Unequal Affections: A Pride and Prejudice Retelling

by Ormiston, Lara S.

  “Ah, well, when Sir William still had his shop, we carried Honiton lace, which is far finer than anything Meryton has ever seen since, I’m sure. We had very fine lace, did we not, Sir William?”

  “—and I nearly died laughing when I saw that hideous thing—”

  “What’s that, Lady Lucas? Lace? Oh, yes, I saw lots of lace in St James’!”

  Elizabeth opened her eyes slowly and, with great trepidation, met Darcy’s. Her breath caught in her throat. They were filled with laughter. Instantly, laughter overwhelmed her, too, as relief, gratitude, and joy filled her heart. This was why she loved them. This was how she had been able to live in the society of these people for so long and remain so happy, because of the very gloriousness of their absurdities. To know, suddenly, that he had seen it, too, that he understood, was beyond delightful, beyond every expectation. All at once she wished desperately that she could hold his hand under the table, but it was impossible, so instead they just looked at each other while her face grew steadily redder with suppressed mirth. Seeing Elizabeth’s amusement amplified Darcy’s; he was soon silently laughing at her as much as with her, and neither of them could speak for some time.

  The rest of the evening seemed similar, a whirl of silly lines that only got funnier the longer one listened to them, everyone good humored, everyone seemingly unconscious of the exquisite comedy playing out except perhaps her father, to whom she did not pay attention, herself, and Darcy—though they were always separated by the company, kept apart by those same tidal forces, washed about the room, jostled with conversation and high spirits, yet always seeking each other with laughing eyes, connected in a way she could not ever remember being connected to anyone before.

  The next morning, Darcy strode down the hallway at Longbourn. He was looking, of course, for Elizabeth and soon enough was rewarded by the welcome sound of her laughter. Less than her usual laugh, though—it was more of a giggle. Elizabeth hardly ever giggled.

  He found her in the same back parlor where they had spoken the day he first returned to Hertfordshire. She was sitting on a chair with a piece of paper in one hand, covering her face with the other, her shoulders shaking. She looked up when he entered, and her giggles increased.

  Both Darcy’s brows rose, and his mouth twitched upward into a smile. “What is it?”

  She waved the paper about. “It’s a note—,” she paused to calm herself, “from Charlotte. She says,” she swallowed, “she says that her mother—her mother—,” she was quickly being overcome again, “—came home last night talking about planting—,” she gasped, “ch-chocolate trees at L-Lucas Lodge!”

  Darcy threw back his head and laughed with her.

  “And,” she continued when she could, “Sir William has decided to ha-have a new coat made to lo-look like one of the prince regent’s!”

  That did it. They both broke down, and as often happens in these cases, the merriment of one increased the merriment of the other until they were both laughing as hard as they’d ever laughed. Abruptly, though, Darcy stopped laughing. It took Elizabeth a moment to realize he had gone silent. Her own laughter died as she looked up and saw him regarding her with sober eyes.

  “W-what is it?” she asked uncertainly. It had all been so perfect a moment ago, but suddenly that new connection they had seemed gone again.

  “Elizabeth, I convinced Bingley not to return to Netherfield last autumn.”

  Startled, she stared at him. “I know you did,” she said finally.

  He closed his eyes. “How?”

  “Your cousin.”

  He frowned. “My cousin Fitzwilliam?”

  “Yes. He told me . . . ,” she looked down at her hands, at the paper she still clutched, “that you congratulated yourself on having saved your friend from a most imprudent marriage.”

  He winced. “That was poorly put of him.”

  “Indeed. If he had realized that he was addressing the sister of the lady in question, I am sure he would have taken pains to be more tactful.”

  “When . . . when did he tell you this?”

  It took her a moment, but finally she said quietly, “The morning of the day you proposed.” She was almost afraid to look at him but could not help doing so through her lashes. His arrested expression told her that he understood the implications.

  “I see,” he said at last. “You were not angry?”

  Was there any way around the dreadful truth? Yet it was a relief to talk of it, finally. “I was,” she admitted. “Very angry. But I have tried to believe that your reasons could not have been as bad as they first appeared—that you did not mean to be unkind.”

