That's What Makes It Love

by Iris Lim

  “Do you know Mr. Darcy, Lizzy?” Lydia shouted at her sister. Netherfield and its stuffy sitting rooms – even with Miss Bingley’s complaints – appealed to Elizabeth more than they ever had.

  “I can judge his character well,” Elizabeth muttered. Her fists remained clenched at her sides.

  “And how is your judgment better than mine?” Lydia whined. Elizabeth wondered helplessly if Lydia heard her own tones at all.

  “Lydia is right,” Mama insisted again. “Mr. Wickham visited thrice when you were gone, Lizzy. The man spoke truth in every word.”

  “He was here because he was neglecting his master!” Elizabeth’s eyes nearly watered at the thought of Mr. Darcy the previous night – staggering to his room in his attempt to thwart Caroline Bingley’s attempts at assistance.

  “Because Mr. Darcy is not his master. Lizzy, you are unreasonable!” Mama huffed when she spoke. “Mr. Wickham has told us the truth of the matter. You need not hide behind Mr. Darcy’s lies.”

  Elizabeth sniffed, then sighed. Between Mama and Lydia – their home was never a place for knowledge and character.

  “Lizzy,” Papa’s voice emerged over the feminine murmurs, “do you wish to be excused?”

  Her head spun, her thoughts wandered. Despite their inauspicious beginning, she and Mr. Darcy had found friendship, camaraderie. There was no reason for her to doubt his character thanks only to Mr. Wickham’s outlandish claims.

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  “Do you prefer instead to stay? You do not appear hungry, Lizzy dear.” Papa knew her – always did.

  Then, suddenly realizing the generosity of his offer, she smiled gratefully at her father. “I apologize for my outburst, sir.”

  He nodded understandingly.

  “Papa, Mama – if I may – please allow me to be excused.”

  • • •

  Six Years Ago

  • • •

  “When did you meet Mama?” She leaned over Papa’s desk, still wholly engaged by the letter on his desk. “Did you write many letters to her when you did?”

  Papa chuckled heartily and patted her shoulder. “You are a curious one, aren’t you, Lizzy?”

  “Is it wrong to wish to know, Papa?” She felt rather offended. Her questions had been nothing but honest and true.

  “You are growing older, child.” Papa looked at her gently, as if he wished to say something with his eyes. “It is but natural that you are curious, I suppose.”

  She sat down carefully on the chair beside his desk. Papa had been most talkative when she had asked him of the letter this morning, but he was strangely quiet now.

  “Lizzy, child – would you be angry at your father if I were to admit to another great love before your mother?”

  Elizabeth sat straighter, surprised. Still, she composed herself most impressively. “You loved another woman, Papa?”

  He laughed when he sat closer to the back of his chair. “I suppose one could say so.”

  “And this letter was from her?” She peered at the most fascinating letter again. Its contents had been innocent – just flowery professions of love written in a flowing, feminine hand. But then Papa had found her reading it, expressed his disapproval, and then began to laugh.

  “Yes, it was the last we exchanged,” Papa admitted.

  “Was she very pretty?”

  “Not as pretty as your mother.”

  “Was she kind?”

  “In her own ways – yes.”

  “Was she smart and beautiful and everything a princess ought to be?”

  Papa smiled at her then, looking particularly amused.

  Elizabeth blushed slightly – and returned her eyes to her own lap.

  “Maria Redford was an outstanding woman in her time,” Papa spoke on, as if her outburst had not worried him. She listened – a captive, willing audience. “We were engaged to be married when we exchanged these letters. It was simply unfortunate that I was not the only man with whom she corresponded.”

  Elizabeth looked quickly at her father, startled at the revelation.

  “She betrayed you?” She asked with utter dismay. For one short moment, she did not think of this woman as someone whose departure had ensured her own existence. This was a woman Papa loved – but who did not love him back as she had ought to. “Did she elope? Did you pursue her? I can’t imagine she would do such a thing, Papa.”

  Her father nodded calmly, untouched by what distressed her now.

