Stronger Even Than Pride

by Gail McEwen

  He swallowed hard and wondered, now that he had found her, what he was doing there and what he could possibly say.

  “Mr Darcy?”

  He nodded politely and asked after her health.

  “And Mrs Bingley?” He proceeded through the list after she assured him that she and her family were quite well, thank you.

  That question brought a smile and a break in the tension at long last.

  “Very well. Very well, indeed.”

  “I am to call there tomorrow.” He was thankful to have found a mutually pleasing subject. “I must confess, I am eager to meet my godson at last.”

  “He is beautiful,” she said wistfully. “He has his mother’s fair complexion and his father’s eyes.”

  “As a Bingley, I am certain he can look forward to a charmed and happy life.”

  “I am sure he will. With such parents, how could he not?”

  “Very true. And for his sake, I hope he is surrounded with many brothers and sisters.”

  “You say that because you grew up with only one very quiet sibling.” She laughed. “If you had lived in a house with five girls, you would think differently!”

  “Perhaps I would, but I always longed for a large family nonetheless.”

  “Then you must start a family of your own, and you may make it as large as you like.”

  “That has always been my hope.”

  “Well, then,” her voice sounded odd, “there is no reason why you should not.”

  He looked at her sharply, but she again studied the folio and would not meet his eyes.

  “And you?” he pressed. “What do you hope for?”

  She remained silent, following the twists and curls of an illustrated vine with her finger. He watched her, mesmerised by the whiteness of the finger, but unable to ignore the thinness of the hand.

  “Mr Darcy,” she quietly responded at last, “just exactly what do you propose to accomplish by doing this?”

  “By doing what?”

  “I appreciate the effort. Indeed, I appreciate so much of what you have done, but friendship between us is impossible.” She looked up in frustration.

  “But why must it be? We shook hands and—” He stopped in exasperation. “Why should I not pursue the friendship of someone whose company I enjoy?”

  “Because it is ludicrous, that is why! It is impossible that you and I should be anything to each other but what we are: a painful reminder of what is and what might have been!”

  He was stunned at her honest admission, but she was not finished.

  “I live with regrets every minute of every day, Mr Darcy, but my life is what it is, and nothing can change that. I know what you have done for me. It is enough and more than I could ever hope to repay. You are under no obligation to make a hollow offer of friendship on top of that, and a true friendship would only complicate matters further!”

  “Mrs Wi…” He paused. “Elizabeth. I do not wish to complicate your life, but I do not make empty offers, and you of all people should understand that. If you consider the many reasons I have to… Any other man so rejected and disregarded would glory in your unhappiness…”

  “Because I was foolish enough to refuse you?”

  “No. In that you were completely justified. I see that now.”

  “Then to what reasons do you refer that tempt you to relish my degradation?”

  “I do not relish it. I deeply regret it. But I warned you. I laid my personal affairs and anguish bare before you with only one thought in mind—to put you on guard against Wickham and his schemes, and you disregarded it. I spoke plainly and sincerely, yet you ignored every word. I am many things, Elizabeth, but I am not a liar, and never for a moment did I think you would believe me to be one.”

  “I have never called you such, nor have I ever thought it, but I wonder at what you say to me. We had no such explicit conversation.”

  “Granted a letter is not a conversation, but that is of little matter. I told you plainly what he was and how I knew, yet you discounted it all.”

  “Letter?” She seemed genuinely puzzled.

  Darcy looked at her in bewilderment.

  “Yes, the letter. The one I gave you in Rosings Park. I handed it to you in the grove the morning before I left.”

  Understanding dawned. “Oh, that letter. But what does that have to do with Mr Wickham?”

  “Do you not remember what was in it?”

  “I do. I remember how you proudly justified your ultimately unsuccessful attempt to separate my sister from Mr Bingley. I recall, as well, your frank and unvarnished opinions on my family. Pray, how does that constitute a warning?”

  “I have long since come to regret my words. I believed myself to be perfectly calm and cool, but I know now that I wrote with dreadful bitterness of spirit. I hope you will forgive me that.”

  She bowed her head slightly. “It was so long ago now, it hardly matters. Of course, I forgive you. Besides,” she smiled, “it all turned out well in the end, did it not? My sister and Mr Bingley are very happy.”

  “They are,” he said with a distant smile, “and I am grateful my interference caused no permanent damage. It was your words on the subject that convinced me; they haunted me until I was forced to confess my folly to Bingley.”

  “My words?”

  “Yes, along with some incessant badgering from my cousin Fitzwilliam.”

  “Good for him.” She laughed. “I have always liked the colonel! I saw him earlier this evening on his way to dance with Miss Greyson.”

  “My uncle is of the firm opinion that it is time for his youngest son to settle down, and like Lady Catherine, once my uncle is of an opinion, there is little point in opposing him. But Mrs Wickham…Elizabeth”—Darcy looked at her earnestly—“not everything did turn out well in the end, did it? I came to Hertfordshire in part to show you that I had changed, to see whether…only to find that you were married. I understand that the beginning of my letter was offensive to you, but why did you not heed my words of warning against Mr Wickham?”

