by J. L. Ashton
“Not to you, not to your character!” Darcy protested.
“To my social standing—or lack thereof.”
Darcy jumped up and paced around the room. “No…it is not you,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “I am not at liberty to explain myself. It is true your family is not of the ton, but that is of little concern to me.” He sat down in the chair beside hers, so close their knees almost touched.
“It is of concern to your family,” she replied quietly.
“Much has occurred in my family these past weeks, events of which I was not aware when I met you. While the Fitzwilliams are a proud, sometimes truculent lot in the best of times, these have been the worst of times. My uncle wishes me to uphold the family name at this time as he determines the best way forward…”
“I see.” Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath. “Visiting estates and raising hopes is standard practice for those of your station.”
“Please. I do not explain myself well. I cannot. Even to you.” Darcy cursed his uncle, his aunt, his cousin, and every member of the Fitzwilliam family who were causing him and this dear lady such tumult.
“My family situation is not an easy one. But you, Elizabeth Bennet, can merit no objection that cannot be surmounted in time.”
“This is madness…you are mad.”
“I am not, most assuredly not,” he said with a soft smile. “It is all, alas, complicated.”
***
Elizabeth looked away from the man sitting so close to her. She had seen that smile before, and it could weaken her righteous disappointment and anger. “Love, as you call it, often is complicated,” she murmured. Straightening her shoulders, she stared across the room, letting her gaze slowly drift back to settle on his face.
“Mr. Darcy, everything I know of you has shifted in the past day. Your idea of me has as well. I thought you a grieving groom; you thought me near my wedding day.” Elizabeth laughed, and it sounded bitter even to her own ears. She paused and looked down at her hands, staring at a small cut on her finger, the victim of an errant needle, to focus her thoughts.
“Sir, I fail to understand: Why did you not ask about such an event? Why assume it? In what manner did I behave as a woman promised to another?”
Darcy leaned closer and stared at her hands. His fingers trembled as though yearning to grasp hers.
“These are difficult questions.”
“They are not difficult; they are important,” she insisted. “Why would you not enquire about an event so momentous?”
“I am not in the practice of speaking with a young lady of little acquaintance about personal matters.”
She stared at him coldly. Or asking Mr. Bingley for clarification?
“It…it creates expectations…in my experience.”
Ah, the poor, hunted, eligible master of Pemberley emerges again. Protecting himself against the huntresses. “So you spoke to me of books, flora and fauna, history, and politics?”
“Yes,” he breathed out, as though relieved she understood his direction.
“As you would with a gentleman of little acquaintance?”
“Um, no. Yes. I…I had rarely, if ever, met a young lady with whom I could speak of such things. You have such great intelligence, more so than many a man.” He gazed at her intently. “It was more than diverting. I greatly enjoyed our conversations. I have missed them.”
“Yet now you speak of courting me, even as you set off on another wedding tour?” Elizabeth closed her eyes. Her head hurt. “I am sorry for you that your estate visits have not produced a lady of equal conversational arts. Mayhap, you will find your equal in income and social standing on this new journey.”
Darcy reached out and grasped Elizabeth’s hand. “There is no one for me but you.”
Her eyes flashed as she pulled her hand away. “I cannot think that true. What depth of feeling can you have for me? You tell me your family will not accept me, and they are near impossible to please. You say I diverted you as a gentleman friend might do. You speak words of love, yet you are off to continue your marriage hunt.”
She bowed her head. “Your imagination is very rapid. It jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment.”
“No, Elizabeth, you misunderstand.”
“Yes, as do you. You are too familiar, sir, and you mistake my feelings, and I mistake your character.”
“My character?”
Abruptly, she stood and walked across the room, turning to pronounce her verdict.
“I heard the words spoken by Mr. Collins and Mr. Wickham, but I believed better of you. Still, although I give them no credence, I do not understand you. I am not certain whether—”
His face paled. “Wickham? How do you know that man?”
“He was with the militia in Meryton.”
“Good lord,” he spat out. “He is not a man to be believed nor trusted.”
Elizabeth faltered. “As I said, I did not give his spiteful words credence, but others did. Yours fail to appear trustworthy as well.” She walked to the doorway.
He stood and approached her. “Please, we need to discuss what has been said.”
Her head hurt. “No, I cannot. No more.”
“Eliz…Miss Bennet, please.” His voice conveyed an urgency unfamiliar to her. “I must know what was said. I accept and regret my own mistakes, but my name and reputation have been impugned.”
“As have mine,” she said quietly. “There are those in Meryton who think you a terrible man, who look at me and wonder whether I too fell under your spell. They saw us converse. They saw us laugh. They saw us walk together. Some assumed it was a declaration of affections. And then they saw you leave—in pursuit of a bride, it was said.”
Her hand that had firmly gripped the doorknob fell to her side. Her heart longed to reveal that all of Meryton thought him a man who abandoned one bride to pursue another, but she was afraid to say it aloud. How could she explain her attempts to quiet rumours even as she did not understand him?
***
Darcy stared at her, shocked. “No, that is not how it was.” He sounded desperate to his own ears. How had this gone so wrong?
