A Rare Ability: A Darcy and Elizabeth Pride and Prejudice Variation (A Pemberley Romance Book 10)

by Harriet Knowles

  “Good heavens, man! I am thinking of no such thing!” Bennet shook his head, seemingly shocked. “No, I was very taken with the section of the article which noted that the charitable institutions in Derbyshire — many of which are rumoured to be supported by you — do not find your own servants or labourers need the support they offer.”

  He looked at Darcy. “It’s explained by the extraordinary efforts you make to ensure that the accommodation and conditions of your staff are very good.”

  He put the journal down and folded up his spectacles. “I just wanted to ask you how much difference you think it makes at Pemberley?”

  Darcy thought for a moment. “That is a difficult question, sir. I am not sure that I can provide a satisfactory answer.” He sighed. “And I prefer not to talk about it.” He glanced over at Bennet, and then with open distaste at the journal. “I would be grateful if you do not repeat what I will say. I must also assert that I was not pleased at the publication of that information without informing me until after the event.” He sighed.

  “However, I do not think that the provision of good accommodation for my tenant farmers and other servants is necessarily there to make a difference, as you put it.” He grimaced. “My father always told me of the duty to ensure it was so, and his reason was that he was certain that a good home and food led to a better workforce.” He sat back, finding Bennet as good a listener as his second daughter.

  “As for myself, I consider that reasoning is mercenary and I have since decided that I will not think in monetary terms when considering what is best for the estate and those who live there.” He set his jaw. “I know that I have been born to extraordinary good fortune, and I have a duty to those less fortunate.”

  “But your people are happier, I am sure, than those on other estates?” Mr. Bennet was polishing his glasses with his handkerchief, and Darcy was reminded of his uncle. He smiled slightly.

  “I believe so.”

  “And therefore, you do not find workers leave their employment very often, requiring your steward to employ — and train — another.” Bennet glanced over at him. “I can see why some may wish to say it is not truly philanthropic.”

  Darcy shrugged. “I do not consider it philanthropy. And I do not care what others think. I do not want to be known as a great philanthropist.” He tried to stop his lip curling. “I just do what I believe is the right thing.” He sat up. “I do not want others counting my charitable works to see if I am worthy of them.” He shut his jaw with a snap, wondering if he’d offended the other man.

  He took a deep breath, tried to calm his irritation. “I am sorry if I might have offended you, sir. But I am not the right person to talk to about charity.”

  Bennet smiled. “I understand, and I’m sorry if I’ve raised a topic you would have preferred not to talk about. We will not speak on the subject again.” He smiled, and rose to his feet. “Another?” he raised the decanter.

  “Thank you, but perhaps not.” Darcy rose to his feet. “Thank you for your time, sir. Perhaps I should rejoin Mr. Bingley.” He hoped that his friend had not been precipitate and made an offer. His lips tightened. It was the only reason he’d always insisted on accompanying him to Longbourn.

  Chapter 8

  Elizabeth was relieved it hadn’t rained, and she and Jane walked in the garden after the gentlemen had left. She wished Papa had not called Mr. Darcy to his library this morning. It might have been quite restful to have a quiet conversation with him without Mama or her other sisters in the room.

  She wondered what they’d talked about while she had sat with Jane. Mr. Darcy had been unsmiling when he had returned to the sitting room, and she’d sensed tension coiling within him.

  She’d risen, smiling easily. “Come and sit down, Mr. Darcy. I’m sure you’ve missed out on the tea and pastries.” She rang the bell. “Let me order more.”

  He’d bowed his head. “I believe time is against us, Miss Elizabeth. Otherwise I would have been grateful to you.” His eyes were guarded, and she wondered if she would be able to persuade Papa later to tell her what had happened.

  Now she needed to concentrate on Jane. She had known that propriety required her to be there, but without Mr. Darcy to converse with, her presence had felt most embarrassing. She smiled, embarrassing to her, although neither Mr. Bingley nor Jane seemed to have even noticed her presence after a few moments.

  “Well, Jane? I think you had a pleasant time this morning.” Elizabeth smiled knowingly over at her elder sister.

  “Perhaps.” Jane blushed, and was suddenly very busy scenting the late-blooming roses.

  Elizabeth laughed. “I will not intrude further, Jane — although I think your affections are growing for Mr. Bingley.” She assumed a thoughtful air. “He is very amiable — and handsome, too. I give you my full permission to marry him.”

  “Hush, Lizzy! Don’t say that!” Jane was pink with embarrassment. “I don’t want to talk about it, in case it spoils everything.”

  “Then I will say no more.” Elizabeth pulled her sister closer, and kissed her. “Although I don’t think I’ll be able to stop Mama.”

  Jane laughed, although she still looked quite anxious. Then she glanced at the sky. “Here comes the rain. Let’s go in.”

  Elizabeth looked up, too. It was a pity if the rain was going to set in heavily. She wanted to go up to the meadow to think, and ponder her how her life might be once Jane was married and gone from Longbourn.

  * * *

  Elizabeth lifted her head and breathed deeply, very thankful the rain had not persisted. She had several hours before she should be back for afternoon tea — plenty of time to get to her meadow.

