The Goodness of Men

by Anngela Schroeder

  She could not meet his eyes. She felt his presence, and to be honest with herself, she always had, ever since their first meeting at the Meryton assembly all those months before. How could I not? She cast a quick glance at him before feigning to be engrossed in Mr. Turner’s conversation. He is the handsomest man of my acquaintance! True, he is not a man without fault, but I must admit, those faults are falling away.

  Turner excused himself to speak with his butler, and she realized the only available seat was beside him. She attempted to hide her discomfiture and instead gave a weak smile as she took her seat.

  “Miss Bennet, I see Turner found you.”

  “I was in the library, just as you suspected,” she said softly.

  He grinned and sipped his tea before reaching for his quill. “Well, there are some things that can be relied upon for consistency. Your love of the written word is not insincere.”

  She recalled Miss Bingley at Netherfield attempting to impress him with the second edition of the book he was reading, and Lizzy shook her head. “And yet, if you ask my mother, she will tell you it is solely to vex her.”

  “As all children do to their mothers.”

  With no little merriment, she said, “I am certain, Mr. Darcy, that you never willingly gave anyone reason for vexation.”

  “No, Miss Elizabeth. Not willingly. And what did my friend find you reading? Might I attempt to guess?”

  She nodded before hiding her laugh behind her hand, all the while wondering at the man at her side.

  “Were you reading Shakespeare?”

  “No, but that would have been a shrewd choice as I have Taming of the Shrew on my bedside table.”

  He smiled at her reply. “Possibly the Faerie Queene?”

  “No, I am not in the mood to homage to her highness or her followers.”

  “No,” he replied, biting his bottom lip. “I suppose you are not. Well, then…possibly Geoffrey of Monmouth and the tales of King Arthur?”

  “I must say, Mr. Darcy, you do know my taste in literature, but alas it was not the roundtable that maintained my attention.” He continued tapping his lip with his quill, and she was mesmerized. I have never looked at his mouth before. He has such a strong jaw…and his lips… they are so… The lips she was studying were now curled into a grin and a most disarming dimple appeared.

  She blushed at being caught out but countered her embarrassment by raising her chin and smiled brightly. “I have never before seen you so intent on discovering anything about me.”

  They stood as dinner was announced and he leaned to whisper in her ear, his warm breath tickling her neck. “Then you have not been paying attention.”

  Chapter 5

  July 7, 1812

  The wind whistled gently through the trees as the tall grasses brushed against her skirts while she traipsed through the marshy field. She had been rambling through Chenowith lands for quite some time, as evidenced by her petticoats six-inches deep in mud, when her stomach made known it was likely time for breakfast.

  She shook her head and dabbed her forehead with the back of her hand, surprised at the amount of perspiration. “Oh, to be six-years old again, drop my dress on the trail, and hop into the creek with the Lucas boys.”

  She picked up her pace, eventually taking a shady path that veered towards the main house. A few patches of bluebells remained and the trail beneath her had a thin untrodden layer of grass. The trees began to choke out the sun, and the chill from the lack of daylight cooled her skin. I believe I have left Derbyshire and have entered the land of fairies and wood sprites. Might I encounter Robin Goodfellow?

  She pushed through a lane of tall grasses and continued around a bend in the wood. Her breath caught. Before her stood the moss-covered ruins of a once stately home. It was nothing in size to Chenowith, or even Netherfield for that matter, but she could tell by the remains that once a family of some means resided here.

  She tentatively walked up the moss covered stone steps. At the top of the landing, she surveyed the scene: arched window frames leading to hollowed out rooms with moss and ivy creeping up the walls. The once grand structure was but a shell with part of it having been consumed by fire. Finding what was formerly the entrance, she stepped over broken statues and the remains of generations past towards a semi-darkened corridor, starting slightly at the sound of animals scurrying around her feet. At the end of the corridor, there were beams of light spilling onto her path. She walked out into what once must have been the great hall.

  The ceiling had long since decayed but the walls stood erect and immovable reaching for the sky. Elizabeth breathed deeply, absorbing her surroundings and becoming one with them. The vines wove along the rocks, and the brilliant blue of the summer sun shone through without the covering of the nearby trees. She unabashedly held her arms out from her sides, closed her eyes and twirled in a circle in the middle of the room, stopping only after she had her fill.

  “Oh, what stories you must have had, old room. Balls and feasts? Love and jealousy? If only you could talk, I am certain you would have tales to tell.”

  A deep baritone voice interrupted her reverie. “Has Hermia discovered a marvel while searching for Lysander, Miss Bennet? Should I hope that nasty Puck sprinkled dew drops in your eyes?”

  “Mr. Darcy!” She spun abruptly, her face burned with embarrassment being discovered in such a fanciful state. “I assure you, sir, I seek no Lysander nor have I found him. It is only my wandering nature that has led me to discover these ruins. Forgive me for imposing upon your privacy. I will leave you.” She dipped a curtsey and hurriedly escaped to the door.

