Love Unsought

by Kay Bea

  Guilt for his absence fell upon Darcy with all the force of a late winter storm. Despite plans to spend several months at home after graduating Cambridge, he had discovered he had not the stomach to witness his father’s attentions on Wickham and so had travelled to London after only two weeks. Had he remained home, been a more faithful son, he might have known his father was ill, and Georgiana would not have been alone.

  He moved silently into the room and lifted his sister into his arms. She turned sleepy eyes to face him and said, “You came. I told Papa you would come, Brother.”

  “I will always come, sweetling.” He carried Georgiana to her rooms and deposited her gently on her bed. After covering her with an eiderdown quilt, he returned to his father’s side. There he remained for two days.

  In those two days, Darcy told his silent father everything. He spoke of Lady Arabella and how even worse than the shame of his aborted engagement was his utter heartbreak at finding his love so badly misplaced. He confessed his jealousy of Wickham and finally revealed the truth of Wickham’s misdeeds. He declared his determination to be a better brother, a better master, and a better man. He read aloud from his father’s favourite books, and he prayed as he had never done before. The afternoon of the second day, George Darcy began to make strangled noises as he tried to breathe.

  In a few hours’ time, Fitzwilliam Darcy found himself the master of Pemberley and, with Richard, guardian of his eleven-year-old sister. At that moment, he vowed never again to fail in his duties to his family or estate.

  Five years later

  Elizabeth Bennet sat alone on a quiet bench along one of the many lanes wandering through Rosings Park. In one hand, she clutched Mr Darcy’s letter; with the other, she massaged the bridge of her nose in an effort to ward off an impending headache.

  This headache was no ruse designed to avoid company. After Mr Darcy’s hasty exit from the parsonage the night before, Elizabeth had fled to her room. How dare he profess his love for her and his condemnation of her family in the same breath? And what of her beloved sister Jane? Jane, who had all the goodness, sweetness, and kindness that anyone could wish for and who was now robbed of her spirit. After their altercation, she had paced the floor of her chamber in an uproar trying to make sense of her thoughts.

  All these months she had been carefully cultivating her disapprobation of Mr Darcy and was convinced he did the same. What a shock to discover he fancied himself ardently in love. Her family was beneath him; he arrogantly separated Jane and Mr Bingley; he made no apologies for destroying Mr Wickham’s future, yet he clearly had not thought to be rejected. The arrogance! When at last she heard Mr and Mrs Collins return home with Maria, Elizabeth quieted herself only from a desperate need to avoid conversation.

  The morning had brought no improvement to her unsettled thoughts when she found Charlotte, Mr Collins, and Maria already at breakfast.

  “Lizzy, you look pale. Are you well?” Charlotte enquired.

  “I am well, Charlotte. Thank you. Only a little tired.” Elizabeth had toast and tea from the sideboard before taking her place at the table. She remained at breakfast long enough to be civil. “Pray, excuse me. I find fresh air to be an excellent remedy for a sleepless night, and I believe I shall take a short walk.” As the others were still eating, Elizabeth was relieved to be able to escape the parsonage alone. Remembering Mr Darcy’s gift for finding her on her morning wanderings, Elizabeth deliberately set out along a different path in hopes of avoiding him.

  Her efforts were in vain. Preoccupied with her own thoughts, her feet directed themselves to their usual route. Lost in her musings, she rounded the hedgerow and walked directly into Mr Darcy’s broad-shouldered back. Caught unaware, she stumbled and would have fallen had the gentleman not had his wits about him. Turning on the spot, Mr Darcy caught her elbow and steadied her.

  “Mr Darcy!”

  “Miss Bennet!”

  His hand lingered on her elbow a moment longer than was absolutely necessary but not so long as to stretch the bounds of propriety. In that moment, his eyes were unguarded and what she glimpsed there surprised her. She saw not censure, but could it be warmth? Concern? Apology? Before the thought could fully form, each took a step back from the other.

