In Doubt of Mr. Darcy
Chapter One
The stifling temperature of the ballroom was well-nigh unbearable with the incessant crush of elegantly dressed bodies, the loud thrum of conversation, and several roaring fires which, despite the crisp November weather, were hardly needed. Standing with his back to the richly papered wall, Fitzwilliam Darcy sighed inaudibly and slipped his index finger beneath his collar, tugging impatiently at the impeccably tied cravat about his neck. Finding no relief, he hailed a passing servant and accepted a glass of wine. He drank deeply, attempting to quench his irritation as well as his thirst while he was jostled by the crowd.
An excess of practised, tinkling laughter from a gaggle of finely dressed young ladies grated on his last nerve and, not for the first time during the course of the evening, did Darcy wonder why he had ever allowed his aunt, the Countess of Carlisle, to drag him to Lord and Lady Palmers’ for such a function. He was in no mood for cards and conversation, and felt even less of an inclination to dance. Dancing had never been a favourite pastime of his unless he was particularly acquainted with his partner, and tonight was no exception due to the abundance of vapid young ladies assembled within.
Darcy swirled the contents of his glass absently, his eyes moving with measured deliberation over the fashionable throng gathered in the room. There was not one person in attendance whom he wished to know better, be they gentleman or lady, and could not help but stiffen in discomfort as he noted many of their discerning eyes turned upon him. A disturbing number belonged to those of the female persuasion. It was nothing new to him, to be sure, but it was disconcerting all the same. With a scowl, Darcy fixed his attention upon the smooth burgundy liquid in his glass and allowed his mind to wander.
His thoughts, as always, soon settled quite inexorably upon the one woman whose unabashed admiration he would not consider it a punishment to endure: Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Since that fateful day last April when his proposal to her had been met with abhorrence and rejection, Darcy had suffered keenly. During the first few weeks of his disappointment he had been hard pressed to find relief from the constant weight of his heartbreak; some small degree of equanimity in his jaded existence. Certainly, he had his sister Georgiana to keep him company, engagements to distract him, his estate to run, and his business dealings to occupy a good deal of his time, but once his solicitors were met with, his steward instructed, his sister retired for the night, and Society as a whole declared insupportable, Darcy was left quite alone with nothing but his most excruciating thoughts to ponder.
As could be expected, Elizabeth’s refusal was a most painful reality for him, and a subject he found himself constantly revisiting in his mind on a daily basis; one that had, even now, remained as permanent and unwavering as his continued attachment to her had proven powerful. Darcy had never before been denied something he truly desired, and this particular lesson in humility was far more humbling than he ever could have imagined. His sentiments were wholly affected; his heart, deeply marred by Elizabeth’s refusal and her reproachful words of recrimination. Whether awake or asleep, her very memory threatened his peace of mind.
At the time, Darcy’s initial shock had quickly given way to outrage and indignation and, as could be expected, those emotions were not so easy to overcome. For a long while he directed the full measure of his anger and resentment toward the object who had inspired it, claiming for himself a heavy dose of self-righteousness, self-pity, and enough brandy to dull his affliction so that his repose might be dreamless; mercifully free from the ever-present vision of the bewitching woman who had so thoroughly captivated and claimed him, only to later reject him in a most heartless and cruel manner. Though several months of constant and painful reflection would soon lessen his resentment toward her, and a few more still to see his indignation at her reproofs fade completely, Darcy, even after the passing of a full seven months, continued to feel her loss most acutely. He fully expected he always would.
Looking back now he realised he had never even entertained the slightest possibility that Elizabeth Bennet might reject him. He had convinced himself she would welcome his addresses—nay, that she was even expecting them. That an unknown, untitled, unconnected country miss with no fortune or prospects to speak of would dare reject his suit was, to a man as wealthy and coveted as Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, unthinkable. It was the shock he experienced upon hearing Elizabeth openly speak of her dislike of him, though, that had dealt the most staggering blow. She had not returned his ardent admiration, nor his passionate regard—far from it. She had told him in no uncertain terms that she had never sought his good opinion; nor did it escape her notice that Darcy had bestowed it upon her most unwillingly.
It is true, every wretched word, Darcy thought bitterly, his heart suddenly heavier and more constricted than it had been a moment before. How on earth could I have been so unfeeling as to tell her of my struggles; of my failed attempts to overcome my regard for her? What evil demon ever possessed me to inform the woman I love that any alliance with her must be considered a reprehensible connection? A degradation? How could such insults even cross my mind, let alone leave my mouth? God in Heaven, he thought with feeling, she was justified in her response! He vividly recalled the anger that flashed in Elizabeth’s fine eyes when she had berated him, not only for his arrogance and his insults, but for a multitude of supposed grievances he had perpetrated against others for whom she cared, the least of which happened to be his officious interference in separating her eldest sister Jane from his friend Charles Bingley.
Darcy closed his eyes briefly at this recollection. He had certainly been officious in that particular matter. After all, what right did he have to arrange the lives of two innocent people to suit his own purpose? He had since made his confession to Bingley—and his peace—for, though initially furious with his friend’s assumptions, the information that Darcy related to him regarding Jane’s continued partiality had put Bingley in an extremely generous and forgiving mood. He pardoned Darcy, hastened to Longbourn, and declared himself to the woman he loved, returning to Netherfield late that night, the happiest of men. The lovers had already set a date for the wedding—later that very month, on the 26th of November in Longbourn church.
As far as Elizabeth’s other accusations—that Darcy had woefully mistreated and wronged his former childhood friend George Wickham—well, that man’s true nature and dissolute tendancies had since emerged in full force, though far too late and at much too high a cost to allow Darcy to feel any vindication over Elizabeth’s belated enlightenment. Lieutenant Wickham had quitted Hertfordshire with debts ranging from those of the monetary sort to those of a far more grievous nature; his most serious offense having been his seduction of the youngest Miss Bennet. They were now married, thank God, though whether happily Darcy would forever retain a doubt. It had both sickened and infuriated him to stand in church and witness Elizabeth’s fifteen-year-old sister cheerfully pledge her obedience to such a dishonourable reprobate for the rest of her young life, but if there had been another solution to the mess in which Lydia Bennet had found herself, Darcy failed to recognise it, for she had flatly refused to quit her disgraceful situation when he had implored her to do so. In truth, polite society acknowledged and employed only one acceptable form of redress to overcome such a scandal as Lydia had created for herself and all her family, and that was to enter into the honourable institution of matrimony, post haste. It was, therefore, all done for the better.
Darcy found the idea of Elizabeth suffering for the impulsivity and impropriety of her most foolish sister difficult to bear, especially given that he had the means to bring about her relief; and so he did it all: travelled to London, discovered them, bribed Wickham, purchased his commission, settled his debts, and convinced Elizabeth’s uncle, Edward Gardiner, to accept all the credit for it, all the while swearing both Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner to strict secrecy. Darcy could not risk having Elizabeth’s favourite relations reveal his role in her sister’s affair. He did not want Elizabeth’s gratitude, he wanted her love—or at the very least, her regard—but to finally have such born solely out of a sense of obligation to him was, to Darcy, distasteful and completely unacceptable.
Is it even possible that I will ever know the felicity of such a resolution with Elizabeth? he wondered despairingly as he slowly twisted the signet ring he wore upon his fourth finger in agitation. The wine in his glass sloshed dangerously in his distraction. Three months ago when he had happened upon Elizabeth so unexpectedly at Pemberley her behaviour toward him had been far from what it was in Hunsford. Though their exchange was awkward at first—for Darcy had only just that moment arrived himself—she had spoken with him, consented to walk with him, and acceded to his request to introduce his sister to her acqaintance. In other words, Elizabeth had given him every reason to begin to hope that she had forgiven him for his past offenses, and Darcy was determined to prove to her that he had taken her reproofs to heart—that because of her admonishments he had become a better man, one whom he desperately hoped she could come to approve of, and even admire.
A mere three days later any elation he felt at their reunion and each successive meeting evaporated when Darcy entered a private parlour in the inn where she and her relatives were staying to find Elizabeth in tears, the spell from their recent encounter and any hopes attatched to it cut mercilessly short by the news of Lydia’s shame. Elizabeth left Derbyshire for Hertfordshire soon after with her aunt and uncle, and Darcy was left with nothing but the image of her tortured countenance and a distinct longing for that which might never be realised. He would not soon forget the acuteness of her suffering, nor the way she had laid the blame for her sister’s fate upon her own shoulders, though Darcy knew well enough that the fault was his and his alone for having concealed Wickham’s true character from the world in the first place.
While Darcy had counted on Lydia’s marriage to do much for Elizabeth’s peace of mind with regard to her family’s reputation, he was appalled to discover that her mother’s enthusiasm for Mrs. Wickham’s status did nothing but cause further distress. Mrs. Bennet exclaimed over her youngest daughter’s marriage as though it had been the most natural occurance in the world instead of a shameful, patched up business. Darcy scowled darkly at the memory and the wretchedness it so obviously brought Elizabeth. No, the last time he had been in company with her, Elizabeth’s spirits had been very low indeed, and Darcy was left questioning the prudence of his decision to act in her family’s stead by bringing about a marriage between two persons who were, after all was said and done, wholly unrepentant for their sins.
Though Darcy’s motives to assist the Bennets had been heartfelt and well meant, he now wondered, in his own selfish desire to bring relief to the woman he loved, whether he had succeeded only in making another grave error in judgment? His stomach constricted whenever he thought about it, and indeed the more time he passed in Elizabeth’s company, the more Darcy became inclined to believe that was precisely what he may have done. There was no longer any sparkle in her fine eyes, no joy in her step, no laughter bubbling up from within her breast. For three days Elizabeth had barely even looked in his direction and when she had, it was only to colour deeply and look quickly away in barely contained distress.
To make matters worse, Bingley and his amiability were received at Longbourn with immense pleasure and much fanfare; Darcy and his quiet reserve were not, as was evident by the cold civility shown to him by Mrs. Bennet during his visits. He could not in all honesty say that he was surprised; after all, even he must own that he had done little to make himself agreeable to the neighbourhood last autumn, and no one in residence there—including the Bennets—had any idea that it was to him that the principal family of the village was indebted for the restoration of their good name.
After enduring countless days of silence from Elizabeth, and varying degrees of incivility from her mother, Darcy arrived at the painful conclusion that there was nothing for him in Hertfordshire. The village, the town, the entire neighbourhood believed both gentlemen guilty of caprice, and while they seemed capable of forgiving Bingley’s past transgressions, were apparently not so willing to oblige Darcy for his. It was only natural, therefore, to also assume that Elizabeth must still hold something of their past against him, as well as the blame for her sister’s recent disgrace and her own present mortification. Oh! If he had only put aside his abominable pride and laid his private dealings with George Wickham open before the rest of the world! If only he had summoned the authorities when Wickham had attempted to seduce his sister Georgiana and claim her fortune! But it was all, all too late.
