by Riana Everly
Through a Different Lens
A Pride and Prejudice Variation
by Riana Everly
THROUGH A DIFFERENT LENS
Copyright © 2019 Riana Everly
All rights reserved.
Published by Bay Crest Press 2019
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Under no circumstances may any part of this book be photocopied for resale.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental
Cover design by Mae Phillips at coverfreshdesigns.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-7751283-8-0
Acknowledgements
This story has so many sources of inspiration, it’s impossible to know where to start. Perhaps I should begin with Jane Austen herself, who gave the world these wonderful characters, beautiful and imperfect as they are.
My family also need their names in lights. I’ve talked at them and run ideas past them and made them read and reread this text too many times, and they still talk to me! And of course, I have to acknowledge the several amazing people I know who are on the autism spectrum, who see life through a different lens, and who have shown again and again that neurological difference is not necessarily a disability. It’s just a different ability!
Thanks to Sophia Meredith for her insightful comments that reshaped the entire story, making it so very much better. Also, thanks to my amazing beta readers, Donna Kraus, Mary Belle McClean, and Deborah Pearson, and to editor Marion Hoffmann for her wonderful advice and insight. I am infinitely grateful to Mikael Swayze for his excellent copy editing skills. Also, so many thanks to the wonderful community at Beyond Austen for their wonderful ideas and encouraging comments.
The beautiful cover art is by Mae Phillips of Cover Fresh Designs.
The cover art image is a detail from the watercolour and gouache Henry Hill Hickman performing experiments on suspended animation, by Richard Tennant Cooper, ca. 1912 The painting part of the Wellcome Collection gallery, part of the Wellcome Library, London.
Cover design by Mae Phillips at coverfreshdesigns.com
Dedication
∞∞∞
To my son and all the fascinating people
who see life through a different lens
∞∞∞
Chapter One
Ill Qualified to Recommend Himself
It was an evening much like many others over the past few weeks. The small party were gathered in the salon after an uncomfortable dinner, to amuse, delight, and take advice from the doyenne of the house. The meal had seemed endless, with one overly fine dish superseding another, testimony more to the expense of a fine French chef than to the consideration due to the palates of the assembled guests. Likewise, the conversation, more a series of interrogatory demands by the lady of the house than an exchange of light and pleasant thoughts to lend enjoyment to the meal. Now, the last of the dishes cleared away and the company retired to the salon, Elizabeth sat perched upon the uncomfortable sofa, seeking something amusing to say that would astound those gathered around. Beside her sat her dear friend Charlotte, whom she was visiting, and nearby, Charlotte’s husband, Mr. Collins, who held the living at Hunsford, adjacent to the grand manor house of Rosings. Also in the room were the mistress of the house herself, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, domineering and fierce of temperament, her sickly daughter Anne, who seemed more intimidated than truly ill, Anne’s companion Mrs. Jenkins, and Charlotte’s timid sister Maria, who spoke hardly a word.
In all of these particulars, the scene had been repeated many times since Elizabeth first arrived at Hunsford for a prolonged visit with her friend; recently, however, two more members had joined their party, one adding to its pleasure, the other to its awkwardness.
The increased pleasure was due entirely to the newly formed acquaintance with Lady Catherine’s nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, on a short leave from the army to visit his aunt and cousin and help tend to affairs of her estate. The colonel and Elizabeth had quickly formed a comfortable and easy friendship, for the gentleman was intelligent, quick-witted, and extremely good company. Elizabeth had taken an immediate liking to him and was pleased when he sought her companionship, either in the salon or whilst walking through the park.
His friend, however, was far less of a source of pleasure. Silent, stiff and brooding, the colonel’s constant shadow was none other than Mr. Darcy, whom Elizabeth had come to know and rather dislike several months ago at her home in Hertfordshire, near the village of Meryton.
They had first met at the close of the previous summer. Everybody in town had gathered at a public assembly and ball, there to meet Mr. Bingley, the young—and single—gentleman who had taken Netherfield Park, a grand estate in the neighbourhood, sadly unoccupied for the longest time. The crowd was eagerly and impatiently waiting to see both the man himself and the rumoured gathering of his attendants, ladies and gentlemen aplenty from town, the exact number of each varying according to the teller. At long last, and to the relief of the anxiously curious townsfolk, Mr. Bingley arrived with only two other men and two women. The first set of dances had just come to an end, and in the moment of silence when the musicians set down their instruments to draw breath, and when the dancers had made their final bows to each other before leaving the floor, the doors to the assembly hall had swung open to reveal the anticipated party.
