Darcy and Elizabeth What If? Collection 3

by Jennifer Lang

  But with his absence she could use the better room safely.

  ‘I do not know about that,’ said Elizabeth.

  ‘But I do,’ said Charlotte, as the two ladies sat down on the sofa and took up some plain sewing. ‘I am going to speak to you seriously now, Lizzy. I know you took against Mr Darcy to begin with, and I dare say you had good reasons. He separated Jane and Mr Bingley, and was not generous to Mr Wickham. But he has a great deal to offer a wife.’ She turned a difficult corner with her sewing then continued. ‘I know that does not weigh heavily with you, Lizzy. But I do believe he is in love with you.’ She looked at Elizabeth. ‘All I am saying is, if you think there is a chance you could fall in love with him, then you should let him know there is hope.’

  ‘But Charlotte, I cannot encourage him unless I am sure. It would be cruel to do so.’

  ‘Very well. I have given you my advice and now I will say no more on the subject.’

  She turned her attention back to her sewing.

  Soon afterwards Mr Collins came in. He was full of praise for Lady Catherine. He told both ladies how Lady Catherine had bullied several parishioners into putting aside their arguments and shaking hands, and how she had lectured several young people severely on the subject of respecting their elders, and generally forced peace and harmony on to the villagers, whether they wanted it or not.

  ‘And she has generously invited us to Rosings for dinner,’ he said. ‘Colonel Fitzwilliam will be there.’ He turned to Elizabeth and explained that Colonel Fitzwilliam was Lady Catherine’s other nephew. ‘What a wonderful evening we will have!’

  When she walked into the drawing-room at Rosings that evening, Elizabeth’s eyes were drawn at once to Mr Darcy. His dark hair framed his handsome face and made a marked contrast to his white shirt and black tailcoat. He made her a bow and she curtseyed.

  Next to him was a man in a red coat who was introduced as Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was about thirty years of age, not handsome, but nevertheless an obvious gentleman. He entered into conversation with the ease of a well-bred man and talked very pleasantly about Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of books and music.

  Mr Darcy said little, but Elizabeth felt his eyes upon her and she had to fight an inclination to turn towards him. She might be talking to Colonel Fitzwilliam, but she was thinking about Mr Darcy.

  She was telling Colonel Fitzwilliam how she and Mr Darcy had first met. She saw Mr Darcy watching her and she wondered if he was capable of laughing at himself. She decided to put it to the test.

  ‘Do you know?’ she said to Colonel Fitzwilliam. ‘We met at an assembly ball and he danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce.’ She turned to Mr Darcy and said saucily, ‘You cannot deny the fact.’

  She waited eagerly to see what his reaction would be to her teasing. Would he be angry or disdainful? Or would he be able to laugh at himself, in front of his own family.

  ‘No, I cannot deny it,’ he said with a smile. ‘I did not know any ladies beyond my own party, but I should have taken the trouble to be introduced. If I had known one other young lady there, my evening would have transformed from intolerable to delightful.’

  So he could laugh at himself, and turn it into a compliment to her at the same time! For Elizabeth could not mistake his meaning. If he had known her then, as he knew her now, how different that evening would have been!

  But he had not known, and she was almost glad of it, because it had given her a chance to know him in all his moods. His behaviour at the Meryton assembly was as much a part of him as his behaviour elsewhere, and although she had good reason to think that he was not so arrogant now, she knew that pride would always be a part of his character.

  But pride, if well regulated, was not a failing.

  And, she had to admit, she had her fair share of it as well.

  Was it not pride that had led her to reject his hand? For she disdained to marry a man she did not love.

  However, she liked him, and her liking was growing hour by hour. He seemed to have corrected all his faults. It was as if he had read her mind and found out what they were! But she could not encourage him until she knew she could love him, for a man as proud as Mr Darcy should not be made to humble himself twice unless he could be sure of a satisfactory reception.

  Mr Darcy found the evening passed more pleasantly than any other he could remember in the Rosings drawing-room, but he feared the coming of midnight. All the advances he had made during the day would be lost then. Because, when she woke up tomorrow, Elizabeth would have forgotten it all.

  His eyes, as he looked at her, were full of both happiness and sorrow. If he had to live a day endlessly, then today was the day he would choose. He had spent almost all of it with Elizabeth in pleasurable pursuits and meaningful conversation. But he wanted more. He wanted life to move on so that he could continue his wooing of her.

  Tomorrow he must redouble his efforts, so that she would fall in love with him by the end of the day. It was a difficult task to do so much in twenty-four hours, but he must try.

  At last the evening came to an end. Mr and Mrs Collins rose to take their leave with Elizabeth. He went out into the hall, to wait with them until the carriage should be brought round to the front door, for Lady Catherine always sent them home in the carriage.

  As they crossed the hall, Elizabeth dropped something when she reached into her reticule for her handkerchief. He picked it up and saw that it was a letter addressed to her sister, Jane.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, as she saw what he held in his hand. ‘I meant to take it to the post office this afternoon but I forgot.’

  ‘Would you like me to put it into the Rosings mail?’ he asked. ‘One of the footmen will be going to the post office first thing in the morning.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said.