  “There’s no reason to depart, Miss Bennet,” he said, standing from the window’s ledge and taking a step towards her. “I have merely been reading”—waving a small book in his hand— “and welcome your company.”

  “You come here to read? There is a perfectly good library at Chenowith.”

  “There are times I like my surroundings to reflect what I am reading.”

  “A gothic novel?” she asked pertly, attempting to hide her smirk.

  The corners of his mouth turned up as he answered. “I only read those in bed by candlelight with Briggs sleeping on the chair should I take fright.” His arresting smile was unexpected, and she caught herself admiring once again this man who she had met but did not know. “No, my thoughts were aligned more with yours.” He held up his arms, and casually waved his hands at the walls. “‘Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest; Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood…’ If only the walls could give voice to all they had lived.”

  “Thomas Gray? I am astonished you would read Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Do you not imagine it is beneath your dignity to read about the final resting places of peasants?”

  He sniffed a little and looked down at his boot for a moment. When his clear eyes met hers, he said, “Miss Elizabeth. Do we not all have facets to our character we only allow a select few to witness? I am not always Fitzwilliam Darcy, member of the ton, master of a great estate. At this moment, I am simply William Darcy, the brother of the young girl who gave me this book, owner of a prosperous farm in the country.”

  She was slightly ashamed at her remarks but was too embarrassed to own it. Instead, she continued to tease him. “A farmer?”

  “Yes, a farmer. Do you not recall, I was digging up potatoes a mere five days ago, my valet ruing the day my workers did not arrive sooner? ‘Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest.’ As Gray was saying, if we do not remember those who came before us, or help the voiceless, we will lose their lessons to the world.”

  She stared at him, once again uncertain if he was the same man she had met in Meryton all those months before, the same man who had robbed Wickham of his future, the same man who stole the happiness of a most beloved sister. But had he? Mr. Turner had claimed that Mr. Darcy had been protecting Jane. Was Jane one of the voiceless?

  “Mr. Darcy. Might I ask you a question?”

  “Anything you
wish, Miss Elizabeth.”

  She took a deep breath, ignoring the sound of her name from his lips. She must not allow her courage to falter in the wake of his deep brown eyes. “It has been brought to my attention that you were the motivation in Mr. Bingley’s leaving Netherfield in the winter months.”

  “I was.”

  Not expecting such a direct answer, she pressed on. “And was there a particular reason for such an abrupt departure?”

  Bits of dust floated in the beams of light hitting the forgotten shards of glass left from the windows of the past. He observed her as she walked the space in front of him in nervous agitation. She is beautiful even in anguish.

  “Was there a particular reason?”

  Clearing his throat, he leaned against the window seat. “Yes, there was.”

  She continued to pace back and forth. “Why would you remove your friend from Meryton?”

  “I am certain you give me too much credit, Miss Elizabeth. I merely indicated I wished to see my sister and I thought we had stayed in the country long enough.”

  She looked at him, weighing his words, before replying. “And Mr. Bingley was willing to quit the place entirely with no adieu to his neighbors?”

  “As he has done before in other places.”

  She was quiet again, continuing to pace, before asking slowly, “Do you deny you felt the inferiority of the townspeople and hoped to leave and return to elevated company?”

  “I believe you find great enjoyment in professing opinions which are not your own nor are they mine. Once again, you forget I myself am but a mere farmer from the countryside.”

  “A farmer? You misrepresent yourself, sir.”

  He felt sheepish as he met her gaze. “It is true that my estate may dwarf others, but I am but a man—one man, living as other men, in the home of my ancestors as they did before me.”

  She kicked a rock towards the other end of the ballroom away from him, before looking up, her large eyes holding his gaze. “You, sir, are a conundrum. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.”

  He thought before responding. “I am certain each account would vary from the person telling the tale. But, you must remember the motives each person has. Pray tell me, what perplexes you most?”

  “It has been brought to my attention that you are the champion of those who cannot protect themselves…”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I like to imagine that I follow the teachings of my father and would always help those in need. However, I do not boast. A man who does, loses the pure gift of his rewards. One should not do good works in hopes of gaining the accolades of others.”

  She stopped and looked up at him, worrying her bottom lip. “And what of my sister? What were you hoping to gain by saving her from the capricious Mr. Bingley?” She squared her shoulders.

  Darcy chose his words carefully, attempting to not shame his good friend. “I value my friendship with Charles. He is a good man but often does not see how his falling in and out of love so easily affects the young ladies he leaves behind.”

  She tapped her toe on the ground, then looked out through the window frame on the far wall. “But, you did not answer my question, Mr. Darcy. Why did you remove him from Jane, when I can imagine you have not done so for other young women?”

  He met her gaze, weighing his words, before taking a deep breath. “I believe I saw similarities between my dear sister and yours. I imagined if Miss Bennet were my sister, I would not want a man, no matter how well intentioned, to bandy about with her emotions, as my friend often tends to do. Your sister is too kind to be the target of the world’s derision for disappointed hopes.”

