What if He Were to Pick Me

by Alyx Silver

  "Bingley, I am in no mood to give consequence to girls who were passed over by other men. Go back to your partner. Enjoy her smiles. You're wasting your time with me."

  Just then, Miss Lydia Bennet came walking up, a glass of wine in her hand. Mr. Bingley saw his opportunity and seized it. "Here, Darce, here. This is my partner's younger sister. She's very pretty too. Very agreeable, I dare say. Allow me to present Miss Lydia Bennet."

  Lydia had stopped, steps away, looking up at Mr. Darcy with a vague smile.

  She looked much too young to tempt him, but Darcy sighed remembering the advice Bingley had given him. This girl was a pretty thing. She looked amiable enough. He bowed. "How do you do," he said. And, his eyes on her low décolletage, he stammered out, "I would be very glad to dance the next one with you. If you do me the honor."

  She grinned. She really was a friendly creature. And very pretty. "Oh, Lor," she said. "Why not?"

  Oh, Mr. Bennet," Mrs. Bennet said. Rushing into the sitting room, barely pausing to shed her evening wrap in the hands of her faithful servant, Hill, she overtook her spouse in the sitting room, before he had time to escape to the library with his book.

  "Our girls were so admired. And Mr. Bingley showed great favor to Kitty, for he danced the second one with her, and then what do you think, in the third dance he got Mr. Darcy, his friend, to dance with Lydia. And then Mr. Darcy danced every one with Lydia, and what do you know? He has a fine estate in Derbyshire, and ten thousand a year. Ten thousand. As good as a Lord. When I think of all the carriages and pin money my darling girl will have! And Mary, too, danced almost every one with Mr. Stephen Hurst, the brother of Mr. Bingley's brother in law, and they talked together a great deal, and I dare say she'll be engaged before the year is out, and then what do you think?"

  "No more, Mrs. Bennet, no more," Mr. Bennet said, getting up with a thunderous frown, and setting his book down with a bang on a little occasional table that rocked under the impact. "I wish they'd all sprained their ankles on the first dance."

  As he walked towards the door, he passed Lizzy and Jane who sat together on a sofa by the door. "Did you dance much Lizzy?" He asked. "And you Jane?"

  "Only once with Mr. Bingley," Jane said.

  “And I didn’t dance at all. There was a shortage of men, so I sat with the chaperones,” Lizzy said.

  Mr. Bennet's frown increased, as he left the room, banging the door and muttering about young bucks without taste.

  You liked Miss. Lydia Bennet?" Bingley asked, grinning, when he and Darcy sat together in the studio, sipping port after everyone else had retired.

  Darcy smiled, one of his rare smiles. "I tell you, Bingley, she's an angel. At first, I thought she smiled too much." He frowned at the fireplace. "But I soon realized that's just the sort of woman that suits me – pleasant and joyful, always ready to draw me out of myself and not let me think too much. Just the sort of woman who’d bring Georgiana out of herself and put and end to her silences. Yes, Bingley, I like her very well indeed. I daresay I’d like to know her better."

  “Capital!” Bingley smiled into the fire. "I like Miss Kitty Bennet very well too," he said. He got up and poked at the log with the fireplace irons, sending sparks flying in the deep embrasure of the fireplace. "It's much too early to say, Darce, but wouldn't it be grand if we ended up being brothers?"

  Soon, all of Meryton knew of Mr. Bingley's and Mr. Darcy's preference for the two Bennet sisters. Of course, this hopeful gossip was spread by Mrs. Bennet and her female relatives, all the while saying that they’d never gossip, and that it was too early to say anything.

  "Sister," Mrs. Phillips said, one day, as she rushed into Mrs. Bennet's room. "Have you heard, sister?"

  She settled her ample bulk down in a settee, across from the chaise in which Mrs. Bennet ordinarily indulged in attacks of nerves, and where she now dreamed of Lydia's future. "It is said that Mr. Darcy haunts Meryton, in hopes of seeing Lydia, on her way to the shops. He is that love-sick."

