Unequal Affections: A Pride and Prejudice Retelling

by Ormiston, Lara S.

  “Gracious, Lizzy, I wish I had a rich suitor to buy me jewels!—they’d look splendid with my blue gown with the yellow ribbons—can I borrow them for your engagement party?” said Lydia in one breath.

  “You have already borrowed my green ribbon and not given it back,” returned Kitty pettishly. “Don’t loan them to her, Lizzy. She’d probably drop them in the punch bowl!”

  “I have no intention of loaning them to anyone,” replied Elizabeth firmly.

  “I do not care for such ornaments myself,” observed Mary, subjecting the combs to disinterested scrutiny, “but these appear to be fairly modest, and since they serve the practical purpose of holding your hair back, I do not disapprove of them.”

  “Now, Lydia, there’s no question of your borrowing those combs! What would Mr. Darcy think, to see them in your hair instead of Lizzy’s? He did not buy them for you, although I am sure, my love, that you will soon find yourself plenty of men willing to buy you such pretty trifles. Just think of all the rich men you will meet when your sister is married!”

  “Mama,” put in Jane tactfully, “if I’m not much mistaken, there’s Mr. Darcy’s carriage now.”

  At that Mrs. Bennet looked around and determined that yes, indeed it was, so all six Bennet women filed hurriedly into the parlor to receive him properly. By the time Mr. Darcy had descended from the carriage, ascended the steps, and been ushered respectfully into their presence, Mr. Bennet had also had time to saunter into the room. He stood near the entrance, and Darcy, instead of making straight for Elizabeth as was his already established habit, halted next to him.

  Elizabeth, watching him anxiously, saw this as a sign that he either wished to avoid her or assumed she would wish to avoid him. His apparent determination to talk to her smirking father could not be from an honest desire to get to know him. Was he angry or merely insecure?

  When she finally saw his eyes search for her, she turned her head so that the combs would catch the light, and after a moment, his gaze focused in a way that told her he had noticed them. Then his eyes shifted to hers, even as he listened to what her father was saying. Elizabeth smiled at him, a smile that she hoped conveyed both gratitude and apology, and saw him incline his body in the slightest of bows, with a barely discernible smile. He had accepted. She breathed a sigh of relief—apparently she was to be exempt from implacable resentment.

  They went in to dinner. Mr. Bennet took his wife, and of course all the other girls were used to walking on their own, but Darcy moved deliberately across the room to offer Elizabeth his arm. Neither one said anything, but she took it, aware of his eyes studying her head as they trod the short distance together.

  Their equability barely made it through dinner. Indeed, it wasn’t long before Elizabeth wondered why she had wanted him there in the first place. It was inane, with the inanity of a family muttering or squabbling over their private interests. No one made any effort at conversation except Mrs. Bennet, and she held forth on the superior breeding her daughters had had—not one of them helping in the kitchen, as the Lucas girls do—and how much preferable Lizzy’s wedding would be to Charlotte’s, until that daughter could cheerfully have chucked her smelling salts at her. Next to her, she felt Darcy growing tenser and tenser. Nor would he attempt to engage her in any particular conversation while her family sat so close. His face showed his distaste clearly; Elizabeth felt herself sinking into misery.

  Irresistibly, she found her mind turning back half a year to her one and only previous suitor, when he had first sat at this table with them. The two instances were as different as possible, the other as voluble and determined to be pleased as Darcy was silent and disapproving. Her mother had been angry at Mr. Collins, her father derisively amused. Now her mother was toadying, and her father—well, her father was still amused. Did he ever take any notice of the world but to mock it?

  Finally, a desperate impulse led her to reach for Darcy’s hand under the table. She felt him start ever so slightly; immediately, his fingers closed strongly over hers. And although he looked exactly the same, she could tell that he was less unhappy. Across the table, Lydia and Kitty fussed and sighed, and next to her, Jane ate serenely. At long last, like a miracle, Mrs. Bennet subsided into quiet, and the rest of the meal passed, if not with animation, also without antipathy.

