by Alyx Silver
Copyright © 2020 Sarah A. Hoyt
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Cover design by:Sarah A. Hoyt
Cover Image © Sarah A. Hoyt 2020
What If He Were To Pick Me?
Alyx Silver
Netherfield and New Lace
Word that a young man of large fortune had rented the long-vacant estate of Netherfield ran through the small, sleepy community of Meryton like a lightning bolt.
After all, a single young man in possession of a vast fortune must be in need of a wife, and where could he find one better than in in the spinster-heavy streets of Meryton.
With most of the local young men either joining up to fight the French, or leaving to seek their fortune in London, local assemblies were often short of males, and most single women, even young and comely ones, sat all night long amid the confirmed spinsters and dowagers.
Before anything was known of him but his fortune and his lack of a wife, he was accounted gallant and handsome and the rightful property of this or that local beauty. Before he was so much as glimpsed, he became the subject of a hundred romantic dreams and at least that many schemes by ambitious mamas.
And when rumor spread that he was blond and wore a blue jacket, nothing more was needed for the happiness of several women who privately were sure of soon becoming his wife.
In preparation for the Meryton assembly the business of Meryton fabric shops and dressmakers increased tenfold. There wasn't a single girl between the ages of thirteen and thirty not in dire need of a new frock.
Issues of La Belle Assemblée were consulted until they fell to tatters and the talk in drawing rooms and over tea tables was of silk and lace, velvet and ruffles, and the new cut for sleeves, according to the fashions from London.
The Bennet household – five daughters and the estate entailed away on a male cousin they’d never met – was no different from their neighbors except perhaps for having a little more urgency in hoping that at least one of their children should marry well.
After all, the girls had only their charms to recommend them, and nothing to live on, once their progenitor went to his deserved reward. At least one of the girls must acquire a husband with the means to support them all.
Fortunately, four of the girls ranged from passably pretty to ravishing, and the one girl, possessed of a less fair face, had gifts of erudition honed by much reading which were considered superior to those of the other local blue stockings.
Which made their mama absolutely certain that Mr. Bingley belonged by rights to one of her daughters.
The good lady, whom the near impossibility of marrying off all her girls had long since driven insane, commandeered the first services of the dressmakers, to outfit her eldest, most beautiful and sweetest daughter, Jane; her keen-eyed, inquisitive second-born, Elizabeth; her studious, bookish daughter, Mary; her prettyish daughter, Kitty, and her lively, enthusiastic daughter Lydia.
"All of you girls are to have new bonnets," Mrs. Bennet's sharp voice, much accustomed to lamentation and self-pity, rose to glass-breaking frenzy over a sitting-room table that had been piled high with lace, velvet and brocade. "And new gowns. Ah, Mr. Bennet," she added to her husband who sat, reading the paper, near the fire. "I don't know what will become of us. Why, the lace on Jane's gown–"
Mr. Bennet's paper rustled ominously. A jaundiced eye peered over it before disappearing again behind the paper-barrier. From behind it, his impatient voice was heard to mutter, "No talk of lace, Mrs. Bennet. No lace."
Mrs. Bennet sighed. "It's just as well that such a man should come to the neighborhood. What a fine thing for our girls."
After a while the corner of Mr. Bennet's newspaper lowered again, revealing his ruddy, bewhiskered face on which an expression of mild curiosity was etched. Twenty years older than his wife, he had white hair, and the kindly expression of a well-settled country gentleman. Half-bewildered but ready to be amused, he looked over his reading glasses at his wife of twenty-five years.
Mrs. Bennet didn’t notice. She turned the page on the pattern book she had been studying. Her five girls crowded around the back of her chair, looking over her shoulder at the rather frilly concoction.
"Oh, that would suit me so well," Lydia said. She was a well-grown, fearless girl of fifteen. Her finger, pointing at the gown, trembled a little in her excitement. "I like the lace, and the low cut." She gestured with her other hand to indicate where the cut was.
Mrs. Bennet nodded. "I dare say it would suit you, Lydia. I dare say it would. Though you would, of course, have to tuck lace. We shall show this one to Mrs. Terry and see if we can afford enough lace to tuck."
"Mrs. Bennet?" Mr. Bennet cleared his throat and rustled his paper, still intent on his wife. "Why does it matter that Mr. Bingley came to the neighborhood? Pray, how can this affect our girls?"
Mrs. Bennet sighed, a sigh that implied men in general and her husband in particular could be altogether too slow of understanding. "Why, you must know I'm thinking of his marrying one of them."
Mr. Bennet's eyebrows rose. His eyes sparkled with mischief. "And pray, is that his intention in renting Netherfield?"
Mrs. Bennet turned the page to a gown of severe splendor, not too low cut, that she thought would fit Jane's serene beauty wonderfully. She bent the corner on the page. "Intention! Nonsense. But I think he might very well fall in love with one of them...."
"It is commonly known," Elizabeth said, in her teasing voice. "That any single man of great fortune must be in want of a wife."