  "Oh, sister," Mrs. Bennet answered, with a giggle. "Why, I believe Lydia needs a new hat." Getting up, she walked to the door of her room, and called, in her most shrill voice, "Lydia, child. Go down to the shops and get a new hat. Your old one is not fit to be worn." Closing the door, she came back into the room. "Not fit to be worn by the intended of Mr. Darcy, a man with ten thousand a year." And, swooning upon her chaise, she added, "Oh, sister, what jewels, what carriages she shall have. What lace. Why, a house in town. Everything that's elegant."

  Mrs. Phillips leaned forward, encouragingly, "And that will throw the girls in the path of other rich men."

  “Oh, sister.” Mrs. Bennet sighed in near ecstasy. She fluttered her handkerchief midair. “Other rich men!”

  In Meryton, Mr. Darcy did indeed ride up and down the main street, in hopes of seeing the bewitching Miss Bennet, with her low, low cut dress. While he reproached himself for his – perhaps – vulgar interest, surely a comely figure was a desirable attribute, and besides, hadn’t Bingley told him to let himself go and act more like the natural man?

  Bingley. Darcy cast an eye at his good friend, who rode beside him. Bingley had admitted that he wouldn't be averse to seeing Miss Kitty Bennet, though he wasn't perhaps as eager as his friend.

  As a point of fact, lately Bingley had been feeling that perhaps he had gotten too interested in Miss Kitty far too fast, and displayed it far too freely. His infatuation seemed to be following the path of all his previous infatuations, where he started out by being passionate about some girl, who quickly palled in better acquaintance. In fact, perhaps he should be more like Darcy, who never displayed his feelings – and might not have many for any beauty – and reserved his enthusiasms for his friends, his books and his lands.

  Or at least that was how Darcy used to be. Bingley glanced at Darcy not sure he recognized this new, infatuated, and strangely irrational Darcy. "Should we not be getting back to Netherfield, eh, Darce?"

  "Why?" Darcy asked, distracted, as his gaze swept the street for the sight of the girl. "We stayed out later, yesterday."

  And while Bingley admitted that Lydia was very pretty, she wasn’t as pretty as many diamonds of the first water he’d seen Darcy snub in London society. He was, in fact, starting to worry for his friend.

  "Well, to tell you the truth, we've been going up and down the street so regularly every morning that I believe shopkeepers are setting their time-pieces by us, Darce. And we haven't seen them yet."

  Darcy opened his mouth to answer, but he stopped.

  Because, walking up the street and waving cheerily at him was none other than his new-found delight.

  "Yoo hoo, Mr. Darcy," she said, and grinned posing as she approached his horse.

  Darcy blinked. In anyone else this gesture would have been uncouth. But Lydia couldn't be uncouth, could she? No, impossible. He could never be attracted to an uncouth woman. She was just simple and full of charming country manners.

  Besides, as she approached, to stand directly beside his horse, Darcy had a full view of her very low-cut dress. True, she wore some kind of shawl around her neck, to disguise the neckline, but the translucent shawl let the rosy hue of her body shine through. Her very healthy, well rounded and well grown body. Yes, indeed, he must remind himself she was just a healthy country girl pleasing to the eye and refreshing to the mind. He would not be a stodgy stick in the mud. Not he.

  "We've been riding back and forth in hopes of meeting you," he said.

  She giggled at his remark. "We just came to town to see you. What a good joke."

  The giggle was a little uncouth, too, but then Lydia was young and naive. She'd learn better. Why, it would be amazing enough if she were not daunted at the idea of Pemberley, much less taking her place in the long succession of its distinguished mistresses, and emulating their triumphs in society. That alone should temper her exuberance.

  "We?" Bingley said.

  "Oh, I hurried on ahead of Kitty. She will be along by the by. She stopped
to exchange some words with that tiresome Maria Lucas."

  Mr. Bingley looked worriedly solicitous, as he fixed his eyes on a moving point in the distant horizon, then set off, obviously intent on talking to Kitty.

  Mr. Darcy thought that it was very unfeeling of Lydia to leave her sister behind like that. But then, she was just a healthy, well-built – he stared down through the translucent shawl – simple country girl. What could be wrong with that? Besides, she had been anxious to see him. Shouldn’t he be happy with that? Perhaps Bingley was right when he told him he was in the habit of going through life disapproving of everyone.

