The Unraveling of Mr Darcy

by Valerie Lennox

  She attempted to change her thoughts. To insert Mr. Wickham into the scene instead of Mr. Darcy. Wickham was blond and fair and fine to look at, and he had a silver tongue. Wickham was not the sort of man who would say that she was “tolerable,” nor would he make up stories about physical conditions that kept him from dancing.

  She wondered what Wickham would have done if she had found herself trapped in a bedchamber with him instead.

  Would Wickham have tried to kiss her? Would he have stopped?

  No, she thought. She didn’t think that Wickham was the sort of man who showed a lot of restraint. He seemed to hurtle headlong into whatever course had been set ahead of him. If he was going to flatter a young lady, he really flattered her. If he was trapped in a bedchamber with a woman, then he would kiss her.

  Possibly, he would do more than kissing.

  Elizabeth tugged the covers back up over her body. Not because she was cold, but because she felt as though she needed some protection when she thought things like this. These sorts of thoughts were best done under the covers in the darkness.

  She knew very little about what could happen between men and women alone in a bedchamber together, but she understood that whatever passed between them was the same thing that happened on the wedding night. On a wedding night, it was acceptable, but between two people not joined by matrimony, it was a sin. She also had a vague notion that it involved removing clothing, only she couldn’t be sure where she had gotten that idea. It was only that it seemed right.

  She had never seen a real, live naked man before, unless you counted babies or art. Either way, she knew that the things between men’s legs were different than the things between women’s legs. And she also knew that she had such sensations between her own thighs when she thought about all these sorts of things.

  It was a heavy feeling, as if everything down there were swelling and growing more tender.

  Overall, she simply didn’t have enough information to be sure of more than that. But whatever it was that men wanted from women, she thought it might be likely that Wickham would take it.

  Which made something inside her twitch and clench. She thought of kissing Wickham, of his hurtling headlong down the course set ahead of him, and it made her feel a bit breathless.

  But then she thought of Mr. Darcy in that room with her, and the way he had looked at her with a fire that lit her up inside. And yet, he had kept himself in check. He hadn’t kissed her. He had done nothing except to touch her hair.

  She put her own fingers on her braid, then, and she had a brief memory of Darcy’s knuckles brushing the soft skin of her breast.

  Just like that, she was on fire again.

  She gasped, rolling over and burying her face in her pillow.

  She shouldn’t be thinking thoughts like this. For one thing, she had resolved to forget about Mr. Darcy, and to stop thinking of him. For another, these must be wicked, sinful thoughts, and a woman like her shouldn’t even be considering them. That she did so might mean that she was wicked. She knew that Darcy had not ruined her when they were trapped together, but the fact that she could think these thoughts… well, maybe it meant she was as good as ruined.

  She must stop thinking of it, at once.

  But she couldn’t help but think of Darcy keeping his desires at bay as opposed to Wickham’s lack of restraint, and she felt as if she might prefer the former, even though she was supposed to banish Darcy completely from her mind.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The following day, they were to dine with the Philipses in Meryton, and upon arrival, Elizabeth was pleasantly surprised to see that Wickham was there as well. When she entered the room, his gaze sought hers out and she found herself flushing already.

  It was all well and good to say that restraint was more affecting in the dead of night with the covers pulled tight against her body. But Mr. Darcy was gone and engaged to boot. Mr. Wickham was here, and she told herself that she didn’t give a fig for restraint. She wanted laughter and warmth and Mr. Wickham’s dancing blue eyes.

  So, she was gratified when he ended up at a table with her and Lydia. At first, Lydia talked so much that Elizabeth could not get a word in edgewise, and Wickham, all politeness, was happy to speak with her in a light and agreeable tone. But eventually, Lydia became too engrossed in the game of cards they were playing, and she was quiet enough to allow some conversation between Elizabeth and Wickham.

  Wickham was paying very little attention to his cards, all the while making rather large bets, which Elizabeth didn’t think wise, especially considering he was apparently new to the game of whist. But soon she forgot all that, for Wickham brought up Darcy. “I understand Mr. Darcy was staying at Netherfield.”

  “Yes, for about a month,” said Elizabeth. “But he is gone now. He has gone to town, or that is the rumor, anyway. I suppose he could have gone home. He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand.”

  “Yes,” replied Mr. Wickham, “his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy.”

  Elizabeth could not but look surprised. So, Wickham knew Darcy well. Knew him better than she herself did, and might know all manner of things about him. She felt her heart begin to pick up speed. She wanted to ask all manner of questions about Darcy, but she didn’t dare, for fear of giving away any particular interest in him. And I do not have any particular interest in him, she reminded herself. He is engaged. And very disagreeable at that, no matter how his bare skin looks in candlelight.

  “Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”

  “Me?” Elizabeth didn’t know what to say. He asked me to marry him. He nearly kissed me. I have dreams about the hair on his chest. “I have spent four days in the same house with him.” And then she forced herself to add, “I think him very disagreeable.”

