Mendacity and Mourning

by J. L. Ashton

  With his words still fresh in her mind, she felt some pangs of remorse. He knew not how she felt about him. She had judged him harshly, leaving him to press his case in a letter. It was awful to think he was in London, wondering whether she still thought ill of his behaviour and dreaded his arrival.

  No, he could not think so. He must not. Not just as her feelings were forming. How she wished she had seen him one more time before she left London.

  At least, she had had the presence of mind to take a moment and read his note, and she had left one in return in the event he did go to the Gardiners after she and her uncle had departed. Her words must give him some hope, some reassurance.

  Sir, although we missed your presence this morning, we look forward to your arrival at Longbourn as well as your company and your conversation on a morning walk. As you know, in all things of nature, there is something of the marvelous.

  —EB

  It was likely his family still occupied his time. Mr. Darcy had implied that no cordiality was left in his relationship with his aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh and that, in expressing his feelings for her, he would defy his uncle’s wishes. Elizabeth wondered whether this man must always have a new family crisis.

  And some would think my family difficult? Such a family he had! A devious, lovesick cousin. A malicious aunt. A loyal if rather improperly mannered and flirting cousin. She would await Mr. Darcy’s arrival at Netherfield and see how he reacted to the newest twist in the endless saga of who was betrothed to whom.

  She looked down and sighed. Mr. Darcy is not the only one of us with a difficult, mercurial cousin. Nor is he the only man who writes letters of intent to those who reside at Longbourn.

  The cursed Mr. Collins had written a grandiloquent letter, full of self-regard for his self-sacrificing intent to save the Bennet name from its association with the nefarious Mr. Darcy. He would, he vowed, burnish the family lineage with children of his loins. His bride awaited him there, and he would speak to her father upon his arrival two days hence.

  His bride. Such a terrible fate.

  Elizabeth could hardly bear to count the hours or meet the laughing, pitying eyes of those who knew through her mother’s loud exclamations that it was she, Elizabeth, who would be redeemed and Longbourn would be saved. Such a notion could be true only if her stomach did not turn at the thought of Mr. Collins’s face, loins, and horrid fishy smell and if she had not stood mere inches from Mr. Darcy, feeling his warm breath and looking into his dark, expressive eyes.

  Oh my.

  Perhaps with such thoughts, she too could write a lurid novel worthy of being buried in drawers and under mattresses. After all, she had two men wishing to save her name and reputation. She could only hope one man—the better man—arrived sooner than the other. Why did her cousin assume she needed her name redeemed and her reputation restored? He was the one responsible for slandering Mr. Darcy and perpetuating the mythology of the “Cuckolded Mr. Darcy’s Malfeasance and Great Perfidy.”

  “Lizzy, do not be missish,” her father had said upon welcoming her home. “Come, read this letter from my dear cousin, and tell me all I have missed in your great and tragic love story. It is worthy of the Bard.”

  It was indeed a horror story. Mr. Darcy might have a cousin risen from the dead and married to an odd, inappropriate man, his aunt might be bound for Bedlam, and the rest of his family might be waiting for him to finish playing saviour in order to ruin his plans for his own personal felicity, but she was facing the prospect of a proposal from the increasingly odious Mr. Collins.

  Granted, she realised she might not be his intended…victim. In his letter, he wrote of his plans to return to his parsonage and his need for a wife by year’s end. “The man has a mission,” her father said with a chuckle. Year’s end was but seven weeks away, and he would be at Longbourn within two days to declare himself. Who was his intended? Was it one who wished for his address, such as Mary or even Charlotte? Could it be the Widow Toomey, who set a fine table and whose creamy turnips had so excited the man’s palate that he had asked Hill and Cook to recreate them at Longbourn?

  Yet Elizabeth’s father teased that it was she who was the devout man’s intended. The suggestion sickened her, pleased her mother, reduced Lydia to hysterical laughter, confused Kitty, and angered Mary, who pounded hymns furiously on the pianoforte and refused to listen to Elizabeth’s denials of mutual affection.

  “Lizzy, stay inside. Mr. Collins will not want a wife with sun-browned cheeks.” Her mother eyed her as carefully as she might a plump goose or an especially fine piece of lace. “A stitch or two in your gowns would tighten them here,” she added thoughtfully, pinching the fabric across her daughter’s chest.