  “But there were no — ” She stopped abruptly, remembering the morning she had received the letter. “Wait…” Her face reflected a number of emotions, the last being something akin to horror. “No, I… Oh, Mr Darcy…” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I did not read the entire letter.”

  “What?” he demanded, in his shock speaking more sharply than he intended. “Why?”

  “I was so upset, so angry at what I read about my family, about Jane… I crumpled it up and…” She looked at him with wide-eyed distress. “What did it say?”

  It was not until that moment that he comprehended the full gravity of what she had just admitted. For so long he assumed she had wilfully discounted the letter, had read and discarded his confessions, but she had not read them at all! She was not to be blamed, except perhaps for a most ruinous stubbornness—a stubbornness his own bitter and ill-chosen words had ignited. She had not married Wickham in defiance of his warning; she had married in ignorance of it! All vestiges of anger towards her had vanished some time ago, but he was nearly struck down with the force of regret and pity he felt for her…and helplessness. She was blameless, yet she was just as trapped as ever. He could do nothing.

  “Mr Darcy,” she repeated insistently. “What did it say?”

  “I think,” he said carefully, struggling to keep his emotions under control and out of his voice, “under the circumstances, it would be best to leave things as they are.”

  She looked at him, seemingly without seeing him, then turned away and walked to the glass wall of the conservatory, leaning her head against a cold pane. He waited, not knowing what to do. He perhaps should go, but it would be too cruel to leave her alone. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and slowly turned around, standing with her back pressed to the wall for support.

  “Tell me what it said.”

  So he did. He told her about their childhood, their youth, his father’s love and hopes for Wickham, and abou
t Wickham’s disdain for those hopes. He told her all he knew about those years when there was little contact, and she stood, still as a statue, and listened to it all with no reaction.

  Then he told her about Georgiana.

  * * *

  Lord Smythe-Hamilton suffered from the gout and did not dance, but because his young wife was such a lively creature, he was perfectly grateful when his good friend and associate begged his permission and her favour for the honour of the supper set of dances.

  “By all means, by all means.” His lordship indulgently shooed them away then signalled for more wine as he watched them join the set.

  “That was easy enough.” Wickham winked.

  “Too easy.” She pouted. “I should have refused you.”

  “And why is that, my dear?”

  She was prevented from answering while the steps of the dance separated them, but when they were once again joined, she hissed, “You flaunt her in my face.”

  It was his turn to keep her waiting for a reply. In fact, he waited several turns before answering.

  “If anything, it is rather the opposite. After all, it is you I dance with, is it not? Besides,” he added when once again at her side, “do you not flaunt his lordship in my face even more?”

  “That is different; I cannot see you without him.”

  “Of course you can.” He laughed. “You manage it often enough.”

  “That is only because he sleeps so soundly,” she whispered. “But that is not what I mean, and you know it. I could not have attended tonight on my own, but you…” She paused to await her turn at his ear again. “You may come and go as you please.”

  “Only when it pleases you as well.”

  “George!” She batted his hand in feigned outrage, smiling all the while.

  “You know it is true. I am utterly at your mercy.”

  “Is that so? Am I to infer then, that you and your wife are no longer on…cordial terms?”

  “You may infer anything you like, my dear.”

  “You are cruel. Why do you play these games?”

  “I like games.” He smiled. “As do you.”

  Another turn.

  “Perhaps I do,” she admitted.

  “You should. You are very good at them.”

  Chapter 12

  She was then but fifteen years old. Mr Wickham’s chief object was unquestionably my sister’s fortune, but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement.”

  Elizabeth stared at him dumbly for several moments before she could speak.

  “It was…all for money and revenge? If I might ask, what is your sister’s fortune?”

  “Thirty thousand pounds.”

  Elizabeth blinked in surprise and sat down weakly. “Thirty thousand pounds,” she spoke softly as if to herself. “Oh, Mr Wickham, how far you have fallen, how low your standards have become. Deprived of Miss Darcy, you were forced to settle for Miss Bennet. Thirty thousand pounds became…four.” She looked up at Darcy. “I have come to understand that the marriage was a mistake, but to learn that he married me for spite…and so little else. You can never possibly fathom the depths of my present humiliation.”

  “I am sorry for that. As we are now speaking plainly of the matter — I hope you will forgive me, but it is important that you understand this clearly—when Wickham married you, he did succeed in gaining his revenge, just as surely as if his elopement with my sister had been accomplished. The pain is of a very different nature, but when I learned of your marriage, it was no less devastating to me. And when I see you grown so frail and unhappy, and I know that he does not provide for you or care for you as he ought, it wrecks me still.”

  He dropped beside her on the settee, taking her hand.

  “When I think of all that I would have given you, everything that would have been yours but for my arrogance and stupidity.”

  “You think I mourn lost things, Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth watched his finger lightly trace and circle her palm.