  He did not mean for his voice to falter, but the image of Georgiana in the carriage on the way home from Ramsgate flashed through his mind, and he pursed his lips together, hoping no other explanation was necessary. He did not intend to wax sentimental, but the idea of his young sister in her grief made him wonder what could have been, and he involuntarily voiced his thoughts.

  “Georgiana has just reached her sixteenth-year,” he looked thoughtfully out the window. “It amazes me to think my dear mother has not been part of any of her milestones, and with the most important yet to come. She will be coming out next year, and I do not know who is more terrified—Georgiana or myself.” He lowered his gaze and smiled ruefully, drumming a nervous tattoo upon his leg. “Now, Miss Elizabeth,” he said reaching over to grab his book. “I have kept you long enough with the ramblings of a son and brother. Shall we return to Chenowith before Turner sends out a search party, and someone finds our little oasis in the woods?”

  She nodded mutely, and he offered her his arm, leading her back down the hall and out onto the mossy steps.

  “Do you know the origins of the house, Mr. Darcy?” She held his arm whilst taking small precise steps.

  “Yes. The Stratfords lived here and the family could trace their lineage back to Alfred the Great. They were gifted this land for their loyalty to the crown. However, generations later, during the battle between the Yorks and the Lancasters, the family lost Lord Stratford, and his wife, Lady Stratford was never the same. She would often be found wandering at night, and although her jaunts seemed harmless at first, unfortunately they took a turn for the worse.”

  “How so?”

  “Her candle ignited a curtain setting the house ablaze. The damage was irreparable.” A warmth passed through him at her slight gasp, and he languidly raised his hand to her mouth, almost touching her lips, before returning his arm to his side. “Had my own dear mother been in similar anguish… And Lady Stratford was in such a state. They say her grief was with her the rest of her life.”

  “Do you believe there is a limit to the time one should grieve?”

  He paused a moment, feeling the weight of his words, but he knew not why. “I believe a person who loves their spouse as much as she was said to have loved Lord Stratford could never fully return to their previous state. I know that my father was never the same man after the loss of my mother. When one loves so deeply…”

  “I have never had that depth of emotion, so I could not say.”

  He glanced at her with a crooked smile. “I think you have great depth of emotion, Miss Elizabeth, but have yet to experience it. You are still young. But one day…”

  Her breath seemed to catch. “I am merely one and twenty. Opportunities to meet men of depth and character come so rarely in Hertfordshire, that it would seem impossible. There have been some who have turned my head, of course, but it was simply a young girl’s fancy. Nothing of substance.”

  “Hmmm…” They walked in the opposite direction from which Elizabeth came. Sensing her hesitancy, Darcy asked, “Did you come from the east road, Miss Bennet?”

  “I am unsure but know it was not this way.”

  “Well, this is the west road. My horse is over here. If you do not mind, we can collect him and I would be happy to accompany you back to the house?”

  “Of course.”

  They walked in silence towards the far side of the moss-covered ruins where another large building stood. Darcy nodded and said only, “Gatehouse.” Finally, he began again. “If I might ask without presuming too much? What exactly makes a ‘man of substance?’ Must he have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages? Or quite possibly something in his air and manner of walking?”

  “Why, Mr. Darcy. You can make a joke! And a very good one at that!” She giggled and he knew he wanted nothing more than to amuse her, bring her joy. “However,” she continued, “there is so much more to a man than what you have listed!”

  “Such as?”

  She turned to him with wide eyes, and a teasing smirk. “He must still add something more substantial by the improvement of his mind by extensive reading!”

  “Yes, Miss Elizabeth,” he said, allowing a satisfied smile to play at the corners of his lips. “I believe you are correct”—and tapped his book.

  My dear L
izzy,

  How I wish I could meet your new friends. Mr. Turner sounds very handsome. And to be so young and own his own estate, unlike Mr. Bingley who was just leasing! Is he engaged to be married?

  Mr. Wickham is becoming quite a bore. He is no longer jolly and always has meetings. I am beginning to think I am not as important to him as I thought. La! There are plenty of other officers to keep me amused.

  (I wrote the above as he looked over my shoulder!)

  Mr. Wickham asks me to send his best wishes. He was most sympathetic when I told him you were visiting Chenowith—with Mr. Darcy! He wants me to tell you to keep your chin up and not to allow his dislike for Darcy to color your opinion of him. But if it did, he would be grateful for your support.

  He also asks if you have had a chance to go to the village of Kympton? It is but three miles from Chenowith and is the living that he was to have had if Mr. Darcy had not cheated him.

  Oh, Lizzy! I am so excited! I must close, as Mr. Wickham is to take me for a ride in a phaeton. I know what you will say, and no we are not chaperoned, but no one stands on ceremony in Brighton.

  Your dearest sister,

  Lydia

  Elizabeth noted that under Lydia’s signature there was a masculine script, hastily written.

  Miss Elizabeth, I wish you well, and hope you are enjoying your holiday in Chenowith, although a certain person might cause obvious distress. Know that I am fondly thinking of you and wish you were here in Brighton instead of Derbyshire.