  The separation of the sexes did not last long, and the parlor seemed extremely crowded to Darcy. Accustomed to quiet evenings in a larger room, he felt a bit claustrophobic and before long retreated to the window. Soon, Elizabeth came to stand by him. They gazed out for a short time, then she felt his gaze shift to her head. Quailing a bit, she waited.

  “They look just as I thought they would,” was all he said.

  “They are beautiful,” she murmured. Then, looking directly at him, “I am sorry I was so ungracious in my response to your thoughtfulness. Can you forgive me?”

  “Of course.”

  “It is only that I do not want you to feel that you must buy me gifts—to think that I expect it or that,” her voice dropped, “that is why I am marrying you.”

  There was a short silence. “I do not think it,” he said, his voice a little strained. Why are you marrying me, Elizabeth? “But one of the privileges of having the resources I do is that I may buy gifts for those I love when I choose. It would please me if you could accept them without concern.”

  “I will,” she promised. They were in too full a view of the room to hold hands, but she smiled at him as warmly as she dared, and he returned an answering gleam.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning, Elizabeth was sitting in the garden lost in thought when she looked up and found Wickham standing over her. “Mr. Wickham!” she exclaimed, blushing. “I did not see you approach.”

  “Forgive me for startling you,” he replied. “I have no doubt you were waiting for another. I hear I am to congratulate you.” Elizabeth turned her face away in confusion. “No, no, my dear Miss Eliza,” he protested, sitting down next to her. “You must not be ashamed! You must not think that I, of all people, blame you.”

  She was surprised at this and looked at him searchingly. “What do you mean?”

  “Why, that I understand you perfectly. The only thing that surprises me is that Darcy should have forgotten his pride so much . . . but then again,” he looked at her significantly, “perhaps it is not so surprising. You are, after all, an enchanting creature.”

  Mr. Wickham had paid Elizabeth many compliments, but this was the first to make her uncomfortable. She could not say why except that she was promised to another. And that phrase, I understand you perfectly. What did he mean by that? She stood up rather quickly. “Perhaps we ought to return to the house.”

  “Certainly,” he replied pleasantly, standing as well. “Shall we go by way of the shrubbery?” This gave her pause, but it was not actually improper, and, seeing as this was probably the last time she would ever see him, she consented to walk by his side. “I sincerely congratulate you, my friend,” he told her. “You have succeeded where many others failed.”

  His tone was warm, but she felt the praise as an accusation. “I have not succeeded at anything,” she said defensively. “I was presented with a difficult decision and made it as best I could.”

  He smiled. “I can easily believe that a woman with your liveliness would find Darcy’s severity hard to bear.” He sighed. “If I had been so fortunate as to be born in such favorable circumstances as he—or even if I had received what was promised me—then perhaps I could have offered you another alternative.”

  That was too much. Elizabeth felt he was baiting her in some obscure way, and she hurried her step along the path. “You misunderstood me, Mr. Wickham.”

  “Did I?”

  “I really cannot discuss my engagement with you.”

  “Of course. Forgive me, I did not mean to offend.”

  He sounded so contrite that she could not help but smile a little. “You did not offend me. But we really should not walk in th
e shrubbery this way.”

  “I understand. Darcy must be expected soon, and he would not like to catch me with you.” They emerged from the bushes near the house. “This must make public meetings between us difficult from now on, but I hope you will still consider me your friend, no matter what is between me and Darcy.”

  “Of course.” Believing that they were saying good-bye, relieved to have it over so easily, she offered him her hand. He took it immediately.

  “You and I are quite a lot alike, you know,” he said, looking at her keenly. “More so even than I realized. I hope we may meet again soon.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Wickham,” was her only reply. He pressed her hand one last time warmly, gave her a melting look with his blue eyes, and went back to the house. Elizabeth, feeling grateful that Mr. Darcy had not interrupted them, sat down on a bench to cool her flushed cheeks.

  About ten minutes later Darcy emerged from the house. He did not look angry, so she concluded that she had not encountered Mr. Wickham on the way.

