The Impulse of the Moment

by Jann Rowland

  Elizabeth was a pious woman. While she could not claim to know the Bible so well as Mr. Collins or her sister Mary, she tried to be a good Christian, one who attempted to live by the principles the parson taught in church each Sunday. At the very least, she attempted to pay attention.

  That day, however, she found it impossible. For he was there. When he had entered, she did not know, but he was there just the same. And the memories welled up within her, consuming her mind for the rest of the service.

  It was generally acknowledged that Miss Elizabeth was a witty, independent sort of young woman. It had often been said that her courage rose with every attempt to intimidate her. Rarely had she found herself at a loss for what to do, how to think, how to act. And yet, the mere sight of this man, the man who had kissed her unbidden and unwelcome, set her mind racing. How she could withstand his visit she did not know.

  At length, Mr. Collins’s voice fell silent, and the organist took her position to play the hymn to close the service. Elizabeth sang along with the rest of the congregation, its words a soothing balm to her troubled mind. Then the congregation stood, and all too soon Elizabeth was confronted by Mr. Darcy’s nearness.

  It was Mr. Bingley’s fault. With Jane so close at hand, the poor man, so besotted with her, could hardly be expected to refrain from approaching her at the earliest opportunity. He did so, of course, pulling his newly arrived friend along with him, bowing to them and greeting them with his usual enthusiasm and friendliness. And after a few words to Jane, which Elizabeth could not hear due to the overwhelming proximity of Mr. Darcy, he turned to introduce him again.

  “I do not know if you recall my friend, so please allow me to introduce him again. Darcy, this is Mr. Bennet and his three daughters: Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, and Miss Mary. Mr. Bennet, my good friend, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Mr. Bennet, his eyes shining with interest. “I do recall something of your visit, sir, though I do not believe I made your acquaintance at that time. It has been some years between your visits.”

  “It has,” said Mr. Darcy, though Elizabeth noted his eyes flitted back to her as if drawn against his will. “But I was happy to accept Bingley’s invitation this time, being quite at my leisure to do so.”

  “I had attempted to induce Darcy to visit several times since then,” said Mr. Bingley. “After several rejections, I had begun to think Darcy disapproved of my neighbors.”

  “That is not the case, I assure you,” said Mr. Darcy, seeming a little uncomfortable.

  “Of course not, sir,” said Mr. Bennet, his amusement quite evident. “Though it would be understandable if you were. According to Bingley here, your family is quite prominent and quite possibly owns half of Derbyshire.”

  Mr. Darcy shot a look at Mr. Bingley, who shook his head. “I am sure Mr. Bennet is exaggerating. You must accustom yourself to his jesting manner.”

  “Aye, that is the truth,” said Mary. “Father is never happy unless he is able to uncover some folly which he can use for his amusement.”

  “You make me sound quite the misanthrope, Mary,” chided Mr. Bennet, though with no real censure.

  “I speak as I find, Papa,” replied Mary.

  Mr. Bennet laughed and leaned over to kiss his youngest daughter’s forehead. “That you do, my dear. That you do. And it seems you know me very well.

  “But in this case,” continued Mr. Bennet, turning back to Mr. Darcy, “I speak nothing less than the truth. Those who are accustomed to the best society has to offer might find our little community less than satisfactory.”

  “That presupposes the one in question finds anything laudatory in ‘the best’ of society,” rejoined Mr. Darcy. “I find them to be rather tiresome, to be honest, when I do not find their excesses distasteful.”

  Once again, Mr. Bennet was amused by the response. “It is interesting to hear you say that, sir. As my daughters will attest, I find myself in quite the same situation as you are, at least with respect to society in London.”

  “But that may be said for any society, Papa,” said Mary.

  Mr. Bennet grinned at his daughter and waggled his eyebrows. “It appears you have caught me out, Mary. Indeed, I am quite happy with my books. In general, I find them less foolish, less judgmental, and entirely better company.”

