The Impulse of the Moment

by Jann Rowland

It might be supposed that a lover, having been accepted, would wish to keep the woman of his affection to himself for as long as he was able. Darcy, having endured the uncertainty of her initial distrust and the actions of his father’s protégé, was eager to secure consent. Thus, after sharing a few intimate moments with the woman he loved, he pulled her toward the house, both of them laughing all the way.

  When they had gained Longbourn’s front hall, he whispered to her of his intentions, grinning when she informed him she would go to her sisters, and stepped quickly to the master’s study. Given how the gentleman had regarded them that morning, Darcy was amused to see how the man had anticipated him. Consent was quickly given after which Mr. Bennet welcomed him to the family.

  “Though I shall lose my daughter to the north, I am happy to say I predicted it all from the beginning. It was clear as soon as you came that you would be unable to resist her charms!”

  “Such a thought would be blasphemous!” replied Darcy, laughing along with his host. “And do not think of it as losing a daughter, for we shall visit often. As fond of her family as she is, I suspect Elizabeth will demand it.”

  “That she will!” said Mr. Bennet. “But I have one condition, young man. I have heard, though you have been reticent on the subject yourself, that you have a splendid library at your estate. I hope I shall be invited to sample it in the near future.”

  “Of course,” replied Darcy. “And you should further be aware that both my father and my uncle are excellent chess players. We shall have a tournament when you visit.”

  “I shall anticipate it keenly.”

  Their conversation was interrupted when the door to Mr. Bennet’s study was unceremoniously yanked open and Bingley darted into the room. The flushed nature of his countenance coupled with his heavy breathing suggested he had rushed back to Longbourn, likely pulling Miss Bennet along behind him. The notion struck Darcy as rather amusing, and he burst into laughter, joined at once by Mr. Bennet.

  “This is certainly an auspicious day,” said the gentleman as Bingley looked on them both, wondering if they were mad. “It is not every day any man receives two gentlemen in his study for the same purpose. If you will excuse me, Darcy, it seems I must give up another of my daughters.”

  “Certainly,” replied Darcy, rising to his feet. Approaching Bingley, he caught his soon to be brother’s hand and grasped it in a firm grip, Bingley’s smile growing delighted as he did so. “It seems I have beaten you to it, my friend. Though I have often been termed deliberate and careful, it seems in this instance I have been more impulsive even than you!”

  “We have changed places, indeed, my friend,” replied Bingley with a grin. “But you may gloat later. For now, I believe I require a moment of my neighbor’s time.”

  With another slap on his friend’s back, Darcy left the study. There was a young lady in the house, likely receiving the congratulations of her beloved sisters, and offering her elder sister the same. At that moment, Darcy found himself impatient to be in her company once again.

  “Well, it seems like your son is happy, at least. I only hope it lasts.”

  “Pardon me, Wickham?” asked Robert Darcy. “Why do you say that?”

  It might be supposed Wickham actually rolled his eyes at Darcy’s statement, but as he had turned back to look at the scene before them, he could not be certain. That he did not look on Fitzwilliam with anything resembling friendship was becoming more evident all the time, regardless of Wickham’s attempts to obfuscate.

  “Come, Mr. Darcy,” said he, “I am sure you can see it as well as I do. Had I been in your son’s position, Miss Elizabeth would have accepted my proposal just as readily.”

  This recitation did not quite fit Darcy’s feelings. “Surely you overstate the matter, Wickham. Though I cannot guess the depth of her feelings, it is clear she feels something for my son. Her interest in him is not solely motivated by reasons of prudence, or even mercenary.”

  Though Wickham did not scowl, Darcy thought it was a near thing. For the moment, he could not pay much attention to his protégé, for his focus was on Fitzwilliam in its entirety. His wife and daughter, it seemed, could not be happier with Fitzwilliam’s choice. Georgiana, in particular, exclaimed her expectations of having a future sister to love and to receive her sister’s love turn.

