His Frozen Heart

by Christie Capps

  Darcy sucked in a mouthful of air. His cold heart was coming to the fore. He was as critical of the available company as Caroline Bingley had been, which was intolerable.

  The warmth of close companions interesting enough to allow him to invite them closer would go a long way in thawing his frozen heart. Yet, to succumb to the influence of others was both against his nature and a danger to the habits he had long cultivated.

  Was he able to change? Did he genuinely want to?

  Miss Elizabeth Bennet had been his first step forward the night of the Meryton assembly, nothing more. Had he made another step at Lucas Lodge?

  He had learned much from the group gathered at Sir William’s estate.

  Mrs. Bennet was vulgar and vicious toward any child except the eldest and the youngest Bennets, whom she favored. Loudly, she had proclaimed her next youngest, Miss Kitty, as an irritant to her poor nerves from her incessant cough. Her middle daughter, Miss Mary, was ill-favored because of her preference for severe styles of grooming and a chronic habit of using Fordyce’s Sermons to set herself apart as the superior-minded sister. However, Mrs. Bennet complained the longest and loudest about Miss Elizabeth.

  Darcy shook his head as he gazed steadily into the roaring fire heating his bed chamber. He had known the comfort of a mother’s love and devotion. His own parents had adored their children. Mrs. Bennet? Several times he had wanted to stalk across the room and place his big palm tightly over her mouth.

  “Lizzy will never marry. Who would want her?”

  “I cannot imagine what Lizzy is about. She does nothing to make herself attractive to a single man. We will have to support her until Mr. Bennet dies and we are cast out of Longbourn. Then, I am done with her. She is on her own.”

  “Lizzy is nothing next to Jane. Or Lydia.” Mrs. Bennet had leaned closer to Lady Lucas as if she was sharing private matters, though her voice was strident. “Mark my words, those two will be the first to marry. It is hoped they will wed wealthy men who will not mind the responsibility of supporting the others.”

  Miss Elizabeth had to have heard it all. Nevertheless, she had not reacted with anything other than a slight increase in the pink of her cheeks.

  Darcy yearned to silence the vulgar woman. Better had the mother remained quiet.

  Glad his stay in Hertfordshire was temporary, Darcy refused to concern himself with the foibles of the families who had long lived in Meryton. The people were nothing to him. Even Miss Elizabeth, who had chosen not to stand up with him for a dance.

  He chortled. Darcy’s inclination was to take a notice out in the papers to let grasping women know their lives would not end if they did not stand up with Fitzwilliam Darcy.

  He was tired. Weary of being a target.

  Yet, why did it bother him that it was Miss Elizabeth who had been the first to refuse him? Compared to the young ladies of the first circle, she was an unknown. How or why would he care about her? The difference in wealth and connections between Mr. Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire and the Bennets of Longbourn in Hertfordshire was as broad as the sea separating England from France.

  Huffing, Darcy refused to argue with himself or think on Miss Elizabeth any longer. He would consider something entirely unrelated, such as a drainage plan for the wheat fields to the west of the main house at Netherfield. The water in the ditches flowed sluggishly. Never would he have allowed his property to be ill kempt. Admitting that few smaller landholdings had the army of staff he did, he could not criticize Netherfield’s steward for a lack of initiative. The rest of the parcels were in good order. Recalling the places he and Bingley had ridden with the estate manager that morning, Darcy noted he needed to remind Bingley of the necessity to repair the fence line between Netherfield and their neighbors, the Bennets. Some of the rails were down.

  He growled as a vision of Miss Elizabeth popped back in his head. Forcing it from the place the picture had lodged behind his eyes, Darcy thought of Georgiana. However, while the last conversation between the brother and sister had started well as they discussed him finding a new master of the Italian language. It had ended in discord.

  Rubbing his hand over his chin, he pondered why females were so difficult while men were easy. All a male needed was a comfortable bed, productive employment, good food, an interesting book, and a loyal dog as a companion. Ladies? They demanded the best goods, the majority of his time and attention, and peers with whom to share the latest gossip.

