by J. L. Ashton
It was after a long afternoon of providing identical answers to similar queries on his preference in cake, partiality to tea, opinion on ladies’ novels, and favourite horse names that the “Darcy disappearing act”—first established during his third year at Eton—occurred.
After a search of the library, the study, and the conservatory, Hadley found him in the stables, preparing for a hard ride. Together, they rode silently out through the wood and up to the property’s highest peak, where they dismounted and strolled over to see the view.
“I know you prefer the rough, untamed looks of the north, but I find at least as much beauty in Warwickshire,” Hadley said quietly.
“It is more civilised here, more cultivated,” Darcy agreed. “That does not lessen the beauty. You have not imposed yourself or any French sensibilities on your land.”
Hadley chuckled. “No. But I believe I have imposed on you.”
Darcy glanced over at his friend. “I beg your pardon?”
“I owe you an apology. Cecilia and I never intended this as a hunting party with you as the prey.”
“I know that, John.”
“You have had enough of that, I think.”
“Yes…” Darcy tamped down a memory of a recent ball and the lady whose laugh and spirit haunted him at the most unexpected times. “I do not wish to be hunted, yet…” he continued, his voice low, “I believe I would like to be found.”
Hadley glanced at his friend staring unseeing out at the valley below.
“Found? Are you lost?”
Darcy shook his head. “Not lost at all. Searching, perhaps, for the happiness you have found and that your parents and mine enjoyed.”
The two men stood in silence. In the comfort of being with a friend who understood his meaning, Darcy’s mind wandered. He deliberated on the lack of easy conversation to be had with young ladies not named Elizabeth Bennet. He wondered whether she would retain that name for a few more days or weeks.
What will be her name after her marriage?
He had never thought to ask her this or many other questions. He had been content and safely happy to enjoy her witty observations and intelligent comments. He had never pressed Bingley to fill in the details about her intended husband and those two boys she would mother or the exact arrangement that Collins man had with another of the Bennet sisters. Another small oversight to be added to his regrets in life. He sighed. He needed to stop thinking about Elizabeth Bennet. Hadley’s voice broke through his dullness.
“This is unseemly, hosting you here with all these young ladies and Georgiana back in London. Rather the reverse of things, don’t you agree?”
“I do.”
Hadley laughed. “See, my friend, you can say those words. We simply need to find you the right lady to say them to.”
***
While Elizabeth could admit Mr. Wickham was all that was handsome and charming, she could not admit she liked him or felt him a proper gentleman. Although she had limited acquaintance with gentlemen outside her family and those she knew in Meryton, none had ever spoken of another person’s behaviour to her with such familiarity. She was accustomed to the gossip of the town being delivered with undue haste by her Aunt Phillips and quickly digested, interpreted, and passed on by her mother. For a man to behave in the same manner was unseemly. She could not admire him.
Mr. Collins presented a greater dilemma. He had mortified her with his observations on her sisters’ dress, conduct, and piety, and since hearing Mr. Wickham’s pronouncement on the alleged Grieving Groom, the vicar had shared many opinions on the worth of Mr. Darcy. He spoke of character with as much force and enthusiasm as he had previously employed when sharing the merits of a dish seasoned especially well. Twice she had reminded him that Mr. Darcy remained his ladyship’s nephew and presumptive heir, and Mr. Collins had reined in his tongue. Still, she suspected him of continuing to cast dark calumnies on Mr. Darcy and wondered at any whispers she heard in the shops and sitting rooms.
More than once, while visiting or walking with Charlotte, she alluded to her concerns. Her friend had seen little of Mr. Darcy or Mr. Wickham, but she was more grounded in a charitable view of Mr. Collins than Elizabeth anticipated.
“The study of God’s word and the practice of piety may not make a man wholly wiser than other men, but Mr. Collins has been in the world, Lizzy, and he knows Mr. Darcy’s family.”
“Thus he must be believed and allowed to spread gossip and rumour about a man not present to refute it?” Elizabeth was aghast.