“I defended you then as a gentleman. Yet now we are to repeat that history.”
“No,” he said roughly. “I shall not leave you this time.”
He grasped her hand and looked at it as he stroked her palm. When he raised his eyes to her face, he found her eyes glistening with tears. His heart broke.
I did this. “Please, do not weep. We must simply talk, and all will be well.”
Elizabeth pulled her hand away. She opened her mouth to respond, but a scuffle in the hall drew them apart.
“Lizzy, is the golden-haired princess here?”
Henry and Thomas ran into the room, Lily and the nursemaid quick on their heels. “Apologies, miss,” the girl said breathlessly. “We were on our way to the kitchen, and Henry heard a man’s voice.”
A hand far smaller than Elizabeth’s slipped into Darcy’s. He looked down at the tiny girl.
“Pwince?”
Before he could reply, Henry was tugging his sister away from Darcy’s. “No, Lily. His sister is the princess.” He looked up at the tall man. “Is Miss Georgiana here, Mr. Darcy?”
“No, Henry. She is at home.”
“Please may we see her?”
Mrs. Gardiner came into the room. “Mr. Darcy, I see you have drawn an audience.”
He smiled, albeit weakly.
“My Henry enjoyed your excursion yesterday. Please, might you and your sister join us for dinner, perhaps tomorrow night?”
Darcy looked away from Mrs. Gardiner’s expectant face and glanced at Elizabeth. She appeared as senseless as he felt. Seeing him surrounded by her adoring cousins seemed to hav
e softened her opinion of him. She offered a small smile and shrugged.
“I am sure Mr. Darcy’s small acolytes would like that.”
He exhaled and offered her a grateful smile. “I believe we have no engagements, but my sister and I have now imposed on you twice. We would like to host you tomorrow evening, Mrs. Gardiner. With the children, of course.”
“It would be our honour,” Mrs. Gardiner replied after a glimpse of her niece’s astonished expression.
Noting Elizabeth’s attention focused elsewhere, he said his farewells and moved towards the door, followed by the children.
“Goodbye, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy’s heart was pounding. How little did she know of him? How little did he know of himself? He had not known enough of her circumstance and misjudged that she was betrothed, and thus, he had used her ill. Not once had he considered how she might be viewed in his company. He thought she was engaged to someone else and they were merely chaperoning his friend and her sister. He had thought himself safe in her company, and she in his, and he had taken more pleasure in their time together than he remembered sharing with anyone.
Of course, she was angry that he had used that confusion to enjoy her company. Her friends and acquaintances—and perhaps even her family—had whispered and gossiped about her behaviour. “Some assumed it was a declaration of affections.” Good lord! To think that he had hurt her name and affected her standing grieved him deeply. It was wrong of him. It was not the behaviour of a gentleman.
But worse, far worse, was that she had been obligated to protect him, that this wonderful, intelligent, lovely girl whom he had hurt had defended his name against the scurrilous likes of that blackguard Wickham!
I do not deserve her.
To think Wickham had been to Meryton and spoken about him. Impugned him! He had not thought of that cur in months, had not seen him since he was banned from Pemberley and Darcy House well over a year ago. Mrs. Reynolds had discovered him in Georgiana’s sitting room holding the pearl and emerald necklace left to her by her mother. It had been the final deceit; Darcy had spent years patching up and paying off the worthless man’s mistakes and, years prior to that, protecting his father from knowing too much about the dissolute ways of his steward’s son. He had paid off Wickham for the living at Kympton that he neither wanted nor was fit to have.
Finally, the revolting news came that the tongue-pad had dared enter Georgiana’s rooms. Mrs. Reynolds had said it was the second instance of Wickham being sighted in the family wing, but nothing was missed on the previous occasion. The thought of his mother’s jewels being stolen, of Georgiana’s possessions touched by that man, had infuriated Darcy and made for an easy decision he vowed never to regret. He had thrown the sponging fellow out of Pemberley and cut all his ties to the Darcy family, barring Wickham’s entry to their homes and to any of London’s decent establishments. Worthless hell-hound—he always was able to cut a wheedle and better his situation. No more, Darcy had determined. He would do all he could to deny the man access to society.
Yet now, he was returned to society by wearing a red coat, and he had slandered the Darcy name. The uniform was more than Darcy would have expected. Richard would be aghast, but Darcy burned with fury. That man has been near Elizabeth, spoken to her. Has he been in her home? Who is in his confidence? Is he still there, spreading his lies?
Darcy stared sightlessly out the window of his carriage, desperate to reach his home, his only refuge from everything that was crashing around him. She does not return my affections; she thinks me no better than a rake. Me! My name and reputation is in tatters among her family and neighbours.
He was ashamed. He had not cared what the people of Meryton had thought of him. They had left him alone, respected his privacy because they knew he was in mourning, and he did nothing to relieve them of their misconception over exactly whom he was grieving. His cousin, not his betrothed. And I was grieving for a lie, a mistruth told by my aunt after she was deceived by her daughter.
Angry though he was at his family, he thought only of Elizabeth and the tears he had caused. When she recited the list of his travels, he had been strangely heartened that she had followed his whereabouts and had been thinking of him. But, of course, she had wondered about them; his leaving Meryton had been the talk of her neighbours’ dining rooms and card tables.
