by Jann Rowland
“And marriage?” asked Elizabeth. “Will marriage be in your future now you are not limited in your ability to select a partner?”
“I do not know. I have never thought of it, other than the wish to avoid drawing my mother’s attention to the subject of Darcy and her ambitions in that quarter. I suppose I would like to have a husband and children, but I must take care.” She laughed ruefully. “My mother always spoke of the unworthy and the fortune hunters of society, and concerning my prospects, that meant everyone other than Darcy. But she was not incorrect, I suppose.”
“Not everyone is avaricious or false, Anne,” replied Elizabeth.
“I know,” replied Anne. “Of those close to me, I suppose it was only my mother who was.”
“What do you mean?” asked Elizabeth.
Anne frowned and shook her head. “You heard her, Elizabeth. Her reasons for wishing Darcy and me married had nothing to do with our feelings or any expectation we would make a good marriage. It was entirely because of her selfish desires—the creation of a family with excessive wealth, the possibility of a title for her grandchildren, political power for our family.” Anne released a mirthless laugh, all her derision for the woman she had called mother seeming contained in that sound. “The ironic part of this is that she has never been in a position to wield political power, and my uncle—who most certainly does—does not care for it.”
“I understand some disillusionment with your mother, Anne,” said Elizabeth. “But I cannot think this is healthy. Perhaps it would be best if you attempted to remember the good times with your mother, rather than agonizing over her faults.”
With a shaken head, Anne stood and regarded Elizabeth. “Try as I might, I cannot remember any. I have been a prisoner all my life. And I am struck by the thought that those of us who endured her—myself most of all—have gained because she is now gone.”
It was all Elizabeth could do to stifle a gasp, for it seemed like Anne was trying to convince herself of the truth of her statement. It said nothing, of course, for she might simply be justifying her feelings. But it also made Elizabeth wonder concerning the suspicions she possessed about Lady Catherine’s death.
“If you will excuse me, Elizabeth, I think I would like to rest now.”
“Of course, Anne,” replied Elizabeth. She summoned a smile and wished her new friend a good rest. Then she let herself from the room. But she was troubled, for the mystery in which they were all embroiled seemed to have become more complicated, as there were several who fit the description of Lady Catherine’s murderer.
“This is astonishing, Cousin. The irony is simply delicious.”
Darcy regarded his cousin, feeling grumpy at Fitzwilliam’s teasing. “You need not be so gleeful about it.”
“As a matter of fact, I believe I do. Had I had my way, Wickham would have been dealt with once and for all last summer when he nearly made off with Georgiana’s fortune. Now you wish to do something about him. If we had extracted payment from his hide in the summer, there would be no need to do anything about him now.”
Though he may be correct, Darcy did not think his cousin needed to point the matter out in such exhaustive detail. In retrospect, he should have ensured Wickham was not in a position to bedevil him many years ago. The man had no claim to his affection, and his actions after receiving the money from his godfather’s will had been enough to sever all pretense of acquaintance.
“I might ask,” continued Fitzwilliam, “what has prompted this determination to neutralize Wickham. Has he done something in particular to offend you?”
Darcy hesitated to inform his cousin of his conversation with Wickham, but Fitzwilliam needed to understand what had happened and Wickham’s threats. Thus, in a halting manner, he related the tale to Fitzwilliam. As he expected, his cousin’s response was part exasperation and part mirth.
“I have never been so certain you are in love as I am now. Wickham knows how to rile you. The fact that you remained calm until he began to speak of Miss Elizabeth has informed him how much she has come to mean to you. That may make her a target, simply due to his desire for revenge.”
“I know it,” replied Darcy. “I do not fear for Miss Elizabeth, as she knows what he is. But her younger sisters are exactly the kind of girls Wickham preys upon.”
“Which would serve his purpose adequately.”
“Yes.”
“Then what I suggest is to remain watchful and give Wickham enough rope with which to hang himself.”
Darcy peered at his cousin, surprised. “And allow him the opportunity to work his wiles on one of the young girls?”