The sudden cessation of ambient sound immediately became a hush, and then, just as quickly, the noise resumed its previous levels as people began to comment on the newcomers. “How fine they are,” “What elegant attire,” “How handsome he is,” were the words that filled the air. “Five thousand?” “Which is the new tenant?” “Who are the others?”
Within a short time, the questions resolved into answers, which did little to curtail the gossip. Mr. Bingley was the young man of medium height and a most cheerful disposition, dressed in the dove grey coat. The shorter man in green was his brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, and the taller, in dark blue and black, was his good friend, Mr. Darcy. The ladies were his sisters, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst. Mr. Bingley was uniformly pronounced most well-disposed, especially when his income was disclosed at somewhere near five thousand a year; his friend, Mr. Darcy, was judged even more handsome, as much for his features as for his reported income of ten thousand!
Of the newly arrived members of the community, however, only Mr. Bingley retained the good regard of his new neighbours beyond the first quarter hour of their presence. The rest of the party was quickly deemed rather too good for Meryton’s poor society. Mr. and Mrs. Hurst talked only amongst themselves and their own party, and Miss Bingley, who was to keep house for her brother, deigned to greet the natives with a stifled curtsey and an upturned nose, only to subtly deride their manners, their country ways, and their unfashionable dress. As for Mr. Darcy himself, he spoke scarcely a word all night and would dance only once, with Miss Bingley. The longest speech anyone heard him make the entire evening was overheard by none other than Elizabeth herself when Mr. Bingley importuned his friend to request of the lady a dance.
“Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must
have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.” Mr. Bingley seemed only too eager to return to the dance floor, where he had been promised a second set by Elizabeth’s older sister, Jane. The young man’s eyes kept flickering over to where the young lady was standing, and she in turn smiled demurely at him. But his friend would have none of it.
“I certainly shall not,” Mr. Darcy replied in a stiff voice, flat and devoid of emotion. “You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner.” At this he broke off for a moment to look around at the crush in the hall, and almost in alarm at what he saw, stepped back slightly. “At such an assembly as this, it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.”
“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Bingley, “for a kingdom! Upon my honour I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life, as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty.”
“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. Darcy, following his friend’s gaze towards the eldest Miss Bennet. Jane Bennet was widely acknowledged to be an unusually splendid beauty, and one would be hard pressed indeed to find a man who would deny this.
“Oh! she is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”
“Which do you mean?” and turning round, he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said, “She is tolerable; but not handsome enough to tempt me; and I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”
This unfortunate encounter had set the precedent upon which all others would be based. Mr. Darcy’s cold demeanour made him no friends, and his haughty stance and unrelenting terseness only served to further convince the members of the local society that the man was proud beyond his considerable means and not worth the effort of friendship. It was for Mr. Bingley’s sake, and his alone, that Mr. Darcy’s presence was accepted at all by the denizens of the area, whether at tea or cards in the evening, or at the shops in the village.
Nor had Mr. Darcy improved upon closer acquaintance, Elizabeth recollected. For some three days, they had resided in the same house. Elizabeth’s sister Jane had become ill whilst visiting Mr. Bingley’s sisters at Netherfield, and Elizabeth had come to nurse her back to health. This, naturally, threw her into the path of the proud gentleman again and again, but always he drew back when in her presence. His eyes would narrow and his back would stiffen, and he would stare at her mercilessly, while never deigning to meet her eyes when she gazed back. He had always had little to say to her that did not carry the weight of disapproval, so evident in his cold tone of voice, and she had less still to say to him that did not sparkle with contrariness. She considered that they both took their amusement in disliking each other prodigiously, and thus she was pleased when he took his leave from the area after Mr. Bingley’s ball late last November. She had not expected to see him again at Rosings.
However, Mr. Darcy, too, was nephew to Lady Catherine, and with his cousin the colonel, would be staying for some weeks to help the lady with matters of business pertaining to the estate. Elizabeth would have to do what she must to suffer his presence, for there was no escaping it.
And so, with the formidable Mr. Darcy staring accusingly at her from across the room, she cast about for something witty to add to the stilted conversation in the room. Lady Catherine, however, acted most uncharacteristically this particular evening and made a pronouncement that brought a smile to many faces, and relief to Elizabeth’s. “We must have music,” the grand lady intoned in her imperious manner. “Miss Bennet, you play a little. Whilst you will never have the talent that I might have possessed, I do hope you have taken it upon yourself to practice in Mrs. Jenkins’ rooms, as I suggested you ought. You shall play for us, and we shall have music, no matter how unskilled you may be.”
