Longbourn's Songbird

by Beau North

  She waved hello to Mr. Brown, the aging shop owner, who was used to his most loyal customer’s protracted browsing habits. He pointed at the shelves in the back where he’d just stocked a number of books recently bought at an estate sale. Elizabeth nodded gratefully and made her way to the back. She could have navigated the shop with her eyes closed.

  She immediately found a book high on the shelf that caught her eye, and she was just reaching for it when a voice interrupted her.

  “Can I get that down for you?”

  Startled, Elizabeth jumped. She turned to the intruder, her retort forgotten at the sight of him.

  Adonis. Paris. Romeo. Casanova.

  The names of famous lovers flitted through her mind. She felt a strange wobble in her knees and willed herself to stand up straight. Maybe it was the perfectly creased army uniform, or maybe it was his clear grey eyes, or the devil-may-care smile that affected her. His close-cropped hair was the color of caramel, almost the same tone as his deeply tanned skin. He was, in a word, delectable. The only mar to his physical beauty was a slightly crooked nose, but Elizabeth thought that only added to the overall picture.

  “Y—yes, thank you.” He looked up and plucked the volume she’d been reaching for off the shelf. Rather than handing it to her, he looked at the title, his eyebrows rising in surprise. He handed the book to her with a charming flash of a smile.

  “And here I was expecting some dreary romance and instead find Marcus Aurelius. But as the man himself says, ‘How ridiculous and what a stranger is he—’”

  “‘—who is surprised at anything which happens in life,’” Elizabeth said, her cheeks burning.

  “I think we just disproved that theory,” the man said with a laugh. “A pretty woman who reads and quotes Aurelius is definitely a surprise.”

  Elizabeth’s blush deepened. Purely out of habit, she toyed with the locket that always hung around her neck. It was her ritual and reminder not to get too carried away when it came to the opposite sex. “Imagine my surprise at finding a soldier capable of doing the same.”

  He laughed quietly, putting his hand out to her. “Corporal George Wickham.”

  “Elizabeth Bennet—Lizzie.” She put her hand in his, only to her surprise, he didn’t shake it but lifted it to his lips before releasing it.

  “Do you have somewhere to be, Elizabeth, or will you let me buy you a cup of coffee? I noticed a little diner down the block.” Elizabeth glanced at the clock.

  “Not for a little while,” she said. “I need to be home by two o’clock.” Wickham’s face brightened. “Would you mind?” she asked, handing the book back to him, pointing at the shelf.

  “You don’t want it?”

  “Oh, I do, but it’s not in my budget for today.” Her cheeks flushed, and she shrugged her shoulders.

  He wisely said nothing but returned the book to the shelf before joining her at the door. A gust of autumn wind blew leaves, paper, and bits of grainy dirt at them as they exited the bookshop.

  Elizabeth was glad she’d worn her hair up that day. Her favorite hat now covered most of it except for a few stray curls that inevitably escaped. She looked over at her new companion who was holding his wedge cap on his head with one hand.

  “Not the best day for walking!” Wickham grinned at her as he brushed a stray leaf off his uniform.

  Elizabeth was about to remark that it was a fine day for walking when the wind began to pick up her skirt. Blushing furiously, she gathered the material in either fist, holding it firmly against her sides. But she couldn’t hold her skirt and her hat at the same time, and the latter went flying off her head with the next gust of wind. She watched it tumble down the sidewalk for a moment until it collided with a man walking about twenty yards behind them, his head bent against the wind. A large, masculine hand reached down to pick up the hat. Elizabeth jogged over to retrieve it, her uncovered hair now escaping its pins, curls obscuring her vision.

  Only when she got close did she see who had picked up her favorite hat.

  “Mr. Darcy!”

  She felt a little easier having Wickham there with her. Darcy had a disturbing habit of making her feel like she was trapped under glass, a curiosity to be studied.

  “Miss Bennet.”

  “I believe you have my hat, sir.”