“They are made of sterner stuff than you think, Darcy,” said Fitzwilliam, baring his teeth in a grin. “They are silly flirts, but they are not immoral. Besides, their elder sisters watch them like a mother bear watches her cubs. They will protect them if need be. Just keep watch on Wickham. He will do something to hang himself eventually. And then, you may deal with him without waiting for the debt receipts to arrive, allowing Wickham time to escape. He will make a mistake sooner or later, Darcy. Then we may pounce.”
Though Darcy did not like it, he had no better ideas himself. There was nothing else to be done at present.
Chapter XVI
DINNER THAT EVENING WAS not to be a lively affair, or at least Elizabeth could not imagine it being so. An ennui had settled over the company, one which Elizabeth thought existed because they were a disparate group of people, and in certain cases, tension ran high between certain of those present.
It was particularly noticeable when Elizabeth entered the sitting-room that evening before dinner. While the youngest Bennets carried on like they usually did and Jane and Mr. Bingley sat together with their heads close together, not everyone was so happy in the others’ company. In particular, it seemed most of the room looked upon Mr. Wickham with suspicion. For his part, Mr. Wickham did not seem to care for their opinions if the sardonic sneer with which he favored them all was any indication. No one had much to say to Mr. Collins, though the man himself spoke in a loud voice, seeming to believe everyone was hanging onto his every word.
Anne still kept to her room, though Elizabeth did not know if it was due to mourning or because she did not wish to be in company. Their discussion earlier that day, Elizabeth had attempted to put from her mind. It was true she did not wish to consider the possibility that her new friend had murdered her mother. Something told her, however, that Anne could not have done it.
When Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam entered the room, Elizabeth noted they had their heads close together, discussing something of some import. Mr. Darcy caught sight of Mr. Wickham and scowled—prompting Mr. Wickham’s sneer to widen in response—which suggested to Elizabeth she knew the subject of their discussion. Given what had happened with Mr. Wickham and Lydia earlier, Elizabeth was quite as eager as Mr. Darcy to be rid of the militia officer. But when the outburst came, it was from a source Elizabeth might have considered unlikely only a few moments before.
“How dare you glare at Mr. Wickham, sir!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet when she caught sight of what passed between the two men. “He possesses much more nobility of character and amiable qualities than you.”
Mr. Darcy eyed Mrs. Bennet. When he spoke, he did so in a conciliatory tone. “I apologize for my behavior earlier today, Mrs. Bennet. But I will only apologize that you witnessed it, not for what I said to Wickham. You do not know what he is; I suggest you do not allow his sibilant whisperings to cloud your judgment of him.”
While Mr. Wickham only barked a sardonic laugh, Mrs. Bennet glared at Mr. Darcy, clearly affronted on Mr. Wickham’s behalf. “Your apology is no apology at all. You manhandled a guest in this house with such violence as I have never seen. What can you possibly say in your defense?”
“Maggie,” said Mr. Bennet, “I suggest you cease this line of conversation. Mr. Darcy is Mr. Bingley’s friend, and we are guests in this house. I suspect you do not possess th
e full story of the history of these two men.”
“But you did not see them in the hallway, Mr. Bennet!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “You did not witness him pushing Mr. Wickham against the wall and uttering vile threats.”
“If Mr. Darcy uttered threats,” interjected Mr. Collins, “then I am certain it was for a good reason. As the nephew of my dearly departed patroness, I am confident in the excellence of his character.” Mr. Collins turned and glared at Mr. Wickham. “This . . . officer is naught but the son of old Mr. Darcy’s steward. I have that from Lady Catherine herself. There is little reason to hold him up as a paragon of virtue.”
“There is little reason for anyone to be held up or cast down based on such flimsy evidence, Mr. Collins,” said Mr. Bennet. “Be that as it may since we are forced to endure one another’s company, I suggest we keep our conversation to acceptable topics to avoid open conflict.”
“But Mr. Bennet,” whines Mrs. Bennet, “with such a violent man in residence, I do not know that I wish my daughters to be importuned by such as he.”
“That is enough, Mrs. Bennet,” said Mr. Bennet. At the same time, several other voices rose in support or censure, and for a moment, almost all were speaking, arguing their point of view. Elizabeth rubbed her temples, wondering if the atmosphere in the room could get any worse.