She thinks I dallied with her heart. I was careless with mine as well.
Darcy stormed into the house and headed for his study. There he could think and determine the words he must say and actions he must take to repair their friendship. He nearly ran into Richard standing by his desk with a drink in one hand and a letter in the other.
“Damn it!” Darcy cried. “You? This cannot be good.”
“Smart man. Cambridge was a good investment.” Richard thrust the letter at him. “It is not good. It is yet another sordid chapter in the demise of the Fitzwilliam fortunes.”
Cousins,
An alarming event has occurred. Mr. Collins, the vicar at Hunsford, arrived on our doorstep this morning. He was seriously displeased with our residence in his home. He first spoke to my dear Peregrine, demanding his ouster, and he claimed Hunsford and Rosings have been closed due to fever.
I fear I did not recognise his voice as I often had stuffed my ears with cotton bits when Mother made me attend tea with him or go to services. He is a dreadful man. Peregrine likes everyone, but he too was vexed by Mr. Collins’s demeanour. Might I mention that my dear husband was quite impressed by both my cousins and made particular note of your fine manners, impressive hair, and straight posture?
I digress. In feeling that I, as heiress to Rosings, must assert my authority and ensure that he understood the primacy of Peregrine’s residence with me, I made the grievous mistake of showing myself to Mr. Collins. His tirade shifted from one of angry displacement to one of astonishment and suspicion. It is you, Fitzwilliam, who now have become the chief suspect in my mysterious disappearance. Mr. Collins could hear nothing but his own voice and insisted that you are the spiteful, cuckolded groom who has created this sham of death to preserve your own reputation. He wondered aloud how I escaped your fiery temper and pistol!
I must say, he seems to be reading from Lady Matlock’s hidden novels. He had the further temerity to call Peregrine and me sinners, and he warned us that he was God’s servant and would be off to advise my mother of our circumstances. I must say, sinners would not have offered the officious man food and lodging, though we did. Instead, he preferred to travel in the pouring rain; thus, I cannot report on his fate nor on his success in reaching Mother with news already known and disparaged.
I am a selfish creature who has asked much of you. Peregrine wishes to visit Mother and demand that she recognise our vows, but I fear a scene. I fear for our child and for any further slur she could make on the family. This situation can be laid at my door, but inasmuch as it is true love, I cannot regret the result.
Your cousin,
Anne Dumfries
Chapter Thirteen
If Darcy’s morning at the Gardiners’ had been difficult, his afternoon confrontation with his aunt would prove little better. At least with his family, he could defend himself: he was not at fault for the awful predicament created by the ladies de Bourgh, the foolishly venal vicar, and the peculiar yet earnest painter. He could set aside his despair at his own stupidity and blindness, forget the ache in his heart, and just be dutiful in resolving this ridiculous state of affairs.
The identical letters Anne had written to Darcy and Richard could only further ignite anger. For if Lord Matlock had been seething over his niece’s folly and his sister’s lies, he was positively furious over the insolence of the good Mr. Collins. He had crumpled one copy of the letter and hurled it into the roaring fire in his study. When he demanded Darcy’s copy as well, his nephew had prevaricated and claimed it remained folded on his d
esk at Darcy House. Instead, a tumbler, thankfully already drained of an excellent port, was sacrificed to the flames.
Tempers were beyond simmering when the cousins and the earl arrived at Lady Catherine’s London residence. Moments after the trio walked into her drawing room, where she was perched, imperious and unyielding, on a thickly cushioned chair, the indignant clergyman was announced. He pushed past the elderly, shuffling footman and prostrated himself to offer aid to his patroness in winning back Rosings.
“Who is this ass who says Rosings is lost?” Lord Matlock yelled angrily as Collins begged Lady Catherine’s assistance in cleansing the parsonage, which had become, he claimed, a place of sin and fornication.
His cries did not hit their intended mark. The lady reared her head and commanded the parson repeat his words. He did, haltingly, before she demanded he retract every one of them. Her eyes narrowed, and her voice turned quiet and cold.
“My daughter is no fornicator! She is a married woman, a lady, who sits far above your lowly position.” She frowned more deeply. “But she is dead to me.”
“Enough!” the earl roared. “Shut it, Catherine, before I have you sent to Bedlam!”
Collins stepped back from the increasing acrimony, hunched down, and slowly moved away. Never a graceful man, he stumbled on the long tails of his coat and rolled off to the side of the rug. The elderly footman looked away from the cleric sprawled near his perch. Darcy sighed and leaned over to hoist him to his feet.
“Unhand me, sir!” Collins cried, his voice a mix of fear and disgust. “You are the cuckolded stallion behind this scheme of death and deceit! First your cousin and now mine, their names and reputations besmirched!”
Darcy scowled and released his grip, sending Collins crumpling back to the floor. “You are a fool, you lying, totty-headed dolt.”
“Sir, I am a man of God,” Collins said feebly as he got to his feet, “and I speak the truth.”
Richard leaned close to him. “Shut it, or your tongue could have an accident with my sword.”