What if He Were to Pick Me

by Alyx Silver

  He flinched, not so much from the words but from the shrillness, and rather hoped than believed that Miss Elizabeth Bennet wouldn't be fully armed.

  Standing up, he let the covers drop and realized he was naked, though he couldn't remember undressing.

  Casting about for his dressing gown, he grabbed it from the back of a chair and slipping it on, descended the back stairs – which the servants should have been using – to open the door to Miss Bennet.

  As he opened the door he realized that what he'd mistaken for his dressing gown was indeed his jacket which his valet had prepared for him on the morrow – just long enough to serve the demands of absolute modesty, but leaving his chest and most of his muscular legs exposed.

  His appearance stopped Miss Bennet's shrieks for a moment.

  To be honest, it stopped her thoughts.

  It was only, after all, the normal reaction of a respectable young lady upon being confronted by a so-called gentleman who'd not bothered to wear no more than his jacket.

  At least she thought he didn't have on more than his jacket. It wasn't like she wanted to enquire upon the presence or lack of his undergarments. She cleared her throat and blushed, and if thoughts about the exceptional curliness of the chest hair visible through the jacket's upper opening or the exceptional shapeliness of the muscular legs visible beneath the jacket, crossed her mind, it must be excused and put down to her most dreadful shock.

  For it wasn't every day that a woman saw a man wearing only a jacket – was he wearing only a jacket? – and it wasn't every day – she certainly hoped not – that a woman saw a man who looked as .... um.... muscular as Mr. Darcy. At least Miss Elizabeth Bennet hoped it wasn't every day, for should this be a common sight, she wasn't sure she could respond for either her respectability or sanity in the future.

  Indeed, her shock – and rambling imaginings – were such upon beholding Mr. Darcy in this state of undress that for the first time Miss Elizabeth was thwarted in one of her determined pursuits.

  She completely forgot what she'd come for and stood there, becomingly flushed, in her white lace nightgown, one hand holding the reins of the family horse, old Nan, who, at any rate lacked both the energy and the interest to wander off.

  Lizzy stood still so long in fact that Mr. Darcy had time to compose himself and bow most correctly – fortunately she wasn't behind him, or the correctness of the situation would have been, we're sorry to report, somewhat impugned – and said, "Miss Elizabeth Bennet. How may I help you?"

  Darcy was very surprised at the words emerging from his mouth. Not only because they were normal words, not a series of grunts and smacks, but because he wasn't thinking anything so civilized.

  What he was thinking, the words running in a continuous loop through his mind were, "she is an angel. Idiot Bingley. Jane an angel? No possible way. This is an angel." He thought it over and over again, while his gaze took in the lace nightgown that had slipped most becomingly off the shoulder, and the curly hair in wondrous, unstudied disarray that not the most skilled stylist could have made more becoming, and the eyes – Elizabeth Bennet's flashing brown eyes.

  While he was thus watching, she stomped her dainty bare foot on the dirt path, and her eyes flashed more amazingly than ever. "You need not try to put me off, you villain," she said. "For I know you've taken my sister Lydia, and you're hiding her somewhere here."

  But let's leave Lizzy with her flashing eyes, and Mr. Darcy who might, accidentally flash her at any moment, and pursue the fate of another member of the family.

  Not fair Jane who, stunned and worried was tending to her mother with salts and patience. Not Mr. Bennet who had retreated to the library and a medicinal glass of Port, but Kitty.

  When last seen, the youngest–but–one Bennet girl was desperately in pursuit of the marriage that her father said he'd never allow to his remaining daughters.

  Judge the extremity of her despair, when we tell you that she marched to Mr. Collins's room and, with amazon-like force, pulled the covers off the snoring, grunting amphibian.... we mean parson, of course.

  Mr. Collins woke up, and sat up in bed and, by the convenient light of the moon coming through the window, saw a beautiful woman standing by his bed.

  Now, this situation was not totally unknown to Mr. Collins. He had often dreamed of it, in fact, with such vivid intensity, that he could find nothing new in the actual event.

  Besides, his mother had been comely – or at least people didn't run screaming when they saw her – and she'd often visited him in his room when he'd been an infant. Or at least he thought so, though his only memory of his mother was of her looking at him and shaking her head, while muttering something about, in retrospect, feeling all the material advantages that a little infidelity might have bestowed on the family line.