  He frowned at the hat in his hands as if wondering how it got there. He handed it to her silently, and it was then that his eyes shifted from her to the man standing behind her.

  His whole body jerked as if he had been prodded, dropping her hat in the process. Elizabeth stifled a curse under her breath and bent to retrieve it, trying to hold her skirt in place at the same time. When she had everything righted, she was surprised to see that neither Darcy nor Wickham had moved. Each man was staring the other down as though it were high noon in Dodge City.

  “Do you two know each other?” she asked. Wickham glanced at her and relaxed a fraction.

  “Oh, Darcy and I go way back.”

  Darcy put his large body between Elizabeth and Wickham, giving Elizabeth a close-up view of the back of his coat.

  “What do you think you’re doing here, Wickham?”

  Elizabeth thought she could actually hear Darcy’s teeth grinding within his clenched jaw. The animosity in his voice made her cross her arms, hugging herself for comfort. She moved around his broad frame so she could see what was happening. Wickham caught her eye and gave her a wink.

  “Well, not that it’s any business of yours,” Wickham said, “but Elizabeth and I were just going for coffee. Weren’t we, Lizzie?”

  Elizabeth didn’t think Darcy’s posture could get any stiffer, but it seemed he existed to prove her wrong at every turn. He turned and looked at her coldly.

  “Miss Bennet, I think you should go home.”

  The nerve of the man!

  “Mr. Darcy, I believe I’m about as likely to take orders from you as you are from me.” Elizabeth could tell he was not a man accustomed to being refused. His eyes widened in outrage, and she could see white all around his dark green irises.

  “Now is not the time to be stubborn, Elizabeth,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Now, see here,” she said indignantly. “You are not my older brother, nor are you my father. You’re not even a neighbor. You’re an acquaintance—nothing more—and as such you will do well not to order me around like I’m one of your secretaries!”

  Darcy looked appalled at her words. The color drained from his face, but his eyes… Elizabeth almost stepped back at the fury she saw there. Wickham smiled and held his arm out for her. She took it appreciatively; together they turned and walked back the way they had come. Elizabeth gripped Wickham’s arm tightly, her heart beating so hard she could feel it in her throat.

  Once they got inside the diner, she could not be so composed. She started to tremble and lowered herself into the first open chair.

  “Will you have coffee?” Wickham still seemed greatly amused by what had just transpired.

  She blinked up at him, nodding. She tried to get a grip on her thoughts while he walked over to the counter to get coffee. Why was she so affected? It wasn’t fear as she wasn’t afraid of the likes of Will Darcy. No, she realized. I’m exhilarated. She smiled to herself, knowing it to be true. There was something thrilling about putting that blowhard in his place.

  Wickham returned with two cups of coffee and a beautiful golden éclair on a plate. One dessert, two forks.

  “That’s presumptuous.”

  “I’m sure I could never eat a whole one myself,” Wickham said innocently. “And I thought you might deserve a little sugar after that harrowing confrontation.”

  Elizabeth exhaled, relieved. “Yes, Mr. Darcy is—”

  “Formidable?”

  She nodded in agreement. “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Yes, he’s always been that way.”

  “You really know him that well?”

  “Oh, certainly. My father was his father’s attorney and busine
ss manager. They were the very best of friends. Darcy’s father was my godfather.”

  “I’m sorry if this sounds rude,” Elizabeth said, “but the two of you don’t seem to be on the best of terms.”

  He flashed a grin at her. “Caught that, did you? No, no we aren’t. His father left me an inheritance in his will: a full college education. I had a mind to go to Harvard—become a lawyer just like my father. The Wickhams have worked for the Darcys for as long as anyone can remember. But Will was always jealous of my relationship with his dad, who took me in when my own father passed. He contested the will and has kept it in probate ever since. I can’t afford a lawyer on my own, so who knows if I’ll ever see my inheritance.”

  “How awful!” Elizabeth’s heart ached with sympathy for the poor man. After all, didn’t she have firsthand experience of Will Darcy’s unkindness? She couldn’t fathom his concern over someone he considered a plain-faced bumpkin.

