by Gail McEwen
Also by GAIL McEWEN
TO END ALL WARS
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
STRONGER EVEN THAN PRIDE
Copyright © 2014 by Gail McEwen
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any format whatsoever. For information: P.O. Box 34, Oysterville WA 98641
ISBN: 978-1-9360-0933-6
Graphic design by Ellen Pickels
Acknowledgments
This book never would have been written without the helpful and diabolical plotting of my friends Michele and Jules who made short work of a long car trip by helping me fill in the blanks of my “What if…” scenario. I must also acknowledge the brave souls who read the original work in progress. Thank you for hanging with me, for hating it and loving it at the same time, and especially for encouraging me to stick with my original vision despite your sometimes-panicked reactions.
To the team at Meryton Press—you are an author’s dream. To Zuki, my brilliant cover artist…I’m in awe of how you turned my disjointed thoughts and ideas into exactly what I wanted, but didn’t know until I saw it. To Gail, my editor…your knowledge and diligence, piercing questions and attention to detail, not to mention your patience, were a God-send. And to Ellen, the last gatekeeper on the journey from vague idea to actual, honest-to-goodness book…your genius for grammar is awe-inspiring; your dedication and meticulous eye are an author’s best comfort. From the top down, Meryton Press is a class act.
Lastly, and most importantly, I dedicate this book to my husband, Tom, who gives me the best encouragement and validation of all—the time to write, a belief in my abilities, and respect for something I tend to downplay. I’m not me without you.
Prologue
April 1812
Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. …
I had not been long in Hertfordshire before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your eldest sister to any other young woman in the country. … My objections to the marriage were not merely those, which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of connexion could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance; … it is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them.
By the time Elizabeth Bennet reached this self-righteous conclusion to Mr Darcy’s inadequate justification of his imperious, overbearing, high-handed actions in regard to his friend and her sister, she was nearly choked with fury. How dare he? How dare he pass judgement on her family! How dare he presume to know more about Jane’s heart than she, and when confronted with the evidence of his mistake, how dare he simply dismiss it with scarcely a thought? It was with difficulty that she turned her eyes back to the pages in her hand.
With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connexion with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity.
Mr Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; …
“Enough!” she said aloud. “I shall not subject myself to any more lies and slander.”
With a violent motion, she crumpled the pages into a tiny ball. Clutching it tightly, she turned towards the parsonage, determined to throw it into the fire. Passing Mr Collins’s pigsty, she thought better of the plan and instead tossed the letter to the animals rooting around in the mud. “And that is good riddance to you, Mr Darcy,” she mumbled under her breath.
* * *
Darcy watched in silence as Colonel Fitzwilliam approached the waiting carriage in an infuriatingly casual manner. When he finally reached it, he merely climbed in, smiled resignedly and held out his hands in a gesture of defeat. Darcy peered uncertainly down the gravel path in the general direction of the parsonage before joining his cousin. A few moments passed in silent contemplation, and then, suddenly eager to escape the scene of his greatest humiliation, he knocked sharply on the roof, and they were off.
For the first leg of the journey, as the familiar landscapes of Rosings Park and its environs slipped by, an uncomfortable silence existed between the gentlemen. At length, the colonel pulled out his pocket watch as Darcy wrenched his gaze from the passing scenery and inhaled deeply.
“Well?”
“Ha!” Fitzwilliam laughed, triumphantly flourishing the timepiece. “You are nothing if not predictable, Darcy. It took precisely thirty minutes before you could bring yourself to ask the one question that has been on your mind since I returned from Hunsford.” He snapped the watch closed and sat back with an expectant look.
“I am happy to oblige your sense of the ridiculous and pathetic, Fitzwilliam. Would you, perhaps, oblige me in turn and enlighten me as to what passed at the parsonage after I left?”
“Of course. Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?” Darcy demanded.
“Exactly that—nothing. I waited; Miss Bennet never appeared.”
“And that is that?”
“I could not wait indefinitely. I wished the ladies all the health and happiness I could manage, complimented Mrs Collins’s hospitality repeatedly, and spoke of roads and inns and travelling weather for longer and in more detail than even I could tolerate. I asked after Miss Bennet, but at length I was obliged to take my leave before I joined the ranks of the ridiculous and pathetic.”
“And, for all your charm and good looks, you could find out nothing more?”
“I could not, but I did try, Cousin.” He sat up, expectantly. “And now it is your turn. Suppose you tell me just what sort of assurances I was expected to give to Miss Bennet had she appeared? What sort of questions was I openly and candidly to answer?”
Darcy hesitated then blurted out the truth. “Questions about Wickham.”
Fitzwilliam’s face immediately grew dark and dangerous. “About Wickham? Why?”
As briefly as he could, Darcy recounted the humiliating events of the previous day. When he finished, it was Fitzwilliam’s turn to sit thinking in silence for half an hour.