  It was difficult to confess, but Darcy could not help but note his son’s happiness. Fitzwilliam had always been a serious boy, and he had grown to be a man with the proper amount of gravity, respect for his situation and family, and diligence to his duty, all as Darcy demanded. Before this fascination with the Bennet girl, there had been little to criticize with respect to either his conduct or his opinions. Oh, he had befriended the Bingley boy, heedless of all the drawbacks to his friendship, but Darcy had never considered his friend to be deficient in manners or understanding. Quite the contrary.

  Though it seemed like it was a matter which was already decided, Darcy thought he would make one more attempt to appeal to Fitzwilliam’s better nature. Not that he was certain any longer that the boy was not correct in singling the girl out for his attentions. Be that as it may, the Darcy in him, steeped in centuries of family tradition and pride, demanded this final attempt.

  It seemed that Fitzwilliam well understood his purpose, for later that day, when Darcy found him alone, he was treated to a knowing look, accompanied by a smirk. Though Darcy did not care for his son’s manner, he was aware he had no choice but to endure it. The chances were small—infinitesimal, to be honest—of his convincing his son, even without angering him.

  “It is obvious you understand my purpose,” said Darcy without preamble. “Thus, I shall not sport with your intelligence by means of obfuscation. I am willing to acknowledge Miss Elizabeth’s attractions, and I can see how you have been captivated by them. But I must ask: are you certain of what you are about?”

  “Utterly convinced,” was his son’s reply with nary a pause to give Darcy an option to attack. “She is the woman for me—I shall have no other.”

  Darcy paused, wondering how far he should push. His son returned his look without expression, perhaps expecting a fight, perhaps not. A sense of fatigue washed over Darcy. This continual fighting with his son was difficult to endure, particularly when they had usually been aligned when he was younger.

  “It is difficult,” said Darcy, putting his hands behind his back and taking a few steps forward. “I have always expected you to make a stupendous match, for you are a Darcy, with centuries of ancestors who have done likewise.”

  “I am making a stupendous match,” replied Fitzwilliam. Darcy frowned at the interruption, but his son was already speaking again. “Miss Elizabeth will add to our family’s legacy, Father—not detract from it. She is a special woman. I feel fortunate she has accepted me. Her character is such that she can do anything she chooses, yet she feels like I am a worthy risk to ensure her happiness.”

  For a moment Darcy considered expressing his disbelief in his son’s suggestion of Miss Bennet as their superior, though he knew there was a hint of hyperbole in his son’s words. At the same time, he considered bringing up the possibility of withholding his blessing, or even disinheritance.

  There was little point in doing so, however, so he desisted. It would be nothing more than a bluff, and Darcy was well aware Fitzwilliam would call him on it. Furthermore, he had told his son he would be supportive if he made his choice in a rational manner. It seemed Fitzwilliam had done that though there was an obvious element of affection in his choice. As Darcy had chosen his own wife with his heart in mind, he could not fault his son for acting in a similar manner, though Darcy personally did not approve.

  Therefore, Darcy did the only thing he could. “Then there is nothing more to say. I hope your choice is the correct one, but you have made it now, regardless.”

  “Thank you, Father,” said Fitzwilliam. “I appreciate your acceptance in this matter.”

  Darcy nodded and cla
sped his son’s shoulder, a gesture of support. Then he turned and departed, seeking to find his wife. Anne would know what to say to make him feel better about it.

  Chapter XXXI

  “I cannot be happier for you both.”

  A broad smile accompanied Caroline’s words, filling Elizabeth with affection for this woman to whom she had, at times, struggled to feel close.

  “It is unfortunate, to be sure,” continued she, “that you will be leaving this house so soon after I have entered it. I am certain your late mother would agree with me.”

  “No doubt,” replied Elizabeth with a laugh.

  “Mama would be even more despondent because you are going to the north,” said Jane. “You know she always hoped her daughters would settle nearby.”

  “Perchance she would,” replied Elizabeth. “But she would not begrudge me my happiness.”

  “Of course, she would not,” replied Caroline, catching Elizabeth in an affectionate embrace. “Her enthusiasm for the match would be boundless!”

