Writerly Ambitions

by Timothy Underwood

  “Nah, Mr. Bennet’s a decent sort. Just because he won’t suffer a fool, gladly or not, doesn’t mean he would let his own grandchild freeze to death.”

  “They probably handed the child to an orphanage, to be raised to be a chimney sweep.”

  “There was no child — Miss Bennet was with the Gardiners the whole time. Even if she never came with them when they visited for Christmas, the Gardiners would always tell us how she kept herself busy, and—”

  “You can’t believe them,” the other voice replied scornfully.

  “Now whatever you say about Mr. Bennet,” the other gentleman replied angrily, “I’ll grant, he scorns us all, like as not, Mr. Gardiner is one of us. A Meryton gentleman gone to London and made good. A more respectable man I cannot find.”

  “Hmph. Lucas, say what you will, but respectable families don’t have girls who let useless ensigns in the militia tup them. And if they do, they make the couple marry, so no one will talk about it.”

  “Charlotte always insisted Eliza was innocent — that she didn’t let Wickham touch her.”

  That name. Darcy’s stomach clenched tighter, and it felt as though he’d fallen through a crack in the ice and plunged into the freezing water of a pond in the worst of winter.

  “Ha! The two were thick as flies on honey, till your sister stole that clergyman from under Miss Elizabeth’s nose. Can’t trust her upon the matter.”

  Mr. Lucas spread his hands. “I do not, not as such. But…” He shrugged. “I liked Eliza.”

  “Mark my words. Mr. George Wickham took his pleasure with that trollop, who we—”

  “Be quieter!” Mr. Lucas’s eyes drifted to Mr. Darcy’s, and he had a rather shamed look. “To speak so loud — you may be drunk, but have some decorum.”

  Mr. Darcy stepped towards them with a terrible curiosity, anger, and horror to be learning such a truth about the woman he had developed a strange passing infatuation towards. “My apologies, Mr. Lucas, for overhearing your conversation, might I make an enquiry.”

  Mr. Lucas looked decidedly unhappy at the prospect of questions about Miss Bennet’s character. But as proper he agreed, and introduced Mr. Darcy and Mr. Reed. Darcy then asked, “George Wickham — I know a man of that name. What were his particulars? — What county did he hail from?”

  “Eh, I don’t recall — too damned handsome. Able to charm any girl out of her senses. Ha! That was a pretty faced man.” Mr. Reed laughed crudely. “Look what a mess he made of the Bennets — all the girls, even Miss Jane, had been in love with him.”

  Both Mr. Lucas and Mr. Darcy looked with disgust and disdain at Mr. Reed.

  Mr. Darcy managed, without even trying, to look a great deal more disgusted and disdainful, as though he were looking upon a writhing low worm slithering through the muddy ground. Mr. Lucas, who tried to look disdainful, was hampered by the good nature and soft looks he’d inherited from his father, Sir William, and he did not look a tenth so intimidating as Mr. Darcy.

  “What county was he from? Did he mention any connections, did—” Darcy stopped. He now recalled that he had heard something about Wickham entering the militia and then leaving it over a matter with a woman.

  “Derbyshire,” Mr. Lucas said, “like yourself — you are that Mr. Darcy! He abused your name quite terribly. Makes me think higher of you to now make the connection — I dare say he was your Mr. Wickham.”

  “What did he do to Miss Bennet?” Darcy also rather wished to know how his name had been defamed by Mr. Wickham, but it was beneath a man of his sort to inquire about low and false rumors.

  “Ha!” Reed said. “Everything. Told me himself… I nearly punched him for it.”

  “You ought have,” Mr. Lucas said with a disgusted sneer. “You were thick with him. Even after he did that to our Eliza.”

  “What happened? What further evil did that man commit?”

  Mr. Lucas shrugged. “A scandalous story — not one to speak on the details. But the two were alone, in a hunting lodge for two days during a rare snowstorm — no one could go about, as it was impossible to see. And they had walked about a great deal before. Very friendly the two were — they did not speak after ever. But I believe Mr. Bennet could not find so much money as would satisfy Wickham. Longbourn is entailed you understand. And they have five girls. Always spends his income, does Mr. Bennet.”