  The sounds of the countryside were so familiar as to barely be noticeable to her, and she relished the relative silence as she hurried up the hill.

  Once at the meadow, she searched for a dry place to sit under the old oak tree, and lay back to watch the clouds pass and think about what had happened.

  Papa had told her about his conversation with Mr. Darcy in the few moments they’d had together before lunch.

  Elizabeth put her hands behind her head. So Mr. Darcy abhors talking about his good deeds, does he? But Papa says his reputation is that of an exceedingly generous man to charitable causes.

  She watched a particularly fine cloud obscure the weak sun.

  I’m glad Papa says he tried to be careful not to offend him. She closed her eyes. I just wish I’d had the chance to speak to him.

  Why did she think that? Elizabeth bit her lip. She had to be honest with herself, even if she would never confess her feelings to anyone else.

  No. She shook her head. She’d meant what she said to Papa that morning. She felt sorry for Mr. Darcy’s discomfort in company, that was all. And she was also determined to prevent him dissuading Mr. Bingley from making Jane an offer of marriage.

  Elizabeth laughed openly, and sat up, reaching for the chest hidden in the tree stump. She was perfectly satisfied that her sister would marry soon. It was far too late for Mr. Darcy to prevent it.

  Madam,

  I beg you forgive this intrusion of a reply to your note, but I have decided that, having found it by chance, I might beg your further indulgence by saying how very perceptive you were, to equate the lack of — social ability — to the lack of vision in a blind person.

  As she opened the chest, Elizabeth’s startled gaze fell on the unfamiliar handwriting. She hastily glanced round, almost as if she might find out that the gentleman who had written it might still be near.

  But she was alone, and she drew the sheet of notepaper towards her with a mixture of curiosity and displeasure. It was most definitely a gentleman’s handwriting, and she wondered how a gentleman would have the temerity to even read a note not addressed to him. To have replied was unthinkable.

  She frowned as she reread the first part of his reply. It seemed the lack of social ability, as he called it, extended to writing in someone else’s journal. She thought of John Lucas
, and smiled wryly. He would have done just that. And Mr. Darcy. She wondered how many people in the area were thus affected. Perhaps it was more than she had imagined, and she wondered who the author of these lines was.

  She turned to the rest of his comments.

  I have been trying to imagine how I would describe the view of this meadow to a person afflicted with lack of sight and have had no fortune in beginning the task.

  So, also, I would have difficulty in explaining how the lack of social awareness feels to someone who has no perception of what the term involves.

  I have watched, as if from afar, many people at various social events, both large and small. I find their apparent enjoyment incomprehensible.

  Elizabeth smiled slightly and seized the pen. She frowned a little when she noted that the nib had been mended so that it was all ready for fresh use. He was that confident of a reply, was he?

  She opened the bottle of ink and shook it gently. It would last another week, she thought.

  Ten minutes later, she still sat, her chin in her hand, as she looked out over the meadow. She had come here to tell her journal notes all about that morning and her hopes and dreams for the future for Jane and for herself. But now that was spoiled, and she could think only of the writer and when he might have found her secret box.

  She wondered how long he had been reading her notes, and what information he might have gleaned. She would take all her writing home with her each time in future.

  She grimaced. No, this must have been the first time he’d found the chest, or he would not have been so impulsive as to reply to her.

  She reached for a fresh sheet of notepaper, but couldn’t concentrate on her own thoughts, finally smiling and turning to his comments.

  It felt wonderfully improper to be replying to a strange gentleman, but she reassured herself that it could not be so, for neither knew who the other was, and she determined to keep it that way.

  Sir,

  I was surprised to find your note here in my journal, but I think it took a great deal of courage for you to confess your difficulty in interpreting some situations.

  My friend’s brother John also had difficulties, as I think you read, but he was only a very young man, just a boy, really, when I knew him. I believe his greatest unhappiness was caused by the failure of his family to understand the anguish they unwittingly caused him, especially as a child.

  Elizabeth smiled slightly as she found herself pouring out her heart to the stranger behind the words.

  He used to ask me again and again what he had said that was so wrong, and often, while I could explain what had been wrong, I could not help him to understand why. He did learn, eventually, how to cloak his inability by behaving with complete correctness when in public, but he did find such occasions most challenging and exhausting.

  I tried my best to help him, and I believe he found my company comfortable, but I do wish I had known how to help him more.

  Elizabeth had been unable to squeeze the last few lines on the page she had begun, so there was plenty of space on the second sheet, and she wondered whether he would limit his reply to that sheet only.

  She cleaned the pen and put the lid back on the ink while rereading what she’d written. She wondered if her anonymous reader might be able to tell her what he found helpful. If he did, she might be able to help Mr. Darcy with what she could learn.

  A zephyr of breeze lifted the tendril of hair by her ear and she looked up, surprised, noticing the looming rain clouds. “Oh!”

  Hurriedly, she replaced everything in the chest — except the note he’d written to her. She folded that sheet carefully and placed it in her reticule before hurrying to secure the chest and return it to its hiding place. She might get home before it rained very heavily.