  A picture of Mrs. Bennet encroached rudely in his mental vision. He wanted to slap himself to get it out. Miss Elizabeth, in her yellow dress at the assembly, attempting to quiet her mother was a far more enjoyable portrait to have imprinted on his brain. Bending close to where her mother had been sitting, her profile showed her form with all its exquisite curves…

  What? A gentleman did not notice a lady’s figure, the roundness of her…

  Pressing his fingers into his eye sockets, he recited mone, moneo, monere, monui, monueram, monuero, monebo, monebam—Latin conjugations of the word warn. Darcy needed to heed the warning not to think of Miss Elizabeth.

  In the past, Darcy prided himself on his ability to contain his actions and thoughts until they were strictly regulated. In his own thinking, that ability separated him from the rest of those in society who made decisions on a whim. Or, people like Wickham who gave in to selfish cravings with little thought for consequences. Darcy always considered consequences. Or, did he?

  Hmmm! Rubbing his chin, he focused on its current issue—Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Perhaps the better act would be to test himself. For a certainty, he did not find her attractive. Well, except for those glorious eyes. Yes, the next time they were in company he would ignore her, proving to himself she had no hold over him.

  He would rise to the challenge. Egredere subigere would be his motto. Go forth and conquer.

  Netherfield Park – Part One

  “There is meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes

  condescend to employ for captivation.”

  - Mr. Darcy (Pride & Prejudice, Chapter VII, Volume I)

  Using poor judgement, Miss Jane Bennet had ridden a plow horse to tea with Bingley’s sisters. In a downpour. By the time Darcy and Bingley returned from dining with the newly arrived militia commander, Miss Bennet was ensconced in one of Netherfield’s guest rooms with a cold.

  Bingley fretted.

  Darcy admitted it was a mean art, most likely at the hands of her manipulative mother. Mrs. Bennet’s eldest unmarried child had landed in the same house as two single, wealthy men. Her mother had to be rubbing her hands together with glee. The lengths some parents would go to get their chicks out of their nests disgusted Darcy.

  Of course, it was not his only reason for irritation. He was also disappointed how lax Bingley was being in getting rid of his younger sister. Caroline Bingley had reached her majority the same month Darcy had rescued Georgiana in Ramsgate. She could be set up with her own establishment in town should Bingley insist.

  Darcy growled.

  Bingley was not insisting. Instead, he spoke of Miss Bennet constantly, mostly likely forgetting he had a sister remaining in the house.

  When Miss Elizabeth arrived at Netherfield Park the next morning after walking the three miles in the cool, damp weather, her face vibrated good health and vigor.

  Darcy’s eyes refused to move away from her form.

  “How is my sister?” She looked at no one other than Miss Bingley.

  “As well as can be expected,” Caroline snipped.

  Darcy longed to roll his eyes.

  “Might I be directed to her room?”

  Before Bingley or his sister could reply, Darcy jumped up. “Certainly!”

  What in the world was he about? He was acting like he could not vacate the room quickly enough. Had his chair caught on fire? Were his shoes smoldering? Was he in that much of a hurry to be in her company? Or, had his sense of good manners been heightened by observing the utter failure of Caroline Bingley’s lac
k of decorum? Darcy honestly could not say, nor was he willing to admit to himself that he was acting against his own character.

  At least he had captured her attention. Of course, he had caught the scrutiny of Miss Bingley too.

  With a small shrug at his own ridiculousness, he performed the task of Netherfield’s hostess by escorting Miss Elizabeth upstairs to see Miss Bennet.

  “You walked all the way from Longbourn to Netherfield Park?” Darcy was impressed how her care for a beloved sister meant nothing would keep her from Miss Bennet’s side, not even hems covered in several inches of mud.

  “Either that or I rode a very short horse,” she quipped while looking down at the bottom of her skirt.

  He could no more stop his chuckle than reach up and touch the sun.

  To reclaim his dignity, he commented, “There is nothing like being out of doors, is there?”