  Elizabeth fled and sought peace behind the closed doors of her bedroom or in the stillroom with her one trusted supporter. Two days after her arrival home, and but one day before the appearance of the wrong suitor, she beckoned Jane to help plait her hair.

  “Jane,” she said, appreciating the confident serenity that a courtship and firm affection were having on her steady older sister, “shall I speak to Charlotte? I am sure Mama has told Mrs. Lucas the news of Mr. Collins’s visit and his business here.”

  “Oh, Lizzy.” Jane grimaced, which her angelic countenance wore more as compassion than pain. “Mama is so eager for an engagement. She worries for Longbourn and her future. We could avoid this uncomfortable situation if Charles were to propose, but he waits, I think, to speak to Mr. Darcy and to have him at Netherfield to help assuage Caroline’s worries about losing her position in her brother’s household.”

  Elizabeth was startled at the turn in conversation. Was Caroline still undermining her brother’s courtship of Jane? But it was true that, if her mother were busy worrying for Jane’s hoped-for engagement, she would not be speculating on the prospects of her second daughter.

  “Is Kitty not some consolation to Miss Bingley? My sister appears as her pet project, adorned in feathers with her cheeks pinched and her back straight as she primly mutters inanities about teas and Belgian laces.”

  “Lizzy!” Jane giggled. “I should not laugh. One is my sister, one is likely to be my sister—and I should hope for that connection, yet I prefer to think only of the one to be forged with Charles.”

  Elizabeth pulled her hair away and turned to look at Jane. “Oh, how radiant you are. You are so happy.” She twitched an eyebrow. “Is your Mr. Bingley glowing as well? Is there colour in his cheeks and a bounce in his step? Does he hum while walking and daydream during breakfast?”

  “Lizzy! Turn around and let me finish your hair.” Jane pulled, brushed, and plaited her sister’s hair in silence before pausing in her ministrations. “As I said, Charles awaits Mr. Darcy…I believe he seeks his blessing.”

  “But why? He should not need any ‘blessing.’ Mr. Darcy has done nothing but express his happiness for his friend.”

  “Has he, Lizzy? While you were in London, I listened to the words being spoken about him and about the circumstances in which he left you. It is the reason our neighbours think so poorly of him.”

  “Jane…”

  “I do not think Charles needs his blessing; he should not wish for it.” Jane cleared her throat. “I am sorry, but I wonder at their friendship. Charles supports Mr. Darcy while he goes off to his…his adventures. You and Miss Bingley were left wondering at his motives.”

  “His adventures?”

  “His estate visits. To find a bride among the ladies.”

  Elizabeth thought of the letter she had hidden in a reticule stuffed behind books on her shelves. His motives and his character are clear to me. What has happened here in my absence?

  “That is not quite what occurred. Mr. Darcy is my friend. He was kind to my aunt and uncle and their children. He is Mr. Bingley’s friend.”

  A sigh escaped Jane’s lips. “Yes…but
you did not hear what has been said. I have had to defend your behaviour.” Her tone sounded harsh to Elizabeth’s ears. “He hurt you. He damaged our family name.”

  “He was the victim of gossip and misunderstanding, as was I.”

  “His lack of grief over his cousin’s death did not reflect well on his character,” Jane replied primly, her fingers busy plaiting her sister’s thick, dark hair.

  Elizabeth said nothing.

  “I know my heart, Lizzy. I understand love and allegiance. Charles has given me his.”

  Yet there is no proposal. Because the man you do not trust for me is the only one trusted by Charles.

  “Do you resent the trust that Mr. Bingley and I place in his friend? That his absence means you must wait for a proposal?”

  The room was quiet for nearly a minute before she responded. “I question Mr. Darcy’s absence and his intentions towards you.”

  “Oh, Jane…but you do not question Mr. Bingley, a man of three and twenty, needing a friend’s ‘blessing’?”

  “No, I do not.”

  Elizabeth clenched her teeth. Jane was pulling her hair and bruising her feelings. There is so much I cannot say. When did you learn to form, let alone voice, such an opinion?