  Elizabeth curtseyed and spoke first. “I apologise. I was woolgathering and lost my footing. Please do not think I came this way to seek you out.” Whatever had been in his eyes vanished, and they resumed their usual cool and distant appearance.

  Mr Darcy bowed his greeting, “Of course not, madam. In fact, I have been waiting here all this morning in hopes of placing this letter in your hand. Please do me the courtesy of reading it. I—” He hesitated and once again Elizabeth thought she glimpsed a shadow of something more in his eyes. “I ask nothing more of you.” With that, he walked quickly away. Elizabeth could not name the thing she felt in her heart as his tall figure retreated from her view.

  She stared down at the letter in her hand, at once curious of its contents and determined not to read it. Surely no good could come from reading the thing. After walking on a bit more, she finally allowed that such a man as Mr Darcy would not exert himself to seek her out after her brutal rejection the night before if he did not have something of significance to impart. Upon first perusal, she could not bring herself to read more than half the letter and wished not to credit even that. The pain of seeing her family through another’s eyes was unwelcome. Her thoughts were in such turmoil that she walked for several minutes before settling on the bench where she now found herself.

  Taking a deep breath, she read the remainder of the letter.

  With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connexion with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me, I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity.

  Of course, you can, Mr Darcy, she thought. Who would dare dispute the master of Pemberley?

  The vicious propensities, the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain, to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character—it adds even another motive.

  Elizabeth’s thoughts tumbled over one another. Why would Mr Darcy be suspicious of her sentiments towards Mr Wickham? Why would anyone? Mr Wickham…vicious? He was so amiable!

  She forced herself to continue reading and was stunned when she came to Mr Darcy’s account of the matter of Mr Wickham’s inheritance and the living at Kympton.

  “Three thousand pounds?” Elizabeth could not fathom such a sum. How could this be? Surely no one could squander so vast a sum in such a short time. Her mind still struggled against Mr Darcy’s account. She could not reconcile the handsome, charming, and amiable George Wickham of her memory against the villainous scoundrel of Darcy’s tale.

  She read on. Her heart sank and horror rose as she took in the revelations about the man she had liked, whose own words she had believed and used to confirm her worst feelings about Mr Darcy.

  Elizabeth let the pages fall from her hand. Her mind and heart had come to an accord; it must all be true. There was no reason for Mr Darcy to expose himself or his sister in such a terrible manner otherwise. If she gave credit to his account of Wickham, then she must also accept he did not believe Jane to be attached to Mr Bingley. He may well have been presumptuous, even arrogant, in guiding his friend, but she could see that his actions were not meant to be malicious. He believed he was protecting his friend, and she could not fault his intent. The ache that had begun to form in her heart when Mr Darcy left her in the woods threatened to grow into overwhelming despair as she began to
comprehend how little she knew herself, how badly she had misjudged him, and what that judgment may have cost her.

  Elizabeth reflected on the beginning of their acquaintance. Mr Darcy’s remark at the assembly had struck where she was most vulnerable. Elizabeth could not remember a time when she did not hear her mother opine: “You will never be as pretty as Jane,” or “You are nothing to Jane.” Therefore, when the handsome gentleman from Derbyshire pronounced her merely tolerable, the arrow found its mark with alarming accuracy and, despite all her efforts to laugh, she had, in fact, been truly wounded. Mr Wickham could not have chosen a better audience for his half-truths and sad tales so ready was she to believe that Mr Darcy must be lacking in character. She had allowed her senseless, injured vanity to colour her perception of both gentlemen. Still, Elizabeth told herself that even if she had known the truth about Mr Wickham, she could not have accepted Mr Darcy’s proposal. He had shown a decided disdain for her family and made it perfectly clear he felt himself to be in every way superior to her. She was determined to at least find mutual respect in her marriage and was convinced she could not have that with Mr Darcy.

  Even as Elizabeth dwelt on this, she thought again of her harsh words the night before and was deeply ashamed. She wondered if Mr Darcy could ever forgive the slight, or if she had lost his good opinion forever. She wondered how reading a few lines on paper had rendered his good opinion of any significance to her.

