A Pemberley Medley (A Pride & Prejudice Variation)

by Abigail Reynolds

Darcy could not take his eyes from Elizabeth’s light figure until she vanished into the trees, but the disturbance of his mind took away his usual pleasure at the sight. How had their conversation gone awry so quickly? One moment he had been warmed with pleasure at the idea that she was seeking his advice, then a moment later …. He did not even wish to think of it.

  Wickham. The cur had a malevolent talent for ruining happy moments in Darcy’s life. He half-wished he had not stopped Colonel Fitzwilliam from going after Wickham with a pistol at Ramsgate. What spiteful fate had set Wickham to cross paths with his Elizabeth?

  Mention of Wickham always sent clouds of fury through Darcy’s mind, making it difficult to think clearly, but not to the degree that he had failed to notice Elizabeth’s anger at him. Painstakingly he tried to reconstruct the conversation in his head, hoping to understand why her attitude had changed so much. What had she said about her sister, that she was heart-broken? He dismissed that idea. Miss Bennet had been disappointed by the loss of a fine marital prospect like Bingley, no doubt, but her heart had not been touched. She had never shown signs of a particular regard for him.

  But while Elizabeth might profess an opinion not her own, she was not the sort to lie. She must believe that her sister cared for Bingley, perhaps out of her own romantic notions. His anger softened a little at the thought, soon procuring forgiveness for her. But no wonder she was distressed, if she felt torn between her growing affection toward him and her loyalty to her sister.

  He nodded slowly. That would explain a great deal.

  Elizabeth put down her embroidery with a sigh and rose to her feet. What ill-luck was it that caused Mr. Darcy to come to call on her whenever she was alone? In any case, should he not be at Rosings for tea, along with the Mr. and Mrs. Collins? Elizabeth had pleaded a headache and stayed home, primarily to avoid the gentleman now standing before her.

  He did not sit down, but instead paced back and forth across the floor. “I am sorry to hear you have been in ill-health,” he said. “May I hope that your headache is better now?”

  “Tolerably so, thank you.” Perhaps she should have said it was much worse, and then he might go away.

  But he seemed to have something else on his mind. He did not appear to be in good spirits; in fact, if anything she would have said he looked worried.

  “Miss Bennet. I wish to apologize for my behaviour yesterday.” He spoke hurriedly, as if he wished to get the words out as quickly as possible.

  The great Mr. Darcy lowering himself to apologize? Hardly likely. Elizabeth wondered what he was hoping to accomplish. Certainly he could no longer be maintaining any romantic intentions toward her.

  “There is no need for apologies. It was a misunderstanding, nothing more.” She hoped he would go now.

  He did not seem happy with her response. “I would also like to ask you to keep what I said about my sister in strictest confidence. I am sure you understand the importance of this.”

  So he did want something from her. As if she would be likely to reveal something to the discredit of a young girl she did not even know! “You may count on me to reveal nothing, because that is precisely what you told me.”

  “But about Mr. Wickham....”

  “Mr. Darcy, I understand that you and Mr. Wickham have your disagreements, and that one of them apparently involved your sister, but I would prefer to remain outside them.”

  “Disagreements? Is that what he called them?”

  Elizabeth was quite exasperated by Darcy’s refusal to change the subject. “Difficult as it may be to believe, I do not recall every single word he ever spoke to me, either about his sister or about you, nor do I see any reason why I should tell you if I did.”

  He fell silent, but the whiteness of his face spoke of his anger. His boots seemed to strike the worn rug with unnecessary force. She could see his struggle to keep control, but sympathized with him not at all. If he insisted on forcing the topic of Mr. Wickham on her, she was well within her rights to say what she did. It was just more proof of his pride and ill-temper.

  Finally he burst out, “I cannot believe that you place your trust in such a man.”

  “I have seen no reason not to.”

  “He is a scoundrel. He has wasted his education, squandered his inheritance, left debts behind him, and attempted to take advantage of innocent young women. Is that enough reason for you?”

  “Squandered his inheritance? He says you denied him his inheritance.” Anger had taken over from wisdom in choosing her words.

  “That is nonsense. His inheritance was a living which he chose not to accept, and I paid him three thousand pounds in lieu of the preferment. Which he squandered, then had the audacity to apply to me for the living when it became vacant. You cannot blame me, I hope, for refusing.”

  Elizabeth was taken aback. Their stories coincided, except for the portion regarding the payment. But which man to believe? Mr. Darcy had never seemed a dishonest man, despite his ill-temper, and what would it profit him to make up such a tale? But if he was telling the truth about that, should he also be believed about Mr. Wickham’s other supposed sins? She could not imagine that amiable gentleman behaving in the manner Mr. Darcy described, although it was true that he seemed rather free with his money, and had been all too ready to denounce Mr. Darcy on their first acquaintance.

  “I cannot believe him so bad,” she said, more to herself than to Mr. Darcy.

  Darcy’s mouth twisted. “I had hoped you would trust my word, but since you cannot, I urge you to appeal to Colonel Fitzwilliam for information, since he has the misfortune to know Wickham quite well, and can confirm all the particulars. Good day, Miss Bennet.” He slapped his hat on his head and strode toward the door, turning only once for a last, long look.