  "My aunt Phillips is having a gathering tonight.” Lydia looked up at him, her eyes filled with hope. Yes, she definitely liked him. He could not disapprove of that. “Would you like to come?"

  "I would, gladly, if Mrs. Phillips invited me."

  "Oh," Lydia giggled. "No one cares for such things now a days. Please, do come."

  And though Mr. Darcy knew better and had always been known to be a stickler for propriety, yet he couldn't resist her little giggle, and the way the shawl moved up and down with her merriment.

  It would be a simple country assembly, filled with unaffected people with charmingly innocent manners. He’d probably be better for attending it. After all, it wouldn’t do to hold himself too high. He had been accused, often, of being far too high in the instep and believing himself above his company. And that was the kind of reputation that isolated a man, that made him lonely and depressed and likely to die in his library and be eaten by his favorite spaniel, not even have the rest of the household notice for a week.

  If he continued the way he’d been going the only ones to befriend him would be toad eaters interested in his money and connections.

  He imagined himself surrounded by a circle of sycophants, like those that surrounded his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh.

  He could well imagine growing old, praising his own excellence – since no one else would praise it – until eventually he would say things like “If I’d learned to play the piano, I’d have been a true proficient.”

  No. Better break a few social rules and engage in some unstudied country socializing than that.

  Meanwhile, back at Netherfield, Miss Bingley felt bewildered and unhappy. Having come to Meryton with Charles, in dogged pursuit of Mr. Darcy, she had not heard the gossip of the town.

  Oh, she'd noticed that Darcy danced non-stop with Lydia at the assembly, which she had found exceedingly vexing. "It's the cut of her dress," she'd told her sister, Louisa Hurst that evening. "It was all that lace. I should have a dress like that."

  But Mrs. Hurst, fanning herself while sitting on the drawing room sofa, had shaken her head. "You can't have a dress like that, Caroline. It wouldn't be the thing."

  "Why can I not?" Caroline stomped her foot. She was the younger sister – though only half an hour younger than Louisa – and had always been used to having her own way from infancy. Or throwing dreadful tantrums when she didn’t.

  Mrs. Hurst blushed, and gazed at the area where her sister was notably inferior to Miss Bennet. Surely Caroline had a looking glass, and didn’t need her sister to point out that her figure failed of the exceptional. Besides, if she told Caroline that, heaven alone knew what she’d invite. The least she could expect was a tantrum, but she wouldn’t put false padding out of consideration. And no padding could mimic human flesh. Not when half of it was exposed. Louisa Hurst looked away and strove to look dignified and haughty. "Well, it wouldn't be seemly."

  "It would if it were orange," Caroline Bingley said.

  Louisa had sighed and left it at that. She’d never understood Caroline’s fascination with the color, which looked particularly bad with Caroline’s sallow complexion, but she’d also learned it was not worth arguing over it. The incident of the orange head-dress – with actual oranges – that Caroline had chosen to wear to Almack’s made Louisa shudder. In the course of a lively reel, one of the oranges had flung off and hit Lord Debenham on the head with force, bursting open and splattering him with juice. It would have been tolerable, if the poor man hadn’t suffered from a violent allergy to the juice of oranges, which had caused such burns on his face that his family had perforce to lock him the attics of his house in town.

  Even so, it was said he still gibbered with fear at the sight, or even mere mention of oranges, lemons, carrots, and the occasional pumpkin.

  “You look displeased,” Caroline said. “Do you mean to imply that I’m not handsome enough to tempt Mr. Darcy? Or perhaps you have something against orange?”

  “No, no,” Louisa said. “I was just thinking about how crude the manners are in this backwards town.” She sat up straighter and decided that if she was going to be mendacious, she should take the full plunge. “I think you should capture Mr. Darcy as soon as may be, so we can return to London.”

  Miss Bingley labored, over the next few days, to attract Mr. Darcy's attention, an effort only slightly hampered by his spending every morning riding up and down Meryton main street for exercise which he claimed to need urgently.

  To own the truth, though she didn't listen to Meryton gossip, she did for a while fear very much that Mr. Darcy had found a way to meet the Bennet girl somewhere. It was absurd. After all, who would prefer the company of that uncouth girl, with her giggles, her lack of understanding, her decided lack fashion her bumptious deportment, when he had Miss Caroline Bingley available?

