moment–and struggling with what insight they could give into the man who had uttered them.

"How did you endure it?" she breathed "Twice at such a young age! And with a sister to bring up." Darcy turned to her with an odd mix of feeling and propriety, deeply affected by her words, but desperate to hold on to the veneer of civility and control that he now recognised was oh so thin. He could not deny her a response, however.

"Miss Bennet, I can only tell you that, in my experience, there is no eluding these feelings of grief, as they are a reflection of the depth of your love for your father and are, therefore, to be cherished. I can say, however, that they will not always be this raw."

His eyes never left hers. That familiar expression flashed in them, which she now began to think she had never understood.

"The acute pain you now feel will dull with time. And you will gain moments of respite, when something will distract or amuse you and you can put aside your sorrows–if only for a little while at first."

Though he kept his distance, he almost shook with the effort to at once convey his feelings and hold them in check- a feat not aided by her attentive gaze. She was so beautiful and so sad. He had to do something; something for her. He knew what he wanted to do, what might give her a few minutes' relief from the crushing weight, but could he go through with it?

Darcy, though remarkably clever, and known to be a logical, analytical man, was not without moments of self-delusion: it allowed him to justify his selfish arrogance, yet be the consummate landlord and guardian: it allowed him to sneer at Mrs. Bennett's transparent match-making, without bringing to mind his own Aunt's machinations; and, in this moment, it allowed him to give in to his basest desires, all the while calling it mercy.

It was more than the work of a moment for him to screw up his courage and the quiet that ensued allowed Elizabeth to sink into a bleak stupor, staring unseeingly into the fire. Having finally made his decision, Darcy felt strangely calm. He was nothing if not always prepared and took a moment to consider the logistics of the thing, as well as the constraints he must set on his own behaviour, without which he would surely be lost.

Finally he was ready to proceed and spoke with authority. "Miss Bennet, I believe that I know of a way to ease your mind, for a short while, at least. Would you lie back on the chair and close your eyes". Much to his relief, she obeyed without so much as a questioning look, perhaps due to her state of shock, he surmised. She lay with her head on the back of the chaise longue, her upper body raised, knees bent. Darcy took a moment to study her. Her breasts were doing interesting things in this new position and her feet were resting just inches from his thigh. Everything between was covered by her gown, its skirts draped from her joined knees. He could see the shape of her lower legs outlined by the material; the excess of which pooled on the sofa between her feet, which were the width of the couch apart. Taking one final glance at Elizabeth's face, Darcy could see that her mind was elsewhere and her eyes were still closed, which was just as well.

Carefully, he lifted her skirt, just enough to slip his hand underneath- he would not look! He did not want to touch her yet, and carefully inched his hand forward. The moment he reached her nether regions, her eyes flew open with a sharp inhalation and her hand clutched the edge of the chair in panic. Luckily, he had made land in roughly the correct spot and only a flick of his wrist was needed to have his middle finger on that small bulge he had expected to find- her exposed clitoris. He immediately set to work in small circles with a steady pulse and pressure, aware that he had only a limited time to make an impact, so to speak, before she objected in the most violent fashion.

Elizabeth had been uncharacteristically incurious as to what he was up to until she felt a warm strong finger- down there! Her eyes shot open and she gaped up at him, ready to propel herself from the chair. What she saw confused her. He was not even looking at her, but focused on the Oriental rug in front of the fire. Darcy seemed to be concentrating, brows faintly drawn. His expression was one he might wear reading the newspaper at breakfast. He was sitting diagonally on the couch, but his pose was quite formal: every body part that he could, he had faced away from her, his head, his knees, his feet; his back was straight, though leaning slightly towards her to reach his target and his left hand was resting on his right thigh, as his right had now settled into a rather pleasing rhythm between her legs, Elizabeth had to admit. Far from appearing lecherous or lascivious, Darcy's demeanour suggested that he found the whole endeavour to be mundane–tedious even–if not a little distasteful.

Having initially wriggled away from his touch, only for him to hold firm in his contact, Elizabeth now decided to remain perfectly still until she could catch his eye. Her strategy failed, as he refused to look at her, though she was sure he could feel her scrutiny. All the while a certain feeling was creeping up on her and was mounting all the time. She had to do something, she knew, but it was becoming more and more difficult to concentrate on what that something should be. When thinking back later, Elizabeth would tell herself that she had been incapacitated by Mr. Darcy's ministrations–and indeed she was–but what she could not admit was that, moments before this happened, she had made a decision, a (mostly) lucid decision, to let this thing that was happening to her happen.