“Enough!” said the voice of one Elizabeth had not expected to hear. Lydia stood when silence ensued, the others all looking at her with shock and wonder.
“I have personal knowledge that Mr. Wickham is not a good man, Mama,” said she, turning and glaring at Mr. Wickham. “I have watched you since this argument began, sir, and if my sister’s account of you did not inform me of your character, the way you look on us all with contempt confirms it.”
“Lizzy told you of Mr. Wickham?” demanded Mrs. Bennet. “What would she know of the matter?” Mrs. Bennet snorted. “Details she has heard from Mr. Darcy, no doubt.”
“Your youngest speaks the truth,” interjected Colonel Fitzwilliam. “You would do well not to trust Wickham, Madam. He is a snake and a particularly venomous one at that. I, personally, believe he should be in Marshalsea, or perhaps Botany Bay, for the rest of his natural life.”
“Since I appear to be the center of this argument,” said Mr. Wickham, speaking for the first time, “it falls to me to end it.”
Mr. Wickham turned a charming smile on Mrs. Bennet. “I thank you for your spirited defense, Mrs. Bennet—if only there were more like you who were offended by the actions against those who are defenseless. In this instance, I spoke an impertinence to Mr. Darcy, and he reacted, though excessively. I offer Darcy my humble apologies and hope he will accept them in the spirit in which they are intended.”
It was clear that Mr. Darcy did not believe Mr. Wickham’s sincerity. Indeed, the sneer still twisting the man’s lips gave the lie to his supposed penitence. However, Mr. Darcy also clearly understood the need to end the argument and offered a tight nod to his tormentor. Wickham returned it gleefully, seeming to believe he had won a significant point.
“Now that you have so ably defended the defenseless,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, his sarcasm dripping from his tone, “let us put the matter to rest. Come and sit beside me, my dear.”
Though reluctant, Mrs. Bennet allowed herself to be led away. Elizabeth watched her, wondering at the matter which had provoked her to speak out. Near the door where they still stood, Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam exchanged a few more words. Mr. Wickham looked out over them all, as if he was a patron at a theater, watching a comedy, and Lydia glared at him, Kitty sitting nearby and following her younger sister’s example. At least Lydia seemed to have taken Elizabeth’s words to heart. Had she not heard her sister speak, Elizabeth might not have credited the change as being possible.
When Mr. Wickham moved to approach her sisters, Elizabeth mirrored his actions, as did Mary, who seemed to have become more watchful since they had come to Netherfield.
“I am wounded by your words concerning me,” his tone all that was insolent. “What have I done to warrant this censure?”
Lydia sniffed at him. “I do not wish to speak with you any longer, sir. If you cannot understand, then you are far more witless than I had ever imagined.”
“Ah, cut to the core,” said Mr. Wickham, putting a dramatic hand over his heart. “And by a silly girl only just out of the schoolroom, no less.”
“Enough, Wickham,” said a deep male voice. Mr. Darcy, who had come to stand beside them, glared at his former friend, his demeanor warning. “It is time you left the Bennet sisters strictly alone.”
“Though I am unjustly attacked,” said Mr. Wickham, “I shall comply.”
And with those words, he turned and made his way to his former position. But he still watched them all, a hint of scornful amusement in his countenance.
“You have shown great discernment, Miss Lydia,” said Mr. Darcy, showing her a smile. “Mr. Wickham has misled many of greater age and wisdom than you possess.”
It was, perhaps, the first time Mr. Darcy had spoken to Lydia and certainly the first time he had spoken in such a kindly manner. Lydia blushed at the praise but soon rediscovered her composure. “It was Lizzy who helped me understand, Mr. Darcy. She should receive your credit.”
“But you have still listened to her. It is a good trait, to give your attention to elder siblings and allow their words and wisdom to assist you to gain experience. I commend you.”
Again Lydia colored, but this time she only nodded and turned back to Kitty to continue whispering to her. Mr. Darcy turned to Elizabeth.
