Unequal Affections: A Pride and Prejudice Retelling

by Ormiston, Lara S.

  “Get me a commission!” he said quickly, as he scrambled to his feet some distance away. “Buy me a captaincy in the regulars. You must give me something to live on, Darcy!”

  “You already have your commission.”

  “In the militia! They don’t pay enough to support a mouse! Come on, man, how am I supposed to stay out of debt unless I have a real salary? None of this would have happened in the first place if you had given me that living when it came open.”

  “How quickly you forget that you gave up the living of your own volition!”

  “For a paltry three thousand pounds! It was highway robbery, and you knew it. A commission is the least you owe me; what can the money mean to you? Besides,” he added bitterly, “you will be able to track me more easily then!”

  He had a point, thought Darcy, wavering. Would he drive Wickham into even greater depravity with his demands if he did not supply him with a position worth keeping? Even he would hardly risk the penalty of desertion from the army. As low as Wickham was, he had not yet sunk to the depths of a common criminal, and Darcy did not wish to be the one to push him to it.

  “Don’t forget what I know! If you ruin me,” continued Wickham, “then what would prevent me from ruining your sister in turn? If the true story were to come out—!”

  “Enough,” said Darcy through thin lips. “Go to Brighton. If you pass the summer there free from scandal and debt, then I will buy you an ensigncy in the regulars. That includes gambling debts, mind!”

  Wickham cursed. “Do you expect me to live like a priest?”

  “No, only like a man of ordinary morality.”

  “What do you know of ordinary morality?”

  “More than you.”

  He snorted. “That’s where you’re wrong, Darcy. The ordinary man is much more like me than he is like you.”

  “I hope for all our sakes that you are wrong. But it will do you no harm to practice frugality and restraint for once in your life. If you can do it, then you shall have your reward at the end.”

  “And you expect me to thank you, I suppose? Thank you for chaining me yet again? For showing mercy on poor Wickham from your filthy-rich heights?”

  “I expect nothing from you but that you remember what I have said today. The next time you impose yourself on another respectable family will be your last. The Bennets in particular are now under my protection, and if you do anything to harm one of them, it will go much the worse for you. You may yet make something of your life if you apply yourself, but do not think my generosity is unlimited. I will not extend this offer again.”

  “You don’t want me to make something of my life—you want to ruin me! You are determined to plague me and ruin my every chance. How shall I make friends if you turn them all against me?”

  Again Darcy smiled that mirthless smile. “Perhaps you may take amusement from the irony of your situation, then.”

  Wickham cursed at him again but had no choice in the end but to skulk off, hatred in his eyes. Darcy had put him in a tight spot, and he knew it. The threat of imprisonment on one side and the promise of advancement on the other exerted a force he could not help but feel. Although Mr. Wickham’s heart was as far from reform as it had ever been, his actions, for a time at least, would have to be curtailed.

  Darcy watched him go somberly. He felt the weight of the threats he had made, perhaps more heavily than Wickham himself did. He had taken on himself the responsibility for another man’s actions, and it did not sit easily. Yet leaving him to his own devices had never yielded him anything other than more heartache. Would he ever be free of him?

  He looked down at his bruised knuckles, flexing his hand gingerly. He had not hit another person in anger since he was a child. The recipient of his wrath then had been Richard, not George, and the lecture he had received from his father afterwards went a long way toward forming his own views on the subject of violence. Yet when Wickham had said what he had about Elizabeth, the reflexive punch had been as natural as breathing. Nor could he regret it really, as chagrined as he felt to have violated his own principles. Every time he recalled it, he wanted to hit him again.

  Turning automatically toward the path leading back to Longbourn, he was startled to see movement nearby and halted abruptly. There, a shawl thrown about her shoulders and her hair unbound, stood Elizabeth.

  Since her chamber was located just across the hall from her father’s, Elizabeth had been awakened by the maid knocking on his door and calling to him. Going to her own door, she had heard the girl say that Mr. Darcy and Miss Lydia were downstairs and Mr. Darcy said he was needed urgently. Astonished and dismayed, she had dressed hurriedly and nearly run down the steps, only to find Mr. Darcy already departed and her sister undergoing an interrogation by her grim-faced father.