  “Of course I did not.” He came further into the room, looking at her closely. “My observation of your sister at Bingley’s ball convinced me that she did not return his feelings—that she accepted his attentions with complaisance but no answering warmth.”

  “You were wrong.” Looking at the crumpled sheet she held again, she began to smooth it. “She was heartbroken at his abandonment.”

  “Elizabeth . . . they had known each other but a few weeks. Bingley had often been in love before her; it was reasonable to suppose that he would recover quickly, and I do not scruple to assert that Miss Bennet had a serenity of countenance that could not have given the most impartial observer an idea of her being so attached. I can see now—since Bingley’s return I have been able to see her happiness in his company, but it was not discernible at the time.”

  “And was it your place to determine that?” She met his eyes.

  A pause, and he looked away. “No. No, it was not my place. I have had more than one cause to regret my interference in the last weeks.”

  “Ah, well.” She smiled crookedly at him. “You brought him back, did you not?”

  “He brought himself back. I had little to do with it.” He sighed. “There is more. Bingley did not know that your sister was in London over the winter, but I did. I concealed it from him because I thought it could do no good for him to meet her again—a piece of officiousness for which I have since apologized.”

  She accepted this silently, looking down at her hands as she continued to smooth the paper, over and over again, until one of Darcy’s stilled the motion. He sat down next to her. “Tell me what you are thinking.”

  “Oh, nothing of consequence.” She tried for lightness. “Perhaps we ought to send to London for some drawings of the Regent so that Sir William can have coats to—” But he stopped her, turning her face towards him.

  “No jokes just now, Lizzy. I want to know if you are still angry.”

  Her gaze was surprisingly soft. “No,” she said finally, “I am not.”

  “Then tell me what troubles you still.”

  She sighed. “You went to a so much trouble to save a friend from marrying into my family—a man of only half your wealth and consequence.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “Not entirely.” She looked down at his hand still on hers. “You gain nothing from marrying me.”

  “I gain you.”

  But am I enough? The question whispered across her mind, and suddenly unable to sit still any longer, she stood, moving restlessly to the window, in at trick very like his own. “And if Mr. Bingley had returned to Netherfield—if he had refused to do as you argued he should?”

  “Then I would have remained his friend.” He came to stand behind her. “I am not fickle in my friendships any more than I am in my love, Elizabeth. I would no more abandon Bingley because he made a decision I did not approve of than I would abandon you.”

  She smiled at that. “Why did you tell me this now, today?”

  “It preyed upon my conscience.” It was a simple answer. “I am sorry I ruined our merriment, and I hope we may get it back again soon, but I could go no longer without speaking.”

  After that there was silence for several moments. “Charlotte once said that Jane was not open enough about her feelings, but I disagreed with her. She also said . . .” she turned, finding him c
loser than she realized, “that in nine cases out of ten a woman ought to show more affection than she feels, in order to secure her husband, but I still cannot agree about that.”

  Darcy swallowed. “No,” he murmured. He had reached for her instinctively, but now one hand slid down her arm, and captured hers. “Neither can I. As—” His other hand curled behind her back, pulling her a little closer. “As painful as the subject is to me, I would not have you pretend.”

  As they stood that way, in a half embrace, Darcy found himself reviewing all the counts he now knew that she had held against him. She had thought he had bad manners, she had been offended at his proposal, she had at least partially believed whatever lies Wickham told her, and she had known that he was responsible for separating Mr. Bingley from her sister. Knowing her as he did now, he marveled that she had ever accepted him. Why had she accepted him? It wasn’t love that made her do it, nor was it greed. Was it fear? Caution? Devotion to her family?

  He tried to tell himself that it did not matter—that it was enough that he was here with her standing very nearly within the circle of his arms, and all those misunderstandings corrected. He drew her closer almost in reflex, one hand caressing her shoulder, the other clinging to her hand. More than anything in that moment he wanted her to bridge that small gap still between them, to touch him, lift her face, put her arms around his neck. Right then he might have given Pemberley itself to have her show him a spontaneous gesture of affection, one he could be sure was born not of gratitude or duty, but love.