  She glanced at him with a quizzical brow. “No, there is nothing like it. With that said, I will confess there is nothing like being indoors as well.”

  Well, that volley had not gone well.

  “You must love your sister,” was the only thing he could come up with to continue the conversation. When both her brows rose almost to her hairline, he wanted to smack himself in the forehead. Of course, she loved her sister. With the exception of Charles Bingley, who did not adore their closest family members?

  His glib tongue had failed him.

  “Sir, are you well?”

  It both irritated and satisfied him that she had asked.

  “I am well.”

  “Mr. Darcy, I understand your yearning to learn of my sister’s welfare. She is the loveliest of females with a tender heart who never sees wrong in anyone nor holds onto anger even under the most miserable circumstances.” Miss Elizabeth’s eyes warmed at her subject. “She is without peer.”

  She thought he was attracted to Miss Bennet? Of course not! He held no attachment to any female other than Georgiana. No woman unrelated to him had held his interest other than briefly, including the one standing next to him—definitely not Miss Jane Bennet. If he was going to select one of the girls of Longbourn, it would be…

  What? Good heavens!

  He gulped. Standing close enough to her that he could smell a hint of lavender, a sudden dread filled his chest. Was his heart telling him one thing while his brain was saying something entirely different? It could not be. His heart was a frozen receptacle of unused feelings and…emotions. No, he had no emotions. He prided himself on his stalwart control and lack of response to the normal irritations appearing to plague other men.

  He had only admitted to himself that he had taken a single step on his journey of a thousand miles. When had he run ahead like an out-of-control stallion?

  He needed to withdraw, to reconnoiter as Richard would say.

  Without acknowledging her last comment, he pointed to the door where Miss Bennet rested and excused himself, leaving her standing alone in the hallway. Walking quickly, he entered his chambers and closed the door.

  Where was his anger, that heavy cloak which had encased his every thought for the past four months since Ramsgate? No, for the past five years since the loss of his father. Where was his bitterness that overrode anything most mortal men would find to be even minimally pleasant? Where was his despair from the overwhelming guilt at having failed his beloved sister, from the fear that had set in at the Darcy name almost being destroyed? Had he shed them like Georgiana’s favorite pet corgi shed her fur, without effort or thought?

  A picture of his sister in tears while a maid packed her trunks to depart Ramsgate settled in his mind. She had been devastated beyond measure. Her fifteen-year-old heart was shattered at the hands of a rogue.

  As Darcy considered the time since July, the quickened pace of his heartbeat, the tightening of his fists, and the heat rising up his torso was familiar—comfortable.

  Yet…he rubbed the back of his neck as his eyes closed, his shoulders bending under the weight of self-recrimination. The truth was, he was undeserving of happiness.

  What did he even know of the emotion? Nothing! Yet, shards of pleasure and interest that had lightened his mood while in conversation with the young lady attending her elder sister, albeit momentarily, had been…wonderful.

  A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.

  Since his arrival in Hertfordshire, he had moved forward. Rather than castigating himself for his progress, he should be rejoicing, should he not?

  Nevertheless, why were the positive moments associated solely with Miss Elizabeth? Was there nothing or no one else to inspire good?

  Sitting alone in his chambers, he stretched his legs forward and focused on the polished toes of his Hessians. They were without flaw. Thornton, his valet, would allow for nothing less.

  In the same manner, Darcy had fought and struggled to elevate the whole of his life to the same standard. Nonetheless, for the past four months, and even prior to that if he was honest with himself, discontent and error had crept in like tendrils of mist from the Thames in the autumn mornings.

  Comments from his father, and even his mother while she had been alive, left him certain as to his course from his infancy.

  “Be proud you are a Darcy,” his father had echoed.

  “You are the grandson of an earl,” his mother had chanted.

  “Hold yourself ahead of the crowd. You are from a long line of nobles,” his grandmother repeated daily until her death.