  As she listened to Lydia’s sullen answers, her blood ran cold. The nearness of their escape, Lydia’s colossal stupidity, Wickham’s utter betrayal, Darcy’s astonishing presence right at the critical moment—it was almost more than she could comprehend. She could see that her father was angry, nearly grey with shock and anger, but somehow all she could think of was Darcy and the reason for his abrupt departure. When Lydia mentioned the place they were to meet, she understood all at once. Without stopping to ask herself how, she knew that he had gone there to meet him in her stead. As quick as thought, she was slipping out the side door and hurrying along the way, anxiety gripping her heart. What if Wickham’s spite against Darcy were to take a violent turn? Or what if, his plan being thwarted, he grew desperate?

  She slowed down and crept silently as she neared the old tree. The first thing she heard was her betrothed’s voice, hard as iron. “But it will do you no harm to practice frugality and restraint for once in your life,” he said. “If you can do it, then you shall have your reward at the end.”

  Then Wickham’s voice, almost unrecognizable in its venom: “And you expect me to thank you, I suppose? Thank you for chaining me yet again? For showing mercy on poor Wickham from your filthy-rich heights?”

  She grew a little pale at his tone and listened in silence to the rest of the conversation. It was clear that the men had made some kind of a deal, with Darcy standing as both enforcer and rewarder, and that Wickham was furious but unable to refuse. A sense of warmth pervaded her to hear him declare her entire family under his protection. What a strong defender she had acquired!

  Then Wickham left, and Darcy, clearly still preoccupied, turned in her direction. Taking a breath, she stepped forward.

  All other thought went out of Darcy’s head when he saw her but how comely she looked in the early morning light, her fresh skin glowing and her hair falling about her face. That same unbearable ache of joy and pain seized his heart all over again.

  Elizabeth walked forward softly to where he stood, watching her dumbly. Her brilliant eyes in their rim of lashes held his. “Thank you,” she said.

  He shook his head. “You have nothing to thank me for,” he said a little hoarsely. “Wickham would never have sought her out if you weren’t connected to me.”

  “But I must thank you for saving her. For saving us.”

  “It—it was good fortune only that I was outside Longbourn at that hour of the morning.”

  She smiled at him mistily. “Yes, it was. What were you doing?”

  “Thinking of you,” he replied, honestly and simply, and gathered her close. She went very willingly, wrapping her arms around him. Darcy buried his face in her hair, overcome with too many emotions to speak.

  After a long time he drew back a little but could not forbear to run a caressing hand over her tresses. It was then that she noticed that his knuckles were red and a little swollen. Taking his hand in both of hers, she studied the injury, then looked significantly up at him, raising one eyebrow.

  A flush crept up the back of Darcy’s neck, and he looked away. But Elizabeth, though certainly surprised to realize that he had hit Mr. Wickham, was not at all displeased. She wanted to hit him herself. De
liberately, she gently kissed each knuckle.

  Darcy sucked in his breath, and she looked up to see him staring at her with very dark eyes. “These are wounds of honor,” she told him seriously.

  “Elizabeth . . .” He could not speak. It was then that, seeing the almost palpable longing on his face, she lifted hers. Darcy stared a moment at the invitation, then bent his head.

  How many times had he kissed her now? Elizabeth tried to remember. It was not that many. His lips were not completely strange anymore, but neither were they quite familiar. Each time it was so different. And this time . . . this time there were no sisters to interrupt, no angry emotions to interfere. Darcy, raw from his encounter with Wickham, did not have even his usual tenuous defenses in place. So he held her hard against his pounding heart and kissed her with need and yearning and love. She willingly let him, somewhat overwhelmed but not frightened, responding shyly. Eventually, her hand crept up to touch his cheek.