  Elizabeth lifted her hand, hesitantly. He held his breath.

  “Lizzy!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice sounded in the hall just outside their door, and they jumped apart, almost as red faced as if they had been caught kissing. Darcy struggled to regain his composure and mask his disappointment; when he looked at Elizabeth, she was already hurrying out the door.

  Later, when they were both in the parlor as Mr. Bennet drew Mrs. Bennet out on the subject of chocolate trees, Elizabeth sought Darcy’s eyes again, anxious to reestablish the secret shared amusement of the evening before. His gaze softened at her look, and he smiled slightly in response to her, yet it seemed he still had not cast off their earlier seriousness.

  “Do tell, my dear—which part of the orchard do you think shall be most appropriate for these wonder trees?” Mr. Bennet asked his wife, his eyes sparkling in anticipation, and suddenly Elizabeth did not find it funny anymore either.

  “I read in a book that cocoa trees will only grow in warm climates,” she said quietly to her mother. “That is why they have them in the Americas and are planting them in the West Indies. Even the Italians must import the beans from somewhere else.”

  Mrs. Bennet considered this, disappointed. “Are you sure they could not grow here?”

  “Perfectly sure. Have you seen this?” She held up a fashion plate. “Do you not think this style would be very becoming on Mary if we were to have it made up with that extra length of straw sarcenet we had left over? It’s perfectly modest, and she has always looked good in yellow.”

  “Now there shall be talk of nothing but fashion for the next hour at least,” announced Mr. Bennet, clearly disappointed to have his fun taken away. “I am for the library—are you coming with me, Mr. Darcy?”

  Darcy looked questioningly at Elizabeth, and she nodded slightly, with an encouraging smile. He would be much better entertained there, with a book and some of her father’s port, than he would be here. He stood up and began to move in that direction when she suddenly said, “Mr. Darcy!”

  He stopped and looked back at her. “Miss Elizabeth?”

  She wasn’t sure why she had called to him; even as she walked over to him, she had nothing to say, and she could not possibly take his hand or make some other gesture while the eyes of the room were on them. She came to a stop in front of him. “I—I’m sorry I cannot come with you. I’d rather be in the library, too.” She spoke softly.

  His eyes brightened. “I am sorry as well,” he answered in the same tone, bending his head a little and glancing towards her mother, where she sat at the table, and two of her sisters beyond. “But your mother has a claim to you at this time.”

  “You do not mind going with my father?”

  “Not at all. If I went back to Netherfield, I would likely only read in the library there, and of the two, your father’s is much better stocked.”

  She laughed softly. “That’s true.”

  He leaned forward a little closer still. “His port is better, too.”

  She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a louder laugh. “Ask him where he gets it from.”

  “Very well. I shall.” They both looked towards Mr. Bennet to find him watching them interestedly. Darcy straightened. “Until later, then.”

  She gave him one last smile before watching him leave. As she turned back to her mother, her heart already felt much lighter.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was evening, sometime after dinner and before supper. In Longbourn’s parlor Darcy leaned against a window frame watching Elizabeth. He had always loved to watch her talk, to see the swiftly changing expressions on her face, the intelligence in her eyes, and the sweetness of her smile. It was the first thing that had drawn him to her. His eyes lingered on her face tenderly. It was an effort for him to remember his early opinions of her; he was far too deeply in love now. It was true that when her face was in repose, when she was reading a book with eyes downcast or when the occasional pensive mood took her, then she was—oh, never plain, but nearly so. Even then, though, he found her features uncommonly pleasing, and the line of her jaw and the curve of her lips and lids had proved an endless source of fascination for him. He loved to study her and especially to watch the change when her eyes would suddenly lift and kindle; her mouth would deepen and dimple at one corner, one eyebrow would lift saucily, and her face was transformed back to beauty again.