  Elizabeth was still shaken when Charlotte returned. When asked what was the matter, she said, “I believe you were right about Mr. Darcy’s interest in me.”

  Charlotte beamed. “What wonderful news! A brilliant match, indeed.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “No, I fear not. I have thoroughly discouraged him. We have quarrelled twice now. He will not be back.”

  “Discouraged him? Eliza, are you out of your mind? Think of the advantages of such a marriage!”

  Elizabeth took Charlotte’s basket from her and set it on the table. “Dearest Charlotte, you know I have always wished to marry for affection. All the advantages in the world mean nothing to me next to his abominable pride and manners. I could never love such a man.”

  Charlotte sank down in a chair and closed her eyes. “Sometimes I forget how young you are, Eliza. How can you look at Jane and still believe love is a good thing? Certainly, it can be wonderful for a brief moment, but more often it causes nothing but pain.” The bitterness in her voice could not be missed.

  “Just because Mr. Bingley did not prove to be the gentleman we believed him to be….”

  Charlotte shook his head. “Wait until you fall in love. You will learn there is nothing that can hurt you more. I would never wish to be in love again.”

  Charlotte in love? “Again? Have you been keeping secrets from me?”

  “I should not have mentioned it. You were still a child when it happened.”

  “But what happened?”

  “There is nothing to tell. I fell in love with a gentleman, a young acquaintance of my father who was always kind to me, but I discovered he cared for someone else. That is the whole of my experience with love, but it was enough to show me the dangers. You cannot imagine the pain of being rejected by someone you love. Have you ever seen Jane in such low spirits?”

  “No, I have not.” Elizabeth suddenly recollected the look on Mr. Darcy’s face, just before he left her. Did he feel the kind of distress Charlotte had, or Jane? Quarrelling with him had seemed such an excellent solution, but she had never considered how he might feel. She had accused him of ignoring her sister’s sensibilities, yet she herself ignored his. If Mr. Bingley had treated Jane so, her sister would have bee
n devastated. Oh, why had she not been more gentle in her attempts to dissuade Mr. Darcy from pursuing his suit? She was no better than he in that regard.

  Charlotte stood and rubbed her hands together. “But it is all no matter. Love comes to nothing in the end, and life goes on.” She left the room quickly, before Elizabeth could respond.

  But Charlotte’s words continued to echo through Elizabeth’s mind. After walking herself into exhaustion on the muddy footpaths of Rosings Park, she perched on the wobbly footstool outside the parsonage’s kitchen door to shake off the worst of the dirt from her petticoats and half-boots. She began to scrape the soles of her boots along the bristle-brush left there for that purpose.

  A woman’s low laughter came from kitchen. Elizabeth recognized the voice of Mary, the maidservant. In her broad Kentish accent she said, “He may be a fine gentleman indeed, but I would not choose to serve such a stern master, no, indeed, I should not!”

  “That is all for show,” a man’s voice replied. “In private he is quite different. If I must be in service, I can think of no better master than Mr. Darcy. He treats us with kindness and generosity, and never makes unreasonable demands. My last master, now, if the mood took him, he would rage at me and blame me for everything, but not Mr. Darcy. If aught troubles him, he just keeps to himself. Almost never does he have a cross word for anyone.”

  Elizabeth could hardly believe her ears. Of all her beliefs about Mr. Darcy, the most certain was that he was an ill-tempered man. She strained her ears to hear more.

  “He was in a temper when he left here yesternoon, and that is a fact,” Mary said. “Practically grabbed his gloves from my hand and didn’t even wait for me to open the door, he was that glad to be gone.”

  “Aye, he has been in an odd mood of late.” The man lowered his voice a little, and Elizabeth could not hear his next words for several minutes, until he spoke up again. “And he burns ‘em. Stays up half the night writing letters, pages and pages, and then he burns ‘em. I’ve never seen the like.”

  “Letters? Who are they to?” Mary sounded fascinated by the prospect of gossip.

  “I’ve no clue. Like I said, he doesn’t trouble me when he’s in a mood. I just see the ashes in the fireplace in the morning, and I can tell he tosses and turns all the night away. But I didn’t come here to talk about Mr. Darcy.”

  Elizabeth heard Mary’s low laugh, then nothing but silence. Cheeks burning, she tiptoed away. Once she was safely out of earshot, she sank down onto a stone bench. Was Mr. Darcy’s suffering because of her? The idea of him, sitting late into the night and thinking of her, made her feel oddly warm.

  She wondered what the burnt letters had held, and whether they had been addressed to her. She had never received a love letter, but she could not imagine what Mr. Darcy might say in one. Did he save all the words he kept back in conversation for his nightly letters? Was it words of love that he burned each night? A shiver went through her at the thought.