  Miss Bingley knew her own worth. Just as her brother had received education worthy of the heir to an estate – even if the estate hadn’t yet been bought – Miss Bingley had been brought up to marry someone with an estate. Well, she supposed she’d been brought up to marry someone with a title.

  She remembered her father telling her, very often, “Why Caro, the way you are so parsimonious with your smiles, and convinced of your own excellence, I expect you to marry a Duke. No one else will do for you!”

  She was sure, however, that her esteemed parent would be just as glad to see her marry the very wealthy Mr. Darcy, a man revered for his knowledge and manners throughout the land. True, some called him proud, but how could he not be proud, when he had ten thousand a year – and likely more – and lived in Pemberley?

  Still she worried. After all, Lydia Bennet was so simple, so willing, so rounded where Caroline was flat. She had spent a few uncomfortable nights awake, staring at the ceiling. She had spent a few mornings without tucking lace around her décolletage, letting as much bust as she possessed show above her gown. But only Charles had glanced that way and blushed, and then avoided looking at her at all costs.

  Mr. Darcy didn’t seem to notice. Oh, and eventually her sister had told her that she would catch her death if she didn’t cover up. And she’d blushed too.

  But, on the night that Darcy and Bingley returned from Mrs. Phillips’ party, Caroline heard something that set her mind quite at rest.

  It was near on to midnight, and she should have long fallen asleep but she’d been trying to understand how Mr. Darcy could fail to be attracted to her. After all… weren’t her dresses comely? Did he think orange lace came cheaply? And besides, honestly, what better match could he hope for? He was Charles’s best friend, and she was… well, she wasn’t precisely Georgiana Darcy’s best friend.

  Georgiana Darcy was very young. Not even out yet. And she had more of a mind for books and her piano than for fashion or the on-dits of the ton. But Caroline Bingley got well enough along with the chit, and pretended not to notice her blue-stocking ways, which was more than most ladies of fashion would do!

  No, Mr. Darcy wouldn’t be as lucky with any other sister he might pick for Georgiana. Why, anyone else would find it strange how many hours she practiced her music, and how she talked non-stop about long dead and forgotten playwrights, like Shakespeare.

  If Mr. Darcy picked just about any other woman, that woman was likely as not to send Georgiana to Bedlam. No. That wouldn’t be seemly. Fine. Any other woman would be likely to
set Georgiana Darcy up in a secluded cottage on Pemberley grounds, with a companion who would ensure she couldn’t speak to – or scare – unwary visitors.

  Not to say that Caroline wouldn’t eventually do just that, to be sure. But she’d at least try not to, and would do her best to find some very boring man to take the girl off Mr. Darcy’s hands. Perhaps a widower would do for Georgiana. A deaf widower.

  As she pondered these confusing thoughts, Caroline heard steps in the hall, receding towards the library.

  It occurred to her that she had forgotten a book she'd been reading – all right, skimming – in the library, she should just go down to pick it up. Not that she intended to read – or skim – the book anymore, but it would give her a perfect excuse to hear what the men were saying.

  She had climbed down the broad stair and got lost on her way to the library, since all the candles were out and she wasn’t at all familiar with the way to that particular room.

  All right, all right, to tell the absolute truth, she heard the men's voices from the billiard room. By pure coincidence, she walked past it, and, by the merest accident, hid in the shadows just outside the door, as one did, accidentally, when one absolutely wasn’t skulking around.

  She didn't eavesdrop, of course. Properly brought up gentlewomen didn't eavesdrop.

  But while accidentally pressing her ear to the billiard room door, while the men were inside, talking, she just chanced to hear Mr. Darcy say, "Well, Bingley, we might yet be brothers after all."

  It was just the chance sentence, dropped casually. Very casually, in fact, in a way that wasn’t at all normal for Darcy.

  And it could mean only one thing. Mr. Darcy had decided to ask Miss Bingley to be his wife. Marrying her would make him Charles’ brother.

  After that, though she returned to her room and her warm bed, Caroline didn't sleep, a wink.