"Indeed, it is," her mother agreed, bending down yet another corner of another page, having found a rather plain, straightforward gown that wouldn't call too much attention to Lizzy and her quarrelsome ways. If only that girl learned to behave with Jane's demure calm! Not that she’d ever be as beautiful as Jane, but surely some man would condescend to marry her. If only she held her tongue. “I’m so glad to hear you speaking in such a sensible way, Lizzy.”
"Well... well," Mr. Bennet said, grinning. "He might very well pick Jane; she is amiable enough. And Lizzy has a little more wit than the rest."
Mrs. Bennet found a gown for Mary. She would have it done in brown. Pale brown. After all, it would take a special eye to discern the beauty of Mary’s intellect, and there was no point calling anyone else’s attention to her. "And let's not forget our other girls," she said.
"Aye," Mr. Bennet said. "For they've arms and legs enough between them. And are three of the silliest girls in England." He got up, setting his paper down on his broad armchair, and stepped over to the fireplace, standing in front of it to warm himself. "Well, well, the newcomer might prefer a stupid woman, as others have before him," he said. And, turning on his heel, he left the room, leaving wife and daughters to talk and fuss over the patterns.
“Oh, Mama!” Lydia said. “What if he were to pick me?” She giggled excitedly.
Mrs. Bennet cast a complacent look at her youngest daughter. “He very well might, my dear. You couldn’t be so beautiful and lively for nothing.”
Meanwhile, in the library at Netherfield, the upcoming assembly was being discussed with something resembling dread by one Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy, close friend of Mr. Bingley, the renter of the house.
The room was filled with books which it was likely no one had ever read. Mr. Bingley liked the display they made. Their
tooled leather spines looked ponderous and traditional in the fire light, and Mr. Bingley – who would never crack open a single volume – was looking for stability and tradition. The son of a merchant who had done well enough in business to buy an estate, he had been raised with all the advantages of a gentleman save that necessary one: land.
Throughout his career in very expensive schools, Bingley had learned only one thing: that an estate was essential to wash away the smell of the shop.
And so, he’d rented this estate, at his friend Darcy’s advice, in order to find out what he wanted or didn’t want in the estate he might one day buy.
So far Bingley liked the library, with its cozy fire and its many books, because it reassured him that he was indeed the worthy master of this or any estate. He sat behind the desk, nursing a glass of port.
Mr. Darcy liked it for a completely different reason. He had friended Charles Bingley at school, and – for two men who were no more alike than chalk and cheese – enjoyed his company. But Charles’s socially ambitious sister, Caroline, with her oppressive compliments and continuous attempts to engage Darcy – in more ways than one – was a wholly different matter.
Caroline’s combination of brass-faced assurance and her determination to carry all before her in her social ascent and making everyone follow her dictates made the reserved, retiring Darcy wish he could hide under his chair, as he had when he was little and his nanny was displeased with him.
Caroline never came near the library which made it by far Darcy’s favorite room in the vast house. So, Darcy sat in the wing chair by the fire, conversed with his friend, and sipped some very good port.
Since Miss Bingley seemed to have even less inclination for the printed word than her brother, should Caroline come in uninvited, he could always hold a book in front of his face, and she’d certainly run away screaming, particularly if the book were something worthy of being read, like that account of the War of the Roses that he could see on the shelf behind Charles’s head.
Picturing himself leaping up, grabbing the volume from the shelf, and holding it in front of his face while Caroline ran screaming, made Darcy smile.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Charles said.
Despite disguise of any sort being abhorrent to him, Mr. Darcy couldn’t answer with his true thoughts. Because Caroline, shrew though she was, was still Charles’s sister. Darcy merely shook his head, smiling more broadly, at the thought of Caroline holding up her skirts and running like a maid who’s seen a mouse.
She would too. That woman had such an enmity of books she had asked Charles if they could put the present contents of the library in the attic in boxes and it had taken Charles showing unwonted determination to prevent their suffering that fate. She’s proposed, instead, to put ceramic figurines on the shelves, because they would be more interesting.
Darcy shuddered thinking of it.
“And now you seem displeased,” Charles said, alarmed. “Darcy–”
To be fair, though Charles liked the nearness of books, he also never read them. In fact, while sitting in the library, he seemed to be reading Darcy.
“Not displeased,” Darcy said, changing subject. “Merely in dread of this small-town assembly. Do we really have to attend?”
“It will be great fun!” Charles said. “Country manners and country people are so delightful. We shall enjoy ourselves immensely.”
Darcy made a face. “You know very well that I am not at ease with strangers and I do not know how to relate to common people. I’ve been told my countenance on such occasions is enough to give offense and lead the innocent the path of vice”
“That again? You’re still brooding on that… that man’s rebuke? Come off it, Darce. I tell you he’s a loose fish, seeking to blame you for his shortcomings. He chose his own path of dissolution and debauchery. No one could become that depraved, unless they chose to.”
“Well, yes, maybe. But perhaps I gave him the push. Perhaps I do repulse people when I go out in public.”
“And therefore, you’d wall yourself in in this library? Nonsense Darcy. Three times nonsense. But if you fear that you won’t be amiable enough, here is what you should do: every time you feel yourself about to do something you would naturally do, do the opposite. Every time you fear you’re following the comfortable rote, and dread that you might find yourself universally disliked, do the opposite. We’ll see how that serves. You’ll soon become the most popular visitor of Meryton.”
