Mendacity and Mourning

by J. L. Ashton

Darcy jumped down from his horse and bowed to Elizabeth and her aunt. The children stared at him, wide-eyed, and he suddenly remembered that he had neither bathed nor shaved that day. Only his shirt was clean. I must look a sight. He reddened but forged on.

  “Miss Elizabeth, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he said eagerly. “I had wondered whether I might see you while I was in town.”

  “Ah yes. London is a large city, so this is rather…fortuitous.” Elizabeth turned to her aunt. “Mr. Darcy, may I introduce my Aunt Gardiner?”

  “Very nice to meet you, madam,” he replied and ventured cautiously, “I believe these young gentlemen are your sons, Thomas and Henry, visitors of late to Longbourn?”

  Mrs. Gardiner smiled. “Yes, returned with Lizzy and reunited with their sister, Lily.” The little girl squirmed and turned her face into her mother’s skirts.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Lily.”

  “Darcy?” Richard’s voice cut through the awkward silence.

  Darcy turned around and glared at his cousin. “I shall be but a moment. Please meet me at the house.”

  Richard said nothing. He smiled, tipped his hat, and rode off.

  Darcy turned back to Elizabeth. His eyes softened as he gazed at her. “Please, forgive my appearance. My cousin and I have just returned from a visit to Kent, and our lodgings were rather…um, less easy than we had hoped. We are now for Darcy House to refresh ourselves.”

  Though her eyes betrayed confusion, Elizabeth nodded sagely. “Not a bedroom to spare at Rosings? Mr. Collins claimed at least sixteen bedrooms, and the closets are more than commodious. He often has mentioned the impressive shelves.”

  “Your cousin is well versed in the glories of my aunt’s house.” Darcy bit back a smile. “Uh, there were complex circumstances in this particular visit.”

  “Indeed.” Elizabeth’s voice lost its teasing tone. “I hope Warwickshire was more to your taste and comfort.”

  Mrs. Gardiner interrupted. “Lizzy, I must take the children to the carriage. Will you join us shortly?”

  Before Elizabeth could reply, the boys had run ahead to a fine-looking, well-maintained carriage. “I shall be there in a moment,” she cried as her aunt, Lily in hand, followed her sons.

  Darcy realised he had little time. “I apologise for the intrusion, Miss Elizabeth. I wondered whether you… You see, I am joining my sister here in London. May we call on you? Or, perhaps, would you join us at the menagerie exhibition? I understand from your sisters that you quite enjoyed it, and I hoped you might lend Georgiana and me some of your knowledge.”

  Darcy watched a myriad of emotions cross her face. Confusion, anger, indecision… What preoccupied her?

  “Miss Elizabeth?”

  “I would be happy to join you at the menagerie,” Elizabeth said in a halting voice. “I had hoped for another visit to see my new friends in all their furred and feathered glory.”

  “Splendid, splendid.” Darcy smiled at her and said no more.

  “Mr. Darcy, I must join my aunt. If you will excuse me.”

  Darcy shook himself out of his haze and walked with Elizabeth towards the carriage. “Forgive me, I am not quite myself, and I am in great need of sleep.”

  “Your invitation, then, was it sincere or the product of a rattled mind?”

  “Oh, quite serious. Quite serious indeed.” Darcy looked at her intently. “My sister and I shall call for you tomorrow at, say, half-past eleven?”

  “Tomorrow?” She paused before responding, “Yes, that will do.”

  “Good,” he said cheerily. “Um, Miss Elizabeth? Where would we find you?”

  Halting next to the carriage, she smiled archly. “Gracechurch Street, sir. In Cheapside. The house with the blue door.”

  ***

  He did not flinch, she thought later, only because he was so tired.

  Elizabeth had spent the rest of what felt like an endless day avoiding her aunt’s inquisitive glances and wondering what Mr. Darcy was thinking. What does he want? To while away a few more hours before heading back on his bridal hunt? More talk of books and clouds and tree climbing? Did he think she was a convenient companion for him and his sister? What was it that Mr. Wickham had said of the girl?

