A Will of Iron

by Beutler Linda

  That Anne had played the part expected of her extremely well could be no great source of amazement. She thought only of herself. “Selfish girl,” her mother muttered. Lady Catherine was quite put out.

  Later that day after dinner

  Rosings

  “You utter sod.”

  The door to the Rosings billiard room slammed after Darcy followed his cousin into it. “You scoundrel!” The volume of his voice grew with each new insult. “You cretinous pillock. Have you no shame, Cousin? When did you become a recreant lout? Where is your sense of honour? What can you be thinking?”

  “I am thinking Miss Jane Bennet is the most beautiful lady I have ever beheld. Never have I seen a prettier blush.”

  Darcy’s hands grasped his face as he inhaled and tried to manage a more fruitful comment. He pushed his eyebrows up into his forehead, and slid his hands over his head as if to hold his skull in place. He exhaled a long sigh. “You have no thought for Elizabeth Bennet? Not one spare explanation to the lady you are supposed to be courting? You simply jilt her for the sister?”

  “There is nothing spoken between Miss Elizabeth and myself. She has not been encouraging. You may be pushing me, along with Anne from beyond the grave, but I have not written to her father.” Colonel Fitzwilliam assumed a haughtiness usually employed by Darcy. “If you cannot speak kindly of Jane Bennet, Darcy, I would rather you not speak of her at all.”

  “It is not Jane Bennet with whom I find fault, you immense stinkard, it is YOU! I have said nothing against Jane Bennet.” Darcy was glaring.

  “Miss Elizabeth has laid into you with halberds, Darcy. For that, I am sorry. I have looked into myself and decided not to pursue her even before the arrival of her enchanting sister. The only thing to save you from constant torture is distance. Once Miss Bennet is Mrs. Fitzwilliam, I shall not allow Miss Elizabeth to visit Rosings, and at those few times when we venture into Hertfordshire, you will not be included in the party. Let Elizabeth Bennet be another man’s destruction.”

  “Wait on! Mrs. Fitzwilliam?”

  The colonel looked infatuated. “Indeed.”

  “This is too much. You do not know her. Jane Bennet is not a woman given to expressing passionate opinion. Such of her heart as she has revealed, that I have been told of, might belong to another. She is not well read. Miss Elizabeth possesses a most exquisite taste in every species of literature. Miss Bennet does not play or sing. You have heard Elizabeth; she is a charming performer. She is a much greater prize.”

  “Darcy! If you must continually cry up Miss Elizabeth as the most uniformly virtuous of the Bennets, then you marry her. Oh…sorry, Cousin”—Colonel Fitzwilliam sneered—“you burnt that bridge.”

  The colonel stalked out of the room, leaving Darcy too mortified to speak.

  After a moment to gather himself, Darcy turned heal with a muttered, “Bloody ass…” and proceeded to the escritoire in what had been Sir Lewis de Bourgh’s study. He drew a sheet of fine parchment and began to write.

  Rosings Park, Kent

  Dear Charles,

  Let me thank you for the kind letter you sent upon learning of the death of my cousin.

  It is not the usual way between us for me to require your assistance, but a matter of some importance has arisen at Rosings to which you are uniquely situated to lend support. I hope it does not inconvenience you too keenly to join me with all possible haste. Plan to remain for several weeks if your time permits.

  With apologies for remaining so vague,

  F. Darcy

  The letter was addressed to Mr. Charles Bingley in care of Mr. Augustus Hurst, 16–19 Grosvenor Street, Mayfair, London, and sent express.

  Darcy could only hope his cousin would not be so rash as to compromise Jane Bennet in the next two or three days and that her heart was indeed everything Elizabeth said of it: constant, honourable, and firmly affixed to Charles Bingley.