With a heavy heart, Darcy confessed the entirety of his interference to Bingley and announced his intention to leave immediately for London. Though his friend saw him go with real regret, and had since written to him to request his presence at Netherfield, Darcy could not yet bring himself to face Elizabeth. It was difficult enough to see her lovely face every night in his dreams—her eyes darkened with passion; her tempting lips smiling at him, whispering words of love and devotion while her fingers danced over the plains of his body—but to meet her again, and in company after all that had taken place, knowing that all hope of gaining her regard and her hand was now lost to him forever, simply proved too painful. Darcy, therefore, chose to remain in Town.
To be forced to call a man such as Wickham ‘brother’ must be insupportible to her. It is no wonder she is lost to me, he thought with no little distress as he ran his hand over his mouth. Dear God, can I do nothing right?!
To his dismay, he was joined a moment later by his cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, who seemed far less pleased with his evening than Darcy would have expected, for, unlike his taciturn cousin, the colonel was usually very much at ease before company and did not mind in the least being an object of interest for a multitude of eligible young ladies, particularly those with titles and large dowries.
Darcy quickly schooled his features into a semblance of composure and took a fortifying drink from his glass, his hand only slightly unsteady. “What, you are not dancing, Richard?” he asked dryly as his stoic mask slid firmly back into place.
Colonel Fitzwilliam snorted as he raised his own glass to his lips and looked out over the crowd. “I believe I am not yet drunk enough,” he muttered. “Her Ladyship persists in her insistence that I pay particular attention to Miss Cromwell and her grandfather Lord Everett this evening, and I confess I have not the stomach for it.”
“I heard Lord Everett has increased her dowry, but surely, there must be other eligible young ladies far better suited to your disposition and taste whom Lady Eleanor would not disapprove.”
The colonel scoffed. “I may be sent to the Continent, Darcy, and my mother is frantic to see me resign my commission. In her desperation to impose her will upon me she has decided that Miss Cromwell, her fifty thousand pounds, ties to the earldom, and six unsuccessful past seasons are the quickest way to expedite her wishes; though I fail to see how such a hasty arrangement of my most intimate concerns shall ever ensure the happiness of either myself or the lady in question. His Lordship, thank God, is attempting to relieve Her Ladyship of her mistaken notion.” He gave his cousin a pointed look. “You should know that my mother’s machinations likely encompass your own future happiness as well. I must warn you that Lady Harrow is here with her daughter, the honourable Miss Eliza. It is rumoured that they have taken a house in Park Street, a little too close for comfort if you ask me, though my mother is certainly pleased enough. You know that she has long considered Miss Harrow to be an advantageous match for you.”
Darcy stiffened, though his voice remained neutral. “I daresay Lady Eleanor is also well aware of my objections on the subject of that lady, as well as what I will and will not tolerate as far as interference in my most intimate concerns, especially as pertains to those of the fairer sex and their matchmaking mothers. Your mother would do well to abandon her efforts. They will all be for naught, as I have no intention to pay my addresses to Miss Harrow, nor any other lady here.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed bemusedly. “Well said, but at least Miss Harrow is handsome. You can hardly say as much for my own prospect this evening, though I suppose she must have at least a few positive qualities…most likely concealed beneath one of her chins.” He gave an involuntary shudder and took another healthy sip from his wine glass.
Darcy shot him a look of disapproval. “Handsome she may be," he murmured, "but it goes no deeper than a cursory level, as you are well aware. In fact, I have never known a young woman whose opinions are so ill-formed. Her mother is little better, though I cannot help but find her society even more intolerable than that of her daughter.”
“If it is because she wishes only to see her only daughter make an advantageous match, you can hardly fault her for it. After all, what mother does not? There are many in Town who would stop at nothing to catch a husband, as well you know, though I must say I have rarely seen any who are willing to do quite so much to further a match for her child as Lady Harrow.”
Darcy scowled as his mind went immediately to Mrs. Bennet. His cousin was correct—there were plenty of mothers who wanted nothing more than to see their daughters advantageously wed, but what a difference he now recognised between Elizabeth’s mother and the more resourceful matrons of the ton who were, without a doubt, far better acquainted with the intricate workings of the world. Mrs. Bennet’s machinations appeared rather demure when compared to the duplicity and scheming employed by most, if not all of the ladies in the first circles of Society in their pursuit of a rich husband. Lady Harrow was well known amongst them as one of the most cunning and persistent. Even before her husband's death, it was rumoured there was little she was not willing to do to improve her situation and that of her daughter, as Darcy well knew from his own past encounters with the woman; but unlike Mrs. Bennet, whose maneuverings were born of true affection and motivated by real concern for her daughters' futures, Lady Harrow was driven by covetousness, greed, and a baser instinct of which Darcy could not approve, especially in a lady.
“No,” he said somberly, “I can no longer completely fault any mother for wishing to secure a future for her family, her daughters especially; Lady Harrow, however, does not have an affectionate bone in her body. Her scheming is for herself alone and I cannot abide such singular selfishness. There are other ladies, you must own, who are far more deserving of the notice of an honest gentleman than the likes of the Harrows, no matter their standing in London Society.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam eyed his cousin with interest. “Feeling charitable, are we Darcy?” he chuckled. “That is all well and good, but you cannot tell me that when faced with the prospect of marriage to an untitled country miss with a meager dowry or a woman like Miss Harrow that you would choose the country miss. I daresay even you would act with more prudence than what your words imply. After all, you can hardly expect an unknown young thing to step into your mother’s shoes and act the part of Pemberley’s mistress in the manner that would be expected of her. Granted, I suppose she could always learn, but still, whatever would be the point?”
Darcy raised his brow. “The point? You do not believe, then, there exists a gentleman within our circle who would rather be accepted by a woman of sense and education who holds him in esteem based upon his own merits, instead of a lady of society and fashion, who cares for little else beyond his property and the heft of his purse?”
Fitzwilliam laughed. “No, most of us, I imagine, would much rather marry for affection and, if at all possible, a woman of sense as well as beauty—I cannot disagree; but you and I have lived enough in the world to know that those notable attributes do not often come in the form of a pretty debutante with a large dowry. I cannot imagine having the good fortune of finding all of those desirable qualities in one woman, and so know that I must eventually sacrifice one in favour of the others. As much as it pains me, I am afraid my habits will likely dictate that I marry a woman whose dowry will support me in the style to which I have grown accustomed. You must do the same, and you know it. You cannot possibly overlook a woman like Miss Harrow in order to pay your addresses to, say, a lady such as Miss Bennet instead.”
Darcy inhaled sharply, a deep scowl instantly marring his countenance. “And what, pray, could you possibly find to object to in Miss Bennet? You seemed to enjoy her company well enough while you were in Kent, with no one else except our cousin Anne and Lady Catherine on hand to amuse you. I vividly recall you admiring Miss Bennet on more than one occasion, a wistful look upon your countenance and pretty words falling from your lips as you attended her while she played, dined, walked about the grounds.”
“Easy, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said evenly as he took a step back from his obviously perturbed cousin. “I found nothing wanting in Miss Bennet’s appearance, manners, or the turn of her mind, and did not mean to imply otherwise. No one who is admited to the priviledge of knowing her would find anything to critisise. I meant only to point out that her situation in life is hardly ideal. Five daughters, all of them out, and hardly so much as five thousand pounds between them? Not to mention an entailment hanging over their heads and a high-strung mother? No sane man would do it.”
Darcy fixed his cousin with a glare so menacing that Fitzwilliam hardly knew what to make of his uncharacteristic behaviour. “So, Miss Bennet was nothing more than sport for you? A pleasant diversion while you dutifully wiled away your time at Rosings?" he growled. "You would flirt with her, toy with her, but nothing more? Even if you were a first son and in possession of your brother’s fortune, you would still not consider making her an offer of marriage? You would choose to take Miss Cromwell or Miss Harrow with their fortunes and insipid fawning to wife rather than Miss Bennet, a woman who is in every way their superior, as well as that of more than half the ladies present here tonight?” His mouth was pursed into a thin, hard line and his countenance looked more furious and his stance more threatening than the colonel had ever before seen.
“Good God, what the devil has gotten into you?” Fitzwilliam asked incredulously, his eyes wide with shock.
Darcy was breathing heavily, struggling to regain his equanimity before he lost his temper completely. With a monumental effort, he managed to rein in his emotions and exert a semblance of composure. He tore his eyes from his cousin and unsteadily drained the contents of his glass. “Do forgive me,” he muttered after several moments, his voice rough and barely recognisable. Then he set his empty glass upon a nearby table and abruptly turned, his long strides quickly carrying him through the crowd and out of the door.
Fitzwilliam made to follow him, then thought better of it. He had faced armed men on the battlefield more times than he could count, but for some reason felt absolutely no wish to enter into a quarrel with his cousin when he was in such a state. The colonel had a sneaking suspicion that not only would he fail to emerge the victor, but would somehow end up much worse for wear.
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An excess of practised, tinkling laughter from a gaggle of finely dressed young ladies grated on his last nerve and, not for the first time during the course of the evening, did Darcy wonder why he had ever allowed his aunt, the Countess of Carlisle, to drag him to Lord and Lady Palmers’ for such a function. He was in no mood for cards and conversation, and felt even less of an inclination to dance. Dancing had never been a favourite pastime of his unless he was particularly acquainted with his partner, and tonight was no exception due to the abundance of vapid young ladies assembled within.
Darcy swirled the contents of his glass absently, his eyes moving with measured deliberation over the fashionable throng gathered in the room. There was not one person in attendance whom he wished to know better, be they gentleman or lady, and could not help but stiffen in discomfort as he noted many of their discerning eyes turned upon him. A disturbing number belonged to those of the female persuasion. It was nothing new to him, to be sure, but it was disconcerting all the same. With a scowl, Darcy fixed his attention upon the smooth burgundy liquid in his glass and allowed his mind to wander.
His thoughts, as always, soon settled quite inexorably upon the one woman whose unabashed admiration he would not consider it a punishment to endure: Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Since that fateful day last April when his proposal to her had been met with abhorrence and rejection, Darcy had suffered keenly. During the first few weeks of his disappointment he had been hard pressed to find relief from the constant weight of his heartbreak; some small degree of equanimity in his jaded existence. Certainly, he had his sister Georgiana to keep him company, engagements to distract him, his estate to run, and his business dealings to occupy a good deal of his time, but once his solicitors were met with, his steward instructed, his sister retired for the night, and Society as a whole declared insupportable, Darcy was left quite alone with nothing but his most excruciating thoughts to ponder.