  The friendly banter continued for some moments, and slowly the party began to make their way toward the exit. Elizabeth found herself surprised at Mr. Darcy’s behavior, akin to her feelings at Pemberley. The last time the gentleman had visited Meryton, he had seemed to Elizabeth to be above his company, as evidenced by his reticence in the assembly rooms and the scarcity of his dances. But this Mr. Darcy was seemingly at ease speaking with Mr. Bennet, and even had a few comments for Mary, who was the only one of the sisters who opened her mouth.

  As for Jane, Elizabeth soon noticed that Jane was staying close by her side, her mere presence supportive. Elizabeth was grateful while at the same time annoyed with herself for her lack of fortitude. Why should she feel this way when in the presence of this gentleman? Where had her courage gone?

  They had gained the outside of the chapel when Mr. Darcy turned his attention to Elizabeth, the suddenness of it rendering her speechless. “Am I to understand that you are also a great reader, Miss Elizabeth?”

  For the briefest of moments, Elizabeth looked on the gentleman, dumbfounded by his sudden attention. The way her father was looking at her, mirth evident in his eyes, suggested he had made some comment to Mr. Darcy, which had prompted the gentleman to turn to her.

  “Lizzy is a great reader,” said Jane, as Elizabeth was drawing herself together to respond. “She and Mary sometimes have conversations with Papa that I cannot quite understand.”

  “You are well capable of understanding them, Jane,” said Mr. Bennet with an affectionate glance at his eldest daughter. “But you lack interest, which is a necessary component for true understanding.”

  “It depends on the subject,” replied Jane in her calm manner. “Though I enjoy poetry, Shakespeare, and other subjects well enough, Milton makes my eyes cross.”

  The company laughed at Jane’s jest, prompting Mr. Darcy to say: “Then I understand that Miss Elizabeth enjoys Milton?”

  “Indeed, she does,” replied Jane, once again speaking before Elizabeth could. “She even attempted to explain it to me once, though I did not prove to be an apt pupil.”

  Mr. Darcy looked at Jane askance, seeming to be wondering at Jane’s constant interference. For her part, Elizabeth was becoming a little annoyed with her sister. Did she not have the courage to deal with this man herself? Was she required to hide behind her sister’s skirts?

  “Perhaps we should discuss Paradise Lost sometime, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Darcy, again attempting to elicit a response from her. “I should like to compare opinions with a sagacious lady such as yourself.”

  “Are you certain it is quite safe?” said Elizabeth in a teasing tone, pre-empting Jane’s words. “After all, a learned man such as yourself might be shocked into insensibility when confronted with a mere woman.”

  Mr. Bennet chuckled and shook his head while Mary grinned at Elizabeth. For their parts, it seemed Mr. Bingley was as amused as her relations, while Jane simply looked at Elizabeth, unease roiling under her calm demeanor. As for Mr. Darcy, it seemed to Elizabeth she had charmed him, which, while it was not precisely what she had intended, was good enough to push her unsettled thoughts to the side.

  “On the contrary, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Darcy, “I thoroughly enjoy such discussions, regardless of whence they originate. I would be happy to speak with you on this, or any other subject, at any time.”

  “Careful, Lizzy,” said Mr. Bennet, nudging her with his elbow, “I suspect this one is intelligent enough to understand, should you choose to make sport with him.”

  “I am quite at your disposal,” said Elizabeth, though inside she wondered what she was doing.

 
; “Excellent,” said Mr. Darcy. “Until next time, then. I am certain Bingley will wish to visit your sister. I shall join him.”

  A few more words were exchanged, and then Mr. Darcy bowed and departed in the company of the Bingleys. Elizabeth watched him go, wondering what had just happened. Mr. Bennet and Mary began walking back toward the house, Jane and Elizabeth trailing behind.

  “Are you well, Lizzy?” asked Jane.

  “Perfectly so,” replied Elizabeth.

  She did not notice it, but Jane glanced at her with what would have been evident concern had she had any capacity to think of such matters. Instead, her thoughts were focused on Mr. Darcy. And for the first time, Elizabeth felt a warmth for the young man—or perhaps a thawing of her previously held opinions of him. So much still lay between them, but his behavior had been so far from what she had expected that day, she wondered if she even knew what to expect.

