This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Christina Morland

  “But your sister…”

  “Our marriage would not stop me from regaining custody of Georgiana.”

  “Your aunt would never approve.”

  “My father’s will does not require her approval for my marriage, only for the guardianship of my sister while I remain unmarried. My solicitor has informed me that, in the strict sense of the law, I remain my sister’s guardian. Perhaps the only good that came from my shameful inaction when my uncle took Georgiana to Rosings was that he and my aunt saw no need to seek legal redress. They did not press for guardianship in the courts because they believed they had already won the dispute.”

  “Still, they would press suit, would they not, if you demanded your sister’s return?”

  “They might, but then I would be married. I would argue that the terms of the provisional guardianship no longer apply and that Georgiana should therefore be returned to my custody.”

  She shook her head. “I cannot help but think that you would be, in some way, going against your father’s wishes.”

  He sighed. “That was my solicitor’s response. I have thought about this a great deal, and I keep returning to this point: my father’s true wish was for my sister’s security and happiness. She is miserable at Rosings, and in a year, when she is old enough for Lord Matlock to present her at Court, she will be even more miserable. Georgiana prefers the company of a few, true friends to the amusements of society.”

  “Then she is much like her brother.”

  “To her detriment, yes. Nonetheless, she has many qualities to recommend her.”

  Elizabeth could not help herself: “Then she is much like her brother.”

  She could not be certain, but she thought he smiled.

  “I still fear that your choosing to marry me would hurt, rather than help, your sister. If you are forced to defend the guardianship in court, there is no guarantee that the decision would be in your favor.”

  “Your concern for my sister is more, not less, of an inducement for me to marry you, for I would only marry a woman who loves my sister as I do.”

  “My concern for you is less, not more, of an inducement for me; I am likely to bring you pain, and that I could not bear.”

  “That sort of logic,” he said, brushing his fingers against her cheek, “is more insensible than my proposal.”

  “It is clear enough to me,” she replied, leaning away from him.

  He dropped his hand. “Are you truly determined to marry Mr. Collins, then?”

  “Mr. Collins may be ridiculous, but he knows exactly why he wants to marry. He is seeking a wife who is of a suitable station for a man of the church; he also hopes to mend the animosity between my family and his. Beyond that, he has no expectations. Likewise, I do not expect very much from him. He will provide a home for my family, and he will occasionally—though unintentionally, I am certain—amuse me with his stupidity.”

  “That is not an answer to my question.”

  “Oh, of course I am not determined to marry him! I would not be sitting here if I were. You must not think I am being coy, not now. I am not attempting to make you beg for my hand; it is only that…” She shook her head in frustration.

  “It is only that you are afraid,” he suggested quietly.

  “Yes. Yes, exactly. It is one thing to look toward one’s future and prepare for the worst. I can do that with Mr. Collins. It is quite another to hope for something and find that it is only an illusion. I am afraid that is what you will find. I am afraid that is what I will find.”

  “Do you think I am not frightened by all that we have to lose? Yet, when I consider the alternatives…If neither of us marries, we will, without a doubt, be miserable. If we do what is expected of us—if we marry where we do not love—we will still be miserable, perhaps a little less so than if we did nothing, for we would at least have the comfort of knowing that we did our duties. If we choose each other—” This time, when he brushed his fingers against her cheek, she could not bring herself to rebuff him. “—we have our best chance at happiness.”

  Heart pounding, she whispered, “Do you know what I fear most?”

  His other hand had found its way to her jaw line, then to her ear, then to the fine hairs that had escaped her coiffure. “What do you fear?”

  “That you and I will mistake these feelings—” She stopped and made a little sound as he leaned forward and brought his lips to her temple. “— for…oh—” His lips had travelled down to her cheek, to her ear, to the corner of her lips, “we will mistake them for love,” she said quickly before she lost all train of thought, and she won—or lost, she could not be sure—for he stopped, though he did not move away. “We will mistake them for love, and then, if you lose your sister, you will be left with a shrew of a wife who snores.”

  She was so close to him now that she could feel as much as hear his soft laughter. “Do you really?”

  “How should I know? If I do, I am asleep when it happens. But I very well might, and you, Sir, should not laugh about it!”

  “How could I not? It is exactly what you mean for me to do.”

  “Oh, yes, another one of my flaws.”

  “Is that all you fear? I promise you, your snores will not deter me.”

  “No, that is not the least of it. If we marry, I will be torn away from my family, for you have made it quite clear that you do not love them.”

  “Your family,” he said, pressing his lips against her ear, “would be my family. I would not keep you from visiting them. But I cannot lie; I would not want them often at Pemberley. I find their behavior to be, on occasion, highly improper.”

  “Rather hypocritical of you to bemoan their tendency toward impropriety at this moment, is it not?”

  “No,” he said, kissing her cheek now, “for I intend to marry you.”

  “You are not listening to a word I say.”

  “On the contrary, I have heard everything, but I think I am best qualified to determine if I will or will not be happy.”

  “Will you decide for me, as well?” She pulled back and glared at him. “If you one day find yourself disgusted by our marriage, you may very well be miserable. You, however, are a man. You may go out in the world and find some measure of happiness, and when you tire of that, you will have Pemberley, your home, your sense of self; you will be surrounded by all those who know and love you. I will be alone, with no one except a husband who no longer respects me. As a woman, I would have no outlet, no way of finding happiness in an unhappy marriage. If I am going to marry badly, I am better off remaining at Longbourn, surrounded by those who know and love me, am I not?”

  Sighing, he pulled her back into his arms, and she could not bring herself to resist.