  Right then, Mr. Collins simply blinked his porcine little eyes, and opened his mouth in astonishment, on recognizing his fair cousin, Miss Kitty, and upon listening to what Miss Kitty had to say.

  "You're getting up," she said. "And getting dressed. We're going to Gretna Green and getting married forthwith."

  Mr. Collins, who was fairly sure that eloping with one of his fair cousins was not what his noble patroness had in mind for his visit to Longbourn, tried to make some sounds in favor of reason and decorum.

  But Miss Kitty's eyes flashed – she'd been taking lessons from Miss Elizabeth – and she stomped her foot – obviously she had – and said, "We're getting married and that's all you need to know. I'm not going to be an old maid for nobody."

  Miss Bennet had looked under the bed, and in the closet of Mr. Darcy's room, and was now engaged into peering in his jacket pockets.

  "You can't believe I'm carrying her in my pocket," Mr. Darcy said, exasperated, as he stood in the middle of his room, feeling somewhat put upon and somewhat flattered, because he could have sworn looking in his pockets was just an excuse to take a closer look at his chest, that he kept in shape and muscular through regular fencing and swimming.

  Miss Bennet blushed and backed off. "This is most vexing," she said. "Have you perhaps hidden her in one of the servant's rooms?"

  "My dear Miss Bennet," Darcy said. "Why would I stop here mid elopement, anyway. And why would I hide her in a servant's room if I meant to marry her."

  Elizabeth stared at him. "But this is most vexing," she said. "Mr. Wickham warned me about you and your ways. I should have seen this coming."

  "Mr. Wickham?" Darcy said, as enlightenment dawned.

  Fully dressed, being dragged down the backstairs, Mr. Collins still tried to protest.

  But he could do nothing as Miss Kitty dragged him to the stables, where she had already harnessed their second–best horse to the curricule.

  However, considering the state of the Bennet's second-best horse, Mr. Collins did not take long to realize that he could easily jump from his conveyance.

  Which he took the opportunity to do, midway to Meryton as Kitty tried to get the wretched animal to pick up some speed.

  He headed through the fields, in the dimly remembered direction of Lucas house.

  As he ran, he heard running steps behind him and realized, in fear, that Miss Kitty had thought to abandon her horse and run on foot. A much faster conveyance.

  Then he heard a horse's hooves, and a male voice cry out, "holla, what's here?

  This, Miss Bennet," Darcy said, managing to look very correct despite being sleepless in Netherfield. "Is my full account of my dealings with Mr. Wickham." He'd just told her everything, from Wickham's attempt at milking him for money, to Wickham's near– seduction of Georgiana.

  Miss Elizabeth Bennet had gone pale enough for her cheeks to match her nightgown. "But if this is true," she said. "Then Wickham must have taken Lydia. That means she's ruined forever, and we must partake of her disgrace."

  Mr. Darcy retained just enough sense to go wake up Bingley's butler – who was ever so slightly dismayed at Darcy's attire – and get Miss Bennet a restorative glass of w
ine. After which, he saw her to Bingley's carriage, and on her way to Longbourn, with her horse trotting behind.

  As for Mr. Darcy, he washed his face and head in freezing water to dispel the last remains of drunkenness. He must trace Wickham and make him marry Lydia.

  Stranger in the Night

  Kitty stopped her desperate running, as a very handsome man, mounted on a very handsome horse, stopped in front of her.

  She recovered her breath just enough to point in the general direction of Mr. Collins's flight and say, "Follow that toad."

  But the gentleman, who rather resembled a Greek god in riding habit, raised an eyebrow and asked, with cynical humor. "Why? You cannot want him."

  Mr. Henry Crawford, trying to get as far away from the scene of his recent debacle with Mrs. Rushworth, suddenly found himself, amid country fields, staring at a very pretty young woman who, nonetheless, seemed to be out of her wits.

  He could swear she was just pursuing a fat, disgusting parson.

  But it couldn't be true. She looked so rational.

  Even as he thought this, the lady asked, "Are you married, sir?"

  "Me?" he asked. "Me? Oh, no." He laughed. "I have a low view of the marriage state."