  Chapter VIII

  “Wickham!”

  The sound of a harsh voice, coupled with its nearness, jerked Wickham from his contemplations. Wildly looking about the room, his eyes fell on Patterson, the man who had been set over the clerks, and he hastily suppressed a scowl.

  “You are not paid to sit at this table engaged in pleasant reverie. There is work to be done, man!”

  “I offer my unreserved apologies,” replied Wickham smoothly, slipping into the persona he had built for himself as effortlessly as a man donned a nightshirt at the end of a long day. “It seems my thoughts got the better of me. I shall complete my tasks directly.”

  “See that you do.”

  Patterson glared at him, showing his utter contempt. The feeling was mutual.

  “I should warn you, Wickham,” said Patterson, stepping close and speaking softly. “You are not on firm ground. Wealthy patron’s godson or not, the partners of this establishment will not continue to pay the wages of a man who considers himself too good to do the work of the office. If you do not complete your duties, you will be dismissed.”

  “Indeed,” replied Wickham. “I shall take your . . . advice into consideration.”

  While Patterson’s scowl deepened, he refrained from saying anything. Instead, he returned to his desk at the end of the room and sat, though Wickham was not misled for an instant by the man’s seeming concentration on whatever document he held in his hand. No, Patterson was watching him, as he always was. And knowing he had little choice at present, Wickham turned his attention to his own work space. The other clerks—of which there were four—he ignored as not worth his time. Wickham was not well liked, and it bothered him not a jot. Let these small-minded men disdain him in their pettiness. Wickham knew he had always been meant for greater things.

  In a fit of anger, Wickham thrust his pen into the inkpot, though he flicked the excess ink away carefully, knowing Patterson was watching him closely. The greater things for which he was destined seemed quite distant at present and growing ever more distant, the longer he was stuck in this wretched hole.

  “I am meant for better things,” muttered Wickham to himself.

  A snort to his right told Wickham he had not been as quiet as he had intended. Wickham knew his fellow clerks would know of his words before the day was out, but their opinion did not concern him. Not for the first time, Wickham wished he could simply plant a facer on Patterson and depart this place forever. But Wickham’s situation was not favorable at present. Thus, he was forced to bide his time.

  As he worked—simply copying certain documents, which required little attention—he considered the events which had led him to this place. While many men would envy him in his position, Wickham was there only reluctantly. The firm of Mortimer and Sons was one of the most prestigious law firms in London. The solicitor and his progeny—of which there were four—were known to pay well and treat their employees like family. But Wickham had never thought he might actually be required to work for his bread.

  “The stupid old sod,” muttered Wickham, this time taking care to ensure he was not heard.

  The author of his current distress was none other than his wealthy patron, Mr. Robert Darcy. Raised on Pemberley estate, Wickham had often been in the company of his patron’s son, Fitzwilliam, and over the years, he had become closer to the man rather than to the son. Fitzwilliam Darcy, sanctimonious prig that he was, disapproved of Wickham’s activities, taking no interest in the finer things in life, and while Wickham was forced to subsist on a mere pittance, Darcy was afforded as much capital as he could spend. Not that he ever used it, of course—Darcy was frugal and careful, though why he would be so was beyond Wickham’s understanding.

  It was fortunate, indeed, that Wickham had always possessed the ability to flatter the elder Darcy, for he was aware that the younger man had attempted to turn his father against him from an early age. The first few times Mr. Darcy had called Wickham into his study, his words had been spoken quite firmly. But Wickham’s ability to curry favor with the man had stood him in good stead, to the point where Wickham knew he was a subject of contention between the two men.

  But it was still not enough. If it had been enough, Wickham would not be stuck in this dingy office, slaving away, copying documents by the light of the sun filtering in through the small windows and a smelly taper. Treated as a second son all his life, Wickham had expected that treatment would continue once he became an adult. But it was not to be.