“So…” he said, at last breaking the heavy stillness that hung between them, “it would appear that the Miss Bennets are not scheming fortune seekers after all…and after warning Bingley off the eldest Miss Bennet five months ago and cautioning me about the second Miss Bennet not three days ago, you yourself came to this conclusion just yesterday? Suddenly, Miss Elizabeth is well-placed enough to marry and trustworthy enough to keep a dearly held family secret?”
“Oh, come now, Fitzwilliam,” Darcy snapped. “I neither said nor implied that she was a fortune seeker. I merely cautioned you about your imprudent attentions. Neither of you was injured by it.”
“You are sure of that? What if my attentions had been completely sincere and my intentions honourable? I begin to wonder at your motives, dear cousin. Perhaps, you were saving her for yourself all along?”
“Had I thoug
ht your heart at all affected, I would have spoken to you more plainly. As it was…”
“Yes, and you apparently are quite successful at judging the hearts of others.”
Darcy forcefully expelled his breath and leaned back against the plush seat. Closing his eyes, he asked, “Have I done wrong by you, Fitzwilliam? If so, I apologise, and I will somehow attempt to make it right.”
“You have not wronged me.” Fitzwilliam scarcely smiled as he thrust his point home. “But as for Bingley…”
* * *
Elizabeth walked the wooded paths in great agitation for nearly an hour before she saw Mr Collins bustling up the road towards Rosings Park. No calmer than when Mr Darcy had first accosted her and demanded she read that appalling letter, she returned to the parsonage and stormed into the parlour where Charlotte was just sitting down to tea.
“Oh, you just missed the gentlemen,” Charlotte said with regret. “They have left, and Mr Collins has gone to console Lady Catherine.”
“Never mind that,” Elizabeth burst out, thankful to find her friend alone. “You will never believe what has happened!”
Naturally, this resulted in urgent expressions of curiosity, and naturally one as angered and injured as Elizabeth expelled all her surprise, indignation and judgement. Only after she finished did she notice Maria Lucas standing wide-eyed with shock in the doorway. Charlotte could only stare in amazement, and Elizabeth berated herself for speaking so freely in such a small house.
When Maria found her voice, she quizzed Elizabeth on the manner of Mr Darcy’s proposal the evening before: Did he appear quite violently in love, was he very angry when she refused him, and what were the particulars of his words and manner in making such an astonishing offer. In the depths of her anger, Elizabeth overcame her usual inclination to be discreet and elaborated in detail—every word, every gesture, every look. Then she came to the letter.
“Of course it was very wrong of him to say such things about your family,” Charlotte said diplomatically, “and he should not have taken such imperious actions in regards to Jane and Mr Bingley. But Elizabeth, do you not realise the honour you have refused?”
“Honour, Charlotte? How could I even contemplate accepting a man who has destroyed Jane’s chance for happiness?” She sat forward in her chair, her eyes glittering. “How could I accept a man who has effectively destroyed my own chance for happiness? Imperious you may very well call him, for if he had not so arrogantly disregarded his father’s wishes regarding Mr Wickham…” She left the thought unfinished, but her meaning was clear enough to the women in the room. It was general knowledge in the neighbourhood around Meryton that, had Mr Wickham been in possession of any appropriate means, Miss Elizabeth Bennet would have been his first object. As it was, he had been forced to turn to Mary King and her £10,000, and the disappointment of the young man and lady in question was the object of pity and much conversation in the local drawing rooms and parlours.
“But Lizzy,” Maria said, “I thought you did not mean to be unhappy about Mr Wickham, as it cannot be helped.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Just because I do not mean to be unhappy about him, Maria, does not always ensure that I am not. He is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw, and to then be subjected to such an insulting and preposterous proposal from the very man who ruined his prospects and my own hopes—well, it is beyond endurance.”
“But you said yourself that Mr Darcy’s letter had begun to address his dealings with Mr Wickham when you stopped reading,” Charlotte added reasonably. “Perhaps there is more to the story than you know.”
“All I know”—Elizabeth sighed— “is that, when I took Mr Darcy to task for his treatment of Wickham, all those feelings I thought I had put away came rushing back. My aunt warned me not to give in to disappointment, and I have endeavoured not to, but when Mr Darcy was so dismissive of Mr Wickham’s misfortunes—misfortunes of his making! — all I could think was that, if not for Mr Darcy’s cruelty, it might have been…it ought to have been Mr Wickham declaring his love and affection for me and not the man who ruined his hopes!”
“But the letter,” Charlotte tried again. “Surely he had an explanation to offer.”
“I shall give that possibility as much credence as I give his opinion on the behaviour of my family,” Elizabeth cried, and Mrs Collins was obliged to drop her gaze and turn her attention to her needlework for a time.