  Wickham shook himself slightly, smiling across the table at Elizabeth.

  “My situation isn’t as bad as all that. I found myself in a good unit. I stopped here on my way up to Camp Croft to take magazines back up to the boys. And here, all day I’d been thinking of what a dull errand it would be.”

  Elizabeth flushed, a little bewildered by her own reactions. She’d been flirted with plenty, but romance had held little interest for her since her first disastrous attempt at love. She usually brushed these advances off politely but firmly. She discovered that she wasn’t only open to the idea of a flirtation with George Wickham but actually welcomed it.

  “I have to say,” Wickham said as he leaned forward in his seat, his face scrutinizing hers, “as far as my not being on the best terms with Darcy, I might say the same thing about you.”

  “Mr. Darcy and I are…not the best of friends,” Elizabeth said quietly.

  Wickham reached over and tilted her chin up so she was looking right at him. He leaned in close, examining her. Her breath caught in her throat. He’s going to kiss me, right here in front of all these people!

  But he didn’t kiss her—only released her chin and sat back with a satisfied look on his face.

  “I was very impressed by you,” he said. “Not many people dare stand up to the great Will Darcy like that.”

  She was about to reply when she caught sight of the clock over his head. Dismayed, she stood to leave.

  He caught her arm, stopping her. “May I write to you?”

  His bright eyes and devilish smile made her stomach somersault. Elizabeth considered for a second, deciding that surely there couldn’t be any harm in a friendly correspondence. Blushing furiously, she dug in her purse until she found a pencil so she could hastily scribble her address on a paper napkin. Wickham looked at it and nodded.

  “It’s Lizzie with an i and an e and not with a y?”

  “It’s how we spell it around here,” she said with a shrug. He took her hand and gave it a brief squeeze before she gave him one last smile and quickly made her way out the door. If I don’t run, I’ll never leave, she told herself.

  Wickham looked for a moment at the seat she had just vacated, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading over his face. He leaned over and pulled her plate closer, scooping up the tiny bit of cream she’d left on the plate with his finger and bringing it to his lips. It was sweet and sticky and slightly grainy with crumbs.

  George Wickham was a man of many talents, first of which was knowing how to identify an opportunity. Elizabeth Bennet. He savored the name, the defiant light in those remarkable eyes. She didn’t know Will Darcy as he did. Yet she’d been unable to see what was so painfully obvious to him. Wickham chuckled softly to himself. The spirited Elizabeth Bennet was exactly the sort of opportunity he’d been waiting for.

  ***

  From his vantage point across the street, Darcy watched as Elizabeth exited the cafe. He was relieved to see that she was alone. He bit back a curse at his foul luck. George Wickham! Darcy shook his head, disgusted. Elizabeth’s presence alone had kept him from beating the little weasel into paste on the sidewalk.

  Even that interaction had left a bitter taste in his mouth. An acquaintance—nothing more. Her words stung him more than he’d like to admit.

  He watched her walk away now, forcing himself not to follow her. He would not creep around the way Collins did. He thought it was high time he let this foolish schoolboy fascination with Elizabeth Bennet go. What was the point of it? They were clearly on two different paths. Still, he watched her as she climbed onto her bicycle, showing him a tantalizing flash of thigh.

  No, he told himself, answering a question to which he dare not give voice. He wanted her, desired her, and suffered sleepless nights imagining all the things he could do to her, but he could not care for her.

  Who exactly are you trying to fool?

  Darcy put his head in his hands. He was so absorbed in his dilemma, he missed George Wickham exit the cafe and make his way purposefully towards the bookshop.

  ***

  Jane stepped out of the office for the day, calling her farewell to Dr. Jones. She turned onto the street and was immediately blindsided as her cheekbone banged painfully against a broad shoulder.

  “Miss Bennet! I’m sorry!”

  She looked up to see Mr. Darcy staring down at her, aghast.

