The Ruin of Elizabeth Bennet: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

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The Ruin of Elizabeth Bennet: A Pride and Prejudice Variation Page 1

by Darcie Rochester




  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  The

  Ruin

  of

  Elizabeth Bennet

  Darcie Rochester

  Copyright Page

  Copyright © 2018 by Darcie Rochester

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without express permission of the author.

  Floral Vintage Elements Vector Graphics Set from 365psd.com

  Original cover portrait by Eduard Friedrich Leybold, Portrait of a Young Lady in a Red Dress. Courtesy Wikimedia Commons.

  Prologue

  Lydia Bennet had killed Mr. Rupert Nettle and all of London knew it. His children still spoke of her wickedness far and wide with such passion one would think she had done him in intentionally. Clearly they knew nothing of the girl they maligned.

  Lydia Bennet never did anything with the slightest of intention.

  She had never intended to ruin herself and her sisters when she had eloped with George Wickham. At fifteen she had been a silly little thing who believed in love and other such fairy tales. Eloping to Scotland will be ever so romantic, she had thought. Oh, what a joke it will be when I return home married before all my sisters. Alas, the marriage did not take place to her sadness at first, then later to her joy. Why be a wife to a poor man when one might be a mistress to a rich man?

  Her papa's death had never been her intention either, though she hardly felt responsible for it. Her mama, however, had laid the blame at her door. According to Mrs. Bennet, she had half-killed her father with worry when she had run away and then finished the job by refusing to marry the man he had found to save her reputation. But how could her papa have believed she would ever marry an old farmer and take care of his six motherless brats?

  And it had certainly never been her intention when she put on her new lingerie to make poor Mr. Nettle suffer an apoplexy. But, goodness, his children should be thanking her. They had inherited heaps and heaps of money and all of his soap factories, yet they could not accept the one little thing he had bequeathed her. It was true the townhouse on Oxford Street was ideally situated, but it hardly warranted such a fuss.

  Not that their fuss had caused her any harm. Upon hearing the tale Viscount Bancroft had declared he must find out if he could survive tupping Lydia Bennet. And so her protectors had improved in prestige from a solider to a cit to a lord in the span of four years. At nineteen she was the most notorious courtesan in London.

  Her life was dazzling.

  The lives of the other Bennet ladies, however, were decidedly lacking in splendor.

  Lydia had tried to help her sisters. She had visited them after their mother had died and told them they might come live with her. Kitty was the only one who had showed any enthusiasm—an enthusiasm that had been immediately quashed by a scolding glance from Lizzy. Mary had said not a word, simply pursed her lips and went back to reading her dreary sermons. Jane had sat very quietly and looked at her with such compassion it had made her angry. She did not want to be pitied. She pitied Jane.

  Lydia had gotten up to leave in a huff. Lizzy very pointedly had shown her out and mentioned, just as they had gotten to the door, that might be better if she didn't come back.

  The slight hit its mark; for a moment Lydia was sixteen and heartbroken again. "I never meant for Papa . . . Mama . . . any of it to happen."

  Lizzy had replied, without malice but also without the absolution Lydia so desperately sought, "Of course you didn't."

  Chapter One

  Elizabeth Bennet at the age of four and twenty had the distinction of having received offers of marriage from three perfectly eligible gentlemen.

  Well . . . perhaps not eligible. Given his behavior to herself and her sisters following the death of their father, Mr. Collins could hardly be called eligible. There was some room for debate as to whether he even deserved to be called a gentleman.

  Mr. Darcy, however, was another matter entirely. Whether one liked the gentleman or not, it was to be sure a distinction to have received his proposal. On the surface he had certainly seemed the epitome of an eligible gentleman: his mind was well-informed, his manner unimpeachable if a little cold, and he was handsome—so terribly handsome. But was he a good man? That was the question Lizzy liked to put to her mind late at night when sleep evaded her as it often did these days. She did not know why the question fascinated her so as its answer scarcely mattered now.

  Her opinion about him still vacillated —she could yet feel indignation for Jane as if the wound was fresh and, on the other hand, shame at her own misjudgment of Wickham—but the conclusion she often came to was yes, Mr. Darcy was a good man or at least an honorable one.

  It was so plain now that prejudice had blinded her. In her youth and inexperience arrogance had seemed a terrible flaw, but now she knew haughtiness was a slight imperfection when compared to the other failings of character a man might possess.

  If not for her foolishness she might have been able to assure her sisters some comforts. But it did not do to dwell. She had the future to look after, and that future was bound to Mr. Rowe.

  Jonathan Rowe had been the third suitor to make her an offer. An offer he had made that afternoon not a quarter of an hour ago. Mr. Rowe was perhaps not quite eligible either. His person and manner left much to be desired. His mind, though it certainly had a sharpness for all matters business in nature, was otherwise uninformed. Gauche was a charitable description of his comportment.