  “I know Mr. Collins can be tiresome, Lizzy, and somewhat too pleased with himself. But he will inherit Longbourn and has the means to be a good husband and father. Would he be so very bad a match?”

  Elizabeth stilled, shocked at her sister’s sentiment. “For me? Is this one of Lydia’s riddles? You desire less of a connection with Charles’s sister because her temperament is so difficult, but you do not see how ill-formed a marriage is between me and that awful, slanderous man?”

  “He is not so terribly awful,” Jane protested before nodding sadly. “Mr. Collins would not be my first choice for you. But he is a choice, a good possibility, and marriage to him would clear your reputation, make our mother happy, and keep peace in our family.”

  “Then you marry him, Jane, because not one of those considerations matters to me.”

  “Lizzy…”

  Elizabeth pulled away, tears springing to her eyes when her hair caught in Jane’s hand. “Do you not care for my feelings? For my future happiness? Mr. Collins will be here and demand a wife. If I am his choice, I shall not marry him. I hope for your happiness with Mr. Bingley, but it seems I shall not have your support for my choice.”

  “Your choice is Mr. Darcy?”

  Elizabeth began fixing her hair in a furious manner, uncaring of the tangled disaster she was creating. “I thought never to marry, to be a spinster and live with you and your husband and your ten children and torment Caroline with my liveliness and carelessly stacked books and muddy boots. That seems a less happy, nay impossible, proposition to me today. My cousin may wed Mary or Charlotte or Hill for all I care; they seem to like him, and his words have not hurt them.”

  Jane looked up solemnly at her sister, but Elizabeth would not meet her eyes. “Not every woman finds felicity. Caroline will not; Charles is sure Mr. Darcy will not marry her as she wishes, and she will remain a burden to him and Louisa.”

  They talk of others’ marital prospects as though solving tenant disputes. Kitty is not the only one under Caroline’s influence.

  “Of course, Mr. Darcy would never marry her. Caroline Bingley is not the sort of wife he seeks.”

  Jane sat back and looked at her sister curiously. “I am not familiar with the sort of ladies who interest Mr. Darcy. You have an intimacy with him that has worried Mr. Collins and Mama. You must be careful.”

  Elizabeth gathered her hair up under a bonnet and opened the door. “I have been judicious in keeping my own counsel these past weeks. I must return to doing so.”

  “Lizzy, your hair!”

  “You worry more for my hair than for my heart.”

  Elizabeth choked back an angry sob. She could not hear Jane’s voice over the din of the music pounding from Mary’s angry fingers. She ran outside and was but a step away from the far garden when Kitty hailed her. She could not bear it; she needed to be away from this house. She needed to think, to understand how Jane could care only of her own happiness and assign her “most beloved sister” to a dreadful marriage.

  “Lizzy?”

  Elizabeth looked up, tears stinging her eyes. Kitty stood before her, twisting a feather in her hands. “Lizzy, I must talk to you. I need your advice.”

  Elizabeth had never felt less able to provide wise counsel. “Kitty, this is not the time—”

  The younger girl pulled her into the shelter of the garden and began to speak in a hushed, hurried voice. “Miss Bingley is fluttering over Mr. Darcy’s return. She is certain he comes to seek her hand. She plans to ensure he does!”

  “Oh no.” Hunted and in danger of compromise!

  “And Charlotte and Mary are so angry that you have won Mr. Collins’s heart.”

  “No, I have—”

  Kitty squeezed her sister’s hand. “I think all of them are so horribly wrong. Let me help you run away and hide from our cousin. I shall tell Mr. Darcy where you are hiding, and he may come rescue you and marry you, and all will be well.”

  Elizabeth stared at her younger sister, astonished and impressed.

  “Honestly, Lizzy, I have decided that Miss Bingley is an unpleasant sort of lady. She does not like my drawings. She never looks at clouds, she always talks to Jane rather than to me, and she hates it when I cough. Mr. Darcy likes you ever so much more than he does her. I heard his cousin call him a smitten simkin when he thought no one was listening.”