  When all his tension and regrets and turmoil had seeped out of him, he drew his mouth back a little, breathing deeply against her cheek. His hands, those strong, capable, fastidious hands of his, still held her firmly in his grasp. Elizabeth felt . . . contentment, and a well of real tenderness. When he spoke, it was only to murmur endearments to her, with a tender passion of which she once would not have believed him capable. She did not even attempt to deny that she found his affection highly gratifying, and her hand still remained, softly, along his jaw and cheek.

  When he recovered himself, he took her by the hand and led her to a seat on a fallen log; it was there, at last, that he told her the full account of everything that had happened between himself and his sister and Mr. Wickham. As she listened to him describe how Wickham had demanded a living he’d already been paid for, then out of revenge and avarice attempted to elope with Miss Darcy, Elizabeth lost the sense of satisfaction their interlude had produced. She was appalled to see how completely Wickham had deceived her and how gullible and vain she had been. And how unjust to Darcy! How unkind in her opinion, how undiscerning in her judgment!

  She felt that honesty deserved honesty, and knew she should confess it all to him right there. But she could not do it. While deriding herself for her cowardice, she yet could not bear for him to know—not now, this morning, after everything that he had done and everything that had passed between them—just how badly she had thought of him. She could not bear to be so lowered in his estimation or to inflict such pain upon him. So instead she asked him about the words she had overheard. Reluctantly he admitted to the deal he had made, both his threats and his promise.

  She considered it in some awe. “You have taken on a very great responsibility.”

  “I could not think what else to do,” he answered. “Attempting to disassociate myself from Mr. Wickham has availed me naught so far. I fear that he will continue to wreak whatever trouble he can in both our families. And perhaps,” and here he paused, as if the thoughts he expressed were new ones, “perhaps it is true that I do owe something to the families of respectable communities like this one where he would seek to impose himself. He would never have been welcomed at Longbourn if I had sought to expose his true character when he first came.”

  Elizabeth reflected to herself that he might not have been believed had he attempted it. After all, Mr. Wickham pleased where Darcy only gave offense. But she, not unnaturally, did not feel she could share that reflection. Rather she asked, “But how could you, without exposing your sister as well?”

  “I could have told what else I knew of him. I could have related our pecuniary dealings. But I have always thought it beneath me to expose my private affairs to the world.” He looked down at their hands, clasped between them. “I should have told you,” he said slowly. “When you taxed me at the ball with depriving him of my friendship, I should have told you then something of the truth.”

  Elizabeth shook her head slightly. “I . . . I do not think it would have mattered,” she admitted at last, in a low voice. “I would not have believed you, then.” His eyes rose to her face. “You see,” she smiled a strained smile, “he flattered me and you did not. You were right: Vanity is a failing indeed.”

  In Darcy’s mind echoed the remainder of his quote from that day: but where there is true superiority of mind, pride will always be under good regulation. Then, unexpectedly, phrases from his proposal also came back to him: To take on your connections is a degradation to a man of my station . . . every argument of my better judgment was against such an alliance . . . it seemed an insult to my very name to look so low. He shut his eyes. Under good regulation?

  They sat there together in mutual consciousness of their sins. There did not seem to be anything else to say at the moment. Finally Darcy stood up, drawing her after him. “You should go. They will be wanting you at Longbourn.”

  “Come with me. You should tell them what you have done concerning Mr. Wickham.”

  He shook his head. “I will not be welcomed just now, I think. You may tell your father what you like, or I will later.”

  “But your hand! Will you not come and let me tend it for you?”

  The idea of Elizabeth as nurse was singularly appealing, but he pushed it away. “Not this morning, sweetheart. My valet will attend to it.”

  “Very well.” She smiled uncertainly at him. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam. Again.”

  “I do not want your thanks, Elizabeth.” He spoke almost sternly. “Not now. Not ever.”

  “But I cannot deny so natural an impulse as gratitude.”

  “Then give your thanks to God, for it was surely not by my intent that I came to be there at just the right hour.”

  She nodded slightly, her eyes glossy with hinted tears. “I will, then.”

  He squeezed her hand, looked once at her lips, sighed, and let her go.