  She had found refuge in a game of pirates with the boys and a book on naval battles that she only stared at blankly. Now, with dinner over, she sat at the writing table in her room. For nearly a week, she had managed not to think on that which again so preoccupied her: Who is this man? Which version of him, which shadings, are correct, and which stray outside the lines of truth? Thinking about Mr. Darcy was both exhausting and fascinating, though she chastised herself for the latter.

  He was betrothed, or he was not. His promised bride was dead, or she was not.

  Regardless of whether Anne de Bourgh lived, he had deserted her. Or he had not. He was unkind to his sister. Or he was not.

  Her sources were less than impeccable. In her recent experience, men were creatures of deceit and confusion. Although a self-professed learned man of the cloth, Mr. Collins proved himself a greedy, opinionated, even naïve observer of the human condition. He had the temerity to judge her a bit wanton for her open friendliness to a man she thought bereaved. Mr. Wickham made a handsome man in uniform, but he appeared too eager to share his tales, to soak in sympathy, to rest his eyes on unworldly country girls.

  As for Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth felt chastened in her openness to him. She had enjoyed his company, but now she felt the disparity in their status, in their friendly conversation, in her buried hopes and expectations. No more than comfortable repartee had ever been assumed, but his leaving for another estate party had hurt—she hated to admit it—and left her feeling more alone at Longbourn than ever before. She had no claim on his attentions and no right to feel his absence.

  Those who had noted her friendliness to Mr. Darcy failed to see the effect his departure had upon her. Jane was so occupied with Mr. Bingley that she did not see how her sister had grown quiet. She was accustomed to an Elizabeth who listened to, asked questions about, and expressed enthusiasm over Jane’s exultations on her wonderful gentleman of Netherfield. Papa seemed to miss his chess-playing friend but observed no more. Her mother regretted the departure of a rich man in spite of his possibly scandalous and blackguard behaviour, but she appeared more concerned over the loss of Mr. Collins as a suitor for her daughters. While quite pleased with Mr. Bingley’s steady attentions to Jane, Mama was satisfied when Mr. Wickham, often accompanied by a friend or two from the militia, came to tea. Elizabeth, loath as she was for that man’s company, had forced herself to attend in order to police her mother’s eager ear and loose lips for gossip and aspersions on Mr. Bingley’s absent friend.

  It was insufferable to feel this way, to have regret and hope and anger warring within her heart. Elizabeth did not lament that little had passed between them, but she was steeled against resuming Mr. Darcy’s friendship. Even though his eyes sparkled with amused intelligence…and that lock of hair fell in his eyes…and his lips curved in that soft smile when discussing the stars or listening to her light-hearted stories about her neighbours.

  They should not be friends; but now, he was here in London and requesting she meet his sister. She could not imagine his motives. Was his sister made dull here as he had been in Hertfordshire, and would a country girl’s company serve as a useful diversion? Was she little more than an unpaid companion for tired, jaded Darcys? Did the girl know the true fate of Miss de Bourgh? Did Mr. Darcy? Why had he gone to Rosings?

  For all that she wished to know, Elizabeth could only arrive at a single conclusion: Mr. Darcy remained a mystery. However much meeting his sister might allow her some further discernment of his character, the prospect of making her acquaintance raised ever more worries and questions.

  Will a girl accustomed to London soc
iety and a great estate in the north lower herself to allow this country gentleman’s daughter as her guide among the wild beasts in the menagerie? Will she suffer my company simply to satisfy her brother’s intentions?

  What are his intentions?

  Elizabeth sighed and stared at her reflection in the wall mirror. Miss Bingley would find the request for her company perfectly apt. The wild girl of Hertfordshire would of course have cause for familiarity with the wild, untamed animals of Africa.

  Throwing herself down on her bed, Elizabeth wondered how the next morning would pass. She could talk of books and children and ribbons and grass, but her cache of such anecdotes was near empty. She would not enjoy herself overmuch. It was a good thing the man would not be long in town. She was in no danger.