  Kitty grinned and leaned closer. “He is coming here for you, Lizzy, not to bless Mr. Bingley’s proposal. I am sure of it.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  By half past four on a bright but windy day in London, Darcy was just beginning to see relief. He had spent the day with his solicitor: reading documents, signing papers, writing letters, and revising all of the above. All of the legalities concerning Rosings and Anne’s rightful ownership had been thoroughly inspected, every detail attended to, and all possibilities for the future considered. By full rights, the new mistress of Rosings should have been present. But since Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s death, Darcy had been granted nearly complete decision-making rights with only his aunt’s signature necessary.

  Now, with the estate fully in Anne’s name, he retained authority even after the birth of her heir. Apparently, his Uncle de Bourgh was a wiser man than his choice of wife would indicate; he had trusted the Darcys over the Fitzwilliams when it came to his family’s estate. With the assistance of Darcy’s keen-minded solicitor and some musty papers filed away with his dead uncle’s former solicitor, they had ensured that Peregrine, pleasant man though he might be, would have neither authority nor dominion over Rosings.

  Lord Matlock had made but one demand: “Emasculate the beau bird.” Richard’s outburst of hysterical laughter over “Peregrine’s plume plucking” had given Darcy the impetus to manoeuvre the wished-for enfeeblement into an intricately worded separation. In spite of his status as Anne’s husband, Peregrine Dumfries would have no legal standing over Rosings or his child. The purse strings remained firmly in the hands of Darcy and the earl.

  The duties of the day had been exhausting, and Darcy dreaded the months ahead as the vexing trio of Rosings Park recognised their loss of control. But at this moment, none of that mattered. By tomorrow, Georgiana and he would be at Netherfield, just three miles from Elizabeth. Everything was prepared for the journey and for their travels north to Pemberley. He needed to return to the estate. Autumn was upon them; winter would soon creep in.

  Four days at Netherfield, mayhap a se’nnight. No, strike that out, and damn his steward’s incompetence. He would stay however long it took to revise the town’s opinions of him, to state his intentions to Mr. Bennet, and first,
of course, to ensure that Elizabeth wished his attentions and shared his desire for an attachment. He was not entirely confident but neither was he discouraged. He had seen her smile; he thought he had sensed her desire. He had declared himself to her, and although she had not replied with like sentiments, her shy smiles had filled him with hope.

  “I look forward to further conversations on topics neither of us canvass with others.”

  How he wished to know her feelings as she read his letter. Did it change her opinion of him and help her to understand how his family situation had affected his behaviour? The pained look in her eyes and the tears he had prompted tore at his heart. Yet they had parted on far warmer terms, leaving him with ardent hope.

  Does she return my feelings?

  He was a ridiculous, besotted fool; he had never committed such words to paper and had only felt these sentiments since meeting Elizabeth. If the town thought he had declared himself before and walked away, now he had pledged his heart to her in ink, above his signature. He would not allow any further confusion to come between them.

  Her note, handed to him by a slyly smiling Mrs. Gardiner, should have cleared any doubts. It was full of sweetness and intelligence. She tells me she was sorry not to see me, looks forward to my arrival, and quotes Aristotle? His heart swelled to think on it. Reading the note, as he had done at least a dozen times already this day, left him weak in a happy sort of way. Last night, he had fallen asleep with her note in his hand and finally enjoyed the vivid, lovely dreams of her that he worked so hard to repress during his waking hours.

  Elizabeth lounged in the grass, Pemberley in the distance, and smiled as he approached. It was a hot sunny day, cloudless ’til an hour earlier. Her light summer gown fell loosely off one shoulder, its thin fabric shielding her soft skin from the sun’s rays but not protecting her lovely figure from his interested eyes. Suddenly, the wind picked up and stole her bonnet. He took a step, intending to run after it, but she stopped him with a wave. “I despise bonnets. Kiss me instead.” He fell to his knees and touched his lips to hers. So soft, then they turned demanding. As he pulled away to catch his breath, Elizabeth rose to her feet and reached her arms to the sky. The wind billowed, and her gown flew up and followed her bonnet. He looked up at her, naked in the sunlight, as she laughed and watched the runaway dress flutter in the currents towards a grouping of clouds. He reached up, tenderly touching her, and she fell into his arms, ravenous for his kisses, hands everywhere. As they tumbled to the grass, she whispered his name…