Mr. Darcy looked veiledly at the port decanter, but it seemed to him that Charles had not drunk more than a glass. Amazing. He could come up with such arrant nonsense while still sober. “Charles, if I–”
“No, Darcy, for you see, I often do the opposite of what you would do and look how well-liked and popular I am.”
Darcy started to protest then sighed. What Bingley said was true enough. Darcy didn’t suppose he could entirely stop reading or cherishing his solitude, and he didn’t think he would like some of the parties Bingley went to, where the most profound discussion was the new method for tying one’s cravat. But –
But in the main Charles Bingley was correct. Charles’s behavior in public was gregarious and unaffected, and usually exactly the opposite of what Darcy himself would have done. He had never met a girl who wasn’t charming, a town he didn’t love, or a family that wasn’t amiable. True, he sometimes raised expectations where he least wished to raise them, but even the disappointed damsels usually forgave Bingley with a wan smile and words to the effect that he’d done them no harm.
Charles Bingley had certainly never driven anyone down a path of crime and despair, with his cold behavior. As Darcy might have done with Wickham.
And after all, did Darcy want to die alone in a library?
Or did he want to find a beautiful and amiable wife to take back to Pemberley, one who would comfort his sister Georgiana and perhaps make her laugh. One who would bring life back to the old mausoleum and make it a place of joy and song as it had been when Darcy’s own mama was alive?
Perhaps Charles was right. Darcy would strive to act as much unlike himself as possible.
Ah, Jane." Lizzy sat at her vanity, combing her curly hair, while her sister, Jane sat at the edge of Lizzy's bed. "If I could love a man who loved me well enough to want me for only fifty pounds a year, I'd be very happy indeed." She paused, staring at her face in the mirror. "But such a man could hardly be sensible, and I could never love a man who was out of his wits."
Jane smiled. "Lizzy, we are not very poor."
"No, but with father's estate entailed away from the female line, we have little but our charms to recommend us to any suitor. At least one of us shall have to marry very well, and since you're quite five times as pretty as the rest of us, I'm afraid that burden will fall on you."
Jane frowned, their eyes meeting in the mirror. "Lizzy, what good is my beauty. I'm almost three and twenty, and yet no man has proposed to me. Indeed, I do not even know where I’d meet a man who would be suitable to marry. We’ve met so very few men. And I’ve not..."
"Yes?"
"I’ve not fallen in love with any I’ve met. And, Lizzy, I would very much like to marry for love." She knit her pale brows together. "A marriage undertaken for convenience and for the sake of having a settled situation, one where the parties were never in love or soon fell out of it.... That cannot be agreeable."
"As we have proof daily." Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "But do not worry, Jane, you shall marry for love.... provided you take care to fall in love with a man of good fortune."
"And you?" Jane arched her brows.
"I..." Elizabeth stared at her reflection in the mirror. "I am determined that nothing but the deepest of loves shall entice me into matrimony."
Into the silence that followed, came Lydia's high, merry voice, "Lord, I'll dance with as many gentlemen as he brings with him."
Kitty's responding laughter echoed through the house.
“And since my prospects of meeting gent
lemen are about as good as yours, and I have a tendency to think badly of everyone I meet, the chances of that are absurdly low.” She grinned at Jane in the mirror, and her eyes danced with impish amusement, suddenly. “So, you see, I’m a lost cause. My only hope is that your husband, or Lydia’s, or Kitty’s or even Mary’s will be kind enough to take me in in my dotage, in return for my performing some small work of child minding and keeping my sister company.”
There was reproach in Jane’s eyes, but she didn’t voice it, and Elizabeth smiled reassuringly at her older sister. The fact was that what she’d said was the truth, and even kind, sweet Jane couldn’t deny it.
Assemble!
Mr. Bingley did grace the Meryton assembly with his presence. With him came his tall, silent friend, Mr. Darcy, his two exquisitely dressed sisters, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, his fashionable brother in law, Mr. Hurst, and Mr. Hurst's younger brother, Mr. Stephen Hurst, who was reading for the law at Cambridge.
And it wasn't long into the dancing, that it became apparent that Mr. Bingley preferred Kitty Bennet above all other girls. For though he danced the first one with Jane, he was visibly intimidated by Jane's dignified, stand-offish posture, made all the more imposing by the elaborate straw and gold brocade dress in which Jane's mother had chosen to attire her and which Jane had been too sweet to protest.
So, he danced the second one with Kitty Bennet who smiled a lot, and was light on her feet. And when, having bespoken Miss Kitty for the third dance, he realized that his friend Darcy was standing around in a stupid manner.
Mr. Bingley approached him, peremptorily. "Come on Darcy, you must dance. I must have you dance."
Mr. Darcy sighed, running his gaze over the sitting women in the room.
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley were dancing, as were all the Bennet sisters, except the two eldest, whom Darcy decided must have been passed over because local men knew something to their discredit. Otherwise, surely, with their looks, someone would be dancing with them. Why, even the third sister, the plainest of the five, was dancing, with Mr. Stephen Hurst.