As could be expected, Elizabeth’s refusal was a most painful reality for him, and a subject he found himself constantly revisiting in his mind on a daily basis; one that had, even now, remained as permanent and unwavering as his continued attachment to her had proven powerful. Darcy had never before been denied something he truly desired, and this particular lesson in humility was far more humbling than he ever could have imagined. His sentiments were wholly affected; his heart, deeply marred by Elizabeth’s refusal and her reproachful words of recrimination. Whether awake or asleep, her very memory threatened his peace of mind.
At the time, Darcy’s initial shock had quickly given way to outrage and indignation and, as could be expected, those emotions were not so easy to overcome. For a long while he directed the full measure of his anger and resentment toward the object who had inspired it, claiming for himself a heavy dose of self-righteousness, self-pity, and enough brandy to dull his affliction so that his repose might be dreamless; mercifully free from the ever-present vision of the bewitching woman who had so thoroughly captivated and claimed him, only to later reject him in a most heartless and cruel manner. Though several months of constant and painful reflection would soon lessen his resentment toward her, and a few more still to see his indignation at her reproofs fade completely, Darcy, even after the passing of a full seven months, continued to feel her loss most acutely. He fully expected he always would.
Looking back now he realised he had never even entertained the slightest possibility that Elizabeth Bennet might reject him. He had convinced himself she would welcome his addresses—nay, that she was even expecting them. That an unknown, untitled, unconnected country miss with no fortune or prospects to speak of would dare reject his suit was, to a man as wealthy and coveted as Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley, unthinkable. It was the shock he experienced upon hearing Elizabeth openly speak of her dislike of him, though, that had dealt the most staggering blow. She had not returned his ardent admiration, nor his passionate regard—far from it. She had told him in no uncertain terms that she had never sought his good opinion; nor did it escape her notice that Darcy had bestowed it upon her most unwillingly.
It is true, every wretched word, Darcy thought bitterly, his heart suddenly heavier and more constricted than it had been a moment before. How on earth could I have been so unfeeling as to tell her of my struggles; of my failed attempts to overcome my regard for her? What evil demon ever possessed me to inform the woman I love that any alliance with her must be considered a reprehensible connection? A degradation? How could such insults even cross my mind, let alone leave my mouth? God in Heaven, he thought with feeling, she was justified in her response! He vividly recalled the anger that flashed in Elizabeth’s fine eyes when she had berated him, not only for his arrogance and his insults, but for a multitude of supposed grievances he had perpetrated against others for whom she cared, the least of which happened to be his officious interference in separating her eldest sister Jane from his friend Charles Bingley.
Darcy closed his eyes briefly at this recollection. He had certainly been officious in that particular matter. After all, what right did he have to arrange the lives of two innocent people to suit his own purpose? He had since made his confession to Bingley—and his peace—for, though initially furious with his friend’s assumptions, the information that Darcy related to him regarding Jane’s continued partiality had put Bingley in an extremely generous and forgiving mood. He pardoned Darcy, hastened to Longbourn, and declared himself to the woman he loved, returning to Netherfield late that night, the happiest of men. The lovers had already set a date for the wedding—later that very month, on the 26th of November in Longbourn church.
As far as Elizabeth’s other accusations—that Darcy had woefully mistreated and wronged his former childhood friend George Wickham—well, that man’s true nature and dissolute tendancies had since emerged in full force, though far too late and at much too high a cost to allow Darcy to feel any vindication over Elizabeth’s belated enlightenment. Lieutenant Wickham had quitted Hertfordshire with debts ranging from those of the monetary sort to those of a far more grievous nature; his most serious offense having been his seduction of the youngest Miss Bennet. They were now married, thank God, though whether happily Darcy would forever retain a doubt. It had both sickened and infuriated him to stand in church and witness Elizabeth’s fifteen-year-old sister cheerfully pledge her obedience to such a dishonourable reprobate for the rest of her young life, but if there had been another solution to the mess in which Lydia Bennet had found herself, Darcy failed to recognise it, for she had flatly refused to quit her disgraceful situation when he had implored her to do so. In truth, polite society acknowledged and employed only one acceptable form of redress to overcome such a scandal as Lydia had created for herself and all her family, and that was to enter into the honourable institution of matrimony, post haste. It was, therefore, all done for the better.
Darcy found the idea of Elizabeth suffering for the impulsivity and impropriety of her most foolish sister difficult to bear, especially given that he had the means to bring about her relief; and so he did it all: travelled to London, discovered them, bribed Wickham, purchased his commission, settled his debts, and convinced Elizabeth’s uncle, Edward Gardiner, to accept all the credit for it, all the while swearing both Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner to strict secrecy. Darcy could not risk having Elizabeth’s favourite relations reveal his role in her sister’s affair. He did not want Elizabeth’s gratitude, he wanted her love—or at the very least, her regard—but to finally have such born solely out of a sense of obligation to him was, to Darcy, distasteful and completely unacceptable.
Is it even possible that I will ever know the felicity of such a resolution with Elizabeth? he wondered despairingly as he slowly twisted the signet ring he wore upon his fourth finger in agitation. The wine in his glass sloshed dangerously in his distraction. Three months ago when he had happened upon Elizabeth so unexpectedly at Pemberley her behaviour toward him had been far from what it was in Hunsford. Though their exchange was awkward at first—for Darcy had only just that moment arrived himself—she had spoken with him, consented to walk with him, and acceded to his request to introduce his sister to her acqaintance. In other words, Elizabeth had given him every reason to begin to hope that she had forgiven him for his past offenses, and Darcy was determined to prove to her that he had taken her reproofs to heart—that because of her admonishments he had become a better man, one whom he desperately hoped she could come to approve of, and even admire.
A mere three days later any elation he felt at their reunion and each successive meeting evaporated when Darcy entered a private parlour in the inn where she and her relatives were staying to find Elizabeth in tears, the spell from their recent encounter and any hopes attatched to it cut mercilessly short by the news of Lydia’s shame. Elizabeth left Derbyshire for Hertfordshire soon after with her aunt and uncle, and Darcy was left with nothing but the image of her tortured countenance and a distinct longing for that which might never be realised. He would not soon forget the acuteness of her suffering, nor the way she had laid the blame for her sister’s fate upon her own shoulders, though Darcy knew well enough that the fault was his and his alone for having concealed Wickham’s true character from the world in the first place.
While Darcy had counted on Lydia’s marriage to do much for Elizabeth’s peace of mind with regard to her family’s reputation, he was appalled to discover that her mother’s enthusiasm for Mrs. Wickham’s status did nothing but cause further distress. Mrs. Bennet exclaimed over her youngest daughter’s marriage as though it had been the most natural occurance in the world instead of a shameful, patched up business. Darcy scowled darkly at the memory and the wretchedness it so obviously brought Elizabeth. No, the last time he had been in company with her, Elizabeth’s spirits had been very low indeed, and Darcy was left questioning the prudence of his decision to act in her family’s stead by bringing about a marriage between two persons who were, after all was said and done, wholly unrepentant for their sins.
Though Darcy’s motives to assist the Bennets had been heartfelt and well meant, he now wondered, in his own selfish desire to bring relief to the woman he loved, whether he had succeeded only in making another grave error in judgment? His stomach constricted whenever he thought about it, and indeed the more time he passed in Elizabeth’s company, the more Darcy became inclined to believe that was precisely what he may have done. There was no longer any sparkle in her fine eyes, no joy in her step, no laughter bubbling up from within her breast. For three days Elizabeth had barely even looked in his direction and when she had, it was only to colour deeply and look quickly away in barely contained distress.
To make matters worse, Bingley and his amiability were received at Longbourn with immense pleasure and much fanfare; Darcy and his quiet reserve were not, as was evident by the cold civility shown to him by Mrs. Bennet during his visits. He could not in all honesty say that he was surprised; after all, even he must own that he had done little to make himself agreeable to the neighbourhood last autumn, and no one in residence there—including the Bennets—had any idea that it was to him that the principal family of the village was indebted for the restoration of their good name.
After enduring countless days of silence from Elizabeth, and varying degrees of incivility from her mother, Darcy arrived at the painful conclusion that there was nothing for him in Hertfordshire. The village, the town, the entire neighbourhood believed both gentlemen guilty of caprice, and while they seemed capable of forgiving Bingley’s past transgressions, were apparently not so willing to oblige Darcy for his. It was only natural, therefore, to also assume that Elizabeth must still hold something of their past against him, as well as the blame for her sister’s recent disgrace and her own present mortification. Oh! If he had only put aside his abominable pride and laid his private dealings with George Wickham open before the rest of the world! If only he had summoned the authorities when Wickham had attempted to seduce his sister Georgiana and claim her fortune! But it was all, all too late.
With a heavy heart, Darcy confessed the entirety of his interference to Bingley and announced his intention to leave immediately for London. Though his friend saw him go with real regret, and had since written to him to request his presence at Netherfield, Darcy could not yet bring himself to face Elizabeth. It was difficult enough to see her lovely face every night in his dreams—her eyes darkened with passion; her tempting lips smiling at him, whispering words of love and devotion while her fingers danced over the plains of his body—but to meet her again, and in company after all that had taken place, knowing that all hope of gaining her regard and her hand was now lost to him forever, simply proved too painful. Darcy, therefore, chose to remain in Town.
To be forced to call a man such as Wickham ‘brother’ must be insupportible to her. It is no wonder she is lost to me, he thought with no little distress as he ran his hand over his mouth. Dear God, can I do nothing right?!
To his dismay, he was joined a moment later by his cousin Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, who seemed far less pleased with his evening than Darcy would have expected, for, unlike his taciturn cousin, the colonel was usually very much at ease before company and did not mind in the least being an object of interest for a multitude of eligible young ladies, particularly those with titles and large dowries.
Darcy quickly schooled his features into a semblance of composure and took a fortifying drink from his glass, his hand only slightly unsteady. “What, you are not dancing, Richard?” he asked dryly as his stoic mask slid firmly back into place.
Colonel Fitzwilliam snorted as he raised his own glass to his lips and looked out over the crowd. “I believe I am not yet drunk enough,” he muttered. “Her Ladyship persists in her insistence that I pay particular attention to Miss Cromwell and her grandfather Lord Everett this evening, and I confess I have not the stomach for it.”
“I heard Lord Everett has increased her dowry, but surely, there must be other eligible young ladies far better suited to your disposition and taste whom Lady Eleanor would not disapprove.”
The colonel scoffed. “I may be sent to the Continent, Darcy, and my mother is frantic to see me resign my commission. In her desperation to impose her will upon me she has decided that Miss Cromwell, her fifty thousand pounds, ties to the earldom, and six unsuccessful past seasons are the quickest way to expedite her wishes; though I fail to see how such a hasty arrangement of my most intimate concerns shall ever ensure the happiness of either myself or the lady in question. His Lordship, thank God, is attempting to relieve Her Ladyship of her mistaken notion.” He gave his cousin a pointed look. “You should know that my mother’s machinations likely encompass your own future happiness as well. I must warn you that Lady Harrow is here with her daughter, the honourable Miss Eliza. It is rumoured that they have taken a house in Park Street, a little too close for comfort if you ask me, though my mother is certainly pleased enough. You know that she has long considered Miss Harrow to be an advantageous match for you.”