  “Do you not think she would rejoice at your going?” asked Mary with a sly glance alighting on Elizabeth. “She always did say you were her greatest trial as a child.”

  Elizabeth laughed along with her sisters at the tease. “You never could keep your skirts clean!” exclaimed Jane. “And the number of times you ripped your frock climbing trees, I thought Mama would expire from mortification!”

  They all joined Elizabeth in laughter, after which Caroline gathered them both close, holding their hands and looking at Jane and Elizabeth in turn. “All jesting aside, I am very happy for you both. Your young men will make you happy.”

  Jane and Elizabeth shared a glance. “I am certain they shall,” was Jane’s fervent reply.

  The engagement of one daughter would have sent Mrs. Bennet into a tizzy. The engagement of both would have sent the entire family fleeing in terror. As it was, though Jane and Elizabeth were not subjected to a multitude of visits such as they would have been had their mother been alive to show them to the neighborhood, Caroline made a worthy substitute. Morning engagements during those days were plentiful, and Elizabeth found herself in more sitting-rooms, drinking more tea and accepting more congratulations than she thought she might have in a lifetime! If some of those neighborhood ladies with whom Elizabeth did not feel herself at all close sounded insincere in their congratulations, Elizabeth did not allow it to bother her.

  Knowing Mr. Darcy was not at all fond of society, Elizabeth was appreciative of his forbearance, for he allowed no hint of frustration or impatience to escape while he was subjected to the inquest of the neighborhood. While it was true that many looked on both Elizabeth and Jane with envy, many more considered them to be the neighborhood’s own, and their engagements to be a point of pride—particularly Elizabeth’s, the surprise that it was.

  What was the largest surprise to Elizabeth was the reaction of Mr. Darcy’s father. The gentleman had, by her fiancé’s admission, made one last attempt to persuade his son against the match, but his congratulations to Elizabeth were all that was cordial.

  “Miss Elizabeth,” said he the first time she saw him after her engagement. “Please allow me to congratulate you on your engagement to my son.” The older gentleman smiled and nodded. “Though I will own to a certain partiality of opinion, I consider Fitzwilliam to be a fine man, one whom any woman in the kingdom would feel fortunate to secure.”

  “You will receive no argument from me,” replied Elizabeth, bemused by his sudden acceptance. “William is quite the best man of my acquaintance.”

  “William, is it?” asked Mr. Darcy, turning a curious look on his son. “To the best of my knowledge, no one has ever shortened my son’s name.”

  “Most of my friends call me Darcy,” said her fiancé. “And everyone in the family calls me Fitzwilliam. For Elizabeth, I wish to be less formal than my usual moniker allows.”

  Behind them, Lady Anne was laughing, her reaction a clear indication that she was not offended that Elizabeth would not use her family name—the name she had given to her son—to address him. Mr. Darcy considered the matter for a few moments before he nodded.

  “That is understandable.” The gentleman paused, looking uncomfortable, and then seemed to come to a decision. “I also wish to extend my apologies, Miss Elizabeth. Am I correct in apprehending my son has informed you of my feelings concerning your courtship?”

  Though Elizabeth felt her cheeks heat a little, she looked back bravely at the father of the man she was to marry. “He has.”

  Mr. Darcy gave her a tight nod. “Please be aware it was never my intention to presume that you are, in any way, lacking. My concerns were for the family’s expectations for my son. You are, I suspect, aware that he was capable of aspiring to marry the daughter of a noble, if he so chose.”

  “Yes, I am well aware of it,” replied Elizabeth, while William rolled his eyes at his father.

  “It is a different path my son has chosen, and I cannot say he has chosen incorrectly. For my part, I hope we can put any past disagreements behind us and come together as a family.”

  It was a half-hearted effort at best, but Elizabeth was not at all inclined to reject the olive branch offered. Instead, she leaned forward and put her hand on the gentleman’s arm, saying: “Of course, Mr. Darcy. As I am to marry your son, I wish to have good relations with all of his family. If there is anything to forgive, for myself, it is all forgiven.” “Good,” replied Mr. Darcy.