  He was also not precisely a gentleman for he was in trade. At sixty-three, finding that he suddenly felt his age, he had decided he needed an heir to pass on the business he had diligently built. To get an heir he needed a wife and if one was to get a wife she might as well be young and pretty.

  Lizzy did not know why she had been singled out for his bride of choice. Despite his age and his short stature, he had no dearth of admirers.

  Had she asked him what attracted him to her he might have cited her pluck. This answer would have raised her estimation of him considerably, but as things stood her estimation of him mattered very little.

  She must marry him . . . and yet she had not immediately consented.

  Upon hearing his offer her first response was a question. "Sir, are you aware my youngest sister is . . . is no longer a person good society associates with?"

  She had been certain he knew. All of London knew it would seem, but she felt it i
ncumbent upon her to inform him just in case. If there was a small, selfish hope within her that this news would cause Mr. Rowe to retract his offer, it was sorely disappointed.

  "Oh, don't worry yerself about that. Yer aunt already told me. I don't care for the opinions of those fancy'uns and even if I did, me own cousin was transported. My relation is no better than yours, you see."

  At this juncture she ought to have unequivocally said yes. Throwing herself at his feet and kissing the toes of his boots might not have been too fervent a show of gratitude. For, despite his many deficiencies, Mr. Rowe was a good man and she had no right to expect his attentions.

  Yet the words that had fallen from her lips were not the acceptance he had so clearly expected. The acceptance she had fully expected to give.

  Instead she had said, "You have honored me greatly with your offer and I will consider it most carefully."

  Perhaps more stunning to Lizzy than her own words had been Mr. Rowe's reaction to them. He had simply given her a smile—a smile perhaps not as brilliant as it would have been if she had accepted, but a smile all the same—and a nod. Then he had wished her good day with the hope he might hear her answer next week.

  Lizzy walked away astounded by his composure. The previous offers of marriage she had received had taught her to expect some form of challenge if her answer were anything but a resounding acceptance.

  Well, that is something in Mr. Rowe's favor at least, she thought. She knew she wasn't being fair. Jonathan Rowe had many good qualities.

  He was kind. She knew without a doubt he would never beat her or otherwise inflict violence upon her. That was more than many women could say of their husbands.

  He was not too proud to laugh at himself . . . or anything really. While he could not be said to have a refined sense of humor, he was also not prone to bouts of ill-humor or melancholy.

  He took duty to his family seriously. She knew that he had paid for the upkeep of his nephew and he had remarked not-so-subtly that he would like to do something for herself and her sisters if only a relationship existed between them that would not cause his intervention to be construed wrongly by others.

  This was his most important good quality. If Jane could have access to a better physician Lizzy could quite easily ignore Mr. Rowe's lack of refinement and poor grammar . . . and his bad teeth.

  Lizzy continued her contemplation of Mr. Rowe's many virtues (and many defects) as she walked to her favorite bookshop. She was not going to buy anything. She was going to browse—loiter as it were.

  On occasion one needs a little treat, she told herself. Soon her worries would be at an end. Perhaps after her marriage she might be able to buy books or at least afford the subscription to the lending library. Mercenary as that thought might be, she could not even scold herself as she pulled open the door to the bookstore and entered the musty little shop.

  Fitzwilliam Darcy addressed the proprietor directly upon entering the bookshop. His unintentionally clipped tone sent the poor shopkeeper scrambling after his order in such haste he toppled a stack of books on the counter awaiting placement.

  Darcy felt instantly contrite. His aunt had scolded him just last week for barking at people who had done nothing beyond having the misfortune of interacting with him.

  "Forgive me, Mr. Timms." Or was it Mr. Timothy? Darcy wondered. It did not matter either way as the man was quite gone, the sounds of his rummaging in the back no doubt had drown out Darcy's belated apology.

  At least his aunt was not here to witness his bad behavior this time. Even if she had been she might have made allowances in this case. She was well acquainted with the source of his short temper. Her husband, the Earl of Matlock, could be a difficult man when it came to differences of opinion, and it would seem these days Darcy and his uncle felt quite differently about every subject.

  The proprietor reappeared, beaming proudly with the book in hand. Darcy supposed the man ought to be proud, that book was a rare jewel and it was about to make Mr. Timothy (or perhaps Timms) a small fortune.

  This shop was out of Darcy's way by quite a bit. He usually did not stray this close to the City unless he had a matter of business to attend to. But, while the bookshops on Bond Street had all tomes new and popular, Mr. Timothy's shop specialized in the rare and old.