  “Not overmuch”—he shook his head—“but you must grieve a little. It is only natural. Just as it is natural for me to regret what might have been mine, had you…”

  “Had I not been such a fool,” she said with finality.

  “Had I not been such a fool,” he countered. He ran his finger higher, letting it graze along the warm flesh of her arm. She gasped but did not move away from his touch. He met her eyes, and she was startled at the fire she saw within him.

  “I regret what my life might have been, and…” He paused, searching her eyes so intently she felt something stir deep inside. He leaned in; he was so close, too close; she felt his breath on her cheek. This is dangerous. But she knew even as he bent closer that she would not turn away from what she both hoped and feared was coming. The world around her blurred, everything moved so slowly, yet she felt him move in ever closer and closer.

  “And?” she asked breathlessly in a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable.

  He brushed his lips over hers in a bare whisper of a kiss before resting his forehead against hers. “And I regret the comfort we would have found in each other.”

  For a man of his age and experience, Fitzwilliam Darcy had kissed very few women. Even had he wanted to, the professionals at Ce Lieu did not kiss — kissing was not what Ce Lieu was about. So other than a few incidents in his youth before his father had thought it necessary to instruct him about entanglements and trifling with local girls and servants, and one ill-advised flirtation at a masque ball in his inaugural season in London, Elizabeth was his first—his first kiss as a mature adult and certainly his first kiss inspired by affection rather than curiosity or carnal desire.

  He took her mouth without thought, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if every breath of his life led to that moment—to taste her lips, to at last yield to those feelings so long repressed. It was an intimacy he had never before known, for with whom else could he find it save Elizabeth.

  He held her tightly, never wishing to break the bond between them. She entwined her fingers through his hair and kissed him fully in return. Although distantly he felt his body respond, the physical paled in comparison to what he gave her with that kiss—his very soul. The one thing he had guarded so diligently for so long, he lay at her feet without question, and she took full possession of it as if she had been the rightful owner all along.

  But then his soul’s new mistress tightened her grip and wrenched his head back by the hair.

  “What do you mean by treating me with such disrespect?” she snapped.

  “I—” Darcy stammered.

  “I doubt you would behave in such a manner had I married any other man but George Wickham. This is about your desire for revenge on him, not any feelings of regret you have over me!”

  He stood abruptly, leaving Elizabeth on the settee. “There you are wrong,” he said fervently before turning away to collect himself.

  After a deep breath, he continued. “My apologies, Mrs Wickham. My behaviour is indeed inexcusable, but I am not as despicable as you imply. Obviously, I am not unaffected that you married the man I most despise in the world, but I can assure you my regrets would be as acute no matter whom you married. I wanted you, I cared for you, long before Wickham ever arrived.”

  “As long ago as that?” Her anger dissipated as quickly as it had flared.

  He nodded. “I did not recognise it at the time, but it was so.”

  Elizabeth stared at him, speechless, then stood and crossed the room in one swift move, turning to him once she was at a safe distance.

  “And what am I to do with this understanding and knowledge, Mr Darcy?” Her voice shook, and she looked pale and unsure. “What am I to do with these terrible truths now in my possession?”

  “There is nothing to be done”—he sighed—“but for you to know that I wish things had turned out differently.”

  She turned away again, clutching the back of the chair until her hands turned w
hite. He could see her shoulders shaking and her chest heaving, but she made no sound. He could do nothing but watch her silently struggle to control the emotions that crashed down upon her in waves—recrimination, regret, shame, anger, humiliation—until she was engulfed in the worst of them all, hopelessness.

  And you are doomed to live in hopelessness, and I am helpless to save you. It is too late.

  * * *

  In the ballroom, there was more conversation of a suggestive nature as Wickham and Lady Gwen Smythe-Hamilton went down the dance, but at the end of it, when each gentleman claimed his partner to escort her to supper, he took her hand.

  “So if this is a game”—he lingered behind the exiting dancers — “what are we playing at?”

  “Hide-and-seek?” she suggested, trying to approximate a look of innocence. “Forfeits?”

  “No.” Wickham smiled and led her, not towards the supper room, but the staircase. “I think it is time to make up a new game.”

  “And what shall we call this one?”

  “Pay the piper.” He grinned wickedly.

  * * *

  At her request, Darcy left Elizabeth alone in the conservatory and soon found himself in the midst of a milling crowd of guests on their way to supper. He noted Fitzwilliam escorting Miss Greyson once again; his uncle must be using every means of persuasion at his disposal to ensure his youngest and wildest son was soon settled. In no mood to eat, Darcy decided against joining them, looking instead to find a quiet place where he could think and possibly come to understand what had compelled him to speak and act so imprudently. It had been cathartic to give voice to the feelings he had held in check for so long. That relief was added to the realisation that she had not discounted his warnings about Wickham after all. But to make such a confession, to touch her so intimately, to be so forward as to kiss her… He must be out of his mind. What was worse, he could not bring himself to regret the actions themselves but only their revelation of his character.