  He slipped it into his pocket.

  There was some light conversation as they waited for the carriage but all too soon Elizabeth was taking her leave. He bowed over her hand, then bid farewell to his aunt’s guests and then, in a flurry of cloaks, they were gone.

  The Rosings party retired for the night.

  He was about to put the letter with the other post when he remembered that the letter would have disappeared by morning, and so instead he went upstairs.

  As he readied himself for bed he thought what a shame it was that all of Elizabeth’s time and effort in writing the letter had been wasted.

  ‘How I wish Elizabeth could remember today,’ he said to himself.

  Was it his imagination, or was there a sigh coming from the mantelpiece?

  He walked over to the little cupids but they were innocently sitting there, a china ornament and nothing more.

  ‘But perhaps she loves me,’ he reminded himself. ‘Perhaps I have already done enough to win her heart.’

  He caught a waft of her scent as he was about to put her letter on the table. He was not a sentimental man by nature but he felt a sudden yearning to be close to her and he put the letter into the pocket of his nightshirt, which lay above his heart.

  Then he blew out the candle and went to sleep, little knowing that the following morning would hold a big surprise.

  Chapter Ten

  Elizabeth rose to another fine February day. She could not bear to be inside on such a beautiful morning and so she went out for her usual early walk. There was an open grove which edged the side of the park, with a sheltered path, and this was her favourite place. It was February 13th, almost halfway through the month, and the snowdrops were raising their nodding little white heads above the cold earth to say that spring was just around the corner. She gave a skip of pleasure and, holding her bonnet on to her head with one hand lest the ribbons should come loose, and picking up the hem of her skirt with the other, she ran down the grove in happiness. She came to a stop at last and breathed in deeply, enjoying the solitude which had allowed her to behave in such exhilarating, if unladylike, fashion.

  She was just
catching her breath when she saw Mr Darcy walking towards her. She was very surprised, for he did not usually walk in the park at this time of day. He usually exercised his horse in the morning.

  She was even more surprised when he headed directly towards her, for she had the feeling he had come there on purpose to find her.

  ‘Miss Bennet,’ he said, making her a bow.

  ‘Mr Darcy,’ she said, dropping a curtsey.

  ‘Would you do me the favour of reading this letter?’ he said.

  He gave her a letter.

  She took it, puzzled, and turned it over in her hand.

  ‘I do not understand,’ she said with a frown. ‘This is a letter to my sister.’

  ‘Written by you, yesterday,’ he said.

  ‘But I did not write to my sister yesterday,’ she protested.

  He hesitated as if to gather his thoughts and then he said, ‘Miss Bennet, I have something to tell you which will sound strange – nay, unbelievable. But if you have read the letter I think you will understand. Will you do it for me as a courtesy?’

  She was surprised and curious and said, ‘I suppose, as you ask it of me in such a way, I must.’

  ‘I will wait for you yonder,’ he said.

  He nodded towards a large horse chestnut tree some way from the path and then, with a bow, he left her.

  She was puzzled. The whole thing was very strange. Nevertheless, she opened the letter and began to read. As her eyes scanned the first paragraph she was even more puzzled. It was her handwriting and yet she did not remember writing the letter. She wondered if she could have written it weeks ago and then forgotten about it. She glanced at the date. February 13th.

  But that is today, she thought.

  There was a time beneath the date. 12 noon.

  But the church clock had just struck nine.

  She began to read the letter carefully and what she read made her eyebrows shoot up in dark crescents against her smooth white skin.

  ‘This cannot be,’ she said in bewilderment, for the letter contained an account of Mr Darcy’s proposal. ‘Mr Darcy proposed to me? This is some kind of joke, some clever forgery.’

  But there were references to childhood jokes that only she and Jane knew about. The letter had definitely been written by her.

  She read on.

  ‘Mr Darcy taught me to drive a phaeton?’ she said aloud, voicing her disbelief.

  She finished the letter and then read it again, for it contained much to think about, even if it was all strange.

  She glanced towards him.

  How had he come by the letter? What did he know about this strange business? Was there anything he could say that might make sense of it? She had to know.

  She began to walk towards him.

  As soon as he saw her move, he walked towards her and before long she was standing before him, looking searchingly up into his face.

  ‘I do not understand,’ she said.

  A wind had sprung up and she shivered.

  ‘Let us go into the rotunda,’ he said. ‘We will be out of the wind there.’

  She nodded her agreement.

  The rotunda was an ornamental building, rather like a small Greek temple. It had a domed roof and it was circular. There was a small door on the curving south face and inside there was a stone seat running around the circular wall. Leaded windows allowed in light whilst shutting out the elements.

  Mr Darcy removed his cloak and set it down on the stone seat, folding it over to make a cushion.

  Elizabeth sat down.

  It was warm in the rotunda. The glass had intensified the weak rays of the sun and, with Mr Darcy’s cloak to protect her from the cold stone, Elizabeth stopped shivering.

  ‘What does it mean?’ she asked.

  ‘I am not sure how much you know. May I ask what was in the letter?’

  She began to speak, but then handed the letter to him, too embarrassed to say the words.