Darcy stiffened, though his voice remained neutral. “I daresay Lady Eleanor is also well aware of my objections on the subject of that lady, as well as what I will and will not tolerate as far as interference in my most intimate concerns, especially as pertains to those of the fairer sex and their matchmaking mothers. Your mother would do well to abandon her efforts. They will all be for naught, as I have no intention to pay my addresses to Miss Harrow, nor any other lady here.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam laughed bemusedly. “Well said, but at least Miss Harrow is handsome. You can hardly say as much for my own prospect this evening, though I suppose she must have at least a few positive qualities…most likely concealed beneath one of her chins.” He gave an involuntary shudder and took another healthy sip from his wine glass.
Darcy shot him a look of disapproval. “Handsome she may be," he murmured, "but it goes no deeper than a cursory level, as you are well aware. In fact, I have never known a young woman whose opinions are so ill-formed. Her mother is little better, though I cannot help but find her society even more intolerable than that of her daughter.”
“If it is because she wishes only to see her only daughter make an advantageous match, you can hardly fault her for it. After all, what mother does not? There are many in Town who would stop at nothing to catch a husband, as well you know, though I must say I have rarely seen any who are willing to do quite so much to further a match for her child as Lady Harrow.”
Darcy scowled as his mind went immediately to Mrs. Bennet. His cousin was correct—there were plenty of mothers who wanted nothing more than to see their daughters advantageously wed, but what a difference he now recognised between Elizabeth’s mother and the more resourceful matrons of the ton who were, without a doubt, far better acquainted with the intricate workings of the world. Mrs. Bennet’s machinations appeared rather demure when compared to the duplicity and scheming employed by most, if not all of the ladies in the first circles of Society in their pursuit of a rich husband. Lady Harrow was well known amongst them as one of the most cunning and persistent. Even before her husband's death, it was rumoured there was little she was not willing to do to improve her situation and that of her daughter, as Darcy well knew from his own past encounters with the woman; but unlike Mrs. Bennet, whose maneuverings were born of true affection and motivated by real concern for her daughters' futures, Lady Harrow was driven by covetousness, greed, and a baser instinct of which Darcy could not approve, especially in a lady.
“No,” he said somberly, “I can no longer completely fault any mother for wishing to secure a future for her family, her daughters especially; Lady Harrow, however, does not have an affectionate bone in her body. Her scheming is for herself alone and I cannot abide such singular selfishness. There are other ladies, you must own, who are far more deserving of the notice of an honest gentleman than the likes of the Harrows, no matter their standing in London Society.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam eyed his cousin with interest. “Feeling charitable, are we Darcy?” he chuckled. “That is all well and good, but you cannot tell me that when faced with the prospect of marriage to an untitled country miss with a meager dowry or a woman like Miss Harrow that you would choose the country miss. I daresay even you would act with more prudence than what your words imply. After all, you can hardly expect an unknown young thing to step into your mother’s shoes and act the part of Pemberley’s mistress in the manner that would be expected of her. Granted, I suppose she could always learn, but still, whatever would be the point?”
Darcy raised his brow. “The point? You do not believe, then, there exists a gentleman within our circle who would rather be accepted by a woman of sense and education who holds him in esteem based upon his own merits, instead of a lady of society and fashion, who cares for little else beyond his property and the heft of his purse?”
Fitzwilliam laughed. “No, most of us, I imagine, would much rather marry for affection and, if at all possible, a woman of sense as well as beauty—I cannot disagree; but you and I have lived enough in the world to know that those notable attributes do not often come in the form of a pretty debutante with a large dowry. I cannot imagine having the good fortune of finding all of those desirable qualities in one woman, and so know that I must eventually sacrifice one in favour of the others. As much as it pains me, I am afraid my habits will likely dictate that I marry a woman whose dowry will support me in the style to which I have grown accustomed. You must do the same, and you know it. You cannot possibly overlook a woman like Miss Harrow in order to pay your addresses to, say, a lady such as Miss Bennet instead.”
Darcy inhaled sharply, a deep scowl instantly marring his countenance. “And what, pray, could you possibly find to object to in Miss Bennet? You seemed to enjoy her company well enough while you were in Kent, with no one else except our cousin Anne and Lady Catherine on hand to amuse you. I vividly recall you admiring Miss Bennet on more than one occasion, a wistful look upon your countenance and pretty words falling from your lips as you attended her while she played, dined, walked about the grounds.”
“Easy, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said evenly as he took a step back from his obviously perturbed cousin. “I found nothing wanting in Miss Bennet’s appearance, manners, or the turn of her mind, and did not mean to imply otherwise. No one who is admited to the priviledge of knowing her would find anything to critisise. I meant only to point out that her situation in life is hardly ideal. Five daughters, all of them out, and hardly so much as five thousand pounds between them? Not to mention an entailment hanging over their heads and a high-strung mother? No sane man would do it.”
Darcy fixed his cousin with a glare so menacing that Fitzwilliam hardly knew what to make of his uncharacteristic behaviour. “So, Miss Bennet was nothing more than sport for you? A pleasant diversion while you dutifully wiled away your time at Rosings?" he growled. "You would flirt with her, toy with her, but nothing more? Even if you were a first son and in possession of your brother’s fortune, you would still not consider making her an offer of marriage? You would choose to take Miss Cromwell or Miss Harrow with their fortunes and insipid fawning to wife rather than Miss Bennet, a woman who is in every way their superior, as well as that of more than half the ladies present here tonight?” His mouth was pursed into a thin, hard line and his countenance looked more furious and his stance more threatening than the colonel had ever before seen.
“Good God, what the devil has gotten into you?” Fitzwilliam asked incredulously, his eyes wide with shock.
Darcy was breathing heavily, struggling to regain his equanimity before he lost his temper completely. With a monumental effort, he managed to rein in his emotions and exert a semblance of composure. He tore his eyes from his cousin and unsteadily drained the contents of his glass. “Do forgive me,” he muttered after several moments, his voice rough and barely recognisable. Then he set his empty glass upon a nearby table and abruptly turned, his long strides quickly carrying him through the crowd and out of the door.
Fitzwilliam made to follow him, then thought better of it. He had faced armed men on the battlefield more times than he could count, but for some reason felt absolutely no wish to enter into a quarrel with his cousin when he was in such a state. The colonel had a sneaking suspicion that not only would he fail to emerge the victor, but would somehow end up much worse for wear.
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012. All rights reserved.
Chapter Two
Shadows danced along the narrow halls of Longbourn House, the walls dappled by the unearthly glow of a full moon. The hour was late. Above stairs a lone candle burned low as Elizabeth Bennet curled her toes beneath her shift and settled into an upholstered chair flanking the hearth; the flames from a crackling fire lapping hungrily at the logs in the grate. With slender fingers she caressed the well worn sheets of paper in her hand as though attempting to touch the very soul of the author himself. She sighed and, despite the warmth of the room, a shiver ran through her body. As her eyes devoured the neatly formed and by now, painfully familiar lines, her mind wandered to the exact moment when he had first placed the letter into her hands in the grove at Rosings Park.
Fitzwilliam Darcy. Elizabeth traced each letter of his signature with tenderness. She had treated him with such contempt and insolence then, having thrown his proposal of marriage—as arrogant and insulting as his words had been—back in his face with a vengeance, and in the next breath accused him of such wretched wrong-doing against a scoundrel of a man whom she must now call her brother.
While she had not been insensible of the compliment Darcy paid her by the bestowal of his addresses, it was not until many months had passed that she came to fully appreciate that which she had so readily scorned: the affection and esteem of a man who, despite his excessive pride and arrogant assumptions, had somehow come to love her well enough to throw off the expectations and wishes of his family and his peers by asking for the hand of an impertinent, penniless daughter of a country gentleman of little consequence. Though she had not regretted him at the time she first read his letter, nor the tenth, nor the five-and-tenth—for his manners throughout their acquaintance had left too much to be desired—Elizabeth was sufficiently humbled, particularly when Darcy’s account of his dealings with George Wickham had, with the addition of no insignificant amount of further reflection, completely availed his character of the injustice of Wickham’s former claims.
It was not four months later when they happened to meet again in Derbyshire on Pemberley’s exhalted grounds. Elizabeth was horrified to have him discover her there, of all places—within the boundary of his family’s ancestral home where he was lord and master; a home which, if she had only accepted him several months earlier, she would then have been mistress. Every second she expected his ire and indignation to descend upon her, or, worse still, his arrogance; instead, she received quite the opposite: his courtesy, consideration, and equal embarrassment.
It was as though the Fitzwilliam Darcy who stood before her then was a completely different man than the one she had previously known. Gone was his abominable pride, conceit, and hauteur as he not only welcomed her, but sought her opinion of the house and the park and, even more astonishing, her approval. When he turned toward her aunt and uncle and politely requested an introduction Elizabeth hardly knew what to think. Though fashionable in their manners and dress, the Gardiners were the very relatives with whom intercourse a few months ago would have been a disgrace. Darcy greeted them with civility however, if not some surprise, and engaged them in conversation with an amiability and ease she had not previously known he possessed. Never before had Elizabeth seen him so desirous to please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve as then. She could hardly account for such an alteration in his manners, and could not help but wonder whether it was for herself? Could her reproofs at Hunsford truly have inspired such a transformation in so great and proud a man? Such a possibility filled her with bewilderment and flooded her with unexpected warmth. He had shown her a completely different side of the master of Pemberley, and it was a most welcome surprise.
Not a full month later Elizabeth's wonder continued when, after a lengthy absence of ten months that had taken on the appearance of permanency, Mr. Bingley suddenly returned to Netherfield Park. To Elizabeth, it could mean but one thing: that Mr. Darcy must have taken it upon himself to speak to his friend, for what else could have inspired such a drastic change in events? Such was her shock when three days later Mr. Bingley was spotted riding up Longbourn's drive, accompanied by another gentleman. Elizabeth sat frozen in her chair when she heard one of her sisters identify the figure as that belonging to the same proud, disagreeable man who had been with him before—Mr. Darcy himself. How she had gotten through that visit she knew not, for her mortification had been great, and in the form of her mother as Mrs. Bennet eagerly regaled her guests with the news of Lydia’s recent marriage. How Darcy looked Elizabeth hardly knew, for she could not bear to raise her eyes to his face. Why, oh, why had she not kept Lydia’s shame to herself when he had called upon her that wretched day at The Inn at Lambton? Why had she not been strong enough to conceal their plight? Whatever possessed her to tell Mr. Darcy of her family’s most shocking news?