  Chapter 10

  The Reunion of Dear Sisters

  11 July 1811

  How very interesting the little village of Hunsford has become. In addition to interviewing companions for Little G, Mama has already begun interviewing for a new vicar. An interesting candidate is a handsome figure just arrived in the last day, known only as George Wilkins. While I have not laid eyes on George Wickham since I was ten years old, I believe this man is he. He must be aware that Little G is here. I saw him whilst out in the phaeton with Mrs. J. He cuts a dashing figure, I must say. Not the sort of young man one would associate with a seminary. He doffed his hat to me in a manner most insinuating, and he assumes I do not remember him.

  If he has come here to cast a line out for Little G, I shall cut it. But she is not the only heiress in the neighbourhood nor the richest, is she?

  Perhaps I could make him the means of my escape. I must think on this. —A de B

  15 July 1811

  As I chanced to request my phaeton be drawn down a lane behind the High Street shops, for it is no secret I have an abhorrence of the filthy debris of commerce left piled on the main road, I was most gratified to find an applicant for the position of vicar tussling with the giggling daughter of the bookseller. His hand was up to his elbow in her bosom. The silly slattern dashed away, and Wickham, looking quite proud, smirked at me and tipped his hat after putting it back on his head. I sent my driver into the apothecary’s shop before I beckoned Wickham, much to his surprise, to the phaeton and made him aware that I knew his identity. Seeing I was amused rather than alarmed, he attempted a rather paltry joke about educating Darcy’s betrothed by what I had seen. When I responded that there was much more I cared to learn and might seek him out for instruction, he was a vast deal more surprised—astonished, I may say.

  He looked me up and down brazenly, for he is such a man. Seeing he could not discompose me, he pronounced himself at my service in all things. I explained to him the location of an empty tenant’s cottage at the far south end of the estate. He will meet me there tomorrow. —A de B

  16 July 1811

  It appears a deal has been struck. Although he believes himself charming, there is an obsequious quality to Wickham that reminds me vaguely of one of the other candidates for vicar, William Collins. What an odious, pompous, greasy dish of mincemeat he is. Collins I mean… Wickham is much more clever, which I would want the father of any child of mine to be, and handsome enough to improve the de Bourgh features. I avoided the Fitzwilliam Roman nose of my mother, and perhaps with the right sire, my child will too.

  I am to give Wickham a sum of cash to settle some pressing debts in London. He will return hither in late August or early September, when I shall pay his commission in the militia currently stationed at the old Sissinghurst Castle, though wearing a red coat for his duties to me I shall prohibit! Joining will give him a plausible reason to be in the area, as long as his identity is unknown to Mama until it serves me to reveal him. Other than myself, he is wholly unknown here, and his deplorable dealings with the Darcy family will be of little matter. I have further told Wickham that he must not attempt contact with Georgiana. If I learn of it, our little bargain ends. He and I shall have no assignations until Little G is well and truly away from Rosings.

  Therefore, in late August or early September, my grand scheme begins. I do not know when I have been so filled with hope. —A de B

  Thursday evening, 16 April 1812

  the Hunsford vicarage

  Elizabeth shut the door to the bedroom she would now share and looked fondly at her sister. They were at last alone.

  “Jane! I have so much to tell you!”

  Elizabeth sat next to her on the bed, and Jane turned to allow her agitated sister to draw the pins from her hair.

  “And I have no news, Lizzy.” Jane gave a weighty sigh, “I shall say, however, that I quite approve of the way Mr. Darcy looks at you. It is not like before.”

&n
bsp; “Then it is with him that I shall begin the tale.”

  By the time Jane’s hair was down and the complicated plaits worked loose, Elizabeth had related Darcy’s proposal and the substance of the letter regarding his dealings with Wickham without mentioning Mr. Bingley. Nor did she mention her tender viewing of Mr. Darcy’s portrait that morning or her drastically altered sentiment. It was never easy for her to admit mistakes, even to Jane.

  “Oh, Lizzy, how could we have been so deceived? Mr. Wickham had all the appearance of goodness.”

  “Wickham is much worse than even Mr. Darcy knows, Jane. But what did you think of Miss Darcy? Do you see that she never mentions the tenant of Netherfield? I would not say I told you so, but…” Lizzy raised her brows and chuckled.