“I dare not ask what has brought about this change,” said he in a soft voice. “It seems, however, the situation has been rectified and your sisters appropriately warned. Is there anything I should know or anything I can do to assist?”
“As you suggested, Mr. Darcy, the matter has been handled. Given Lydia’s currently expressed opinions, I suspect there is little danger on that score any longer.”
Mr. Darcy nodded. “Please advise me should anything develop. I will take great pleasure in silencing the libertine as I should have done many years ago.”
Before Elizabeth could reply, the shrill voice of her mother interrupted them. “Come, girls—it is nearly time for dinner, and I would prefer to have my daughters near me.”
The way Mrs. Bennet regarded Mr. Darcy spoke to her continuing suspicion and revealed her ineffectual desire to keep her daughters from what she considered to be a man lacking in basic goodness. Elizabeth looked heavenward, which prompted a tugging at the corner of Mr. Darcy’s mouth. But she said nothing, allowing her mother to direct her sisters away from him. She had not counted on Mr. Darcy’s sudden decision to address her mother.
“You take great care of your daughters, Mrs. Bennet,” said he. He leaned forward and grasped her hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. “I cannot but commend you for it. Your daughters are all that is good and lovely. You should be proud of them.”
It was clear from Mrs. Bennet’s stupefaction that she did not quite know what to make of Mr. Darcy’s praise. Her cheeks became a little rosy, and she stammered her thanks before scurrying away. Elizabeth did not know if it would change her mother’s mind concerning the gentleman, but it showed her a little glimpse of a Mr. Darcy who possessed the ability to be charming. Elizabeth grinned at him before allowing her mother to lead her away with her sisters.
They stayed this way, the company divided into little cliques. Mrs. Bennet kept a firm rein on her daughters, insisting they remain nearby, though Elizabeth noted she did not attempt to intrude on Jane and Mr. Bingley. Mr. Wickham stood by himself, watching them all with a sneer, while Mr. Darcy returned to Colonel Fitzwilliam, where they continued to talk in low tones. The two gentlemen ignored Mr. Collins’s attempts to attach himself to them, though the way the parson beamed as he stood nearby suggested he had not noticed. As for Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, they had been in the room the entire time but h
ad kept themselves above the fray. Elizabeth did witness, however, a few times when Mrs. Hurst shot a look at her brother in asperity, while Mr. Hurst nursed a brandy in his hand, seeming to wish that he was somewhere else. Only their hostess was not present, which was unusual.
When Miss Bingley appeared in the door, it was with all the pride and fanfare Elizabeth might have expected from the superior woman. She surveyed the room briefly and made her way toward Mr. Darcy, a predatory gleam in her eye.
But all was not well—Elizabeth noted it with a start. For one, Miss Bingley’s complexion was a chalky white, far paler than usual, for all that she was of a fair tone of skin. Furthermore, as she walked, she grimaced, and her steps faltered a little, weaving like she was tipsy. When she reached Mr. Darcy, she spoke to him in a loud voice, one which reminded Elizabeth of the braying of a donkey.
“Mr. Darcy! How wonderful it is to see you, sir. I do hope you will escort me in to dinner, for we have not spoken much of late.”
It seemed to Elizabeth that Mr. Darcy had also noticed her state, for he gazed at her with no little alarm. “Are you well, Miss Bingley?”
The woman opened her mouth to respond, but there was no opportunity for her to do so. A cry escaped her lips, and she clutched at her midsection as if in great pain. Mr. Darcy’s hand flew out to grasp her shoulder, accompanied by a startled: “Miss Bingley!”
Then the woman screamed again. She clutched at her stomach again, before vomiting heavily on the floor. Then with a beseeching look up at Mr. Darcy, her eyes filled with terror, she collapsed in the pool of her own bile and began convulsing.
“Caroline!” screamed Mrs. Hurst, even as her brother shot to his feet and hurried to his sister.
Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam joined him in attempting to assist the stricken woman, each grasping a shoulder, attempting to hold her and prevent injury. Then a foaming froth appeared at Miss Bingley’s mouth. She jerked a few more times, shuddered, and then lay still, her head rolling to one side. There was no movement.