  He strolled across the lawn toward her in his calm, deliberate fashion. She stood to greet him, and he took her hand and kissed it before tucking it in his arm. “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning,” she replied rather shyly, and his eyes crinkled at the corners to see her so.

  “Will you walk with me in the shrubbery?” he asked. Suppressing a roll of her eyes, Elizabeth complied, and they went into the shrubbery in the opposite direction that Elizabeth and Wickham had taken a few minutes before.

  Usually, Elizabeth was the one to lead the way in conversations between them, but today she found herself silent. Darcy, however, did not seem to mind, and that he was meditating on pleasant thoughts of his own soon became clear as he asked, “Do you recall that time while you were at Netherfield that we all met up in the shrubbery?”

  Elizabeth wrinkled her brow. “I do recall it, though I confess the memory has no significance for me.”

  “Did you happen to overhear what Miss Bingley and I were speaking of when you and Mrs. Hurst came upon us?”

  “Not at all. Should I have?”

  He shook his head. “I have always wondered. We were speaking of you.”

  “Of me?” She looked in surprise. “I am almost afraid to ask what was being said.”

  “You need not.” Darcy had no intention of telling her the entire conversation, but some little disclosure he enjoyed. “The subject was your eyes.”

  “My eyes?” she repeated. “You will not persuade me to believe that Miss Bingley praised my eyes.”

  “No,” he acknowledged, “but I did.”

  This was the sort of remark that generally embarrassed her, but instead this time it struck her as irresistibly funny. “I believe,” she said after a pause, “that you have now satisfactorily explained at least one aspect of my stay at Netherfield.”

  “Oh?” He watched the deepening amusement on her face with fascination.

  “Oh, yes. Miss Bingley’s behavior is now perfectly comprehensible.”

  Caught by surprise, he flushed. Elizabeth saw she had embarrassed him by this implicit reference to Miss Bingley’s preference for him, and she found it rather endearing. “I fear it was in part my fault that she treated you so coldly,” he said slowly. “I should, perhaps, have been more cautious in expressing my admiration to her. I only did so once initially, after which she often brought it up to me, to tease me. I am sorry that . . . it was never my intention that it should result in discomfort for you. . . .” He rubbed his forehead.

  She laughed outright, and his expression lightened. “I was not discomfited,” she assured him.

  “No,” he replied almost eagerly, “that is what I remember from that day. Mrs. Hurst took my other arm and left you alone, so I suggested we go into the avenue where there was room.” He stopped walking and Elizabeth with him. “I wanted you to stay, but you . . .” His eyes caressed her face, and his voice sounded almost wondering. “You ran away laughing.”

  “I did, it’s true, but I cannot say that I see anything so remarkable in that.”

  He smiled at her and caught her other hand. “What was remarkable was that you had been treated rudely, and instead of resorting to petulance you behaved as if you did not care at all.”

  “I did not care. After all, you cannot suppose I was at Netherfield for any company other than Jane’s.”

  Darcy was about to make a comment about his company but thought better of it. He had thought she was flirting with him, those months ago, but he had been wrong. The only one fighting an overpowering attraction had been him.

  As if reading his thoughts, Elizabeth glanced upwards through her lashes at him. “It seems so strange to think that you liked me—had a preference for me—even then. I had no notion of it.”

  “Why do you think I spoke to you so often—entered discussions with you and contested you—if I did not like it?”

  “I thought you disapproved of me and my opinions. After all, we seemed to speak only to argue.”

  “Disapproved? Not at all,” he disclaimed. “I disagreed at times, it’s true, but I approved of your quickness and spirit wholeheartedly. If I had disapproved of you, I would have avoided speaking to you at all if I could help it.”

  This last statement was so very true and so filled with unconscious conceit that Elizabeth had a hard time not laughing. He really did not know, she thought. He did not know how very arrogant he was at times, or how offensive he could be to others. In all likelihood no one, from his childhood nurse on up to his current companions, had ever told him of it. She had tried at times, indirectly of course, but while he appeared genuinely remorseful over specific words, perhaps it was more that he regretted the impression he had made rather than that he recognized a fault with his attitude as a whole.