Perhaps, if she had held her tongue then, things would now have been very different between them. Perhaps he would have renewed his addresses, though she could hardly imagine that Mr. Darcy, who had been wronged so unjustly by Wickham in the past, would ever be able to reconcile himself to forming such a connection to such a man, no matter how ardently he had once proclaimed to love her.
He stayed but a week before abruptly quitting Hertfordshire for London, and without taking his leave of Longbourn. Elizabeth remained in perpetual ignorance of his whereabouts until she finally mustered the courage to inquire of Bingley, who was now to be her brother, whether Darcy remained at Netherfield. Bingley managed to tear his eyes from her sister Jane’s fair countenance long enough to inform them all that his friend had gone away to see to some matters of business, but would return in ten days time.
Ten days came and went with no sign of Mr. Darcy. All hope for Elizabeth soon came to an end when she learnt he had written to Bingley, informing his friend that his business had yet to be completed and that he did not foresee himself returning to the area as planned. For Elizabeth, it could mean but one thing: her power over him had finally sunk.
The next month passed at a tedious pace; one day flowing into the next with little differenciation or purpose. Elizabeth was not formed for ill humour, but she found it increasingly difficult to maintain a cheerful disposition while forced to bear witness to her mother’s constant state of elation over Jane’s engagment to Bingley, as well as her endless raptures of soon having two daughters married, and without the slightest comprehension of the prospect now lost to a third.
Elizabeth’s thoughts, her hopes, her wishes were every minute turned toward the memory of the tall, reticent man whose penetrating eyes haunted her. Even the colourful leaves and golden hues of the autumn landscape failed to hold her interest and raise her spirits as they had in years past. They served instead as a harsh reminder that winter would soon be upon Longbourn, bringing freezing temperatures that would mean lengthy periods of confinement to the house. This year, however, there would be no beloved Jane to bring her comfort.
In her melancholy, Elizabeth spent many solitary hours roaming the countryside, visiting favourite retreats, and contemplating the turn her sentiments had taken since that fateful April day in Kent. Why was it after so many months of reflection that she now saw with absolute clarity how perfectly suited they were for each other? Mr. Darcy’s understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. By her ease and liveliness his mind might have been softened, his manners improved; and by his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world Elizabeth would have received benefit of even greater importance. All hope would now be in vain; all wishes for another chance for naught. Darcy’s present actions, or lack thereof, spoke volumes. Surely, if he loved her still he would not be able to stay away. The taste of her disappointment was bitter.
In her room, the candle beside her sputtered, flared, and flickered. Elizabeth pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders, closed her eyes, and laid her head against the back of her chair. “What a fool I have been,” she whispered to herself as she allowed the pages of her letter to rest upon her lap. “How could I have been so blind as not to have seen it all before?”
She became completely submersed in her disappointment as she quietly mourned, not only that which she had lost, but that which she now wished for more than anything else in the world: the esteem, the admiration, the ardent devotion of the one man who was now lost to her forever.
* * *
"Lizzy?" The sound of Jane's gentle voice drifted into Elizabeth’s subconscious and encircled her like a comfortable blanket. It was soothing, warm, full of reassurance, and for just a few moments she was able to recall nothing of Darcy, her disappointment, or her heartache. Her eyelids fluttered open to meet her sister’s concerned countenance, illuminated by a glowing wax taper.
“Dearest, come to bed. You cannot spend the entire night in this chair,” Jane said as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her sister’s ear.
Elizabeth exhaled tiredly and looked toward the window, where nothing but darkness was visible through the lace curtains. Her own candle had long since died and the fire was nothing more than hot coals and a few glowing embers. She gathered the loose pages scattered upon her lap and folded them neatly, then walked to the bedside table to secret her precious letter within a favourite book of poems before placing both items into the top drawer.
Feeling her sister’s steady gaze upon her, Elizabeth forced a half-hearted smile to her lips as she discarded her shawl and loosened the belt of her dressing gown. It did little to mask her somber frame of mind. “Forgive me. There is so much to be done that I found it difficult to sleep for all the thoughts that are running through my head. I must have drifted off in spite of it all.” She climbed into bed, pulling the counterpane around her. Jane extinguished the candle with a quick breath and the room plunged into darkness. A moment later, the bed frame creaked and the mattress sank a bit lower as Jane joined her.
“Goodnight,” Elizabeth murmured, rolling onto her side so that her back was to her sister. She closed her eyes and silently willed a steady, dreamless slumber to descend upon her.
The bed groaned as Jane moved closer and laid her chin upon Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Please, Lizzy,” she whispered, her voice distressed. “Will you not finally speak of it to me?”
Elizabeth opened her eyes and repressed a sigh of irritation. Long shadows danced upon the wall before her, ethereal and elegant; ghostly images that resembled figures moving and swaying in scandalous proximity; hands, arms, bodies entwined, perhaps in the act of a Waltz. Though she had yet to see the fashionable dance performed, Elizabeth knew something of what it entailed and had often wondered what it would feel like to have a gentleman’s hand--his hand—placed firmly upon her waist, holding her so closely and in so familiar and intimate a fashion for the duration of an entire dance.
Jane shifted her weight upon the bed, and Elizabeth quickly recalled herself. “Speak of what?” she asked, her voice subdued, though her complexion was heightened.
“Whatever it is that is making you so unhappy. You cannot deny that you are otherwise, for I see it in you.”
“There is nothing the matter with me. I am perfectly well. My spirits may be somewhat out of sorts lately, it is true, but it is nothing to distress yourself over. I will soon be myself again and all will be as it was.”
Jane’s fingers stroked Elizabeth’s dark curls and slowly shook her head. “It will never again be as it was,” she said gently. “Our lives are ever changing, and there has been a great deal of alteration as of late. Lydia is a married woman living with Mr. Wickham in Newcastle, and I will soon be making my home at Netherfield, married to my Mr. Bingley.”
Elizabeth swallowed, tears pricking the corners of her eyes at the thought of her Jane living so far from her as three miles. “I know,” she whispered, “and while I cannot rejoice in the situation Lydia has brought upon herself, I am glad for you, Jane. You deserve to be happy. You have suffered so much in the past year.”
“As have you,” Jane replied. “Oh, Lizzy, I know not all of what he has written to you, or what has come to pass between you—nor do I wish to force your confidence—but I beg of you not to read Mr. Darcy’s letter anymore. It does you no good that I can see. In fact, your spirits are always much worse afterward.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes as a few tears spilled down her cheeks and onto her pillow. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and took an unsteady breath, then turned her face toward her sister, whose pale eyes reflected concern and love. “Very well. If it is what you wish then I will refrain from looking upon it, if for no reason other than to ease your mind.”
“Tell me, Lizzy," Jane inquired in earnest, her eyes glistening as she reached for Elizabeth's hand, "what might I do to ease yours?”
A flicker of sadness crossed Elizabeth’s face as she grasped her sister’s proffered hand and caressed the beautiful sapphire ring upon her third finger wistfully. “There is nothing you can do. I must conquer this on my own. I ask only that you continue to have patience with me, for I dread losing you as well. Though Netherfield is but three miles, it will seem like fifty without you here to comfort me as you have all these years. Oh, Jane, how I shall miss you!”
“And I you! You must promise me you will come often to Netherfield, even if it is only to hide yourself away in the library and immerse yourself in a book. Though the current offerings are somewhat meager, Charles has told me he plans on adding to it very soon with the intention of pleasing you, who are my dearest sister. You will always be welcome in our home, Lizzy, whenever you wish to visit us.”
Elizabeth laughed then, and smiled with real pleasure. “Then I am afraid your excellent Mr. Bingley will grow quite tired of me, for there is nowhere else I would rather be than with my dearest Jane.”
“Come, Lizzy. Nowhere?”
“Well, perhaps there may be a few places I would not mind seeing again someday, but I would never wish to be far from you.”
“Then you must accompany me on my honeymoon. We are to go to London after the Little Season has ended, and it would give me great pleasure if you were to come as well.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I could not intrude so upon your time with your new husband. Surely, Mr. Bingley will want you to himself, and I will only be in his way.”
“Nonsense. Having you with me will bring me comfort. I confess I am not looking forward to attending private balls and dinners, and meeting so many new acquaintances who will no doubt be eager to dissect every aspect of my person, my manners, and my dress. I would feel much easier with you by my side, Lizzy. You shall give me strength.”
“Jane,” Elizabeth began, but Jane would hear none of it.
“Charles and I have already discussed the matter at great length, and it is quite settled between us. He would like for you to come as much as I do. There is really nothing to be done for it except for you to agree, for I refuse to go without you.”
“Very well," Elizabeth laughed. "I know better than to argue with you once you have made up your mind, and, as I have no wish to be the means of disappointing your husband should his bride absolutely refuse to accompany him on his honeymoon, I accept; but only on the condition that you will see to your own pleasure first, and leave me to find my own amusement, or else poor Mr. Bingley shall go distracted having to share you so recently after finally earning the priviledge of being alone with you.”
Jane agreed and the matter was very soon settled between them. Elizabeth would accompany the Bingleys to London on the day following their wedding, and there she would remain until shortly after Christmas, when the Gardiners were expected to travel to Longbourn for the New Year.
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012. All rights reserved.
Fitzwilliam Darcy. Elizabeth traced each letter of his signature with tenderness. She had treated him with such contempt and insolence then, having thrown his proposal of marriage—as arrogant and insulting as his words had been—back in his face with a vengeance, and in the next breath accused him of such wretched wrong-doing against a scoundrel of a man whom she must now call her brother.
While she had not been insensible of the compliment Darcy paid her by the bestowal of his addresses, it was not until many months had passed that she came to fully appreciate that which she had so readily scorned: the affection and esteem of a man who, despite his excessive pride and arrogant assumptions, had somehow come to love her well enough to throw off the expectations and wishes of his family and his peers by asking for the hand of an impertinent, penniless daughter of a country gentleman of little consequence. Though she had not regretted him at the time she first read his letter, nor the tenth, nor the five-and-tenth—for his manners throughout their acquaintance had left too much to be desired—Elizabeth was sufficiently humbled, particularly when Darcy’s account of his dealings with George Wickham had, with the addition of no insignificant amount of further reflection, completely availed his character of the injustice of Wickham’s former claims.
It was not four months later when they happened to meet again in Derbyshire on Pemberley’s exhalted grounds. Elizabeth was horrified to have him discover her there, of all places—within the boundary of his family’s ancestral home where he was lord and master; a home which, if she had only accepted him several months earlier, she would then have been mistress. Every second she expected his ire and indignation to descend upon her, or, worse still, his arrogance; instead, she received quite the opposite: his courtesy, consideration, and equal embarrassment.