“Perhaps Mr. Darcy’s friends should do their duty by him.”
No matter her growing feelings of hurt and confusion, and her frustration over her shrinking circle of confidantes, Elizabeth was exasperated with what seemed to be a mounting hostility towards a man not in residence to defend himself. She quietly reminded her mother that any stain spreading across Mr. Darcy’s name would only harm Mr. Bingley and thus, Jane. Wide-eyed with shock, Mrs. Bennet began silencing the conversation when Mr. Darcy’s name arose among her friends and daughters. Her sister, however, remained an eager confidante and audience for Mr. Collins’s conversation, and the trio spent much time at the Phillipses’ table, though no further slanders were spread at Longbourn.
Elizabeth took her concerns to her father. Mr. Bennet closed his book, leaned back in his chair, and looked amused. “Now, Lizzy, what has Mr. Collins said that defamed Mr. Darcy? A week ago, he raved about the man’s intelligence and worth, riches and family lineage. Now, after hearing from Mr. Wickham, he is calling him a scoundrel, a deserter of his bride, and the cause of her tragic death? What is the truth?”
“One or the other, I suppose.” Elizabeth frowned. “My inclination is to believe better of the man with whom I am acquainted than the one who smiled and shared his thoughts so freely.” She thought much better of the former while acknowledging that both men vexed her in different ways.
“I agree. I rather enjoyed Mr. Darcy’s intrepid proficiency at chess. He was a worthy opponent.”
Saddened, Elizabeth looked at her father. “Yet we may never know.”
“’Tis true. Is the story of death and deception better suited for a novel, or is it one for the history books and society pages?” He smiled, and his familiar droll expression lit up his face. “It surely is a better story at the hands of Mr. Wickham and Mr. Collins than the many novels your sisters claim not to be reading.”
Elizabeth laughed softly. “I suppose that is true.” She shook her head and referred to the other matter weighing heavily upon her.
“Papa, how much longer will Mr. Collins stay at Longbourn? I leave tomorrow. When I return in a few weeks, will he still be under our roof?”
Mr. Bennet gazed at his daughter, happy to be sparing his favourite from the truth and intent of Mr. Collins’s prolonged visit.
“I should think that he will soon return to his parsonage.”
Elizabeth nodded, choosing to agree with her father. She already had grasped more than he realised. She knew of the entail, and she had seen the way Mr. Collins regarded her and her sisters. Jane thankfully received only chaste, polite glances; Mr. Bingley’s attentions could not have been better timed. Elizabeth supposed herself safe from the vicar. She upset him with her opinions and her chess playing, and she frightened him with her demands that he cease speaking about Mr. Darcy. Mr. Collins appeared conflicted about her easy conversations with that gentleman. Just yesterday, he had walked with her to the rose garden, admonishing her and the blooms in equal measure.
“Cousin Elizabeth, Mr. Darcy’s understanding of gentlemanly behaviour is in question, but he remains the master of Pemberley and the nephew of the great Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”
After snapping a wilting rose from its stem, he had lowered his voice. “You are not his equal, and he is not to be trusted.”
Elizabeth’s valiant protector had glared at her with a severe expression of questionable intent. She had pondered him, wondering on his awkward, often venal stupidity. He liked to gossip and cast opinions and judgments. He easily exhausted others’ patience and hospitality, and he smelt of fish and never appeared thoroughly washed. Yet she could appreciate that he would someday be a father who strove to provide guidance— however dull and misdirected—to his children. She hoped he would have more to offer his wife and that the poor woman would curb these tendencies and ensure he bathed at least once a fortnight.
“I have neither fear nor expectations of Mr. Darcy. When thrown into company, we have discussed books and made simple, if intelligent, conversation—much as you and I are doing at this moment.”
Raising her eyebrows, she had shifted her basket to her left hand. “Not once did Mr. Darcy besmirch the name of any person, but he only spoke in admiration of a singing voice or a well-turned phrase.”