  Sadness at the loss of his loved ones was acceptable. Sadness at his failure to uphold the Darcy name was not. Therefore, anger had been his constant companion. Anger at George Wickham for daring to bring harm to Georgiana’s reputation. Anger at his parents for dying, leaving him a hefty burden with no help from a wise counselor outside the family. Anger at society for pushing and prodding him to generously share his wealth and circumstances until he would have nothing left. Mostly, Darcy admitted, his anger was towards himself. So was his sister’s ire focused on him—deservedly so.

  He had interviewed and hired Georgiana’s worthless companion. He had chosen not to warn Georgiana about unscrupulous men like Wickham. It had been he alone who had rented the seashore cottage for his sister.

  His dark thoughts were slowly but surely rooting out any good of the past week. While the happy countenance of Miss Elizabeth felt…nice, his mind convinced himself it was not healthy. Moving to the writing desk, he pulled out parchment, the bottle of ink, and a pen. He would do as he had done since inheriting Pemberley. He would write down his thoughts then read them back before destroying the list.

  Within moments, his quill was flying over the paper. Down the middle he had drawn a line. On the left side he listed his sins. Those were easily done. The other column was a tally of the good he felt since his arrival at Bingley’s estate. Once done, he carefully placed the pen in its holder. Then, he took it up again.

  Examining the left side carefully, he crossed out those areas where he had no control. Marks covered ‘Georgiana at Ramsgate,’ ‘mother’s death,’ and ‘father’s death.’ While they were greatly disturbing, he could no longer do anything to change what was done. Also marked out was ‘society’s expectations.’ What control did he have over others? None. Besides other small inconveniences, there were two glaring wrongs left on the page, ‘George Wickham’ and ‘presumed engagement to my cousin by my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.’

  Richard, who happened to be Georgiana’s other guardian, had wanted to hunt Wickham down and run him through after Ramsgate. Darcy had stopped him out of fear word would get out and his sister’s future would be in tatters. As to the constant harping of his aunt to attach the Darcy name to hers, Lady Catherine rarely left her estate in Kent, so her ability to carry her point to engage Darcy to his sickly cousin Anne was moot. Nevertheless, this could not excuse his not taking action against either.

  Running his finger over the words, the smear made both Wickham’s and Lady Catherine’s names illegible. Dar
cy smiled. With little effort on his part, he could settle these issues. A letter to his aunt decrying any intention of wedding her daughter could be easily done. For Wickham? A short note to his man of business in London would have the pile of debts Darcy had bought up gathered to be presented for collection to the miscreant. Undoubtedly, Wickham would be unable to pay. Thus, his sorry hide would rot in Marshalsea where no one would believe whatever slander he chose to share.

  Darcy’s eyes looked to the right side of the page. Two words glared back at him.

  Wiping his fingers on a cloth, he rested his chin in his palm. Whatever was he to do about those two words? Six syllables. Fifteen letters.

  He considered wiping his finger over them to smear the writing as he had done on the left side. His hand hovered over the column. However, he could not.

  Folding the paper to hide the name, he rose and tossed it into the fire. If only Elizabeth Bennet could be banished in person as easily as the ink and paper had been.

  Netherfield Park – Part Two

  “and now, despise me if you dare.”

  - Elizabeth Bennet (Pride & Prejudice, Chapter X, Volume I)

  Visiting hours brought Mrs. Bennet and the rest of her brood to Netherfield Park. By the time they reluctantly removed themselves back to Longbourn, Darcy had realized three things. First, Mrs. Bennet and Caroline Bingley were similar in attitude and approach, which would have horrified Miss Bingley to know. Both were convinced marriage was needed to at least one resident of Netherfield Park to increase their whole family’s status and security. The second was how dissimilar Mrs. Bennet and Caroline Bingley were. Where Miss Bingley was willing to overlook Darcy’s lack of interest in her society for the sake of becoming the next mistress of Pemberley, Mrs. Bennet was not. Like her daughter Miss Elizabeth, the mother did nothing during her short visit to curry Darcy’s favor or to promote any of her chicks to him. Instead, her goal was the ever-hospitable Mr. Bingley.