In the remaining weeks of her visit, the subject was thoroughly canvassed among the ladies whenever Mr Collins was absent from the room. Elizabeth swore Charlotte and Maria to secrecy out of concern for Jane’s feelings, and Maria understood this need perfectly. Therefore, in every letter she wrote to her friend Miss Catherine Bennet discussing the extraordinary turn of events, she carefully omitted any mention of either Jane or Mr Bingley.
* * *
The news, once delivered to Kitty and subsequently passed on to Lydia, was quickly spread. Every gathering and dinner party buzzed with the intelligence, and once he grasped that Fitzwilliam Darcy had been rejected, George Wickham realised he had been presented with an extraordinary opportunity. What was the value of Mary King and her modest fortune in comparison with Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the woman Darcy wanted but could not have?
He knew well the man’s pride, and he knew that an offer made to such a woman as Miss Elizabeth must have been the result of utmost passion and partiality on Darcy’s part. A man in his position did not set aside the advancement of his own interests lightly; as pleasant a girl as she was, Elizabeth Bennet could never be considered Darcy’s equal. It would surely be sweet revenge if he could lead the woman—the woman Darcy fervently desired but could not win—down the aisle himself. Marriage to a gentleman’s daughter… He smiled at the thought. It would be no hardship to be married to a girl as lively as Elizabeth Bennet. And Mary King? Well, she was common in many ways, and he had always thought he could do better. Elizabeth was the more handsome of the two and more refined, and Longbourn a much finer house than Mr King’s country residence. True, Mary’s £10,000 was a strong enticement, but there might be ways around that, especially if another man found her to be as persuadable as he had…
“Denny!” he called to his fellow officer. “I have a proposition for you.”
Denny smiled. “I do not know whether I like the sound of that. Your propositions are usually fraught with peril.”
“Not this time. I need your assistance in ridding myself of an entanglement.”
“Oh, ho, woman trouble?” When Wickham nodded, Denny asked, “And why should I consider involving myself in one of your entanglements?”
“I think we might find a way to make this to your benefit as well as my own.”
* * *
By the time Elizabeth returned from Kent, the neighbourhood was nearly in a frenzy of gossip. Not only had one of their own been foolish enough—or clever enough, depending upon the speaker—to turn down marriage to a handsome, rich gentleman, but that extraordinary intelligence had virtually been overshadowed by an even more delicious scandal closer to home.
Facts were scarce, but that did not stop Lydia and Kitty from sharing every possible crumb of speculation. It seemed that Mr Wickham’s intended bride had been found in a compromising position—the exact nature of which varied wildly with the teller—with Wickham’s good friend Mr Denny. Kitty described stolen kisses while Lydia went so far as to suggest that much more had been stolen, or willingly relinquished. Mrs Bennet’s whispered reports of a torn gown, shouted accusations and denials, a tearfully pleading Miss King, and men coming to blows in the street left Elizabeth in a state of confusion. After asking as many questions of as many people as she dared, all she could ascertain was that harsh words had been publicly exchanged between the men, a sobbing Miss King had fallen on her knees before them both, and soon afterward, she had been spirited away to Liverpool by her uncle with Wickham immediately following. Some said he intended to break the engagement while others were certain he had
gone to win her back.
Elizabeth’s first instinct, aside from a wretched sadness shared by Jane over the misery Mr Wickham must be experiencing, was to give in to a brief flash of hope. But that hope was snuffed in the next moment with the realization that neither his circumstances nor hers had changed in the least. She was still without a dowry, and because of Mr Darcy’s pride and bitterness, Mr Wickham was still without the means to marry as he pleased.
Chapter 1
Miss Bennet!” a breathless voice sounded from behind her as she walked up the road from Meryton. Recognising it instantly, Elizabeth turned around, striving to control the broad smile wanting to spread across her features.
“Mr Wickham! This is a surprise. I was told you would not return from Liverpool for some days yet.”
“I had not expected to, but I could not…” He caught up to her, stopping short. “That is, these past weeks have been…eventful.” It was clear from his demeanour that he was distressed, and Elizabeth’s heart went out to him. It seemed the poor man’s misfortunes would never end, and once again, she felt a flash of anger towards Mr Darcy, whose callous arrogance had inflicted pain on such a good man.
“I am on my way home,” she offered. “Would you care to join me? For tea?”
“Please, Miss Bennet,” he began hesitantly, “if I might be so bold as to claim a moment of your time…alone?”
Uncertain, Elizabeth looked away but managed a nod.
“Thank you,” he said with obvious relief but then was silent for so long that she ventured a glance at his face. She could see he was struggling, and although she had hopes about what might be the cause of those struggles, all she could do was to wait for him to break the silence. He caught her look, and that seemed to jar him from his mood. He smiled, held out his arm, and suggested they walk together for a bit.
“You have heard, no doubt,” he finally said, “that my engagement to Miss King has been…that is, my trip to Liverpool was…” He sighed.