  “Miss Bennet deserved such,” Mr. Reed growled. “She discouraged many eligible men. No surprise she then did a dallying day with an unsuitable man. I’d wager she—” Mr. Reed coughed, seeming to gain some sort of prudence for a moment. “She yet is proud and haughty, even though she is both ruined and has no prospects. When a man is friendly to such a girl, she ought to be friendly back. She owes it to him, for his kindness.”

  “For two days.” Darcy frowned. He hated to know that Miss Bennet was not a chaste woman.

  “In a blizzard—” Mr. Lucas exclaimed, as thought to defend Miss Bennet’s honor. Then he added with a shrug. “Though how they were in the hunting lodge in the first place… they had been walking about alone.”

  “Ha, ha, ha.” Mr. Reed laughed. “She ought to have been humble, since we allow her to enter our society again — but no. They did do everything. Wickham was such a fortunate man, he—”

  “Mr. Wickham is a vile scoundrel, and the darkest stain on my name is that there is any connection betwixt the two of us,” Darcy exclaimed.

  “Ha, I imagine you have six mistresses, each a diamond of the first water. You rich are all hypocrites to insult those who have the charm, courage and cleverness to take what you can buy.”

  “Mr. Reed, were you not drunk, and were you not far beneath me, I would challenge you to a duel. I have no mistresses. I would never sin in such a way before God and man. Get away from me, and I shall expect an apology from you in the morning when you are sober.”

  Mr. Lucas paled and dragged his unsteady friend away from Mr. Darcy.

  Where was Elizabeth Bennet?

  And what did he think of her now that he knew how thoroughly sinful and… unsuitable she was.

  Poor girl!

  He felt sorry for her.

  It would be a hypocrisy of the worst sort to despise her for succumbing to Wickham’s vile wiles, when his own sister had done the same. Only good, blind fortune kept Georgiana’s honor and virtue intact so she was able to marry with good conscience later.

  As Darcy understood the matter, Mrs. Younge had been jealous of Wickham’s affections, which had been principally enjoyed by the deceitful woman he had hired to guard his sister’s person and morals. Further she was worried she would be double crossed somehow by her lover if she allowed Wickham intimate access to Georgiana.

  Only those sordid motives on the part of a sordid woman had prevented Georgiana’s ruin from being total.

  Where had Miss Bennet gone?

  She was not in the room at all.

  The last time he had glanced towards Miss Bennet, the gentleman who she’d been in conversation with had been that disgusting Mr. Reed.

  Something in Darcy’s stomach lurched anxiously. Was she well? Had she been frightened by him? There was some animus between them, he could tell that from Mr. Reed’s conversation.

  This is none of your business.

  But Darcy, for reasons he could not explain to himself, suddenly did not care that it was none of his business.

  He walked around the edge of the room, thinking. He remembered clearly where she had been seated when she talked to Mr. Reed, and close by that nook was one of the doors to the balconies, left open to keep the room cool.

  To Darcy’s relief when he walked by that door he saw Miss Bennet standing safely on the balcony, looking forlornly out towards the stars. Her vibrant countenance was barely discernible in the thin darkness. The sun had long since set. He looked at Miss Bennet for an inappropriately long moment. He wanted to say something to her, but they were not even introduced yet, and he could tell she wished some sort of solitude. She also had every a
ppearance of distress, like when Georgiana would flee from balls out of shyness, and require his presence to comfort her, during her first season.

  Miss Bennet tensely gripped the iron railing.

  Darcy sighed, and he was about to walk away, to leave her to her privacy.

  But Miss Bennet, drawn by the noise he made, turned to look at him through the door, and their eyes caught. She was pale and her eyes were too wide and too intent. There was a fringe of sweat around her hair. And instead of a smile, like she’d shown other times when she caught him glancing towards her, her lips trembled.

  Darcy walked up to Miss Bennet. “I… I apologize for introducing myself, Miss Bennet. But… are you well?”

  He could see that she was not.