It was as though the Fitzwilliam Darcy who stood before her then was a completely different man than the one she had previously known. Gone was his abominable pride, conceit, and hauteur as he not only welcomed her, but sought her opinion of the house and the park and, even more astonishing, her approval. When he turned toward her aunt and uncle and politely requested an introduction Elizabeth hardly knew what to think. Though fashionable in their manners and dress, the Gardiners were the very relatives with whom intercourse a few months ago would have been a disgrace. Darcy greeted them with civility however, if not some surprise, and engaged them in conversation with an amiability and ease she had not previously known he possessed. Never before had Elizabeth seen him so desirous to please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve as then. She could hardly account for such an alteration in his manners, and could not help but wonder whether it was for herself? Could her reproofs at Hunsford truly have inspired such a transformation in so great and proud a man? Such a possibility filled her with bewilderment and flooded her with unexpected warmth. He had shown her a completely different side of the master of Pemberley, and it was a most welcome surprise.
Not a full month later Elizabeth's wonder continued when, after a lengthy absence of ten months that had taken on the appearance of permanency, Mr. Bingley suddenly returned to Netherfield Park. To Elizabeth, it could mean but one thing: that Mr. Darcy must have taken it upon himself to speak to his friend, for what else could have inspired such a drastic change in events? Such was her shock when three days later Mr. Bingley was spotted riding up Longbourn's drive, accompanied by another gentleman. Elizabeth sat frozen in her chair when she heard one of her sisters identify the figure as that belonging to the same proud, disagreeable man who had been with him before—Mr. Darcy himself. How she had gotten through that visit she knew not, for her mortification had been great, and in the form of her mother as Mrs. Bennet eagerly regaled her guests with the news of Lydia’s recent marriage. How Darcy looked Elizabeth hardly knew, for she could not bear to raise her eyes to his face. Why, oh, why had she not kept Lydia’s shame to herself when he had called upon her that wretched day at The Inn at Lambton? Why had she not been strong enough to conceal their plight? Whatever possessed her to tell Mr. Darcy of her family’s most shocking news?
Perhaps, if she had held her tongue then, things would now have been very different between them. Perhaps he would have renewed his addresses, though she could hardly imagine that Mr. Darcy, who had been wronged so unjustly by Wickham in the past, would ever be able to reconcile himself to forming such a connection to such a man, no matter how ardently he had once proclaimed to love her.
He stayed but a week before abruptly quitting Hertfordshire for London, and without taking his leave of Longbourn. Elizabeth remained in perpetual ignorance of his whereabouts until she finally mustered the courage to inquire of Bingley, who was now to be her brother, whether Darcy remained at Netherfield. Bingley managed to tear his eyes from her sister Jane’s fair countenance long enough to inform them all that his friend had gone away to see to some matters of business, but would return in ten days time.
Ten days came and went with no sign of Mr. Darcy. All hope for Elizabeth soon came to an end when she learnt he had written to Bingley, informing his friend that his business had yet to be completed and that he did not foresee himself returning to the area as planned. For Elizabeth, it could mean but one thing: her power over him had finally sunk.
The next month passed at a tedious pace; one day flowing into the next with little differenciation or purpose. Elizabeth was not formed for ill humour, but she found it increasingly difficult to maintain a cheerful disposition while forced to bear witness to her mother’s constant state of elation over Jane’s engagment to Bingley, as well as her endless raptures of soon having two daughters married, and without the slightest comprehension of the prospect now lost to a third.
Elizabeth’s thoughts, her hopes, her wishes were every minute turned toward the memory of the tall, reticent man whose penetrating eyes haunted her. Even the colourful leaves and golden hues of the autumn landscape failed to hold her interest and raise her spirits as they had in years past. They served instead as a harsh reminder that winter would soon be upon Longbourn, bringing freezing temperatures that would mean lengthy periods of confinement to the house. This year, however, there would be no beloved Jane to bring her comfort.
In her melancholy, Elizabeth spent many solitary hours roaming the countryside, visiting favourite retreats, and contemplating the turn her sentiments had taken since that fateful April day in Kent. Why was it after so many months of reflection that she now saw with absolute clarity how perfectly suited they were for each other? Mr. Darcy’s understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. By her ease and liveliness his mind might have been softened, his manners improved; and by his judgment, information, and knowledge of the world Elizabeth would have received benefit of even greater importance. All hope would now be in vain; all wishes for another chance for naught. Darcy’s present actions, or lack thereof, spoke volumes. Surely, if he loved her still he would not be able to stay away. The taste of her disappointment was bitter.
In her room, the candle beside her sputtered, flared, and flickered. Elizabeth pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders, closed her eyes, and laid her head against the back of her chair. “What a fool I have been,” she whispered to herself as she allowed the pages of her letter to rest upon her lap. “How could I have been so blind as not to have seen it all before?”
She became completely submersed in her disappointment as she quietly mourned, not only that which she had lost, but that which she now wished for more than anything else in the world: the esteem, the admiration, the ardent devotion of the one man who was now lost to her forever.
* * *
"Lizzy?" The sound of Jane's gentle voice drifted into Elizabeth’s subconscious and encircled her like a comfortable blanket. It was soothing, warm, full of reassurance, and for just a few moments she was able to recall nothing of Darcy, her disappointment, or her heartache. Her eyelids fluttered open to meet her sister’s concerned countenance, illuminated by a glowing wax taper.
“Dearest, come to bed. You cannot spend the entire night in this chair,” Jane said as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her sister’s ear.
Elizabeth exhaled tiredly and looked toward the window, where nothing but darkness was visible through the lace curtains. Her own candle had long since died and the fire was nothing more than hot coals and a few glowing embers. She gathered the loose pages scattered upon her lap and folded them neatly, then walked to the bedside table to secret her precious letter within a favourite book of poems before placing both items into the top drawer.
Feeling her sister’s steady gaze upon her, Elizabeth forced a half-hearted smile to her lips as she discarded her shawl and loosened the belt of her dressing gown. It did little to mask her somber frame of mind. “Forgive me. There is so much to be done that I found it difficult to sleep for all the thoughts that are running through my head. I must have drifted off in spite of it all.” She climbed into bed, pulling the counterpane around her. Jane extinguished the candle with a quick breath and the room plunged into darkness. A moment later, the bed frame creaked and the mattress sank a bit lower as Jane joined her.
“Goodnight,” Elizabeth murmured, rolling onto her side so that her back was to her sister. She closed her eyes and silently willed a steady, dreamless slumber to descend upon her.
The bed groaned as Jane moved closer and laid her chin upon Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Please, Lizzy,” she whispered, her voice distressed. “Will you not finally speak of it to me?”
Elizabeth opened her eyes and repressed a sigh of irritation. Long shadows danced upon the wall before her, ethereal and elegant; ghostly images that resembled figures moving and swaying in scandalous proximity; hands, arms, bodies entwined, perhaps in the act of a Waltz. Though she had yet to see the fashionable dance performed, Elizabeth knew something of what it entailed and had often wondered what it would feel like to have a gentleman’s hand--his hand—placed firmly upon her waist, holding her so closely and in so familiar and intimate a fashion for the duration of an entire dance.
Jane shifted her weight upon the bed, and Elizabeth quickly recalled herself. “Speak of what?” she asked, her voice subdued, though her complexion was heightened.
“Whatever it is that is making you so unhappy. You cannot deny that you are otherwise, for I see it in you.”
“There is nothing the matter with me. I am perfectly well. My spirits may be somewhat out of sorts lately, it is true, but it is nothing to distress yourself over. I will soon be myself again and all will be as it was.”
Jane’s fingers stroked Elizabeth’s dark curls and slowly shook her head. “It will never again be as it was,” she said gently. “Our lives are ever changing, and there has been a great deal of alteration as of late. Lydia is a married woman living with Mr. Wickham in Newcastle, and I will soon be making my home at Netherfield, married to my Mr. Bingley.”
Elizabeth swallowed, tears pricking the corners of her eyes at the thought of her Jane living so far from her as three miles. “I know,” she whispered, “and while I cannot rejoice in the situation Lydia has brought upon herself, I am glad for you, Jane. You deserve to be happy. You have suffered so much in the past year.”
“As have you,” Jane replied. “Oh, Lizzy, I know not all of what he has written to you, or what has come to pass between you—nor do I wish to force your confidence—but I beg of you not to read Mr. Darcy’s letter anymore. It does you no good that I can see. In fact, your spirits are always much worse afterward.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes as a few tears spilled down her cheeks and onto her pillow. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and took an unsteady breath, then turned her face toward her sister, whose pale eyes reflected concern and love. “Very well. If it is what you wish then I will refrain from looking upon it, if for no reason other than to ease your mind.”
“Tell me, Lizzy," Jane inquired in earnest, her eyes glistening as she reached for Elizabeth's hand, "what might I do to ease yours?”
A flicker of sadness crossed Elizabeth’s face as she grasped her sister’s proffered hand and caressed the beautiful sapphire ring upon her third finger wistfully. “There is nothing you can do. I must conquer this on my own. I ask only that you continue to have patience with me, for I dread losing you as well. Though Netherfield is but three miles, it will seem like fifty without you here to comfort me as you have all these years. Oh, Jane, how I shall miss you!”
“And I you! You must promise me you will come often to Netherfield, even if it is only to hide yourself away in the library and immerse yourself in a book. Though the current offerings are somewhat meager, Charles has told me he plans on adding to it very soon with the intention of pleasing you, who are my dearest sister. You will always be welcome in our home, Lizzy, whenever you wish to visit us.”
Elizabeth laughed then, and smiled with real pleasure. “Then I am afraid your excellent Mr. Bingley will grow quite tired of me, for there is nowhere else I would rather be than with my dearest Jane.”
“Come, Lizzy. Nowhere?”
“Well, perhaps there may be a few places I would not mind seeing again someday, but I would never wish to be far from you.”
“Then you must accompany me on my honeymoon. We are to go to London after the Little Season has ended, and it would give me great pleasure if you were to come as well.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I could not intrude so upon your time with your new husband. Surely, Mr. Bingley will want you to himself, and I will only be in his way.”
“Nonsense. Having you with me will bring me comfort. I confess I am not looking forward to attending private balls and dinners, and meeting so many new acquaintances who will no doubt be eager to dissect every aspect of my person, my manners, and my dress. I would feel much easier with you by my side, Lizzy. You shall give me strength.”
“Jane,” Elizabeth began, but Jane would hear none of it.
“Charles and I have already discussed the matter at great length, and it is quite settled between us. He would like for you to come as much as I do. There is really nothing to be done for it except for you to agree, for I refuse to go without you.”
“Very well," Elizabeth laughed. "I know better than to argue with you once you have made up your mind, and, as I have no wish to be the means of disappointing your husband should his bride absolutely refuse to accompany him on his honeymoon, I accept; but only on the condition that you will see to your own pleasure first, and leave me to find my own amusement, or else poor Mr. Bingley shall go distracted having to share you so recently after finally earning the priviledge of being alone with you.”
