Seven Days With Mr Darcy

by Rose Fairbanks

  Elizabeth had based her remarks on the belief that Mr. Bingley was a man of independent means and thoughts, but now she recollected more about his character. He did have such an easiness of temper and want of resolution. Was he really so willing to sacrifice his own happiness? Had his regard for Jane died away? Or had he not noticed her attachment to him?

  She sought out Jane and found her misty-eyed in their bedchamber, seeking refuge from their mother’s constant prattle bemoaning Mr. Bingley’s sudden departure and hoping for his eventual return.

  Elizabeth began to abuse Mr. Bingley’s inconstancy when Jane interrupted her. “I have nothing to reproach him with. He is the most amiable gentleman I have ever known but he will be forgot. My pain cannot last long.”

  “You are too good!” Elizabeth rejoined, but when Jane tried to compliment Elizabeth as well, the latter would not allow it. “There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.”

  “I cannot believe I have been intentionally injured. Mr. Bingley is such a lively young man; his manners give the impression of more favouritism than he holds. It was nothing but my own vanity which believed admiration to be more than it was.”

  “Most women believe admiration to mean more than it does, and men take care that they should.”

  “How can you expect a man to know a woman’s hopes and fears? If men design to inspire such regard in a woman it cannot be justified, but unlike you I do not think so meanly of the world.”

  “I can agree to an extent. I cannot believe Mr. Bingley to have meant to raise your hopes, but there may still be misery without scheming. Some are thoughtless, some pay no attention to other people’s feelings, and still others are too pliable.”

  “And which do you impute to Mr. Bingley?”

  “Oh, definitely the last.”

  Fortunately, Jane did not inquire why Elizabeth felt the need to even mention the other two trespasses. Elizabeth left Jane and allowed herself to think on the matter as was her wont.

  *****

  8 pm

  “But why has Mr. Bingley not returned?” Mrs. Bennet cried as the ladies sat in the drawing room.

  Jane tensed and Elizabeth, sitting beside her, intervened. “The note from Miss Bingley suggested the business he left on might take quite some time to complete. It is not for us to know his life or to demand his time. We cannot expect so amiable a young man to find pleasure in our company alone.”

  Mrs. Bennet sighed. “He is so very amiable. Not like his disagreeable friend!”

  “Wickham told the most dreadful tale about Mr. Darcy!” Lydia crowed and proceeded to tell of Mr. Darcy denying the handsome and amiable officer a valuable living.

  Elizabeth understood that now that the Netherfield party had left the area, Wickham felt at ease to spread the tale of Mr. Darcy’s true character, which slightly unsettled Elizabeth. However, recalling Wickham’s words on the matter and his intelligence of Miss Darcy as a very proud sort of girl, Elizabeth found herself exceedingly vexed at Mr. Bingley. If he were so ungrateful as to throw off Jane’s love for a disagreeable girl with money and great connection, then Elizabeth found herself believing he would deserve whatever misery befell him. Yet, she balked at the idea of him being truly so inconstant, and, considering that two sisters could have little sway over a man, Elizabeth determined most of the blame must lie with Mr. Darcy.

  Her mother’s wails continued on the subject, compounded with her anger at Elizabeth for rejecting Mr. Collins’ proposal and the resulting calamity that would now befall them all when Mr. Bennet died and the new, and hateful, mistress, the current Charlotte Lucas, would cast them out.

  *****

  11 pm

  The rest of the house had gone to bed, but Elizabeth could not sleep. As was often the case, she wrote her disorderly thoughts down. Wishing she could converse with Mr. Darcy himself, she chose to write him a letter and imagine his response. Then her mind could rest. Surely puzzling out his character was the only reason why he was constantly in her mind.

  Unexpectedly, her plan unravelled. While she intently examined each of their conversations and interactions, instead of understanding Mr. Darcy’s character, she received a revelation on her own. She was hurt when he insulted her at the assembly because she was attracted to him as a handsome stranger.

  At first Elizabeth believed him ridiculous, but too soon she recognized she gave weight to his words. To save herself from caring for his opinion, she found a reason to dislike him with every breath he took. Her reason could not tolerate her weakness in liking so ungentlemanly a man, which must explain why she lashed out at him as often as possible.

  Despite herself, his intelligence and wry sense of humour appealed to her. The way he challenged her in debate but still respected her opinion made her feel valued. She had seen that he was proud and haughty, but something in her believed there was more to him, almost as though he wore a mask, as though her heart knew his. She could not fully explain how it happened, but while she was determined to dislike Mr. Darcy, she had somehow fallen in love with him instead.

  I love him. The words were still barely a whisper in her heart; she did not have the confidence to allow them more voice than that. He looked at her only with contempt and had departed, taking his friend with him. Learning of his mistreatment of Mr. Wickham, his childhood friend, and his assumed role in separating Mr. Bingley from Jane hurt worse than his first slight ever could.