  Chapter Five

  When the tall, handsome and wealthy Mr. Darcy asked her if she was well, for a long moment our heroine could not reply through the tightness that clutched her throat.

  They stared at each other. His face was deeply concerned, but slowly that worried expression turned into a frown as second after fateful second passed, without a solitary word between the two strangers to the neighborhood, caught on this high balcony together.

  “I apologize, Miss Bennet, for intruding.” He bowed his fine head and turned to go.

  “No! Wait!”

  Elizabeth did not know why she shouted out. She did not want to be alone. She did not want him, the shy man whose eyes she had met so many times during the whole course of the night, to leave now that he had brought himself to speak to her.

  Were this a novel, rather than her real life, Mr. Darcy would be very much the sort of man to be the hero.

  Mr. Darcy paused and he stepped next to her on the balcony, he leaned his elbows on the iron railing, and he said in a low pitched calming voice that vibrated, “Miss Bennet, I can see you are not well. Is there aught I might help you with — even if merely a little conversation to distract yourself from your troubles?”

  “I feel as though I can scarce breathe, and the walls enclose me, and as though I may die any moment.” The words came out in a rush, and a tight unpleasant feeling in her chest clenched. “This is worse than I have ever felt before.”

  Mr. Darcy looked almost relieved when she said that. “Does your heart race, and do you feel perhaps… distant from yourself, numb?”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Breathe, just breathe deeply. One breath after another. Miss Bennet, I know exactly what you experience now, and I promise, it shall pass.” He kept speaking in a low, comforting voice, the bass rumble seemed to vibrate in Elizabeth’s chest. He spoke like he would to calm a spooked horse, and if Elizabeth had been that horse, she would have settled down quickly. “There is no threat here. No one is your enemy, no one—”

  Elizabeth laughed wetly. “I thank you. Oh, god, my throat — I have enemies here. That is true.”

  He was silent for a moment. “I spoke thoughtlessly — you must recover so that you can comfortably despise them. Breathe deeply. This sensation will pass. It will pass. I promise you, it shall pass.”

  A deep shuddering breath. And then another. Elizabeth closed her eyes. Then when Mr. Darcy paused for a moment she spoke aloud, “You have felt this? What — oh I do not know what to call it. This strange terrified numbness.”

  “My sister — she is deeply shy, and she often had when younger such episodes when placed in the company of too many persons.”

  “Hahahaha.” Elizabeth shook her head and shuddered. “Such episodes. Am I now to fear every ball I enter — since the moment I came in the door.”

  “Was that why you left the hall, when we all arrived?”

  Elizabeth looked a little blankly at him.

  Mr. Darcy smiled wryly. “When you overheard my rudeness.”

  “Oh!” Elizabeth laughed again, still nervously, but with more ease. She felt better. Whether it was because this fine gentleman had distracted her, or that he made her breathe deeply and calmly, or maybe simply because Mr. Darcy was a calm presence. A man who did not, yet, despise her.

  The feeling was passing.

  In truth, few people despised her, though Mr. Reed certainly did, in that case the feeling was entirely mutual, and not worth concerning herself with. Really.

  That lump in her throat was going away, and the sense of being unmoored, like a shift adrift on dark and stormy seas, was no longer there.

  More deep breaths.

  Elizabeth almost smiled to Mr. Darcy. “That! No need to apologize. Your friend Mr. Bingley, he told me you made the decision to be entirely sensible about the matter of romance, and that you will only marry a woman who meets the most demanding requirements — I do not, so no reason for me to feel rejected or embarrassed by it. Nothing of the sort — I do not. I really do not. I am not out here for you. That is not it. They don’t despise me anymore — I shouldn’t feel like this. You though might despise me — we do not even know each other and, and, and, and — oh, God. It is returning.”

  She spoke faster and faster as she talked. Her words tumbling out one after the other.

  Mr. Darcy put his hand on her shoulder. “Breathe deeply, Miss Bennet. Breathe deep. I promise you, you are well. There is nothing to fear.”

  “There is always them to fear. And I hate them too — all of them. No I don’t! But I sometimes have hateful thoughts. They laughed at me. They pretended to be my friends — God. That was years ago. I did not think it affected me so still. So many years since. Oh… have you been told? I normally pretend no concern.”