  The memory of that fateful day caused Wickham to grasp his quill so hard, it was a wonder it did not snap under the strain. Wickham relaxed his grip and dipped it into the ink again before putting it to the paper. His mind, however, was quite distant from the task before him.

  It had been a brilliant day, one which could only portend a good omen. Or so he had thought at the time. Freshly graduated from Cambridge, Wickham had returned to Pemberley and his future, eager to receive his just desserts. For a time, Wickham had lounged around the beautiful manor house, spoken with Mr. Darcy, flattered Mrs. Darcy and the girl, and ignored his erstwhile friend. But even as he had waited for Mr. Darcy to come to the point, Wickham had known his whole life lay before him. The income of a gentleman was there for the taking, whether it was a gift of money, or even one of the smaller estates which comprised the Darcys’ holdings.

  “Ah, Wickham,” Mr. Darcy had said when he entered the study that morning. “Come in, come in, my boy!”

  “You sent for me, Mr. Darcy?” Wickham had asked. His appearance had been calculated to show no foreknowledge of the subject his patron wished to discuss, though Wickham had no doubt of the matter.

  “I did,” replied Mr. Darcy. He directed Wickham to the pair of chairs which sat before the fireplace, though Wickham was disappointed the gentleman had not offered him a glass of the fine brandy he kept at hand. “Now that you have graduated from university, some thought must be taken for your future.

  “As you know, I promised your dearly departed father that I would provide for you, which I have attempted to do to the best of my abilities.” Mr. Darcy paused, a wistful look coming over his face. The two men had been close, more like friends and partners than master and servant.

  “Yes, Mr. Darcy?” asked Wickham, interrupting his reverie. In truth he was impatient, having convinced himself that Mr. Darcy was about to offer him ownership of one of the satellite estates. Perhaps even Blackfish Bay, which was, to Wickham’s thinking, the most prosperous of them all! Mr. Darcy’s subsequent words, however, dashed such hopes.

  “I have been thinking of the best way to accomplish this,” said Mr. Darcy. “After much considering, I have determined to offer you the living at Kympton.”

  “Kympton!” exclaimed Wickham. In his shock, he was certain his mask had slipped. Fortunately, Mr. Darcy seemed to take no notice.

  “The living at Kympton is a good one, George, one which a man in your situation could not hope to obtain until you were at least thirty years of age. The parsonage is large and is in good order, and the duties of the parish, while demanding
, are not onerous. As we do not have any near relations for whom to provide, I think it an excellent opportunity for you.”

  Mr. Darcy’s last remark stung, for it reminded Wickham that he was not truly a member of the family. Had they any near relations who required a living, it seemed they would have received preference rather than Wickham himself. But that thought was brushed aside—that Mr. Darcy would insult him with the offer of a parson’s pittance was highly insulting.

  “You wish me to become a priest,” said Wickham, unable to keep the incredulous note from his voice.

  “It is a highly respected profession, George,” said Mr. Darcy, a note of censure in his voice. He had, apparently, recognized Wickham’s tone.

  Mr. Darcy continued to speak of the living, including his reasons why Wickham should feel privileged to have been offered it, but Wickham was no longer listening.

  I care not if it is a respected profession! It is not what I am entitled to as a favored son. I was meant for more than to be a simple parson, droning on about the Bible and enduring the whining of the masses!

  Though Wickham knew he could not say what was in his heart, he thought there was some way to bring Mr. Darcy around to the proper way of thinking. As the man continued to speak, Wickham gave every indication he was listening, while at the same time planning his strategy for how he would convince his patron that he was worth so much more than the pittance of the living. When Mr. Darcy paused in his words, Wickham was quick to interject.

  “You are correct, of course,” said he. “Unfortunately, Mr. Darcy, I do not believe I am the best choice to become the parson of Kympton.”

  The look Mr. Darcy gave him made Wickham uncomfortable, but he weathered it, waiting for the other man to speak. Mr. Darcy obliged him with alacrity.