  Despite Darcy’s prediction, Elizabeth found that Longbourn, far from being in an uproar, was almost eerily silent. Creeping up the stairs, she listened at Lydia’s door and heard the sound of quiet sobbing. She knocked softly. “Lydia? May I come in?”

  “No!” came the angry answer. “I don’t want you here! It’s all your fault anyway.”

  Not to be deterred, she turned the handle, only to find it locked. “Lydia, dear, please let me in.”

  “I wouldn’t let you in even if I could, but I can’t, because Papa’s locked it and he says I can’t come out until I’m twenty-five!”

  Elizabeth smothered a smile. “You know very well he did not mean it. But you cannot blame him for being angry at you.”

  “I do blame him, for it’s all his fault. He ought to have let me go to Brighton! And it was all just a lark anyway. Nothing bad would have happened but so many fun things!”

  Elizabeth shook her head, but it was impossible to speak further through the door, so she went back down the stairs to seek her father. She found him in the library, still wrapped in his dressing gown, staring out the window and looking grey. She walked across the floor to him and knelt down by his chair. “Papa?”

  He turned his head and placed a gentle hand on her hair. “You may tell me now that you were right, Lizzy, and I may even be generous enough not to hold it against you.” She bit her lip, not knowing what to say. “I have been a poor father. Do not think this is the first time I have known it, but it is, perhaps, the first time I have felt it as I ought.” She made some movement, but he waved her down. “Do not attempt to lessen the impression, Lizzy. It will pass soon enough.”

  She sat in silence by him for a time until he roused himself and said with a small smile, “Well, did your young man vanquish the dragon again?”

  So he had caught the significance of her sudden departure. “Yes, Papa.”

  “I should have gone myself, I suppose, but there seemed no point. He was obviously in more capable hands by that time.”

  She frowned at this, one more symptom of his habitual inactivity. “Shall I tell you what happened?”

  “Yes, yes, tell me all.”

  S
he began with a brief account of Darcy’s history with Wickham, excluding his sister. When she described the bargain they had struck, Mr. Bennet was quite astonished.

  “Is it so indeed!” he exclaimed. “Well, he has hung a millstone around his neck he may never be rid of now!”

  It was all too true, she was afraid. “Mr. Darcy is not a man who shirks responsibility, Papa.”

  “Unlike me, you need not say. I see the contrast very well; it does not need you to point it out.”

  “I was not going to say any such thing.”

  “Yes, but you were thinking it, and you were quite right. Well, I am glad that you are going to a better man than I, Lizzy. He has certainly proved himself worthy of you, if any man could, despite his superior air. As for myself, I am too old for redemption now, but perhaps your sister is not. Maybe I will send her to you, to let your husband sort her out.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “I wish you would not jest now, sir. Lydia needs a firm hand, but it should be yours. Mr. Darcy has had charge of his own sister since he was three and twenty, and he will have me to care for too. Is that not enough?”

  “And babies soon enough, I will wager.” He chuckled wryly at her blush. “You must not be missish, Lizzy; you’ll be a married lady soon.”

  “We were speaking of Lydia.”

  “Yes, Lydia! I knew she was a silly thing, but I confess I never thought she so completely lacked morals.”

  “She did not know she would be going to her ruin. She thought only to steal back the treat she was denied, like a spoiled child. She can be made to see reason, I am convinced of it, if you will but be firm with her and not give her her way.”

  “I have my doubts about that, daughter. She is too strong and too stubborn now. No, I fear she will suffer for my neglect of her upbringing for the rest of her life. My only concern is how to spare the rest of you from suffering from it too.”

  Elizabeth hardly knew how to comfort her father. What he said was all too true, and yet she felt that surely some amendment might be made, that Lydia’s strong spirits and childish conceit could only improve if she were to be pressed to be better, made to expand her mind and exert some effort on behalf of someone other than herself. But she knew too well how unlikely her father was to sustain any effort for long. She hoped it would last enough that he might at least restrain her public exhibitions of folly, but here at home, with her mother lending Lydia sympathy, how many months—nay, weeks—would it be before he relapsed into his previous indifference?