  Wickham let out a soft snort. “I have no right to give my opinion as to his being agreeable or otherwise. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish—and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your own family.”

  “Upon my word, I say no more here than I might say in any house in the neighborhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favorably spoken of by anyone.” It was true. No one thought well of Darcy. “And after this business with his recent engagement, after which he disappeared, people are even more likely to say unfavorable things.”

  Wickham was quiet for a long moment. “I cannot pretend to be sorry. As you know, I was quite open with my own thoughts of him before. I suppose it is not a charitable attitude, but I don’t mind his being taken a bit low. But what is this you speak of with his engagement? I was given to understand that he is promised to his cousin Miss de Bourgh, the daughter of Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

  Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up. “Of that, I know nothing.” But it was strange that Lady Catherine had come up again, when Mr. Collins was in such raptures with her.

  “Well, it is of no matter,” said Wickham. “Perhaps I was mistaken in my understanding of the arrangement. At any rate, I am gratified that he has quit this part of the country. It is not for me to be driven away by Mr. Darcy in any case, but it is simpler this way. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him. His father, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had, and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behavior to myself has been scandalous, but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.”

  At this, Elizabeth was quite intrigued, but she felt a stab of some other emotion, one she couldn’t even quite
name. Though she was resolved that she had no love for Mr. Darcy, she felt a bit of guilt at saying insulting things behind his back, especially when her feelings toward him were in such tumult. Still, she must know all. “You cannot leave me with such a vague explanation,” she said. “You must tell me what it is that Mr. Darcy has done that requires forgiveness.”

  Wickham picked back up his cards at this, and he was silent for some time. “The church ought to have been my profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.”

  “Indeed.” She was not sure what to make of this.

  “Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it, but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere.”

  “Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth.

  Wickham nodded. “Yes, the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and it was given to another man. I cannot accuse myself of having really done anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may have spoken my opinion too freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that Darcy hates me.”

  Elizabeth was struggling to find words. Would Darcy have truly done such a thing? He had seemed so honorable with her, offering to marry her when he did not need to do so. Of course, he was such a closed-down man, who thought so highly of himself. “This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced.”

  “Some time or other he will be—but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose him.”

  “That is quite an honorable sentiment,” said Elizabeth, but her mind was in turmoil. This didn’t fit with what she knew of Mr. Darcy. She couldn’t quite explain why it didn’t fit, but it was wrong in some way. And yet, she could not see any reason why Mr. Wickham might be mistaken. Surely, he would not be telling her a falsehood. The story made him look pitiful, and Elizabeth was quite sure that Wickham wouldn’t abide such an impression of himself unless his feelings of indignation towards Mr. Darcy were a good deal stronger. It must be true. “But what,” she said, almost to herself, “can have been his motive? What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?”

  “Jealousy,” said Wickham with a shrug. “Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better, but his father's uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was often given me.”

  Elizabeth nodded, but this assessment rankled even more. No, the very reason she could not abide Mr. Darcy was that he had such a high, unwavering opinion of himself. That he would feel threatened by Wickham, it didn’t seem to fit with what she knew of the man. And yet, again, she had to accept this as truth. It was quite likely that she simply did not know Mr. Darcy very well, and even more likely that the turmoil of her feelings toward him were tainted by that wicked heat he had awakened in her.

  Mr. Darcy was quite likely the devil, she determined.

  “Well,” said Elizabeth, tossing her head, “he is altogether horrid, then, is he not? I propose we cease to speak of Mr. Darcy entirely.”

  Wickham chuckled, picking up his cards. “Yes, indeed. I agree. I can’t see a reason to speak of such a man when I am in the presence of such wit and beauty. I believe we should at once begin discussing whatever subject pleases you.” He winked at her.

  Elizabeth flushed again.

  And just like that, the subject of Mr. Darcy was banished. Would that it could be so easy to banish him from her thoughts.

  * * *

  The following day, Mr. Bingley arrived with his sisters to invite them to the ball at Netherfield in person. Elizabeth had been certain that Caroline was not desirous of the ball earlier, when it had been discussed during Jane’s illness and sojourn at Netherfield. But something seemed to have changed her mind, for she made several comments about a ball being just the thing to get everyone’s minds off of unpleasant matters.

  What these unpleasant matters were, Elizabeth was sure that she didn’t know. She would have thought that Caroline would be triumphant in her engagement to Darcy, but the latter’s absence did seem to cast a pall on the former’s joy. Why had Mr. Darcy left, and had he really gone off in the middle of the night?

  More rumors had surfaced in this time, each more outlandish than the last.

  The most salacious was that Mr. Darcy had cuckolded Mr. Hurst, who was too busy playing cards to notice that his wife was otherwise occupied, and that Darcy had fled in the midst of the night to avoid the threat of a duel with Mr. Hurst. He had only become engaged to Miss Bingley as an attempt to hide his affair with Mrs. Hurst, and now he might not live to see the marriage through, as Mr. Hurst was intent on having it out with the man.