  The young lady rummaged through a giant bag on her arm.

  Presently she withdrew a large pistol. "I think, sir," she said. "That you're about to change it." She said. And then, incomprehensibly, "Ten years. Phui. A review. Phui. We shall see about that."

  Mr. Bingley rode home in a state of righteous anger. Well, to begin with in a state of confusion, which changed to a state of righteous anger the closer he got to Netherfield and to round-eyed astonishment before he ever got into the building.

  Mr. Hurst had run away with Mary Bennet. Mr. Hurst! No wonder Louisa and Carolina and all had cleared out so quickly. They probably wanted to hide Louisa's shame. And as for Darcy–

  Bursting into the house, he carelessly stomped to Mr. Darcy's bedroom, and pounded on the door.

  Mr. Darcy opened the door.

  He was attired in a most odd way, in a proper jacket, but with apparently nothing beneath. And his hair was dripping wet. He held a towel in his hand and looked at Bingley out of blood–shot eyes. "Yes?" He rasped, impatiently.

  "I want Miss Lydia Bennet," Bingley said, having gone cold with fury. He'd been rejected. He'd been rejected all because of the marauding ways of his friends and relatives. "I want Miss Lydia Bennet."

  Darcy did an obvious double take and opened and closed his mouth, like a fish out of water. He could be heard to mutter something under his breath that Bingley would swear was "Damn, and I thought I was drunk."

  "You heard me," Bingley insisted. "I want Miss Lydia Bennet."

  "Well, all right man," Darcy said. "Though I could swear earlier on you wanted her sister Jane. You can't quite have a harem, you know, illegal and all that. Though I never quite understood why, since a harem would probably be its own punishment– what?"

  This last said because Bingley had stepped into the room, his hands bent like claws and aimed at his best friend's neck. "I–want–you–to–unhand–Miss–Lydia– Bennet."

  Darcy held Bingley's wrists keeping the fingers of doom at bay. "Oh. You thought I had her? I don't, Bingley, though I think Wickham might."

  "Wickham?" Bingley asked, weakly, ceasing his struggle.

  "Yes, yes. At least that's what Miss Elizabeth Bennet and I think."

  "Wickham?" Bingley said again. "I was rejected because of your father's never do well protegee?" He blinked. "Not you."

  "Not me, old boy," Darcy said, cheerfully. "And it's no use at all to ask to look in my jacket pockets, because Miss Bennet already did. I don't have Miss Lydia in there!"

  "In your pockets?" Mr. Bingley wrinkled his forehead, trying to follow the reasoning, or lack thereof, of his friend.

  "Yes. I don't, I mean. Have her in there. Miss Elizabeth checked.... ahem.... most thoroughly."

  He looked so smug that Bingley almost considered strangling him again, but he couldn't muster the strength to raise his hands. "Oh, damn," he said. "Mr. Bennet rejected me. What am I to do? I must have Jane."

  "Well," Darcy said. "You and I must find Wickham and make him marry the strumpet – I mean, Miss Lydia – and then when her parents are grateful, we marry them."

  "Them?" Bingley asked. "The parents?" After all that Darcy had said, this seemed perfectly logical.

  Darcy looked shocked. "Of course not. Are you drunk? I mean Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth Bennet." He grinned at the stunned Bingley. "Now, let's go. I've asked your butler to have breakfast served early." And as he spoke, he tried to lead Bingley out of the room.

  This was too much for Mr. Bingley. Even sleepless, love struck and frustrated, he still knew what was proper. "Um... could you put on more decent.... attire?"

  Darcy looked on himself. "Of course," he said. "Of course. Can't wear a dinner jacket to breakfast, can I?" And, grinning like a lunatic, he went within to change.

  Elizabeth got back home to find that the situation hadn't improved. On the contrary. As she came in, her mother was throwing herself to the floor and flopping about. "Kitty," she screamed. "Kitty. My salts. Jane, you must fetch me my salts."

  "Mama," Jane was saying. "I'm sure she only left with Mr. Collins and no woman in her right mind would elope with Mr. Collins. Besides, he has too much devotion to his living to do such a thing. Indeed, what would his Bishop think?"