Not judging herself up to the task of replying graciously to this command, Elizabeth swallowed her retort, then stood and curtseyed with all the grace she could manage, then strolled to the pianoforte that sat in a small alcove at the far side of the large salon. To her surprise, Mr. Darcy silently followed her, and to her pleasure, Colonel Fitzwilliam offered to turn pages as she played.
Whatever the rest of the company thought of her playing, she did not know, for she could not hear their comments, neither did she care. She did, however, enjoy the book of country dances she found, many of which she knew and therefore could perform with some credibility. After working through the dances, she talked quietly with the colonel who was helping her select some new pieces; Mr. Darcy stood stiffly off to the side, not venturing to add his thoughts to the conversation, although he was near enough to overhear it most clearly.
Colonel Fitzwilliam asked teasingly after his cousin whilst he had been with his friends in Hertfordshire not so long before, and Elizabeth laughed. “Your cousin, Mr. Darcy, was not the darling of our village.” She affected a mien of feigned solemnity which had the colonel chuckling as readily as her own smile returned. In her sombre tones, she explained how he had made little conversation at the assembly and would not dance, and had not endeavoured to endear himself to the community.
“What say you to that, Darcy?” the colonel smiled. He must surely know he was baiting his cousin. “Explain yourself!”
“I am,” stated the grave gentleman as he stood so awkwardly by the pianoforte, “ill qualified to recommend myself to strangers.”
Elizabeth heard these words somewhat distractedly, as she perused the selection of music being placed before her by the colonel, his friendly eyes matched by an engaging grin. Still, something in the more serious man’s demeanour caught her attention. She had never liked him, but she had always found herself fascinated by him. She sat up a little straighter and listened as Fitzwilliam Darcy continued to explain himself. He spoke, as always, formally, somewhat stiffly, as if acting the part of himself in the grand production of his life.
“I certainly have not the talent which some people possess,” said he, “of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done.”
Suddenly, with these words, Elizabeth felt her world shift slightly. With every syllable that haughty man uttered, isolated facets to his perplexing character seemed to realign themselves and come into focus. She stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. He cleared his throat and stepped back an inch, standing quite still and averting his eyes from her curious gaze. A flood of recollections and half-formed ideas cascaded through her consciousness. She stared up again at the stiff and serious man half hiding in the shadows, wondering if her suppositions might be correct.
“Miss Bennet?” the genial colonel sounded concerned. “Are you well?”
Realising she had been distracted most grievously from her supposed task of selecting music, she uttered a rushed apology. “Indeed, very well, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Forgive my wandering mind, please. I have no excuse but that your cousin, Mr. Darcy, suddenly reminded me of somebody I know, and at that realisation, you might have knocked me down with a feather, it was so surprising.”
The man under discussion drew closer, edging towards the pianoforte where the two were conversing with such easy repartee. “Knocked you down with a feather?” he asked in some confusion, “How could that possibly be? While you are by no means a large woman, your weight most certainly surpasses that of a bird’s plumage, even that of an ostrich or a peacock. To knock you down would surely take something much more substantial than a mere feather!”
Exchanging an understanding
smile with the colonel, Elizabeth replied evenly, “It is an expression, sir, meaning to surprise greatly. Is this, may I ask, but one example of why you feel discomfort joining others’ conversations?”
The man nodded. “Indeed it is so. I seem, always, to miss the meaning of what is being said. Not everybody is as compassionate as you, to explain the nuances I do not catch.”
“Perhaps more exposure to these undesired conversations would be of benefit,” Elizabeth tried to keep her voice friendly, more for the colonel’s sake than Darcy’s, if she were correct in her musings. “My fingers,” she intoned carefully, as she looked pointedly down at her hands, poised as they were over the ivory keys of the pianoforte, “do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.” Her mind was whirling at the import of her newfound hypothesis as to the real import behind the proud man’s confessions. She was hardly aware of her own words, and she needed desperately to think further on this unexpected insight. But Mr. Darcy was speaking once more.
He smiled then, a studied, careful smile, and forced his eyes to meet her own, now looking quizzically at him from beneath furrowed brows. “You are perfectly right,” he said. “You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you, can think any thing wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.”
At this, as he stepped away and retreated once more into the shadows, the final piece of the puzzle began to fall into place and the picture that had been forming before her coalesced into a cohesive whole, unfocused and need of a sharpening lens, but a whole nonetheless. All at once, Elizabeth believed that just maybe, she understood Mr. Darcy.