Noting the vicar’s confusion, she had concluded, “That is certainly more gentlemanly behaviour than I have seen of late among other men of my acquaintance.”
Ha! Her cousin had understood her meaning. He would not dare think her a proper wife nor consider presenting her as his bride to the fearsome and marvellous Lady Catherine; she was sure of it.
Her youngest sisters were also free from his admiration. Mr. Collins was appalled by Lydia and confused by Kitty’s fascination with Miss Bingley. While he seemed pleased and flattered by Mary’s piety and discipline, his eyes quickly shifted away from her, apparently relieved, whenever someone else entered the room.
He had not dared to court any of them; even Charlotte’s murky hopes seemed unlikely to garner attention. So why does he linger here? Was it the tragedy of Rosings that delayed the inevitable? And why was her father so silent on a matter of such importance? She could only hope that, during her weeks away with her aunt and uncle, the man would take his leave as alone as when he arrived and life could return to a common, quiet pace.
Elizabeth finished packing and readied her bed. One more day at Longbourn, and she was not just frustrated: she was angry and confused. Overhearing Lydia whispering to Kitty about Mary King’s overtures to Mr. Wickham and how that man’s open handsomeness was so in contrast to the dark evil of Mr. Darcy infuriated her. Kitty’s indifferent response—she wondered whether Miss Bingley frequented the fabled Almack’s and favoured pink or yellow rosettes on her green dance slippers—came almost as relief. Almost. Once again, Elizabeth told Lydia to mind her business and her tongue. Lydia laughed and claimed her older sister was green tinged with envy for losing the charms of two handsome would-be suitors.
Elizabeth was beyond pleased to be leaving Longbourn for the home of her aunt and uncle, where intelligent conversation took precedence over casting aspersions on character. But leaving Jane behind and floundering in the bubbling stew made her unhappy. The night before she left, the two sisters sat on Jane’s bed and pondered the looming questions.
“Lizzy, can Mr. Wickham be truthful in what he says? Mr. Darcy is a good friend to Mr. Bingley, yet Mr. Wickham has known him far longer.”
Elizabeth brushed a thread from her nightgown and sighed. “Oh, Jane, Mr. Wickham confuses me. He has all the appearance of happy charm but with so much ire beneath.”
“Ire?” Jane’s pretty face wore an unfamiliar, sad expression. “So you doubt him?”
“I question his reason for telling such tales, true or not. A young lady is dead, a family is in mourning, and Mr. Darcy may be a dastardly cheater, or he may be a truly bereaved groom. What sort of man is he? He confuses me too.” Elizabeth flung herself back on the bed.
“He was glad of your company.” Jane lay down beside her.
“He was,” Elizabeth agreed in a hushed voice. “More than was proper, according to Mr. Collins.”
“And now he is off, enjoying his friends at another estate party. It is curious.”
“He showed no signs of cruelty nor any lack of feeling. Mr. Wickham was swift to tar his reputation with cruel accusations.”
“Yes, he was quick to tell his tale. However, it is true what Mr. Collins said: Mr. Darcy gave his betrothed only a short grieving period.”
Elizabeth bit back another sigh. All behaved badly, and all are equal? She wished her sister could give an opinion, pronounce a verdict, or say aloud what she truly thought of a person, a gown, or an idea. Their cousin certainly had no such hesitation—nor did she. She shuddered to recognise their shared trait.
“So, Mr. Collins is in the right?” Elizabeth felt her face flush as her anger flared. “For a man with little grasp of what occurred behind the walls of Rosings and no apparent knowledge of Miss de Bourgh’s ‘spurning by the Judas,’ our esteemed cousin has claimed a high moral ground on which to proclaim judgment.”
“Lizzy!”
“Jane, he passed judgment on me to our neighbours, faulting my friendly conversation with Mr. Darcy.”
“He has been rather verbose on others’ behaviours, especially those of Mr. Darcy.” Jane had a perplexed look on her usually serene face.