  The more that Elizabeth got to know him—and he was a hard man to know, really—the more he appeared to her as an essentially good man, a generous and thoughtful and conscientious man, who was a little spoiled, a little self-centered, a little too used to the advantages and acclaim of his wealth and position.

  After a short struggle she said, “You have certainly cast a new light on our interactions at Netherfield. The same cannot be said for Kent, though. You spoke remarkably little there.”

  “There . . .” He sighed. “There I was feeling too much, thinking too much of which I could not speak. If I had felt less, Elizabeth, I could have spoken more. I thought . . .” He looked away, pained. “I thought that we understood each other.”

  She wished now that she had not steered the conversation toward the topic of his feelings. What words of reassurance could she give him that would not be hypocritical? He still did not know the truth of her former feelings, and she dreaded the day he found out. What could she say then to explain why she accepted him?

  To distract them both she asked, “Did you know that I was to be at Rosings before you came?”

  “I was not certain,” he replied. “My aunt mentioned in a letter that Mrs. Collins had some family and a friend to stay. I remembered that you and Mrs. Collins had been good friends, and I hoped, and feared, that it would be you.”

  “Feared, sir?”

  “Of course.”

  “Were my charms so alarming, then?”

  “To me, yes.”

  “I have never considered myself a frightening person.”

  “Nor I, an easily frightened one. Yet I can safely say, Elizabeth, that I quailed at the prospect of seeing you again, even while I eagerly desired it.” He pulled her arm back through his and walked a few more steps. “And you?” he asked, glancing sideways at her. “What did you feel when you learned you would see me again?”

  Elizabeth bit her lip. “Some surprise, perhaps,” she ventured. “I had not expected that we would meet again after you left Netherfield. I do not believe I found myself frightened.”

  He smiled. “I should hope not.”

  “We were all at a loss at your sudden departure in the autumn, espec
ially Mr. Bingley’s, as he had indicated an intention of remaining. What was the cause behind it?”

  He frowned now. “I needed to spend some time with my sister,” he said evasively. “Bingley’s decision to remain in London was his own.”

  “Was it?” His eyes flew to her face. “It seemed to me that his sisters did not wish him to remain at Netherfield and had contrived to keep him in town.”

  He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. “Bingley is his own master. Miss Bingley, it is true, prefers town to country, and her desires must necessarily weigh with him, but the decision was always his.”

  “He always appeared to set great stock in your opinion.”

  Darcy felt himself to be in a quandary. His natural inclination was to disclose the past openly; did he not hate disguise? But this subject alone he was leery of discussing with Elizabeth; it was a delicate one, and he was afraid they would not see eye-to-eye on it. “Come, let us go back into the house,” he said rather curtly. Elizabeth repressed a sigh of disappointed vexation and went with him.

  Darcy and Longbourn established an understanding with each other rather quickly—one based largely on mutual disregard. He came every day but only to see Elizabeth, who never made the mistake again of leaving him to wait long for her attention. If she could not attend him, he left, although Jane made an acceptable substitute for a short time. Some days he ate dinner with them, but by no means all. Elizabeth often wondered what he found to occupy himself at Netherfield, apart from books and his letters of business. In private he was amiable and attentive, but with her family, cold and quiet with a demeanor that did not encourage familiarity. It was not uncommon for him to answer a foolish remark with nothing more than a displeased look or to turn away in the middle of a conversation. Within only a few days most of the household treated him as so much furniture. Even Mrs. Bennet, who seemed incapable of taking offense at him now soon gave up attempting more than civil greetings and good-byes, although she was always asking Elizabeth to inquire about his favorite tea cakes or his preference for mutton or lamb and other such matters. Occasionally, Mr. Bennet would sally forth from his library to engage him in a discussion about Plato or Plutarch, which Darcy participated in with his usual gravity, and even more occasionally Darcy would join him in the library, but only Elizabeth and Jane took any real interest in his presence, and he seemed perfectly satisfied to have it so.