  Her first thought was to burn the letter immediately. Then she determined she would keep it, for a little while at least. Such a momentous understanding, that she dare not share with anyone else, she might wish to read again. Indeed, in the letter she expounded all the reasons she should not care for him. She could easily talk herself out of her fancy and firm her resolve when reminded of his faults.

  With what she believed to be a renewed calmness of mind she readied her other letters to go in the morning’s post: a letter to her Aunt Gardiner and letters to two local friends whose families were spending the winter in Town. She set her stack of four sealed letters aside on her desk and readied herself for bed, determined to sleep well despite her resolutely troubled mind.

  Chapter Two

  December 10, 1811

  Longbourn

  9 am

  Thomas Bennet heard his wife in the parlour shrieking with unprecedented enthusiasm. Although the man was rarely stirred to leave his sanctuary, he was able to discern the difference in her screams. This one had a tone of genuineness. He entered the parlour.

  “Ten thousand pounds a year! ‘Tis as good as a lord! Oh, I shall go distracted!”

  “What are you speaking of, Mrs. Bennet?”

  “Of Lizzy marrying! I knew she could not be so clever for nothing! And so sly!”

  Letting out an exasperated sigh, as it seemed he was mistaken in believing his presence needed, Mr. Bennet rolled his eyes. “And to whom have you presumed to betroth her this time?”

  “Mr. Bennet, I am sure I have no idea what you mean. It is not I who am presuming a thing! It is all here in this letter! Listen! ‘Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.’ What else could it be but a proposal?”

  Her husband snatched the letter she had been waving around and scanned the words with widened eyes. “Mrs. Bennet! How much have you read of this letter?”

  “Why, I only read the first line before deciding I must know who sent it! I opened it because it’s from London, and I do not know the handwriting. I hoped it might be Miss Bingley, but when I read the first line I determined I must know what gentleman the girl was corresponding with! This must be why she rejected Mr. Collins! So clever of Lizzy!”

  “Who else knows of this letter?”

  “It has only just arrived. I have not even seen Lizzy. She must be gallivanting-off on a walk
. I swear I do not know what such a great man can see in her. But perhaps he may introduce Lydia to a duke!”

  “Mrs. Bennet,” Mr. Bennet spoke sternly, but was unable to capture her attention. “Fanny! Hear me now, woman. You shall tell no one of this letter. I must speak with Elizabeth.”

  “Tell no-one? Mr. Bennet, we are saved! And it is such a fine match! I am perfectly resolved to forget how proud and hateful he is. I must go and tell my sister immediately!”

  “You shall go to your rooms until I ask for you, or else you and the girls will lose all pin money for the next six months.” By this time he was ushering her upstairs.

  “Mr. Bennet! How dare you? This is no way to treat a wife! I must protest.”

  “Whether or not you must, you usually do. Fanny, I will not tell you again, nor shall I justify my actions. Remain in your rooms.” He slammed the door before she could protest further. She let out a huff, but decided it would mean little if her information was delayed a few hours. Instead she drafted a letter to her sister Gardiner.

  *****

  9:30 am

  Elizabeth Bennet crept up the servant’s stairs to her bedroom. The last thing she wanted at present was to be discovered by her mother. She had been unusually troubled this morning before her walk and took little heed of the mud puddles she walked through. My petticoats are six inches deep in mud again, Mr. Darcy.

  Elizabeth shook her head; she must stop thinking of that arrogant, annoying, frustratingly beautiful man. She chose not to reprimand her thoughts for describing him as beautiful, for it was as true as any description of him. Opening her bedroom door, she had every intention to burn the letter she wrote the night before. Indeed, as she should have after she finished writing. No, I never should have written it at all.

  Her eyes grew wide with foreboding when she saw her letter stack gone. The maid must have taken her mail to be sent. Attempting to stave off the alarm rising in her breast, she assured herself that no matter how agitated her mind was last night, she would not have left it on her desk. She must have absently tucked it in a drawer. She had not even sealed it and so there was no mistaking it for a letter to be sent, certainly.

  For good measure, she recounted her motions before bed last night. She had sealed and addressed four letters. That fact was entirely perfect, as she had written four letters. No, No, No! She wrote four letters, but only three were meant for the post! Flying down the stairs, she asked the maid if the post had been sent.

  “Aye, Miss Elizabeth, and the master has all the letters that came today in his study.”

  “Elizabeth!” Just then her father called from his study, before she had a chance to give in to the despair that must naturally follow the situation.

  “Yes, Papa?” she asked from the doorway.

  “Shut the door and be seated.” Elizabeth looked at her father in confusion and consternation. His tone had a sharpness she seldom heard; it was as though she was being reprimanded for some grave error.

  Mr. Bennet looked at his favourite daughter expectantly, but when she said nothing he decided to begin. “It has come to my attention that you have been involved in a secret correspondence with a gentleman of our acquaintance, though I am uncertain he deserves the title gentleman.”