  This was the version that Lydia claimed was the most likely to be true, having gotten it very directly, from one of their own servants, who had spoken directly to a servant at Netherfield.

  But Elizabeth knew it was ridiculous. There could have been nothing between Darcy and Mrs. Hurst.

  At night, though, when she turned it over in her head, she had to admit that she didn’t understand anything about Mr. Darcy. If he was the sort of man to deny Wickham the living owed him out of jealousy, perhaps he was the sort of man to have an affair with a married woman right under her own brother’s nose. She did remember the way he had looked at her, fires burning in the depths of his eyes, and she knew there was passion and power inside the man. He kept himself closed off and in check, but if he were to unleash it…

  She shivered.

  Wickham, she reminded herself. Think of Wickham. Wickham was charming and agreeable. And she was going to see him at the Netherfield ball and would dance with him all night. And who knew what might come of all of it? She did not allow herself to think of being a military wife. After all, she was not in possession of any fortune, and with Wickham’s situation as it was, well, he might aim higher. Certainly, he could.

  There wasn’t a woman in the area who had met him and didn’t think him a charming man and quite fine to look upon. Wickham would have his pick of any number of women. So, she could not expect anything from him, certainly not a proposal. But a pleasant diversion? Why not? And the future was unwritten. Perhaps, if she and Wickham did fall in love, he might favor her higher than the others.

  She knew that even Jane would encourage her to think on Wickham and not Mr. Darcy’s wickedness. She had shared with her sister what Wickham had told her of Mr. Darcy’s behavior toward the other man, and Jane had said that there was nothing good to be heard of Mr. Darcy.

  The week to the ball passed in such a way, with her struggling to work through her feelings and to convince herself that Mr. Darcy was, indeed, a wretched man to whom she should give no more thought.

  She was taken quite by surprise when Mr. Collins, of whom she had endeavored to pay as little mind as possible, asked her for two dances at the ball. In her mind, these dances were already given to Wickham, and she was reluctant to turn them over to Collins, as insufferable a man as he was. But there was nothing for it, and she had to consent.

  Upon arriving at the ball, Elizabeth sought out Wickham among the red coats in assembly, and she found him quite readily. He locked eyes with her and winked, and she flushed. Mr. Wickham was quite capable of making her flush, that was obvious.

  She longed to go to speak to him at once, but Collins was there, and she was forced to dance two dances in a row with him. During the dances, Collins made long remarks about dancing in the bible, and how he found it an innocent diversion, and—indeed—that King David himself had danced, and that the scriptures said he had done unto the Lord, so perhaps there was a place for dancing
in proper worship to the Almighty. He said other things as well, but Elizabeth tuned them out, making appropriate agreeing noises when Collins paused.

  As Collins rarely paused, she didn’t even have to do that very often.

  Eventually, the dances were over, and she was free.

  Unfortunately, it seemed that Wickham was engaged, having found some other woman to dance with. She was obliged to wait two more dances until he joined her, and during this time, she complained of Mr. Collins idiocy to her friend Charlotte Lucas. Charlotte was seven and twenty, and she and Elizabeth were quite close.

  Wickham appeared at long last, though, and he planted himself in front of her with flourish. “My dear Miss Bennet, you are too pretty to be here in the corner. Allow me to gallantly spirit you off so that I might occupy your attention for the rest of the evening.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Oh, do you promise, sir?”

  “I shall look at no one but you,” he said. “In point of fact, I have been pretending it was you that I was speaking to all along during the course of the evening. But I must say that my imagination is capable of but a pale imitation of the genuine article. You quite take my breath away.”

  “Is that so? You have enough breath to enumerate my virtues, it seems.”

  He chuckled. “Let us dance instead of talking, then, if it pleases you?”

  “Yes, let’s.” And she allowed him to spirit her off, as he had said.

  Wickham’s company was most diverting. As they danced, she couldn’t understand why she would have any interest in the brooding, smoldering air of Mr. Darcy at all. Indeed, she wasn’t at all sure why she was always and forever thinking of Mr. Darcy and comparing everyone to him. It was altogether infuriating. Would he never leave her thoughts?

  * * *

  Caroline Bingley was sulking in the corner at the ball. She had hoped the occasion would be one of merriment, for Lord knew that she needed some in her life these days. No one in the house was happy with her. Though her brother gave Darcy the lion’s share of the blame, he did not consider her innocent in the matter of her loss of virtue. It was ridiculous, of course. She was as virtuous now as she had been before, but she couldn’t tell her brother that or risk losing even more of his good opinion for her. At any rate, Bingley looked at her with shock and disapproval, and he spent his time brooding. He missed Darcy, she could see. They had long been companions, and to be without him, parted on such bad terms, it had hurt her brother.