Jane agreed and the matter was very soon settled between them. Elizabeth would accompany the Bingleys to London on the day following their wedding, and there she would remain until shortly after Christmas, when the Gardiners were expected to travel to Longbourn for the New Year.
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012. All rights reserved.
Excerpt, Chapter Six
Lively music drifted through the open door
of the Grey Goose, the finest inn the small market town of Meryton had to
offer. The pleasant melody dipped and swelled in the crisp night air as it
carried through High Street, inspiring the coachmen and stable hands assembled
without to raise their voices in merriment, despite the cold weather. Darcy
tugged impatiently at his tailcoat and ascended the steep staircase that led to
the local assembly hall, a mixture of excitement and agitation strumming
through his veins.
When he finally gained the upper landing and entered the main room he was met by a boisterous crowd, no doubt eager to partake of the delights that such an evening would surely afford. With determination he forced his way through the great swell of townspeople, his discerning eyes making quick work of the myriad of faces and figures before him. There were countless ladies in attendance, many of whom seemed to be in want of a partner; for Darcy, however, only one would suffice, and he continued to scan the crowded room with the hope of soon glimpsing her handsome countenance. He did not have to wait long.
The unmistakable, heady scent of rosewater wafted through the stifling air of the place like a refreshing breeze, beckoning to him as a siren’s call would a lost sailor; her musical laughter ringing in his ears, enchanting him as effortlessly as ever. She was there, in the far corner of the room speaking animatedly with one of her sisters, her smile lighting her countenance like the first full rays of the morning sun. Breathtaking was the only word to describe her, and Darcy allowed his eyes to linger appreciatively upon the vision of perfection before him.
She was dressed in a gossamer gown of snowy white silk; her long, dark curls loosely bound with satin ribbons and fragrant flowers, giving her the appearance of a faerie princess or, more aptly, a tempting wood nymph. As though she sensed his presence, she turned her head in his direction, her eyes twinking with unspoken pleasure as they locked with his own. One slender brow arched in a most impertinent manner and Darcy was flooded with desire.
The music ended and the first strains of a Waltz began. Darcy’s blood pounded in his ears as he made his way toward her with quick, determined strides, bent on securing her for the most scandalous dance polite society had yet seen. The entire assembly seemed intent upon watching him, but he cared not. His only concern was the enchanting woman before him, and reaching her before any other man could so much as breathe in her direction.
“William.” She greeted him softly, familiarly, and he thought his heart would burst with the happiness he felt as she slipped her gloved fingertips into his own and gave him a brilliant smile, her eyes dancing with amusement at her own daring.
Darcy’s large hand closed possessively around her small one and the crowd parted before them as he led her to the center of the room. His satisfaction with her playful acceptance caused the corners of his mouth to turn up slightly, his thumb softly stroking the smooth silk of her glove. With great joy did he place his other hand upon the curve of her waist, pulling her closer than propriety permitted as he guided her graceful form effortlessly about the floor. To his surprise, she did not protest against the close proximity of their bodies, but settled her hand more firmly upon his shoulder with a sultry smile and a teasing caress, her eyes dancing with sheer happiness and unabashed affection. One by one the curious onlookers who surrounded them faded into the background, leaving them completely and blessedly alone.
Darcy was unable to tear his gaze from the picture of complete loveliness she presented. He was ever conscious of the feel of her warm, compliant body beneath his hands, the sweetness of her scent, and the way she looked at him—with an ardour that rivalled his own. How he longed to pull her fully into his embrace and kiss those teasing lips; to tangle his fingers into her glorious mass of dark curls and take possession of her right there in the middle of the dance!
The music came to an end far too soon for Darcy’s liking and, as though the beautiful enchantress in his arms could read his private thoughts, Elizabeth closed the few remaining inches between them with agonising slowness. Boldly did she press her body against his own and slide her gloved hands over Darcy’s shoulders, linking her fingers behind his neck; a mischievous smile playing upon her mouth as she leaned toward him and brushed her rosy lips lightly along the line of his jaw.
“William,” she whispered once more, her breath sweet and insistent as it caressed his flesh, “I have been waiting for you so very long, my dearest.”
A powerful current of desire surged through Darcy’s veins. Her confession, her endearment, and the provocative manner in which she professed them were his undoing. Caring for nothing beyond his desire to worship the woman in his arms, Darcy’s eyes flared with long-repressed passion as he pulled her tightly against his body. He revelled in the way she fit against him, so soft and perfect. They were, after all, made for each other.
“Elizabeth, my own,” he breathed, his voice rich with emotion; hoarse with the fierceness of his desire. In the next moment he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her deeply, with every ounce of the ardour that surged through his body, flowed through his veins, and pumped through the chambers of his rapidly beating heart. Her sigh of pleasure, so heady and satisfying as she clung to him, was music to his ears.
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2009, 2010, 2012. All rights reserved.
When he finally gained the upper landing and entered the main room he was met by a boisterous crowd, no doubt eager to partake of the delights that such an evening would surely afford. With determination he forced his way through the great swell of townspeople, his discerning eyes making quick work of the myriad of faces and figures before him. There were countless ladies in attendance, many of whom seemed to be in want of a partner; for Darcy, however, only one would suffice, and he continued to scan the crowded room with the hope of soon glimpsing her handsome countenance. He did not have to wait long.
The unmistakable, heady scent of rosewater wafted through the stifling air of the place like a refreshing breeze, beckoning to him as a siren’s call would a lost sailor; her musical laughter ringing in his ears, enchanting him as effortlessly as ever. She was there, in the far corner of the room speaking animatedly with one of her sisters, her smile lighting her countenance like the first full rays of the morning sun. Breathtaking was the only word to describe her, and Darcy allowed his eyes to linger appreciatively upon the vision of perfection before him.
She was dressed in a gossamer gown of snowy white silk; her long, dark curls loosely bound with satin ribbons and fragrant flowers, giving her the appearance of a faerie princess or, more aptly, a tempting wood nymph. As though she sensed his presence, she turned her head in his direction, her eyes twinking with unspoken pleasure as they locked with his own. One slender brow arched in a most impertinent manner and Darcy was flooded with desire.
The music ended and the first strains of a Waltz began. Darcy’s blood pounded in his ears as he made his way toward her with quick, determined strides, bent on securing her for the most scandalous dance polite society had yet seen. The entire assembly seemed intent upon watching him, but he cared not. His only concern was the enchanting woman before him, and reaching her before any other man could so much as breathe in her direction.
“William.” She greeted him softly, familiarly, and he thought his heart would burst with the happiness he felt as she slipped her gloved fingertips into his own and gave him a brilliant smile, her eyes dancing with amusement at her own daring.
Darcy’s large hand closed possessively around her small one and the crowd parted before them as he led her to the center of the room. His satisfaction with her playful acceptance caused the corners of his mouth to turn up slightly, his thumb softly stroking the smooth silk of her glove. With great joy did he place his other hand upon the curve of her waist, pulling her closer than propriety permitted as he guided her graceful form effortlessly about the floor. To his surprise, she did not protest against the close proximity of their bodies, but settled her hand more firmly upon his shoulder with a sultry smile and a teasing caress, her eyes dancing with sheer happiness and unabashed affection. One by one the curious onlookers who surrounded them faded into the background, leaving them completely and blessedly alone.
Darcy was unable to tear his gaze from the picture of complete loveliness she presented. He was ever conscious of the feel of her warm, compliant body beneath his hands, the sweetness of her scent, and the way she looked at him—with an ardour that rivalled his own. How he longed to pull her fully into his embrace and kiss those teasing lips; to tangle his fingers into her glorious mass of dark curls and take possession of her right there in the middle of the dance!
The music came to an end far too soon for Darcy’s liking and, as though the beautiful enchantress in his arms could read his private thoughts, Elizabeth closed the few remaining inches between them with agonising slowness. Boldly did she press her body against his own and slide her gloved hands over Darcy’s shoulders, linking her fingers behind his neck; a mischievous smile playing upon her mouth as she leaned toward him and brushed her rosy lips lightly along the line of his jaw.
“William,” she whispered once more, her breath sweet and insistent as it caressed his flesh, “I have been waiting for you so very long, my dearest.”
A powerful current of desire surged through Darcy’s veins. Her confession, her endearment, and the provocative manner in which she professed them were his undoing. Caring for nothing beyond his desire to worship the woman in his arms, Darcy’s eyes flared with long-repressed passion as he pulled her tightly against his body. He revelled in the way she fit against him, so soft and perfect. They were, after all, made for each other.
“Elizabeth, my own,” he breathed, his voice rich with emotion; hoarse with the fierceness of his desire. In the next moment he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her deeply, with every ounce of the ardour that surged through his body, flowed through his veins, and pumped through the chambers of his rapidly beating heart. Her sigh of pleasure, so heady and satisfying as she clung to him, was music to his ears.
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2009, 2010, 2012. All rights reserved.
Excerpt, Chapter Eight
When the dance ended Elizabeth was quick to excuse herself, making her way with alacrity through the back hall to one of the dressing rooms. She stepped inside and locked the door, her breathing as rapid as her heartbeat. Why, oh, why did he have to reappear now, just when she was finally able to enjoy herself for one night without her thoughts and her heart traitorously wishing for his presence or mourning his absence?
Elizabeth glimpsed her reflection in a looking glass upon the wall and expelled a shaky, rueful laugh at the image of the woman who stared back at her. She could not deny that tonight she was in excellent looks, an observation reinforced again and again by the countless compliments and admiring glances she received, as well as her full dance card. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth felt as though she had finally been given a taste of what it must be like to be Jane.
At Mrs. Bennet’s insistence, Sarah, one of two upstairs maids in Longbourn House, had gone to great lengths to transform Elizabeth into the graceful beauty she now saw reflected before her. In honour of the occasion, her mother presented her with a beautiful gold and ruby necklace that perfectly matched her new gown. It was a precious family heirloom that had been passed down through many generations of Bennets, and it completed her elegant ensemble, giving Elizabeth the appearance of a well-dowered young lady of some consequence, as well as the restoration of some of the confidence and sparkle she had seemingly lacked for so many months.
Elizabeth was not fooled, however. She knew that her mother’s sudden focus on her appearance was only a ruse, done with the hope that her least favourite amongst her five daughters might soon secure William Ellis for a husband, or perhaps some other eligible gentleman; but, to her surprise, Elizabeth found such attentions from her mother, who had really ever fussed over Jane and Lydia in such an attentive manner, oddly edifying. Though she had no interest at all in securing Mr. Ellis for anything beyond a few dances—and certainly no intention to encourage a romantic attachment—Elizabeth was determined to enjoy the advantages to be reaped from presenting such a pleasing appearance. She had succeeded in doing so—and with great amusement and satisfaction—until the moment she came face to face with Mr. Darcy.