  Darcy felt himself falling deeper in love all the time. His passion no longer had the frantic note that it had had at Rosings; it was settled and strong within him, increasing in its tenderness and devotion. He no longer thought only of his desire to be made happy by her; rather, he wanted to make her happy. He thought she deserved true happiness, most excellent of women that she was. He admired her more than ever, even in all her faults: her kindness, her intelligence, her sincerity and brave spirit. She had grace in her carriage and grace in her character.

  Abruptly he crossed the room to her side. She looked up with surprise, smiling to see him. “Mrs. Bennet, would you allow me to speak to my betrothed for a few minutes?” he asked politely.

  The older lady beamed. “But of course, Mr. Darcy! I shall be delighted! Lizzy shall be delighted, too!”

  “Of course I shall,” she replied mildly, taking his hand to rise. He hesitated, looking around. There really was nowhere to be private in the parlor. Elizabeth took charge. “We shall be in the hall, Mama.” Mrs. Bennet nodded benevolently, and they made their way out.

  The hall was quiet and deserted. Elizabeth was half expecting an embrace of some sort, but instead he put his hands behind his back and looked at her earnestly. “I have rushed you, haven’t I?” he asked directly, without preamble.

  Her eyes widened in confusion. “Excuse me?”

  “I should never have insisted on a short engagement. You were not ready to marry so soon.”

  “I—” Her forehead wrinkled. “You did not insist, as I remember it, but I am at a loss to understand the purpose of this.”

  He ran a rapid hand over his hair. “I have been thinking about it, and I believe that I was selfish not to consider that you might need more time to accustom yourself to the idea of marriage. I had had it in my mind for months, but for you it was sudden. Come now,” he said, meeting her gaze, “tell me the truth. What was your real reaction when I told you I wished to be married in only a month?”

  She dropped her eyes. “I was . . . a little startled,” she admitted, pink rising up her neck, “and rather
overwhelmed, perhaps.”

  “Why did you say so, Elizabeth?” His voice was gentle. “I would never have pressed you into an arrangement that made you uncomfortable.”

  She wasn’t sure how to answer him. “I had no reason to refuse you. Your opinion carried the weight of conviction, I suppose, while mine wavered feebly. Uncertainty’s a poor foundation to build opinions on,” she added with a strained smile.

  “But a strong argument in favor of caution.”

  She knit her brows and looked down at her hands. “I think that from my perspective it was the cautious answer.”

  Again those intense, subtle lines on his face when she looked up—a crease between his brows, and that direct yet indefinable gaze. He searched her eyes for several moments. “Say the word and we will postpone it. I will think of a pretext. The responsibility will be mine; you need not fear censure.”

  Elizabeth bit her lip, astonished and moved by the gesture. But she found, to her own surprise, that she had no desire for delay. It would be . . . cowardly and pointless. “You are very kind,” she answered in a low voice. “But I am perfectly prepared to marry you on the appointed day, Fitzwilliam. I do not wish to postpone it.”

  Darcy, trying desperately to divine her motives, read determination and acceptance on her face, even peace, but not eagerness. She was beautiful, more beautiful than he had ever seen her, but he could not trust that that was because of him.

  He reached out to cup her cheek. “Tell me you will not regret it.”

  The inquiry caught her off guard. “I had not planned on regretting it.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

  “I . . .” She wasn’t sure what to say. How could she know what she would regret? And was he speaking of the early wedding or the marriage itself? Then she saw the silent pleading in his eyes and took his hand in both her own. “I shall not regret it,” she said firmly.

  I wish I could believe that, my darling. Having once overestimated his ability to understand Elizabeth, Darcy now questioned it entirely. He wanted to think her truly happy in their engagement, but doubts assailed him at every turn. He had heard her laughing often in the last day or two, bright, spine-tingling laughs, but what did they portend? She was sanguine by nature; her cheerfulness could be rooted in anything—the fine weather, relief over Lydia’s escape, pleasure in Jane’s happiness. Yes, he thought the last most likely. She virtually glowed with satisfaction whenever she looked at Bingley and his Miss Bennet together, while he had been the impediment to their happiness.