Darcy noticed the release of tension that accompanied this decision and had to hold back a smile when, from the corner of his eye, he saw her head loll slightly on the arm of the couch. He began to subtly increase the pace of his finger circling her nub, encouraged by the surge of moisture he now felt. Within seconds, Elizabeth was in a world of her own, the centre of which being her cunt. Without any experience with which to compare it, she nevertheless felt that something was coming, and that that something, when it came, would be overwhelming.

An initial tingle had turned to steady heat under his caress. This was now punctuated by jolts of exquisite discomfort, which made it difficult to stay still on the sofa. In the back of her mind, she felt embarrassed by her body's betrayal in enjoying this, but was taking far too much pleasure from Mr. Darcy's treatment to pay much attention to that sentiment. As she rolled closer to a conclusion, the spasms of her body became more and more pronounced, until Darcy was forced to reach across with his left hand and hold her down at the hip. She now resorted to thrashing her head spasmodically and releasing brief, guttural outbursts to gain relief.

Darcy knew, better than herself, that she was very close to finishing and chanced a glimpse at her face. Though her eyes were open, they were blinking furiously, surveying the ornate ceiling, of which Darcy was certain she took in not a single detail. He was now free to observe her body; her breasts rose and fell in the most alarming fashion and threatened to escape their restraints. His mouth watered at the very sight of them. He dared not move his eyes to that gap in her skirts where his arm disappeared, nor concentrate too deeply on the feel of her soft body in his left hand or her wet pussy in his right.

Elizabeth's breathing suddenly slowed and deepened, leaving her body in low, throaty exhalations, whose pitch and speed rose gradually until she was panting in a stuttering cadence. Raising her head from where it rested, she inhaled one final, sharp breath and held it for an interminable moment as she stared upward, mouth open in an unuttered scream. Darcy looked on in amazement. She finally snapped and released her breath with a lengthy, bewildered moan, as the forceful shiver she felt in her groin pumped through her body–right to the tips of her fingers and toes. It brought with it the effect of sheer, contented exhaustion; her head and limbs collapsed–her right arm slipping off the chair–as her mind floated away.

While Elizabeth drifted, Darcy benefitted from no such relief and knew that he must be the first to compose himself, though he was currently still moving in slow circles on her engorged bud. Realising what he was doing, he hastily removed his hand whilst ensuring her modesty. Ramrod-straight now, and facing the fire, he groped for something to say. He happened to glance down at his hand, and notice the moisture-puckered flesh on the pad of his middle finger. How he longed to take it into his mouth and taste her.

He shot out of the chair to the fireplace, placing both hands on the mantle as he leaned into it, endeavouring to gain command over his thoughts and body, before turning around. Elizabeth began gradually to recollect where she was and went to sit up in the chair and make herself more presentable, though she was still considerably affected by Mr. Darcy's attentions.

Mr. Darcy finally felt master of himself enough to turn around. That Elizabeth was dazed was plain to see, though Darcy could not tell whether it was for the better or the worse. Once her befuddlement subsided, and she came to be mindful of her actions, it was her turn to avoid his eyes. He regarded her insistently, leaning forward marginally, with hands behind his back, waiting for her to acknowledge him.

She finally raised her eyes by degrees: first to his brown-top boots, which were pointed towards her, as she had feared; then to his midsection; and quickly to his face, when she realised that she had become fixated on his crotch. This only added to the anxiety apparent in her expression. Darcy seemed as stony-faced as ever, until she looked closer: his jaw was clenched and his chin jutted out as he scrutinised her with an intensity which caused the usually poised Elizabeth to shiver under his gaze. He seemed to be between two minds, his agitation growing. Darcy's nostrils flared due to the heaviness of his breathing, which was not justified by the activity in which he had just partaken. Her own breathing had yet to return to regularity, and their chests heaved in sympathy from ten feet apart. Finally, he broke eye contact, bowed rather formally, and muttered, "Miss Bennett", before turning to walk out of the room, surreptitiously unlocking the door as he did so.

Casting her eyes about the library, Elizabeth could hardly believe what had happened. She did not know what to think or how to account for Mr. Darcy's, or indeed her own, behaviour. She could see that everything in the room was just as it had been half an hour before and, in the absence of Mr. Darcy, would have convinced herself that the encounter had never taken place, were it not for the pleasantly sensitive throbbing in her private parts. She allowed herself a few minutes more to wallow in the physical bliss she still felt–eyes closed, head back–before rising from the couch, letter in hand, and leaving the room to deliver the heart-breaking news to Jane.

Footnotes

1) To fly your colours: blush

2) Letters bringing news of a death would be sealed with black wax to forewarn the recipient of the bad news.