  “Just breathe, Miss Bennet. Deep slow breaths.”

  She took several such breaths. “I did not tell your friend Bingley. Lord! I hate this feeling in my stomach.”

  She pressed her hand against the railing of the balcony, rubbing it over the twisted pattern again and again until her palm hurt.

  “Miss Bennet, breathe. What is past is past, and you deserve a happy future no matter what sins your past may contain.”

  Elizabeth laughed hollowly. He’d heard, and decided to adopt the role of the friendly moralist, as opposed to the unfriendly moralist. “No?” she said in a sarcastic tone. “You claim I still deserve to be happy? How kind of you.”

  Mr. Darcy shrugged.

  Elizabeth squeezed her fists again. “I do not mean to be rude — I hardly know what I say.”

  “I assure you, that dalliance of yours with Mr. Wickham in the distant past, that is not a matter upon which I judge you — is that memory why you feel such anxiety?”

  “I am not anxious — oh Lord! I am. It was here — they all laughed. At me. Mr. Reed made them to laugh again, and again. I was thrown away, my dearest friends cut me. Why did I come here again?”

  Mr. Darcy pressed his comforting hand on her arm. He left it there this time. “Miss Bennet, if I… should I…” He then muttered under his breath, “It does not matter now.”

  “What does not matter?”

  “It would be the rankest hypocrisy for me to judge you, especially over a matter with Mr. Wickham. What he induced you to do those years before—”

  “You assume those stories are true,” Elizabeth said, a little hotly. Anger, or annoyance, that was better than the distant strange detachment she had felt. “You do not even know me.”

  “I do not,” he agreed.

  Elizabeth looked at the ground. She breathed slowly through her nose. She would say nothing further and let him believe what he wished — defending her honor had no point. Others thought what they would. They always did. She had sworn long ago to never defend herself, and she had been treated the better for pretending to accept the guilt, and hold her head high anyways.

  Mr. Darcy’s presence made her feel calmer. More at ease, and safe somehow, even though she knew it was ridiculous, and she did not know this man. Despite that she felt an insane instinct which shouted: You can depend upon him.

  “Mr. Wickham — will you swear to never speak of what I shall tell you? Never to another soul.”

  “If this
is such a secret matter, why dare share it with me? A fallen woman, whose morals clearly are such that she cannot be trusted.” But while Elizabeth spoke in a self-mocking tone, she could tell that her panic was receding again — partially replaced by her decided curiosity about whatever crimes Wicky had gotten himself up to with Mr. Darcy — she now recalled the name and the connection. Wickham had despised Darcy, who had been his godfather’s son.

  Being despised by Wicky spoke very well of Mr. Darcy’s character.

  “I trust you.” He spoke with a complete conviction. “I cannot say why. I cannot say wherefore. But no matter what your past may have been, I trust you completely. There is some instinct in me which says when I look at you, when I see you trembling here, on this balcony — when I know how you have suffered — Oh, I cannot explain it. But I trust you. I may be a fool, I may hurt those dearest to me, but Miss Bennet, I trust you.”

  “That, Mr. Darcy, is not a statement I have heard often.” Elizabeth was touched… she did not know if it was against her better judgement or not.

  His eyes were shadowed by the dim light of the candles and fires flickering from within the ballroom. He was lit principally by the soft light of a half moon. But Elizabeth knew how fine featured he was, how handsome.

  “Will you promise to not speak upon this to anyone?”

  “It shall never pass my lips.”

  “Mr. Wickham. He nearly brought my sister into the same sin as he… as it is claimed he brought you to… It was the merest chance, not her good character, that protected her — since then, I have made it a matter of principle to never judge a woman for that crime, for then I would need judge my sister, and I do love her dearly.”

  Elizabeth let out shuddering breaths.

  “I do not judge you. I… you are proud. I see that. You do not wish pity. But Miss Bennet, I understand you have not been back to this dance hall for seven years, and you are brave. Brave to return here, and brave to refuse that pity.”

  She began crying, even though she did not want to.