  Chapter 9

  Darcy scowled as he glowered out at the rain. He had hoped to persuade Bingley to return to London tomorrow, but they’d arrived back at Netherfield to an invitation to dine with the officers tomorrow night. Bingley wouldn’t hear of refusing.

  So there was no end to it yet. Shadowing his friend so that he had no opportunity to make an offer to Miss Bennet, and then the dreadful dinners in the evening with Bingley and his sisters. The only respite was when the ladies withdrew.

  But even then, Hurst was there, his corpulent body showing decades of overindulgence, and his florid face darkening with every drink. Darcy shuddered. The man was not very many years older than himself. He stood straighter, and stared at the flickering reflection of himself in the dark window-pane.

  Dinner. He could endure that. He smiled a little. It was to be hoped that tomorrow the weather would allow him to ride out early. The thought eased his mind, and he felt better as he descended the stairs to join the company for dinner. It had been a number of days and he was sure there would be a reply waiting for him in the hidden chest.

  Bingley had talked to Colonel Forster on several occasions, and he discussed with Darcy the billeting arrangements the militia had made in Meryton.

  “It is abominable,” Miss Bingley said, disdainfully, “how vulgar those younger country girls are, and how coarsely they behave around the officers.” She sniffed disparagingly.

  “Yes!” Louisa Hurst rejoined. “And those youngest Bennet girls! It is disgraceful.”

  Darcy didn’t join the conversation, but he agreed wholeheartedly.

  Bingley looked wretched. “But it seems to be more accepted in the countryside,” he appealed to Darcy, who didn’t really know how to respond.

  “It is unfortunate, of course,” he said, trying to think. “But their behaviour does affect the standing of the whole family.”

  Miss Bingley nodded enthusiastically. “It does indeed! So sad, because Miss Jane Bennet does seem to be a sweet girl, but her dreadful family means she can never better herself.” She helped herself to more bread.

  “Yes, she is indeed a charming girl,” Mrs. Hurst agreed. “One could almost feel sorry for her, but I suppose she is so used to it that she accepts it, and it does not distress her.”

  “I think it does distress her,” Bingley said, putting down his soup spoon. “I wish we could help more.”

  Darcy’s eyebrows rose. Now would be a good chance to begin to say that his friend could not, and must not, consort so much with Miss Bennet. But he had waited too long. Miss Bingley simpered at her brother.

  “Perhaps I will invite her to dine with Louisa and me tomorrow night while you gentlemen are with the officers?” Both she and her sister laughed unpleasantly.

  Darcy was appalled. Why would they do that? He caught the eye of Mrs. Hurst and realised that Miss Bennet might not enjoy such an invitation. But Bingley was speaking.

  “Caroline, it is a wonderful idea! Thank you, I would be very grateful for your friendship towards her.” He looked like an enthusiastic youth in the throes of his first love, and Darcy shook his head resignedly. How many times had his friend been in love? Darcy could never understand his choices. But perhaps the deficiency was all within him and not Bingley. He sighed, and commenced his soup.

  * * *

  Rain threatened the next morning, but as he glanced at the sky, he thought it would hold off to the afternoon. He could ride out this morning. He did not wish to wait another day, and soon, he was able to spur the horse on, out to the edge of the meadow above Meryton.

  He wondered at his eagerness, not even trying to prevent his desire to read what the unknown young lady might have written. But he was not so hasty as to risk a direct approach.

  He rode up and into the woods to skirt the town, and approached from another side. It was nearly an hour later when he drew up beside the stump, and dismounted. Leaving the horse, he approached the chest, wondering at the pounding of his heart. Had she been back and read his note? What had she thought? For the first time, he wondered if she might have thought it entirely improper for him to have written. She might just have decided not to ever write again. She might berate him for his bad manners.


  He hesitated, it would be like another rejection. He drew a deep breath. He must see.

  The chest was still there, and he drew it towards him, almost reluctantly.

  He hesitated, deciding the grass was too damp to be comfortable for long. He checked and saw a nearby fallen tree he could sit on. He opened the chest, holding his breath. The blotter on top contained two closely-written sheets.

  She had answered! And not merely berated him for his presumption! Darcy pulled the sheets out and read them rapidly, before settling on the log to peruse them in more detail.

  He smiled slightly as she wrote about her friend’s brother finding that his family’s failure to understand him had caused him the greatest anguish. Darcy looked out at the landscape. She might have been writing about him, really. He recalled his father’s coldness towards him; his anger when, as a small boy, Darcy would hide in the nursery when they were expecting guests; and the beatings when his tutor would report his arguments when trying to understand his lessons.

  He blinked, the landscape was misty. Or perhaps it was him. He turned back to the letter. He was glad this unknown John had had a friend who tried to understand him. Darcy could have done with a friend like that. Richard had tried, but perhaps boys were less understanding. Darcy was glad Richard had stuck by him, but sympathy was not in his vocabulary. And Bingley. Darcy could not think of anyone else he could count on as a friend.

  He put the papers down and sat back, gazing at the clouds. Georgiana, of course, was devoted to him. He wondered if she could understand. But he had never told her about his inner torment. He was her older brother, her guardian, and he had to be strong for her.