  ‘Is that a true picture of what happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. It is.’

  And then he told her everything. She listened with absorption as he told her all about his first proposal and what he had learnt from it. She heard him telling her how he had tried to correct his faults by bringing Jane and Mr Bingley together, and helping George Wickham. She paid attention as he told her of the disasters corrected by his wish that time would stop moving on. And she listened most carefully of all as he told her of his efforts to win her love.

  She scarcely knew what to make of it all. It was all very strange, and yet there was something in his voice that convinced her it was true.

  ‘I thought I was condemned to live my life with no connection between today and tomorrow, until by chance the letter moved with me,’ he said.

  ‘But why?’ said Elizabeth. ‘Why my letter and nothing else?’

  She saw him flush slightly and then he said, ‘I believe it is because the letter was close to me. Anything touching me seems to move with me.’

  She thought she understood.

  ‘So, because you had put my letter in your coat pocket, it was touching you?’ she asked.

  ‘I . . . Yes,’ he said. ‘It was in my pocket.’

  ‘Then if I write an account of everything that happens at the end of each day, I will be able to know about it?’ she asked.

  ‘I believe so. Yes.’

  ‘But what a terrible fate, even so,’ she said. ‘Is there no way you can make time move normally again?’

  ‘There is a way, yes, but I would rather not talk about it just yet.’

  ‘Can I not help with it?’ she asked.

  ‘I believe not. But now you know my feelings for you,’ he said. ‘Might I ask, are they wholly unwelcome?’

  She felt suddenly embarrassed and looked at the floor, for she found that his feelings were not unwelcome. The letter she had written the day before had made her feelings clear. She had evidently enjoyed her day very much, because she had spent it with him. She had learnt a great deal about him and she found that she wanted to know more.

  ‘No,’ she said, in answer to his question.

  She glanced up at him and caught sight of his look of relief out of the corner of her eye. It softened his face and smoothed the lines on his forehead.

  ‘In that case, might I introduce you to my sister?’ he asked. ‘We could drive to London and spend the day with her. I would invite Mrs Collins too, of course, for the sake of propriety.’

  ‘I would like to meet Miss Darcy very much,’ said Elizabeth.

  He nodded.

  ‘Disguise is useless between us now,’ he said. ‘And so I will admit that I wanted Mr Bingley to marry Georgiana when she was old enough. But I do not want it any more. I have seen that people must make up their own minds when it comes to love. You taught me that, Miss Bennet.’

  ‘A useful lesson, I think?’ she asked, looking at him questioningly.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ He stood up and she stood, too. He put on his cloak. ‘If we go to the parsonage now, will we find Mrs Collins at home?’

  ‘Yes, she will be seeing to her poultry.’

  He offered her his arm and they set out to the parsonage together.

  Chapter Eleven

  They reached London at two o’clock in the afternoon. As the carriage pulled up in front of Darcy House, Elizabeth took in its grandeur with feelings very close to regret. It would be something to be the mistress of such an impressive town house, and to be able to invite her family to dinners and balls in its magnificent rooms.

  To be sure, being its mistress would involve marrying its master, but that future did not seem as repugnant as it once had. Indeed, Mr Darcy had so far managed to overcome her bad opinion of him that she found she no longer disliked him.

  The footman opened the door and let down the step. Mr Darcy climbed out of the carriage and then handed Elizabeth and Mrs Collins out.

  They crossed the pavement and went up the stone steps that led to the porticoed entrance. The front
door was painted in shiny black paint and had a brass door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. The brass door knob shone as brightly as the knocker, which rang with a pleasant bell-like note when Mr Darcy lifted it and let it fall.

  The door was opened by a stately butler, whose eyebrows rose a fraction when he saw Mr Darcy, but then he bowed and said, ‘Welcome back, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mr Darcy.

  They went in.

  News of the guests had travelled quickly via the footmen and before a few more minutes had passed, the housekeeper appeared in the hall and invited the ladies to follow her to a withdrawing room where they could refresh themselves after their journey.

  Charlotte gave Elizabeth a speaking look as the door of the withdrawing-room closed on them and they removed their bonnets.

  Elizabeth knew exactly what Charlotte meant. After his attentions it was useless to pretend he was not in love with her and so she said, ‘Very well, I admit it. Mr Darcy is in love with me.’

  ‘I knew it must be so,’ said Charlotte. ‘I saw signs of his regard for you in Hertfordshire, but once his attentions continued at Rosings, then I was sure. Are you really set against him, Lizzy?’

  ‘No. I must confess I am not,’ said Elizabeth. ‘My feelings have undergone a great change in the last few days, ever since I had a headache and could not go with you to Rosings.’

  Charlotte looked at her in surprise.

  ‘When did you have a headache? I do not remember you staying at home.’

  Elizabeth quickly realised that, if Mr Darcy was to be believed, the day of her headache had not existed for anyone but him – although, through his conversation, it existed for her after a fashion, as he had told her all about it.

  But for everyone else, it had never been.

  ‘Ah. I meant, when I thought I would not be able to go with you,’ she corrected herself. ‘But in the end my headache cleared and so I did not mention it.’