  “Life seldom works out as the books do, child,” Papa spoke both solemnly and lightly. He was a strange man, at times. “She broke off our engagement for her other lover, and lives as Mrs. John Mason to this day.”

  Elizabeth frowned, unhappy that Papa spoke so carelessly of such grave wrong against him.

  “Is she miserable, Papa?”

  “Miserable? I wouldn’t suppose so – no.”

  “Is her husband very ugly and mean?”

  Papa chuckled. “I have not met the man, but I have received no reports of his unending hideousness.”

  Elizabeth pouted, most genuinely disturbed.

  Papa pressed a hand to her shoulder. “Why are you unwell?”

  “It is not fair, Papa – that villains live so happily after their crime.”

  Papa smiled. “She was not so much a villain.”

  “But she spurned you, Papa! She took your heart and abused it so.”

  Now, Papa’s laugh was hearty indeed. “But her actions opened my eyes to her lack of character – and I have never had cause for regret that I had not married her.”

  Elizabeth’s mind, anxious for vengeance mere minutes before, took on an entirely new form on fascination.

  “You do not hold her actions against her, Papa?”

  “No – never. Beguiling though she may have appeared, she had a cold heart – and I was glad not to have married her.”

  “And Mama has a very warm heart,” Elizabeth said, nearly to herself.

  Papa nodded. “Mind and manners, appearances and charm may all be lovely at first, Elizabeth, but it is a person’s heart that makes a home.”

  She listened slowly to her father’s wise words.

  “We must only marry people with good character, then?” She asked a moment later, her mind a thousand miles away.

  Papa nodded, looking rather satisfied. “Yes, indeed, Lizzy. You must marry only a man you could describe that way.”

  Chapter 5:

  The Netherfield Ball

  For most of his tedious young life, Richard Fitzwilliam had lived as a man of inevitability.

  His family ordained his name, his younger status his career. His father dictated his sources of learning. His mother defined the characteristics his future wife ought to possess. His cousin’s unfortunate loss of eyesight demanded that he make full use of his own health; his older brothers’ habits demanded that he watch them closely, lest bastard Fitzwilliams be as innumerable as sand upon the shore.

  He took to his predestined stations dutifully enough, and he seldom – if at all – breathed a word of complaint to his family. All members meant well – even Mother and her hints regarding each new debutante, even Darcy and his irresolute belief that his cousin would wed his sister one day.

  Tired, as he often was these days without the thrills and dangers of war, Richard leaned his head back against the high back of his rather remarkably comfortable chair. To the eyes of the public, he was Colonel Fitzwilliam – decorated war hero and heir to connections, if not to wealth. To Darcy and his sister, he was surrogate brother, trustee, and friend.

  To himself, he acknowledged during every quiet moment, he was exhaustion personified – a man too young to be so old.

  “Isn’t she the loveliest?” Bingley sighed happily as the Bennet family members descended from their carriage.

  Richard smiled. The man was besotted – beyond repair. Another fanciful ball had begun – another tedious night to endure.

  “Your Miss Bennet truly brightens the mome
nt with her beauty,” Richard commented politely. “You smile as if she has snared your heart, man.”

  “Most thoroughly and irrevocably,” Bingley gushed from his very spot in the receiving line.

  Richard, stationed slightly behind his host, coughed his laughter away.

  “Come, Mr. Darcy, you simply must be tired. Why you would allow yourself to appear in such – public moments distresses me.” Mrs. Hurst may remain mostly quiet. Miss Bingley did not.

  “I assure you, Miss Bingley, that I choose to be present of my own volition,” Darcy spoke impassively. He sported great finery tonight – dressed almost as impeccably as their beaming host. Wickham remained by Darcy’s side, ready to assist if his master did as much as falter in his words. “Your distress, while most considerate as a hostess, is highly unnecessary.”

  “This entire event is unnecessary, if I may say so.” Miss Bingley shuddered as if each family entering Netherfield – eyes wide at the splendor of the furnished ballroom – disgusted rather than flattered her. “Charles was most insistent to honor his foolish promise.”

  “We are their neighbors, Caroline. We must be kind.” Bingley did not stop smiling – nor stop gazing at a blushing Miss Bennet.