  “She is a pleasant girl. Not at all what I expected. I am surprised by Caroline thinking her enamoured of Mr. Bingley, but perhaps she never did say the affection was mutual.”

  Elizabeth huffed. “Caroline Bingley used you most ill, Jane—as if you were a toy, a doll to be played with and discarded. I am convinced her motives through our entire acquaintance were to secure Mr. Darcy for herself without respect to her brother’s happiness, or Miss Darcy’s, and certainly not yours.”

  Jane looked sly. “Or Mr. Darcy’s wishes. And you had secured his heart without even knowing.”

  Elizabeth looked down. “I could not have been more blind.”

  Jane found the opportunity to tease her sister so rare that she could not resist. “He was not blind, what with all his staring at you. We must admire his taste.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “You must think me so very foolish to not have accepted him.”

  Her sister sounded so pitiful that Jane hugged her impulsively. “Dear Lizzy…he insulted you when you met, disputed every word you said whilst we were at Netherfield, and you say he insulted our family when he paid you his addresses and in his letter. He did not make his goodness known to you, and you could not respect him. You did as I would have expected you to.”

  After some moments of comfort, Elizabeth brightened and turned away. “Now you must see to my hair whilst I tell you the scandalous tale of Wickham and Miss Anne de Bourgh.”

  “Yes, please! I wish to know how my beloved sister came to inherit a fortune in jewels!”

  Once Jane’s delicate sensibilities had been first agitated and then soothed, and both sisters were ready for bed, Jane asked, “What can you tell me of Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

  “He is pleasant company, and being a military man with sharp wits, he is well informed although his reading tends to that one interest above poetry or novels. He reads music well enough to turn pages and is a great walker.”

  “I thought him rather too forward when we were introduced.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “I am certain he is smitten with you, Jane. You ought to do as Charlotte once advised: show him more regard than you feel, and you will likely secure the heir to Rosings Park.”

  Jane was quiet for a moment. “I must forget Mr. Bingley first,” she said with more conviction than she felt. Forgetting Charles Bingley did not seem at all a likely occurrence. She sighed dramatically. “Charlotte had the right of it, I suppose. Had I been more…obvious, I should have been so very happy by now. But I could not conscience the gossip, Lizzy. It was all intolerable enough as it was.”

  “I know how you dislike being the centre of attention.”

  “But what of Mr. Darcy, Lizzy? Is it not mortifying to be in his company so soon after…?”

  “I was distressed at first, but I reread his letter and found some comfort in it. Anne de Bourgh had a high regard for her cousin even if she did not wish to marry him. And his manners have decidedly improved. He has been most forbearing to our cousin since his return. I cannot think why.”

  It was Jane’s turn to raise an eyebrow as Elizabeth and their father would do when of a dubious state of mind. “You cannot?”

  “Oh, Jane, I know I have said somewhat of how brutally I refused him, but it was worse than I care to admit, even to you. He has every reason to think ill of me. It was most improper of him to give me his letter and for me to have read it, but it gives me the advantage of knowing him better. Sadly, it would be tantamount to indecency for me to respond in kind, and then he would know me to be as degenerate as the rest of our family, excepting you. In you, at least, he sees a proper lady.” Elizabeth stroked her sister’s hand.

  “Little does he know me!” Jane laughed.

  True enough, for he could not judge your capacity to love, Elizabeth thought ruefully. And now I love him!

  Jane saw the turn of her sister’s spirits. “What is it, Lizzy?”

  Elizabeth raised woeful eyes to her sister. “Dear Jane, I am so relieved you are come. Every lingering struggle against him grows fainter and fainter. I find, as regards Mr. Darcy, I am ashamed of myself.”

  “He seems to look at you with kindness. Perhaps there is a friendship to be salvaged. He certainly appeared solicitous of you when the colonel paid me too much attention.”

  Elizabeth smiled at the way Jane always tried to see the best. “Well… I can say for a certainty that there is no one here to take any notice of our feelings, exaggerated or sincere. Every topic falls before the infamous death of Anne de Bourgh.” Lizzy screwed up her face as if considering something important. “And as to Colonel Fitzwilliam, do not overlook his one great flaw…”

  “What is that Lizzy?”