“Indeed, he has. He claims to be a man of God, yet he forgets that which he studies and professes. Does not Proverbs tell us, ‘Accuse not a servant to his master, lest he curse thee, and thou be found guilty’?”
“Defending Mr. Darcy brings out the Mary in you.” Jane giggled and peeked at her sister. “Oh dear, I am so awful!”
Elizabeth tossed a pillow at her sister. “Oh, Jane, I shall miss you.”
***
His cousin’s appearance in Kenilworth two days later lessened some of the pressure felt by Darcy. Richard attracted all the attention due a distinguished but amusing, brave, and moustachioed officer of the King’s army. Every female fluttered after him, seemingly unmindful of his status as a second son. He was manliness and courage personified, and he wore his uniform (and the scar on his cheek) quite well.
None of the ladies need know the scar came at the hands of his deceased cousin Anne, when the outraged fourteen-year-old had thrown a fork at him for an impertinent comment about her ill-fitting gowns. A stern lecture from his father followed, and his advice on how to properly observe a lady proved itself valuable in years to come. “The Fitzwilliams are breast men, boy. Take care with where your eyes land so that your hands and lips might later roam.”
The earl had a way with words.
Three days after Richard’s arrival, an afternoon thunderstorm found the sexes scattered indoors enjoying separate pursuits. The ladies were practising a pantomime or playing duets while the men used their idle time to perfect their skills at billiards. Richard and Darcy, respectively the victor and disgruntled loser of the previous match, conversed quietly on the other side of the large room and watched Hadley play his older cousin.
“Ah, Darcy, defeated again. All the pretty ladies will swoon when the news reaches their ears. I believe it past time that I teach you a favourite game among military men.”
Darcy rolled his eyes. “Richard, I do not wish to fence or play mumblety-peg or compare…things.”
His cousin laughed so hard he began to wheeze. “Gadzooks, Darcy. You are no fun. You need relief. Let’s off to London for a night or two and visit—”
“No.”
“It has been ages for you.”
“And it will remain ages, Richard, until my wedding night. I have had my…sport, my education. I do not…that is not what I wish any longer.” Darcy stared at the window, watching the rain droplets run down the dark glass panes.
The colonel’s silence spoke more than would a joke. Darcy looked away from the window and saw Richard stroking his moustache. That was never a good sign. He is thinking hard, peeling away my layers. Damn it. Darcy determined to take control of the conversation.
“So, if you must, tell me about this military game
. Does it require swords or pistols?”
“Neither.” Richard’s eyes were focused keenly on Darcy. “You see, men at war spend hour upon hour with nothing to do. They are on watch, they are on alert, it is tedious, and they are frightened. They miss their mothers, their wives, their lovers, their whores.”
“This is taking a dark turn, Cousin.”
“So, when men imagine what they are missing, they idealise what was left behind.”
“Yes? That would seem a natural consequence of such hardship and solitude.” Darcy shifted in his chair. He felt his cousin’s eyes still boring into him.
“So, in their minds, they see only beauty, grace, and love. And a soft, round set up top and a lush pink—”
“Richard!”
“Darcy, you truly need to drink more.” Richard leaned over and filled his cousin’s glass. He sat back and waited for him to drink.
“The game, Fitzwilliam? Please finish this excruciating exposition of your game.”
“All right, then, you impatient lout.” Richard stroked his moustache and smirked at Darcy’s annoyed mien. “The game is the men constructing their perfect mate. The perfect woman. It begins with a conversation. Hair, eyes, smile…everyone has the time to think and be specific. Is she a woman who loves to sing or loves to laugh? What are her favourite foods, her best recipes, her arts and allurements? What children would she bear you, and what would be their names?”
“This, I agree, would fill an idle hour.”
“And the men compare these women, debate over attributes. Why, one might ask, would a loud man favour a quiet girl? Why would a fat soldier prefer a plump woman? It would appear to make certain…um, positions more difficult.”
“Richard…”