  The one member of the party who was not accepting of Elizabeth was Mr. Wickham, though Elizabeth knew William would not consider that man to be associated with him. Though he was not there on the first occasion that Elizabeth met with the Darcy family, she met him several subsequent times. That he was not happy was clear to Elizabeth, though she could not determine why he should disapprove of her as a bride. What was it to him? He was nothing more than a greedy man riding on the coattails of a wealthy patron. As he did not approach, Elizabeth put him from her mind.

  The seed of hate which had long been nourished in Wickham’s mind was now full flower, and encompassed within his ire was the young lady to whom Darcy had proposed. His own campaign to discredit his rival was turning to ashes around his feet, as Mr. Darcy, who he had been so certain would never accept the young woman, betrayed Wickham and did nothing about it. And Lady Anne, true to her word, spent every waking moment with Georgiana, watching him always when he was nearby, ensuring she was a shield between them. The unfairness of it all made Wickham want to scream out his frustration.

  Doggedly determined to realize his own dreams, Wickham kept at Mr. Darcy, continuing to malign his son’s name, along with that of the little tart for whom he had offered. But the more he spoke, the less Mr. Darcy seemed to listen, and a few times Wickham even caught a look of annoyance on the man’s countenance. On one occasion he even pushed back.

  “Wickham, I believe this line of conversation has been exhausted.”

  Cut off, as he was, Wickham stared at his patron, wondering that it had come to this. Mr. Darcy apparently considered this enough reason to continue.

  “The identity of my son’s bride is not your concern—I must wonder why you speak of it at all.”

  “For nothing more than concern for him,” cried Wickham.

  The huff which comprised Mr. Darcy’s response told Wickham how far his influence over the gentleman had fallen. “It seems unlikely you care so much, considering your estrangement from Fitzwilliam which has been of several years’ duration. Please do not insult my intelligence by claiming such altruistic motivations when your disdain for her is clear to see.”

  Wickham opened his mouth to protest, but it died in his throat unspoken, for Mr. Darcy’s scowl allowed no argument. Though Wickham would never use such a term to describe himself, he sulked for the rest of the afternoon.

  The matter came to a head the day before the ball Mrs. Bingley had planned. While the woman’s originally stated purpose for
the ball had been to honor the Darcys, it took no great discernment to determine the recent engagements had taken precedence. Wickham watched the preparations, dissatisfied by the way matters had turned out, particularly when he had gone to Pemberley with such high hopes. Surely there must be some way to still exert some control over events, but he found himself unable to determine how it might be done. And the smirking visage of Fitzwilliam Darcy, seemingly understanding how Wickham felt and reveling in his supposed victory, filled Wickham with the urge to lash out.

  Finally, having had enough of the preparations, Wickham let himself from the sitting-room, certain he was not storming away in a fury. As he walked, his mind worked the problem over and over, trying to find some crevice he could pry open, some weakness he had not yet considered. But it was all dross. There seemed to be nothing to be done. That was when the summons to attend Mr. Darcy in the library arrived.

  “The library is little used, as none of my family are much for reading,” the elder Bingley had said when Mr. Darcy had inquired soon after arriving. “If you please, I would think that room would be perfect for you to conduct whatever business which needs your attention during your stay.”

  Mr. Darcy had thanked Mr. Bingley, and from that time forward, he could be found there most mornings. More than once, Wickham had attempted to induce the gentleman to see his point of view, his failure leading him to an irrational detestation of the room. In recent mornings, he had avoided it, as the sight of his patron filled him with the urge to lash out, and if anything of Mr. Darcy’s patronage was to be salvaged, that would not do.

  So involved in his disappointments was he that Wickham did not immediately see the grim set to Mr. Darcy’s countenance. He entered with a greeting, not knowing how curt it sounded, and approached the small desk Mr. Darcy had taken to using. Mr. Darcy indicated a chair nearby, and Wickham allowed himself to fall into it gracelessly, akin to a rag doll discarded by a child, he thought without humor. It was then he noted Mr. Darcy’s severe countenance and uncompromising glare.