  “It’s all right, Mr. Darcy,” she said. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  She hardly knew what to say or how to behave in front of him. On the one hand, he was Charles Bingley’s oldest and best friend. On the other hand, he had publicly called her dearest sister a plain-faced bumpkin. It wasn’t lost on Jane that his recent behavior contradicted those remarks. She noticed on more than one occasion the way the tall, silent man would study her sister from across rooms and dining tables—and even once in the post office. Jane always found anything else to look at when she caught him looking. It felt too personal, too invasive to watch. And knowing her sister the way she did, she didn’t think it likely that Lizzie would welcome that kind of attention.

  “Miss Bennet, could I speak with you for a moment while you’re waiting for your ride home?”

  “Of course. Today is Tuesday anyway. Lizzie always takes Kitty and Lydia to their dance lessons and Mama to her bridge club before picking me up. She won’t be here for at least fifteen minutes.”

  Jane smoothed her dress before sitting on the wooden bench where she usually waited. Mr. Darcy sat on the other side, upright and stiff. He seemed nervous, distraught. He ran a hand through his wavy brown hair, sighing heavily.

  “Is everything all right, Mr. Darcy?”

  Though she sounded patient, she was burning to know what this strange, imposing man was doing there talking to her.

  “Miss Bennet, I apologize that I couldn’t arrange for a more private setting for this conversation, but there is something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Is this about Mr. Bingley?” Jane asked, alarmed.

  “Yes and no. First, I have to ask you a highly personal question. I mean no offense by asking it. My reason will be clear enough soon.”

  “Ask away, then.”

  Now that she had given her permission, he did not quite know how to begin. He opened and closed his mouth several times while Jane watched in patient silence.

  “Are you…” he began, a deep flush creeping up his neck and face. “Are you…all right?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Jane asked cautiously.

  “Forgive me. I was referring to your…condition. I know. About you.” Jane’s back stiffened.

  “Mr. Darcy—”

  “Excuse me, it’s just that I heard…I overheard your sister Elizabeth and Charlotte Lucas talking about it. I wasn’t trying to pry.”

  “I see.” Jane considered him for a moment before replying. “I manage very well.” She paused. “I get the feeling that you have some familiarity.”

  “My mother,” he said simply. The look on his face told Jane all she needed to know about that.


  She was well aware of the limitations her disease placed on her life. It was why, at the age of twenty-three, while having had scores of admirers, she’d never had a serious beau. She knew Lizzie would say it was her shyness and modesty, and Jane had let her—let everyone—believe that this was the case.

  The truth? She had never permitted herself to have feelings for anyone because what kind of future could she offer a man?

  And then there was Charles—kind, thoughtful, happy Charles. The more she got to know him, the more she felt like she found a piece of herself she never knew was missing. She tried to deny these feelings, to stifle them, but it was no good.

  “Are you going to tell Charles?” she asked. “Or maybe you already have?” A bit of steel showed behind her eyes, and Darcy thought he saw a flash of Elizabeth in that look. He shook his head.

  “I realize I don’t come across as friendly, but I hope you wouldn’t think I’d do something like that.”

  “I am very sorry about your mother, Mr. Darcy,” she said. She was sorry for him, but at that moment, she was sorrier for herself. And angry for allowing herself to think she could have something normal, even for a little while.

  “Thank you. I was only ten years old when it happened. My sister, Georgiana, was only a baby.”

  “How terrible.”

  “She was a lovely woman. Not unlike yourself. Very kind, very patient.”

  “You honor me.” He waved her comment away.

  “Not at all. My father…my father loved her very much. When we lost her…in a way we lost both of them. He was never the same after. It changed him. Made him…not hard but distant. I’m afraid…” He sighed deeply, running his hand through his hair. “I’m afraid of seeing the same thing happen to Charles.”

  “I see,” she said again. “Mr. Darcy, I believe you’re putting the cart rather far in front of the horse.” He laughed at little at that.