  Richard, perhaps sore from the lack of interest in his own recent days, nearly marched around the room victoriously – declaring to all that his prediction of Bingley falling in love in Hertfordshire had proven completely and utterly true.

  “Miss Bennet.” Bingley dashed forward as soon as his angel walked within reach. He clasped both the lady’s hands. “May I request your hand for the first set – and the second.”

  Richard nearly bubbled over in merriment. Bingley, smitten and enamored, was as entertaining as a drunken cat.

  Mr. Bennet, with a rather mischievous look in his eyes, interrupted Bingley’s pleas with his own demands for attention. The host of the night, though young and charmed, greeted his other guests with alacrity.

  “Country manners,” Miss Bingley spat as his brother and his favorite guests walked away.

  “Yes indeed, Miss Bingley. How indeed do we survive?” George Wickham spoke then. His words were whispered lowly between him and Miss Bingley almost – inappropriately.

  Richard frowned.

  “Have you much fault to find in our newfound friends, Miss Bingley?” There was an edge of impatience in Darcy’s voice. He readjusted his fingers atop his walking stick. “I happen to find Hertfordshire a trove of hidden treasures.”

  “Of course, Mr. Darcy, how could I ever deny the countryside’s charms! Pemberley is most astoundingly beautiful, I know.” It was a pity for Miss Bingley, Richard thought, that his cousin could not notice, nor at all see, her fluttering eyelashes.

  “You prefer the countryside to town, Miss Bingley?” Wickham smirked. “I had not expected you to be the kind to express such unfashionable sentiments aloud.”

  “What are fashions for, Mr. Wickham, but for discarding in light of your master’s wisdom?” A haughtiness that had disappeared in her when Darcy expressed his appreciation for Hertfordshire company reemerged quickly. “Surely, Mr. Darcy must know better than the ton.”

  “A blind man cannot see as well as we do, madam.” Wickham narrowed his eyes.

  Richard frowned more harshly than he already did at the man’s audacity.

  “Must I assure you, George, that I see plenty through your eyes?” Darcy smiled slightly, apparently unaffected by Wickham’s indirect insult. “You describe rather excellently the brightness of Miss Bingley’s plumes, the kindness of Mr. Bingley’s manners, and the intelligence in Miss Elizabeth’s eyes. Your observations prove you attentive, if not ever present, all these days.”

  Miss Bingley huffed unhappily. Richard pondered what sort of information Wickham chose to share with his master each day.

  Was it truly more pressing to inform Darcy of the mannerisms of the people surrounding him – than aiding him to live independently?

  “One must not speak so uncharitably of one’s hostess, Darce,” Richard said gently. “Miss Bingley is not entirely bedecked with plumes alone.”

  Their hostess seemed to lessen her displeasure.

  Richard, anxious to discover why Darcy expressed something almost akin to excitement regarding tonight’s events, shoved Wickham forward and closer to Miss Bingley.

  “Do you not wish to dance tonight, Wickham?” Richard nearly shouted. “I would be honored to ask a dance of Miss Bingley after you complete the one you had said you wished to ask of her.”

  Wickham threw a glare his way – but proceeded to ask Miss Bingley anyway. Richard almost smirked at the sight of Wickham leading Miss Orange Plumes to the dance floor.

  “Will you not dance, Richard?” Darcy leaned over slightly when he spoke, as he always did.

  Richard smiled sourly. “There are fewer things more interesting than watching other couples dance.”

  Darcy chuckled. He spoke after a pause. “It is a pity, then, that I may not indulge in this activity.”

  Richard turned sharply to face his cousin. “I’m sorry, Darce, I spoke without thinking.”

  “It is of no harm,” Darcy answered graciously. “Balls are often as interesting to the observer as it is to the participant. I understand the principle full well.”

  Richard nodded, satisfied with his cousin’s answer.

  “You are a good man,” Richard said a moment later, as he watched the dance steps lead Bingley and his angel further and further down the line.

  To Richard’s surprise, Darcy frowned. “I am not as good as I ought to be.”