  Elizabeth gasped and began to refute the claim, but he interrupted her. “No, Elizabeth, I have indisputable proof. Now, normally such things would point to a secret betrothal, which would be concerning enough, but in this letter—written in your young man’s hand—he denies such a marriage will take place. I must say, for all that we have heard of him and observed, I never believed him so dishonourable as to correspond with a single lady with his name blatantly signed all over it. I suppose he does not have to worry about his reputation, and he must have no fear that I can demand satisfaction.”

  “I have not the slightest idea who you mean. I am not corresponding with any gentleman.” The slight blush to Elizabeth’s cheeks betrayed her as she recalled her mislaid letter.

  “Do not lie to me.” He pulled out the now-opened letter addressed to his daughter and waved it at her. “Here is the letter from your man, and your maid confirmed a letter to him was sent this morning.”

  Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted and was silent. Mr. Bennet considered this sufficient encouragement to continue, “Your mother knows of this and I am uncertain I can keep her silent. At least one maid in the house knows of your correspondence. Heaven only knows what the postman and his clerk have said. I cannot make sense of it. I thought you disliked him, which might explain his actions, but you wrote him. He vows he will not marry you, yet he publicly compromises you.”

  After a lengthy pause, he asked very quietly, “Have there been other compromises?”

  Elizabeth cried, “Papa! How can you think it of me?”

  “What am I meant to think, child?”

  Elizabeth still could not credit what she understood from her father’s words and chose to continue her denial, “You have no proof of my alleged letter aside from the maid’s testimony, and I have not read the letter in your hands. I cannot fathom who you mean.”

  Her attempt at deceit could not prevail, for her father knew her too well. “I will not play your game, Elizabeth. Now tell me, do you truly hate him, for I think I must appeal to his honour.”

  Elizabeth gulped deeply and spoke to her folded hands. She could not meet her father’s eye. “No, I do not hate him. I only wish I could.”

  “Very well, that gives me some peace.”

  “Papa…surely you have heard how he has treated Mr. Wickham, and I know he has taken Mr. Bingley away from Jane. We cannot hope he will do the honourable thing. If this is known, what shall become of me, of my sisters? How cruel of him!”

  “You mailed a letter as well!”

  “But I did not mean to!”

  “And why not?”

  “I cannot respect him! I like him against my will and all reason!”

  He laughed heartily and added, “It seems you both love each other against your will.”

  Elizabeth’s head sharply lifted at such words, and her eyes flew to the letter Mr. Bennet still held. “Here child, I have kept you in suspense long enough.”

  Her hands greedily reached for the letter, and her eyes spoke her thanks. She ran upstairs to her room to read in solitude.

  Monday, December 9, 1811

  Darcy House, London

  Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth,

  Are you shocked at the forwardness of my address? I should hope not, for I dearly love calling you Elizabeth. You will always be my Elizabeth.

  In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.

  Have I shocked you again with my declaration of love? I assure you it is a true, constant love. I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.

  How have you bewitched me? I have seen the beauties of the first circle and have remained unmoved until I was captivated by your fine eyes dancing not in candlelight, but in mirth and obvious joy. I have listened to the most exalted performers in the land, yet it is your performance that plays again in my mind. I have conversed with women educated by the finest masters at the best schools, but not one of them has your unique combination of intelligence, honesty, wit and sweetness. I know many women whom are lauded for their kindness, but I know none who would walk three miles after a storm to nurse a sick sister, or forebear Miss Bingley’s insults with such civility. I have been hunted in ballrooms since my youth, and you are the first woman of my acquaintance to refuse to stand up with me, and certainly the first to not seek my approbation.

  This must be the answer. I love you because you are genuine and unaffected. You do not simper or seek to flatter. The ladies of my acquaintance may be draped in the rarest silk and costly gold trinkets, and tout many
so-called accomplishments, but they can only repeat my own opinion. They are not authentic. You are the most delightful woman of my acquaintance, the only real woman of my acquaintance, as the others are mere figments of fashionable society.

  But to one of these insipid ladies I will have to shackle myself one day to serve my duty to my family. Your connections in trade and the improper behaviour of your family could never find a place in London society. Though I care little for it, I must protect my family’s position for the sake of my sister and my future children. And the ladies of the ton would be most unkind to you. I should hate to see you abused or regret a connection to me, though I rather think you would laugh at their folly instead.

  In moments like these I must confess I would gladly cast aside my concerns about your family and connections, if only you showed me some encouragement. Instead you have fallen under Wickham’s spell of charming manners. Tell me, what is it young ladies find irresistible about the reprobate? His ability to gamble away three thousand pounds given in lieu of a valuable living—at his request—in the course of two years? Or is it his attempts to seduce young heiresses into elopement, as he tried with my sister?

  I should be angry with you. I should be angry that you are foolish enough to believe his lies, and foolish enough to doubt my honour. You destroyed the pleasure of our dance at Netherfield, which was supposed to offer me a lifetime of memories. Instead you brought up that cad. But I cannot be angry with you. He has deceived many, myself included. I love you entirely, even if you suffer from some misjudgements. I know you by heart – your errors are just further proof of your affectionate character.