  “It is the same as Mr. Darcy’s: their aunt is Lady Catherine de Bourgh!” And so saying, the sisters laughed, and Elizabeth blew out their candle.

  As they drifted off to sleep, Jane took Elizabeth’s hand. It was a godsend to be returned within her sister’s cheerful sphere. The heavy grey winter of London had taken its toll upon Jane’s spirits. It was no easy thing to admit that the sisters of Charles Bingley were not the allies they had presented themselves to be in Meryton. She could not understand such behaviour, but at least with Elizabeth’s help, she could accept what had been.

  The journey to Hunsford had been lovely, and Jane had requested the hood be down once they had watered the horses in Bromley. Now it seemed that wherever her sister was, so was the joy and hope of spring.

  Elizabeth smiled sleepily as she felt Jane take her hand. As children sharing a bed, they had often held hands at the end of a trying day. It was a comfort. Jane knew her so well, and Elizabeth knew Jane would soon discover her partiality for Mr. Darcy. It was to Jane she could look for an example of proper behaviour in the face of having made a glaring error in judgment.

  Now she had compounded the problem by allowing herself to fall in love. This was no paltry, changeable affection. No…her body’s response upon seeing him appear as Jane arrived had convinced her of that. What a thing to have no control of the rate of one’s breathing, the beating of one’s heart, or the blush on one’s cheeks.

  It was almost Shakespearean, but a drowsy Elizabeth could not decide whether it was a comedy or a tragedy. Would Mr. Darcy have an opinion on the subject? The hand in hers slowly ceased to be delicate and soft. It grew larger, warmer, and more enveloping. Elizabeth was flooded with a calm that did not quiet but rather stimulated her senses. She was in bed with Fitzwilliam Darcy, and he was gently stroking her hand. It was not frightening or awkward; it was strengthening and secure.

  The dream would sadden Elizabeth upon remembrance of it when she awakened later in the night, but within its duration, she was safe and loved. That she might have many such dreams was all she could hope for.

  10 January 1812

  I have awakened just now from the most awful dream.

  Because of my mother’s height and hawk-like nobility, looking down at her inferiors is a necessity as well as her pleasure. I believe Mr. C is frightened of her, which should not surprise anyone. I shall be too if I keep on with such nightmar
es. Mama was only a little shorter than Papa as I recall. Mama and I took almond sponge cakes once to the stable men when I was but a girl. It was just before my father took sick. He and Mama had been quarrelling. I did not like to listen, and for the most part, I was taken from them when there was discord.

  I know I am making little sense. In my dream, I was a little girl again. There had been an argument, and afterwards, Papa came to me to apologise. He wanted me to know that his wish for more children was not meant to diminish me in any way. I was his first and eldest child and would always be foremost with him. He said Mama had told him that his insistence on more children worried and frightened me, causing an upset to my stomach. I assured him, with all of the vehemence of a serious child, that I did not feel so. I did not understand why Mama would say such a thing. I told him I longed for a sister to play with. Of all things, another sister was what I most wished for in the world. Even more, I would take greatest delight in having two sisters. I had said so to Mama. She was wrong to lie.

  Papa laughed as only he could and wrapped me in his arms. He said that I must be prepared for a brother and must accept such a possibility, but he and Mama would be equally happy with a baby of any stripe! I laughed that a baby might have stripes and asked what my stripes had been.

  But wait… No. That was not a dream but a memory, coming to me now as I write. I am remembering Papa and me talking about sisters. Later that night, yes, that same night, came their worst set-to. Although my nursery was not close to their rooms, I could hear Mama shouting. She was trying to defend herself for misleading my father about my feelings. I ran to the noise and peeked into Mama’s sitting room. He called her a liar and said he must be mad to want more children with such a wife. She struck him. I wanted him to hit her back, but he did not. She hit him many times more. He only grunted, and when she bloodied his nose, she finally stopped. There was blood on her dressing gown, but it was his.