  ***

  “I shall break you, you know.”

  Richard smiled in the coldly amused manner that so disturbingly resembled Miss Bingley. Darcy turned away and filled his plate.

  Richard’s moustache twitched. “Darcy, who was that young lady? Miss Elizabeth Bennet? You have neglected to tell me how you know her and in what connection.”

  Settling himself at the table, Darcy maintained his silence.

  “Come now.” Richard appeared annoyed. “You virtually vaulted off your horse, and I must say, Orlando was one unhappy steed.”

  Darcy took a bite of the cold roasted pheasant and nearly sighed aloud. A bath, a shave, clean clothes, and now this vast repast. He had done his time in coaching inns and once, while at Cambridge, spent a night in the stables after failing to return before the gates were locked. But he had never felt quite as…dreadful as he had a mere two hours ago. His spirits were low, disturbed, and chaotic after learning of Anne’s new status—and made worse after their visit there—but they had improved remarkably upon seeing Elizabeth. He despised importuning her while in his state of vileness, but it had to be done. She had been placed in his path as a stroke of good fortune or as reward for his endeavours. He had to seize the moment and secure some time with her.

  Now he felt himself again: Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, man of decisive action. A good meal, a short nap, and he and Richard would resolve how to best address Lady Catherine and peel back the remaining layers of deceit. They would need Richard’s mother to help mend the social damage, which they could hope would be confined to “that unpleasant, eccentric branch of the Fitzwilliam family.” Never before had the family’s happy, comfortable situation in society been so imperilled. They had earned favour as supporters to their friends, hosts of grand parties, and timely payers of their bills. All would be well, eventually, if all would cooperate.

  He consumed half his dinner before turning to Richard. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet is the sister to Jane Bennet, whom Bingley is courting in Hertfordshire. She and I often served as their chaperones while I was at Netherfield.”

  “Ah, of course,” the colonel replied.

  ***

  But Richard wished to know more, to know the story behind his cousin’s odd behaviour. His own reconnaissance of the tempting armful whom Darcy had chased down raised puzzling questions demanding deliciously detailed answers. Darcy’s object of pursuit has a lovely set underneath that pelisse, though something tells me that pair is the lesser of what fascinates him. Not that he would mention this particular observation to his repressed, possessive cousin, but he anticipated an interesting conversation ahead, preferably over brandy not poured from moss-covered bottles.

  Richard sat back and watched Darcy stab another bit of creamed potatoes. Apparently, the man would not break easily. Pity. He was tired and less inspired to play than usual. No matter, he would interrogate him further. It was his cousinly duty, after all. He had never before seen Darcy eager to solicit female attention, and this one did not fit the portrait of a lady he had imagined for him. Not that he thought too much on such things, of course. It was all that damned time waiting for battle with nothing to do and his blasted imagination running wild. Hence, those cursed visions of Anne as his bride. Thankfully, he could leave those thoughts behind—and the dreadful visions as well. Please!

  He stroked his moustache to clear it of crumbs. “There is more. Speak, Darcy.”

  “I enjoyed her company. We discussed books and history, and I wished to greet her. It would have been rude to pass her by.”

  Books and history. Of course. Richard rolled his eyes. “She passed you by and never saw you. But you saw fit to pursue her while in a most wretched state and greet her?” He chuckled, sat back from his empty plate, and stared at Darcy. “I have seen you at balls and dinners, done up to the nines with a freshly shaven face and a ruffled silk cravat tied around your neck. Not once have I seen you pursue a woman for conversation. Ever.”

  ***

  Later, Darcy would attribute his moment of weakness to fatigue. He was tired and in need of sleep. But he was also tired, so tired, of half-truths, lies, and deceptions in his family and in society. So when Richard pushed him again to explain his attentions to Elizabeth Bennet, he did. Briefly.

  “She is the only woman of my acquaintance whom I can imagine marrying.”