  When Jane’s next letter arrived, Elizabeth retreated to her room to read it. Although Jane made an effort to be cheerful, it was clear that her spirits were still not recovered. Elizabeth felt a familiar flash of anger with Mr. Bingley for leading Jane on, but could not stop her thoughts from moving to the man she suspected of being the architect of the plan, Mr. Darcy. Perhaps if he was suffering now at her hands, it was only his just due for what he had done to Jane. But even as she thought it, she knew the falsehood of it. Mr. Darcy’s pain would not ease Jane’s, and whatever his motives, she doubted that he would have deliberately hurt Jane. He seemed so very protective of his own sister.

  That was another mystery. Although she told herself she should respect Miss Darcy’s privacy and not think on it, she could not help but wonder from time to time what Mr. Darcy’s great secret about his sister was, and how Mr. Wickham played into it. Clearly he felt Wickham had injured his sister somehow…. But no, the discussion had started with the idea of a sister being disappointed in love. Although she had accepted that Wickham was not the man she believed him to be, she could not picture him doing anything too bad. Then again, he had been quick to blacken Mr. Darcy’s name. Yet Mr. Darcy’s concern seemed to be for her, that somehow she would be misled by Mr. Wickham. A sudden suspicion crossed her mind. Mr. Wickham and Miss Darcy? But no, it could not be. Wickham had not spoken of Miss Darcy with any particular affection.

  She needed some fresh air to clear her mind. Putting Jane’s letter aside, she took her sunbonnet and quietly made her way out the door. She was not yet ready to face Charlotte again.

  Usually she walked toward Rosings Park, but today that held too many memories, so she set off down the lane toward the village, stepping carefully to avoid stones and ruts in the road. Hunsford was much smaller than Meryton, only a handful of small houses clustered together. As she reached the first cottage, she heard a small child calling desperately, “No! No! Come back!” A quick glance was all it took to assess the situation, as a boy of perhaps six scrambled into the road in pursuit of a dozen chickens. Clearly they had escaped the coop and were now making the most of their freedom. The boy’s chasing was only driving them further away.

  With a smile at their antics, Elizabeth hurried nearer, shaking her skirts at the chickens to drive them back. She clucked at them, running back and forth as she herded them toward a gate in the fence. The boy, following her lead, pulled the latch to shut the gate behind them, blurting out his thanks, but Elizabeth felt she should be the one to thank him. The adventure had lifted her spirits.

  A deep voice spoke behind her. “You seem to have missed one.”

  She whirled to see Mr. Darcy, impeccably attired as always, holding a struggling white chicken at arm’s length. She could not help but laugh at the incongruity of the picture.

  With an attempt at solemnity, she said, “As a rule, chickens prefer not to be held.”

  Mr. Darcy bent over the stone fence and deposited his charge in the yard. “So I have discovered, but unfortunately, she seemed disinclined to listen to me when I told her to go back.”

  The image of the proper Mr. Darcy, giving orders to a recalcitrant chicken as if it were a dog, provoked a peal of laughter from her. She clapped her hand over her mouth, recalling her resolve to be kinder with him. “It was good of you to assist.”

  “It was my pleasure.” He seemed occupied with picking stray bits of down off his black coat. When it was cleaned to his satisfaction, he looked up at her, his expression unreadable.

  It was hard to be anything but amused when he stood there so seriously while a white tail feather dangling from the collar of his coat, despite his meticulous efforts. She stepped closer and took his lapel between her fingers, removing the offending item and offering it to him. “It appears you missed one as well.”

  His lips curved slowly into a smile. She had never stood so near to him when he smiled. It was peculiarly consuming, as if his smile somehow possessed the power to draw her in. She had never noticed the light that could dance in his eyes, either.

  His fingers closed over hers for a fraction of a second as he took the feather, but it felt longer as warmth penetrated her thin gloves. Suddenly Elizabeth could think of nothing but how astonishing it was that such a man should feel affection for her, of all people.

  Instead of letting the feather drift off in the wind, he tucked it into his pocket. “I thank you.”

  She bobbed a slight curtsey, not knowing what to make of the strange feelings coursing through her. Quickly she reverted to humour to regain control of the situation. “So, Mr. Darcy, now that we have resolved the pressing problem of the chickens, what shall we quarrel about today? I am feeling generous, so I will allow you to choose the subject.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Why should we quarrel?”

  She stepped back, feeling somehow more secure with a little distance between them. “Why, it seems to be our daily habit. We have exhausted the subject of our various sisters, so I thought we should have a new bone of contention. Perhap
s my cousin, Mr. Collins? No, perhaps not, it might be difficult to find two different opinions on him.”

  Mr. Darcy threw back his head and laughed. “I should be very surprised if our opinions of him differed. I am still amazed that he managed to convince a sensible woman like Mrs. Collins to become his wife. Can you imagine him proposing on bended knee?”

  Elizabeth pressed her fingers hard against her lips until she could trust her voice not to express her mirth. “I am sure I could not say.”

  His smile disappeared. “Pardon me. I did not mean to trespass on any confidence.”

  “No, it is not that.” But she could perceive he was a little offended, and wanted to see his smile again. “I should not say, but will you promise never to tell a soul?”

  “You may rely on my discretion.”

  She leaned toward him and said in a whisper, “I cannot tell you how he proposed to his wife, but he proposed to me only three days earlier. On bended knee.”