  "Kitty?" Lizzy asked, approaching Jane. "With Mr. Collins?"

  Jane looked harried, as she waved a giant bottle of salts under her mother's nose. "'tis true, Lizzy. They left out the back door while we were all... occupied." And, despite her reassurances to her mother, Jane looked worried.

  Lizzy felt worried too. Kitty and Mr. Collins. No. It wasn't possible. There were laws – natural laws, for one – about marrying outside one's species.

  She'd understood Kitty to be upset, but no one could be that upset. She pictured Mr. Collins in her mind and shuddered. Suicidal people, fished out of the rivers in which they'd tried to drown themselves, were not that upset.

  "Where is father?" she asked.

  "I believe he is in the library," Jane answered, waving the bottle again just in time to forestall a scream of, "Mygirls,allmygirlsaredisgracedIshallruninsane."

  Lizzy knocked at the door and went in, and quickly related to her dejected father the substance of her talk with Mr. Darcy.

  Mr. Bennet heard her in silence, then sighed. "I'm afraid it is worse than we expected then, for Mr. Wickham does not have a reputation to preserve. Had she gone with Mr. Darcy... Well.... I want you to know, Lizzy, that you were justified in your warnings to me and I was a fool for not listening to you.

  On such sad reflection, Lizzy had to be contented to go to bed.

  And in her bed, she reflected on Mr. Darcy. She was sure he hadn't noticed how he exposed himself to her notice when he walked up the stairs ahead of her. Did he?

  The memory of his muscular anatomy kept Lizzy awake well into the night.

  How could a man who looked like that be undeserving? Surely, at the bottom of it, fundamentally, Mr. Darcy must be more amiable than she'd given him credit for.

  Mr. Henry Crawford was in a muddle of emotion.

  His beautiful unknown had climbed up behind him, without ever losing her aim on his head.

  She now held the pistol – its muzzle cold and hard – against the back of his neck.

  "Miss.... um.... miss," he said. "You can't mean to marry me. I'm a stranger. Um.... a stranger with an unsavory reputation. That's it. Unsavory. And scandalous."

  The gun pressed harder against his neck. "Ask me if I care," she said. "I thought I told you to get this horse at a gallop. It's Scotland we should be doing to, and what if I'm pursued?"

  Mr. Crawford should be afraid. He knew he should be afraid. And he was. We confess that there were fibrillations of fear and palpitations of terror within his heart. After all, he knew nothing about this gi
rl – such, as, for instance, if she was given to sudden fits of sneezing – who held a gun against him. And.... And she could fire at any minute.

  But, mingled with a terror was a most strange tingle, a feeling of excitement, of being alive, such as he'd never experienced before.

  Even he couldn't quite make sense of it.

  "I seduced a married woman," he yelled. "I am unsavory and.... and unreliable."

  "Not after we're married," she said, seductively. The gun pressed harder on the back of his neck. He was sure it would leave a bruise. "I'll make a gentleman out of you."

  Suddenly, Henry Crawford understood himself, as he’d never been able to before. He'd known a number of coquettes and flirts, like Mrs. Rushworth. He'd known a saintly woman like Fanny Price. He'd enjoyed the first and thought he loved the last, but no....

  If he'd loved Fanny, truly loved her, he'd never have been able to betray her.

  No. What he loved was danger. Danger was what had led him to seduce married women. Because their husbands might take a shot at him.

  He turned back, slowly to look at Miss Kitty Bennet, and saw her maddened eyes at the other end of the gun.

  And for the first time in his life knew love in the only form he could understand it.

  "Gretna Green," he whispered, awe-struck and filled with adoration. "Of course. I live to obey you. We shall go to Gretna Green right now, my love."

  Well, Lizzy," Mrs. Bennet said at breakfast. "What do you think of this sad business of our Jane?"

  Lizzy stared around the more–than–half-empty breakfast table, from which Lydia, Mary and Kitty were all missing.

  Frankly, she wasn't sure what Mrs. Bennet could be talking about.

  Jane, sitting at her place looked demure and well, if a little tired around the eyes.

  "To think she could be Mrs. Bingley by now," Mrs. Bennet said. She shot a venomous look at her husband. "It would be such a comfort to me. But your father is determined to ruin us all."