  It was a rare thing to leave the all-knowing Richard Fitzwilliam speechless. Darcy would like to do it more often, and he suspected that Elizabeth was just the woman to manage it on a frequent basis. He left the dining room and headed to his rooms, where he pulled off his boots and stretched out on his bed. He would close his eyes for a few minutes before attending to the post and returning to his uncle’s house to see Georgiana. He would tell her about the plans for tomorrow and ensure that she felt able to make a new friend. She would like Elizabeth straightaway, he was certain, if only his sister would put forth the effort. And Elizabeth would draw her out and make her smile as she had done with him within moments of their introduction. Thinking back on it now prompted the same response.

  They had met barely two months ago and immediately become friends, he thought, over the story of Mr. Eggleston’s burned books. In ensuing weeks, their conversations ranged over terrain he had never covered with a lady and quite rarely with a man. Bingley and Richard certainly did not care for books as he did. Since Cambridge, he had found friendships in his fencing school or at his club, and none of them had ever once touched on Milton’s musings on Dante or the curious shape of a cloud that resembled a chicken.

  There is no one like her. Not another woman in England on any estate or in any house. She was like no one he thought he would fall in love with and marry, but she was everything he wanted that person to be—except for the unmentionables, of course, such as social standing, family name, and wealth. And those unmentionables would be mentioned by his family in spite of proving no real obstacle; she already had risen above the people of her town and her family, and his wealth was enough for their comfort. He would have to suffer her mother, but had he not suffered for years under the tantrums and smothering demands of Lady Catherine? It might be best if Lady Matlock never met Mrs. Bennet, but Elizabeth was reasonable. Some arrangement could be worked out to lessen the effect her mother could have on their happy felicity.

  Her father was an intelligent man, a dry conversationalist, and an astute player of chess; but whether from disinterest or indolence, he had neglected his estate. Clearly, there would be little or no dowry. He thought with some pride that he had done a fine job these past five years ensuring that Pemberley and his other estates and investments thrived. All was well. She need bring nothing but her charming, beautiful, intelligent self to the marriage. And to the marriage bed. He groaned. It had long been an effort to suppress his more rapaciously intimate thoughts about her, but she enflamed him. His skin tingled when she was near; he felt hot, itchy, and fully alive. He ached for her, but it was more than lust—he was sure it was love.

  She would be overwhelmed by it all, but he would guide her. He would lie beside her and teach her about all they could
share. Good lord. Darcy closed his eyes. There it is again. Visions of her beside him flooded his mind. Her hair, loose around her shoulders, her bare shoulders… He had repressed such feelings for so long, but once he saw the first and only woman to tempt him in years—or ever—he had to redouble his efforts not to think of her that way. It was safe to think of her brains and her beauty and her eyes—always her eyes. But by all that was holy, he had to fight his observations about her figure—her lovely, heart-pounding, trouser-tightening figure.

  Darcy sighed heavily. In spite of the entreaties of his friends and cousins to enjoy himself, he had not touched a woman in better than three years. Lying abed at Hunsford, trying desperately not to hear—let alone laugh or scream at—the sounds emerging from the room next door and trying to block dreadful images of Anne in ecstasy from imprinting themselves on his sex-deprived brain, had been exhausting and sickening.

  Had he and Richard ever been as dull as they had been that morning? They rode away tired, hungry, unshaven, and unbathed from that sorry excuse for a love nest after making promises to pry open both Lady Catherine’s mind and Rosings’s doors. They could not make eye contact with Anne or her preening husband, who grinned at them like the cat who ate the canary. Just the vague memory of those torturous hours now softened his desire and his traitorous body’s urges.

  Tomorrow. He would see Elizabeth tomorrow and re-capture that charmed amity they had shared in Hertfordshire.

  He closed his eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Eleven

  Georgiana was full of questions about their detour to Cheapside. She wondered about this new friend her brother had invited on their excursion, and she seemed dissatisfied with his explanation that Miss Elizabeth Bennet was a neighbour to the estate Charles Bingley was leasing.

  “Fitzwilliam, do you know her well? Is she much older than I am? Will we share interests? Why has she not called on us, and why has my aunt not mentioned her?”