  Charlotte’s words from the Netherfield ball resounded in her mind: “He is a man of great consequence and his attentions give you credit. To slight him because of your own vanity is foolishness.” Charlotte could not have known then that Mr Darcy’s worth far exceeded his income. Elizabeth remained on the bench for several more minutes before gathering her resolve and returning to the parsonage with the letter tucked safely inside the pages of her book.

  After leaving Elizabeth on the path, Darcy hastened first to the parsonage where he thought to await her return. However, when the house came in sight, he found he could not bear the idea of seeing scorn in her eyes. Feeling himself to be an utter coward, he wandered the lanes for some time before finally returning to Rosings Park. He had no doubt Lady Catherine would have long since noticed his absence, and he did not think even his excellent valet could hold her off indefinitely.

  Darcy wondered if Elizabeth could possibly know how deeply her rousing condemnation the night prior had wounded him. If you had behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner. Was he not a gentleman? Had he not always striven to be so? Had he failed in his promise to be a better man?

  “Is that my nephew? Attend to me at once, Darcy!” Lady Catherine’s shrill command rang through the hall, and Darcy winced. Knowing he could not ignore her demand, he strode to the parlour.

  “How may I be of service, Lady Catherine?” Darcy noted that both Richard and Anne were absent, a circumstance which struck him as both odd and devilishly inconvenient. Of all the damnable times for his traitorous cousins to desert him, this was the worst.

  Noticing him looking about the room, Lady Catherine announced, “I have sent Fitzwilliam looking for you, and Anne has taken to her rooms. She is indisposed. Anne has been terribly worried over your extended absence this morning. Now, answer for yourself. What have you been about?”

  “I went for a walk about the grounds. I made it a long walk as I intend to depart Rosings tomorrow.”

  “You cannot leave so soon! You are to announce your betrothal this visit! What about Anne?”

  “What about Anne? You know perfectly well that neither of us has any intention of marrying the other.”

  “Anne will do precisely as she is told. She is an obedient and faithful daughter who knows her duty to her family!” Lady Catherine pounded her cane on the floor to emphasize her point.

  Darcy had little doubt of the truth of his aunt’s words. Though Anne did not want to marry him and had said so many times, under enough pressure from her mother, he knew she would capitulate. “But I, madam, will not. While I cannot stop you from attempting to dictate each aspect of Anne’s life, I can remind you that you have no authority or claim to control mine. Good day, Lady Catherine.” With those words, Darcy left the room, fearing what he might say if he remained in her presence.

  Darcy knew Anne often feigned exhaustion as a means of escaping her mother. He was hoping this was one such occasion. For although he was determined to quit Rosings the next morning, he could not do so without a proper farewell to his cousin. As he moved towards the grand staircase leading to the upper floor and Anne’s apartments, Darcy encountered Richard coming in from outside.

  “Where the devil have you been? You were supposed to keep Lady Catherine occupied this morning!”

  “Ho there, old man.” Richard clapped him soundly on the shoulder. “I sat with Cousin Anne and Lady Catherine for a full hour after breakfast this morning. I regaled them with tales of daring and bravery from the front until Lady Catherine would hear no more and insisted I go in search of you. At that moment, Anne fell ill and had to be assisted to her room by Mrs Jenkinson. I have just returned from an exceptionally awkward half an hour spent with Mrs Collins and Miss Lucas.”

  “Did you see Miss Bennet?” Darcy cursed the hope he heard in his own voice. He had to master himself. Elizabeth, no, Miss Bennet, had made it perfectly clear she had no interest in him, and he would not importune her any further.

  “No. She had not yet returned when I took my leave.”

  “I see.” But Darcy did not see. He did not see at all. What could be taking Elizabeth so long? Why did she linger over his letter? Did she believe him? Did she forgive him? Did he deserve her forgiveness? Did he want it…? Had he even asked? By force of will, he pushed those thoughts aside and suggested that Richard join him in visiting Anne.