With a deep breath Elizabeth willed her racing heart to calm. Absolutely nothing had changed. She was still exactly the same person she had always been. At the moment she was dressed up in jewells and silk, her hair arranged with more sophistication than she was used to wearing it, and her lips painted with just a touch of rouge, but she knew that none of her accoutrements by any means altered her circumstances. She would forever be sister to George Wickham, a man who deserved no such distinction or recognition from any of them, least of all Mr. Darcy. According to Mr. Ellis' intelligence it mattered little in any case. It appeared that nearly all of their acquaintance in Kent believed the master of Pemberley would soon be married to his wealthy cousin. Though she had been reluctant to completely discredit Lady Catherine's claims in her last letter, Charlotte had gone so far as to include a few lines in which she reported hearing nothing of Her Ladyship's nephew returning to Rosings since he had quitted it last April.
Elizabeth gave a short, humourless laugh. Did it honestly matter who or when Mr. Darcy eventually married? With a scoundrel for a brother, a man of Darcy's notoriety and consequence in the world could never afford to sink so low as to offer a second time for her. It was a testament to the strength of his friendship with Mr. Bingley that he had finally come back to Hertfordshire at all.
Willing herself to keep her composure, Elizabeth bit her bottom lip and removed her silk gloves so she could splash some cool water from a porcelain basin upon her flushed cheeks. She could not stay within the small enclosure for the rest of the evening, nor could she claim a headache and escape to Longbourn. Her mother would never permit it. There was nothing to do but return to the assembly and hope that Darcy’s presence in Hertfordshire would not succeed in discomposing her for long.
After ten minutes had passed she finally felt mistress of herself enough to return, but managed to advance no further than a few yards when she discerned a familiar figure moving toward her in the dimly lit hall. She froze as Darcy’s long, deliberate strides closed the distance between them, his eyes fixed upon her with a look of grim determination. Elizabeth’s hands went immediately to her skirts, nervously twisting the expensive fabric, then hurriedly smoothing any offensive creases. Surely, her mother would not be pleased to see her fidgeting with her new finery in such an appalling manner.
Finally, he came to stand directly before her, his mien serious, and Elizabeth, her courage rising in the face of such intimidation, clasped her hands behind her back and forced herself to speak to him for the first time that evening. “Mr. Darcy,” she said sedately, and with far more composure than she felt, “you are welcome back to Hertfordshire, sir.”
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2009, 2010, 2012. All rights reserved.
Elizabeth glimpsed her reflection in a looking glass upon the wall and expelled a shaky, rueful laugh at the image of the woman who stared back at her. She could not deny that tonight she was in excellent looks, an observation reinforced again and again by the countless compliments and admiring glances she received, as well as her full dance card. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth felt as though she had finally been given a taste of what it must be like to be Jane.
At Mrs. Bennet’s insistence, Sarah, one of two upstairs maids in Longbourn House, had gone to great lengths to transform Elizabeth into the graceful beauty she now saw reflected before her. In honour of the occasion, her mother presented her with a beautiful gold and ruby necklace that perfectly matched her new gown. It was a precious family heirloom that had been passed down through many generations of Bennets, and it completed her elegant ensemble, giving Elizabeth the appearance of a well-dowered young lady of some consequence, as well as the restoration of some of the confidence and sparkle she had seemingly lacked for so many months.
Elizabeth was not fooled, however. She knew that her mother’s sudden focus on her appearance was only a ruse, done with the hope that her least favourite amongst her five daughters might soon secure William Ellis for a husband, or perhaps some other eligible gentleman; but, to her surprise, Elizabeth found such attentions from her mother, who had really ever fussed over Jane and Lydia in such an attentive manner, oddly edifying. Though she had no interest at all in securing Mr. Ellis for anything beyond a few dances—and certainly no intention to encourage a romantic attachment—Elizabeth was determined to enjoy the advantages to be reaped from presenting such a pleasing appearance. She had succeeded in doing so—and with great amusement and satisfaction—until the moment she came face to face with Mr. Darcy.
With a deep breath Elizabeth willed her racing heart to calm. Absolutely nothing had changed. She was still exactly the same person she had always been. At the moment she was dressed up in jewells and silk, her hair arranged with more sophistication than she was used to wearing it, and her lips painted with just a touch of rouge, but she knew that none of her accoutrements by any means altered her circumstances. She would forever be sister to George Wickham, a man who deserved no such distinction or recognition from any of them, least of all Mr. Darcy. According to Mr. Ellis' intelligence it mattered little in any case. It appeared that nearly all of their acquaintance in Kent believed the master of Pemberley would soon be married to his wealthy cousin. Though she had been reluctant to completely discredit Lady Catherine's claims in her last letter, Charlotte had gone so far as to include a few lines in which she reported hearing nothing of Her Ladyship's nephew returning to Rosings since he had quitted it last April.
Elizabeth gave a short, humourless laugh. Did it honestly matter who or when Mr. Darcy eventually married? With a scoundrel for a brother, a man of Darcy's notoriety and consequence in the world could never afford to sink so low as to offer a second time for her. It was a testament to the strength of his friendship with Mr. Bingley that he had finally come back to Hertfordshire at all.
Willing herself to keep her composure, Elizabeth bit her bottom lip and removed her silk gloves so she could splash some cool water from a porcelain basin upon her flushed cheeks. She could not stay within the small enclosure for the rest of the evening, nor could she claim a headache and escape to Longbourn. Her mother would never permit it. There was nothing to do but return to the assembly and hope that Darcy’s presence in Hertfordshire would not succeed in discomposing her for long.
After ten minutes had passed she finally felt mistress of herself enough to return, but managed to advance no further than a few yards when she discerned a familiar figure moving toward her in the dimly lit hall. She froze as Darcy’s long, deliberate strides closed the distance between them, his eyes fixed upon her with a look of grim determination. Elizabeth’s hands went immediately to her skirts, nervously twisting the expensive fabric, then hurriedly smoothing any offensive creases. Surely, her mother would not be pleased to see her fidgeting with her new finery in such an appalling manner.
Finally, he came to stand directly before her, his mien serious, and Elizabeth, her courage rising in the face of such intimidation, clasped her hands behind her back and forced herself to speak to him for the first time that evening. “Mr. Darcy,” she said sedately, and with far more composure than she felt, “you are welcome back to Hertfordshire, sir.”
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2009, 2010, 2012. All rights reserved.
Excerpt, Chapter Fourteen
With one last, teasing look, Elizabeth curtsied to him and took her leave without uttering another word.
Darcy watched her go, his heart lighter than it had been in ages. His eyes studied her graceful movements. The natural sway of her hips as she negotiated a path through the throng of people gathered in Bingley’s drawing room made his pulse quicken. A footman stepped forward and pulled the door open and the alluring beauty was gone. Good God, Darcy thought, but I am a fortunate man!
The sound of a throat being cleared just behind him drew his attention to William Ellis. “She is not a classic beauty like her eldest sister," Ellis said softly, "but she is very pretty in her own right; at least I have always thought so.”
“Mr. Ellis,” Darcy muttered stiffly, unable to repress a frown, “I did not hear your approach.”
“I suspect that is because you were distracted, Mr. Darcy. It is a simple enough affliction; one we are all destined to suffer sooner or later. In this case, however, I strongly suggest you find another distraction to occupy your time, sir. She is not for you.”
Darcy’s irritation with the man increased ten-fold. “Mr. Ellis, I realise you care for Miss Bennet, but I must insist that you refrain from involving yourself in my personal affairs. This is hardly a matter that concerns you.”
Ellis’ expression hardened. “Do you imagine me blind," he said lowly, "to the looks you have bestowed upon Miss Elizabeth in weeks past and again tonight during supper, or to her reaction to them? I do not know what game you are playing, but I am not a simpleton. I promise you, my affection for the lady and her family is of long standing. I will not tolerate you trifling with her, or smearing the Bennets’ good name in order to sate your appetite for carnal pleasure.”
“You are out of line,” Darcy growled. “I have never trifled with any lady, sir, and I resent your implication.”
“As I resent you, Mr. Darcy, for ever returning to Hertfordshire. She does not need her heart broken a second time!”
“A second time?” Darcy parroted sharply before recalling himself and glancing about the room. To his embarrassment, several of Bingley’s guests had turned their heads in curiosity, their necks straining to see beyond those of their neighbours. Darcy noticed Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner amongst them, identical expressions of concern upon their faces as their eyes met his.
“Perhaps we ought to continue our discussion elsewhere,” Ellis said with forced congeniality, inclining his head to the room in general. “Surely, we need not include the rest of Mr. Bingley’s party in our…discourse.”
Reproduction or redistribution of the above text in any form without the written consent of the author is strictly prohibited. Copyright © Susan Adriani, 2009, 2010, 2012. All rights reserved.
Darcy watched her go, his heart lighter than it had been in ages. His eyes studied her graceful movements. The natural sway of her hips as she negotiated a path through the throng of people gathered in Bingley’s drawing room made his pulse quicken. A footman stepped forward and pulled the door open and the alluring beauty was gone. Good God, Darcy thought, but I am a fortunate man!
The sound of a throat being cleared just behind him drew his attention to William Ellis. “She is not a classic beauty like her eldest sister," Ellis said softly, "but she is very pretty in her own right; at least I have always thought so.”
“Mr. Ellis,” Darcy muttered stiffly, unable to repress a frown, “I did not hear your approach.”
“I suspect that is because you were distracted, Mr. Darcy. It is a simple enough affliction; one we are all destined to suffer sooner or later. In this case, however, I strongly suggest you find another distraction to occupy your time, sir. She is not for you.”
Darcy’s irritation with the man increased ten-fold. “Mr. Ellis, I realise you care for Miss Bennet, but I must insist that you refrain from involving yourself in my personal affairs. This is hardly a matter that concerns you.”
Ellis’ expression hardened. “Do you imagine me blind," he said lowly, "to the looks you have bestowed upon Miss Elizabeth in weeks past and again tonight during supper, or to her reaction to them? I do not know what game you are playing, but I am not a simpleton. I promise you, my affection for the lady and her family is of long standing. I will not tolerate you trifling with her, or smearing the Bennets’ good name in order to sate your appetite for carnal pleasure.”
“You are out of line,” Darcy growled. “I have never trifled with any lady, sir, and I resent your implication.”
“As I resent you, Mr. Darcy, for ever returning to Hertfordshire. She does not need her heart broken a second time!”
“A second time?” Darcy parroted sharply before recalling himself and glancing about the room. To his embarrassment, several of Bingley’s guests had turned their heads in curiosity, their necks straining to see beyond those of their neighbours. Darcy noticed Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner amongst them, identical expressions of concern upon their faces as their eyes met his.
“Perhaps we ought to continue our discussion elsewhere,” Ellis said with forced congeniality, inclining his head to the room in general. “Surely, we need not include the rest of Mr. Bingley’s party in our…discourse.”
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