  “You care for Pemberley and for Georgiana – to the very best of your abilities.”

  “My best is very little.”

  “You permit yourself to be admitted socially, despite the risk that strangers may learn of your ailment.”

  “It is necessary to sustain the family’s honor.”

  “You repel Miss Bingley’s attentions, despite her willingness to be abused.”

  At that, Darcy chuckled. “I doubt self-preservation may be considered a virtue.”

  Richard smiled. “Earlier tonight, you were rather generous in your opinions of our neighbors.”

  Darcy’s grin softened into a smile. “There are some individuals, I’ve discovered, whose better traits may be so outstanding as to pardon even their neighbors’ faults.”

  Every limb in Richard’s body hummed of mental and physical fatigue. Still, his cousin’s statement made him smile.

  “You are a lucky man, Darce,” said Richard, wishing he had a glass with him to raise. “Souls of such beauty are difficult to find.”

  • • •

  “Ladies, gentlemen! If I may!” Bingley tapped his glass persistently, raising the volume of his gesture until all eyes in the room set upon him. “Your attention would be much appreciated!”

  Richard smiled from his seat, happy for his front-row view to whatever declaration his friend and host wished to make. The glass-tapping continued until all parties lifted their eyes from their conversations and supper hopes to attend fully to the young master of Netherfield.

  “I have an announcement to make tonight,” Bingley stated, pride in his stance. He appeared as amiable as ever, and his happiness was a respite, Richard found, from Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley’s scowls all evening. “A most life-altering one indeed.”

  Bingley paused just then to look at the lady beside him. Miss Bennet – beautiful and sweet – returned Bingley’s smiles openly. There was little doubt now as to the nature of their host’s grand announcement.

  “Dear family and friends – old and new,” Bingley addressed the crowd again a moment later. His wide grin settled into something gentler, deeper. “It is with great pleasure and delight that I announce my engagement to Miss Jane Bennet – a gesture her father has so graciously approved. Ladies, gentlemen, please – wish us joy.”

  Two short seconds of silence brewed in the calm before the storm – before the room erupted.

  �
�Our heartiest congratulations!”

  “Jane! My darling Jane! You were not so beautiful for nothing!”

  “Miss Bennet looks stately and happy indeed.”

  “What a fool of a man to rush so rashly into matrimony.”

  “We wish you joy from the depths of our hearts.”

  “Congratulations!”

  “What startling, amazing news!”

  “And so quickly!”

  “Miss Bennet shall not be a spinster!”

  “Mrs. Bennet must be fainting with joy.”

  Richard smirked slightly at the predictable chaos before him. Neighbor drew to neighbor to exchange hushed whispers as well as loud reprieves. Young women looked almost enviously towards the happy couple, while young men shook their heads at the confounding degree of frenzy their neighborhood exuded over an event as simple and ordinary as a couple’s engagement.

  With another smirk, Richard found he agreed very much with the men.

  “You do not seem to find elation equal to Hertfordshire’s, sir.” A female voice said beside him.

  He turned, surprised, and greeted again the woman he had just encountered mere minutes ago.

  “Miss – Luke, I believe?” He racked his brain for recollection.

  The lady smiled. Her face was not of the youthful sort – her dark hair and fashion preferences leaning towards those of a wiser, gentler sort. There was no flippancy to her tone, only calm resolve.

  “Lucas, Colonel.” She did not cease to smile. “I cannot blame you, sir, for any feeling akin to being overwhelmed.”

  Richard chuckled softly. “I may not have as good of a mask as I had hoped then.”

  “You are forgiven, sir.” Miss Lucas nodded firmly. “One can only resort to one’s best efforts, after all.”

  Richard smiled. “Are you of the – militant sort, Miss Lucas?”

  “Militant?” She did not appear offended, at least. “I do not march like a soldier, sir, if that is what you wish to ask.”

  “No, I pertain to your mind, madam.”

  “My mind?”

  “You seem keen to observe your opponent’s strategy – and to decipher and destroy it at first chance.” He tried to smile, to ensure she knew he merely teased.