  On reaching her apartments, Darcy executed a series of knocks they had used since childhood: two raps on the door, followed by three, then again two.

  Anne came to the door. Closing it behind them, she grasped both of Darcy’s hands in her own, kissed him chastely on the cheek, and said, “My dear cousin, what have you done to yourself? I can see in your eyes that you suffer greatly. Tell me everything.”

  “I proposed to Miss Bennet,” Darcy said.

  “It is high time, too!” proclaimed Richard. “Congratulations!”

  “Hush, Richard. Can you not see it did not go well?” Anne chastised the boisterous colonel with a glance that held a shadow of her formidable mother.

  “She will not have me.”

  “Why not?” Anne and Richard exclaimed together. Only they could have asked such a direct question of him with any expectation of an answer. Anyone else would have been dismissed with a glare.

  But his cousins were not anyone else. Anne and Richard were the only two people in whom Darcy could place his confidence. There, in Anne de Bourgh’s sitting room, surrounded by frippery and lace, Darcy told all: his disastrous proposal, her scathing reply, and the letter he had delivered that morning.

  “You love her.” Anne’s gentle words were not a question.

  “It does not signify. She has made her feelings clear, and I have learnt a valuable lesson. I shall not be so incautious with my attentions in the future, and I will leave Kent tomorrow. It is not likely I shall see her again. If I do, we will meet only as common and indifferent acquaintances.”

  “Common perhaps but not, I dare say, indifferent.” Anne pressed her point. “You did not deny that you love her. Therefore, if you are to win her heart, Cousin, you must prove yourself worthy.”

  “Prove myself worthy?” Darcy sputtered. He stood and began pacing about the room. “Prove myself? Of course, I am worthy. Ridiculous! I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley. I am a gentleman. I move in the first circles of society. I have excellent connexions, a prominent family of ancient lineage, and great fortune to recommend me. I have had ladies of the highest calibre vying to become the next mistress of Pemberley since I first left Cambridge. I certainly could have mad
e a more eligible match at any time but I chose her. With her ridiculous family and relations in trade, I still chose her! That should be proof enough of my worth.”

  “Tell me you did not say as much!” When Darcy did not deny it, Richard went on, stretching his long legs out before him. “Darcy, you are by far the best man I know, but you have a terrible habit of expecting that everyone of your acquaintance will always act according to your wishes. You insulted Miss Bennet’s person, family, fortune, and position in life. You followed those insults with a letter that, while explaining your actions, did not exhibit an ounce of humility, regret, or compassion, yet you still expected her to accept you. You would not tolerate such speech or sentiments against Georgiana, I dare say.”

  Darcy glared at his cousin. “What have I to regret? My actions had honourable intent, and I spoke the absolute truth. As to Georgiana, no one would have cause to make such a speech. My sister is exceptionally accomplished, has impeccable connexions, and a significant fortune!”

  “Darcy, do you not hear yourself?” Anne censured him. “You have not once spoken of Miss Bennet’s feelings, wants, or desires. You speak only of yourself. Was it not you who told me that a gentleman is known by his actions, not his station? Regardless of the truth of your statements, how can you think it a mark of love, much less that of a gentleman, to have insulted a good and decent lady? As to your opportunities to make a better match, you know perfectly well there are many of those so-called ladies who hold only the loosest claim to the title. I cannot think you have so easily forgotten the last well-connected and supposedly suitable lady to whom you were attached. You are better than this, Darcy. And have you not witnessed improper behaviour in our own family? From my own mother? Examine her interactions with Miss Bennet. Mother insults her at every possible turn. That Miss Bennet manages to maintain her countenance is a testament to both her humour and her intelligence! And think of how Cousin Henry behaves when he is in his cups, which is more often than not. Our family is not above reproach, yet you condemn hers. For what? From what you have said her family is no worse or better than ours, except with a smaller fortune…and less alcohol.”