  "It is only a second edition, I fear," said the shopkeeper as he handed over his prize.

  Darcy waved his concern away. "That is quite fine." He did not collect books for their future monetary value, but rather the knowledge they could add to his library.

  As he was assessing the condition of the book, a movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. A woman was slinking slowly towards the door, her obvious desire for stealth made him think her a thief. The thought of whispering a warning to Mr. Timothy entered his mind, but suddenly a familiarity struck him. It was something in the way she walked perhaps, as he could not make out her face at this angle. He instinctively knew if he were to look directly at her she would run.

  His caution was for naught. Perchance feeling his eyes upon her, she abruptly rushed to the door and made her escape.

  "Thank you for your troubles. Please add this to my account," Darcy said tucking the book under his arm as he headed after the fleeing specter from his past.

  "But we haven't discussed a price!"

  "Charge whatever you think is fair." With that Darcy exited the shop, leaving the poor shopkeeper in confusion.

  Chapter Two

  He did not see me, Lizzy assured herself as she made her escape. Her feet carried her mindlessly, leading her across the bustling street back towards the park where she had met with Mr. Rowe. He would be gone by now, and she might sit on a bench and find a moment of respite.

  She could not explain her reaction. There was no reason to fear Mr. Darcy.

  If he were to acknowledge her at all, it would be only the slightest of nods. More likely he would cut her, pretending not to know her even if she had mustered the courage to greet him.

  Perhaps that was what she feared, though she did not know why his censure should frighten her more than anyone else's. She had endured more cuts than she could count at this point. Even dear Charlotte had been forced to abandon their friendship.

  Coming to her destination, Lizzy collapsed upon the bench. This little park had been the site of a church that had burnt in the Great Fire. The remains of the churchyard wall still stood around it giving the appearance of privacy.

  This was her favorite place in the City. There were a few trees here, all old oaks that reminded her of the country. She missed Longbourn desperately, but she was glad not to be there. She could not bear to see the odious Mr. Collins in her home or meet with her once friendly neighbors who would no longer speak to her.

  Caught up in her thoughts of Longbourn, Lizzy did not note the sound of footsteps coming down the cobbled path.

  "Miss Elizabeth?"

  "Mr. Darcy." Lizzy surged to her feet, her eyes wide and lips parted.

  The memory of the last time he had seen shock so patently written across her features caused Darcy to recoil. The hateful words they had thrown at each other when last they spoke came back to him as if he had asked for her hand only yesterday.

  He wondered why he had followed her. Yet he had and now he must say something.

  "You are in London." He wished he had said something cleverer, but he relished the small smile that came to her lips. At least his foolish words had amused her.

  "I am."

  "For the Season?"

  Lizzy chuckled dryly. "Yes, for this season—and every other. London is my home now."

  "You are in mourning," he said, internally cursing himself. Apparently he was capable only of making obvious observations.

  "Yes, my mother died last winter."

  She would never be out of black it would seem. Though she might leave off the mourning garb now, there was no room in their budget no matter how much Kitty pleaded for new gowns. When their mama had still been
alive they had indulged in new wardrobes. They could not bear the expense then either, but Mrs. Bennet would not hear it, so black had been replaced with the grays and lavenders of half-mourning. After her death their new dresses had been dyed black.

  "Your mother as well . . . . I read of your father's death. My condolences for your loss."

  "Thank you."

  Her eyes traveled to the armband he wore. "I see death has touched your life as well."

  Though the proscribed mourning period had long ended, Darcy had yet to give up the remnants of bereavement. Sentiment had very little to do with his continued observance.

  "You wear your black like a shield," his uncle had said just that morning. He could not fault the earl's perceptiveness. Playing the heartbroken widower was an excellent defense against unmarried ladies on the hunt . . . as well as meddling relatives who would rush him to the altar once more.

  "Yes. I lost my wife."

  "Your wife?" Lizzy scolded herself for the disbelief her tone betrayed. Of course he would have married. Even if he had wished to pine after her, a man in his position was expected to marry regardless of where his heart lie.

  "Forgive me, I did not know you had married. I'm so sorry."

  He nodded.

  Silenced passed over them, leaving them both wishing for a way to end the conversation yet they lingered. Lizzy could not say what held her, but Darcy knew this sensation of old. The same spell that had captured him so completely in Hertfordshire was drawing him into the depths of those fine eyes once more.

  He took a long breath as if to speak again, but Lizzy cut him off. "I must go. It was so good to see you, Mr. Darcy. Hopefully . . . ." I will never see you again. This meeting had discomposed her so. A repetition would be intolerable.

  "Miss Elizabeth, wait." He grabbed her wrist and then, just as hastily as he had seized it, let it go.

  Lizzy stopped, turning back towards him.

 

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