  “And if I give you my word, Elizabeth, that this will not happen?”

  She leaned back so that she could look into his eyes. “You cannot keep that promise. You cannot stop yourself from feeling what you will.”

  “I can, however, promise you that I will be faithful. As far as our feelings go, you may be correct. This may not be love, though at this moment, I cannot imagine any other word for it. Still, even if I should lose my sister, even if you and I should discover that our affections do not run as deeply as I now think they do, we do respect each other, do we not? I cannot imagine having so frank a conversation about marriage with any other woman of my acquaintance. That has to mean something!”

  She smiled. “Just that we both enjoy hearing ourselves talk.”

  “The wit returns,” he muttered.

  “Ah, you are already annoyed.”

  “Of course I am. You raised a serious objection, and then you scurry away from it. I did not think you so much of a coward.”

  She glared at him. “That is not fair.”

  “No? Is it unjust of me to want a serious answer to a serious question?”

  “No, but to expect a serious answer while you attempt to seduce me—”

  “Seduce you? I…” He sighed and dropped his hands. “You
are correct. That is not fair, nor is it right. I apologize.”

  “You must see that I cannot answer you tonight, that I must have some time to consider this.”

  “If I could, I would go to your father and ask his permission to court you. Then we could decide if this is just a fantasy we have concocted, or if what we feel is of a sturdier quality. You know as well as I that neither of us has that kind of time.”

  “At least give me tonight. You, too, should think on this. I would not hold you to this proposal if you realized that you had spoken rashly.”

  “Do you realize that, each time you give me the choice, I find myself more determined to marry you?”

  “Of course. I think it has something to do with being coy.”

  “Then may I come to Longbourn in the morning?”

  “If you are still as insensible tomorrow as you are tonight, then yes, come to Longbourn in the morning, though not too early, for my father will not be awake.”

  “Does this mean,” he asked with a smile, “that you have accepted me?”

  “It means,” she said, returning his smile, “that you may come to Longbourn tomorrow morning.”

  They fell silent, and for the first time in almost an hour, she heard the muted music and laughter from the next room.

  He, too, must have been surprised by the sound, for he said, “Is there a ball taking place?”

  She laughed. “I had not noticed.”

  “Will they have noticed your absence?” he asked, his voice becoming serious.

  “No, I told my mother that I wanted to rest until supper. But I imagine they will begin moving to the dining room soon enough.”

  “Then you should go.”

  “I should.”

  Their eyes met, and she knew that she had no intention of leaving just yet.

  They met half way, no prevaricating, no feather-light caresses on the cheek or jaw, no pecks to the temple or ear, just a long, joyful kiss on the lips.

  “Tomorrow?” he asked, his lips still against hers.

  “Tomorrow,” she replied before giving him another quick kiss and hurrying from the room.

  Chapter Nine

  Tomorrow had never felt so long in coming. When it finally arrived, Elizabeth found herself wishing it were yesterday instead.

  “Lizzy! Are you awake?”

  She buried her head beneath the blankets, hoping that, if she ignored the sound of her mother’s voice, she would slip into a dreamless sleep, a state she had been unsuccessful in achieving the night before.

  Naturally, such a poorly conceived (though very well executed) plan was bound to fail. That, however, did not stop Elizabeth from trying once more. Upon hearing her bedroom door slam against the wall, she pulled the bedclothes more tightly around her.

  “How can you lie about on a morning such as this?” Mrs. Bennet demanded, yanking the blankets off of her daughter with a flourish.

  Elizabeth pushed herself to a sitting position, thinking how very unfair it was for her mother, an expert in lying about, to force her out of bed.

  “Oh, and look at your hair! Sarah, dear,” Mrs. Bennet said, waving the young maid into Elizabeth’s room, “you will have to hurry. Mr. Collins may wake any moment now!”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes; it had not been just a bad dream, after all.

  “Mother, I do not…”

  “And to think,” Mrs. Bennet continued, sitting on the bed and taking her daughter’s hand in her own, “I feared that you had lost your chance. When I saw Charlotte Lucas hanging on him last night while you were goodness knows where, I was certain I would wake up today a very disappointed woman!”

  “Mother…”

  “Yet he has sense, you must admit that. For all of Miss Lucas’s conniving—”

  “Mother!”

  “—he thought of no one but you the entire night. Oh, I shall always treasure our return home from the Netherfield ball! You were too far from him in the carriage to read his expression, but I was sitting next to him! When he requested to speak privately with you this morning, Mr. Collins appeared quite enraptured!”

  “Mother, I cannot possibly…”

  Mrs. Bennet’s smile turned into a scowl. “You cannot mean to refuse him.”

  “Mother…”

  “No.” Snatching her hand from Elizabeth’s, Mrs. Bennet wagged a finger. “Do not be a fool, Elizabeth. Mr. Collins is a respectable gentleman, not to mention the heir of this estate.” The older woman sighed. “You may not think much of him now—he is not very handsome, that I will admit—but trust me, dear, when I tell you that I know what I am about. I had no wish to marry your father—I was in love with an officer, and he seemed much more exciting than a country gentleman—but my parents insisted.”

  Elizabeth, who had never heard her parents speak of their own courtship, momentarily forgot her own troubles. “That must have been very difficult.”

  Mrs. Bennet reclaimed her daughter’s hand. “Oh, it was at first. Your father cares nothing for society, and he teases me terribly. But in the early days, he was quite in love with me, and that did help me grow fond of him. Yes, I grew used to him soon enough. So take comfort, my dear. We made it work it well enough, did we not?”

  Despite her black mood, Elizabeth had to smile. “I can hardly regret the match.”

  Mrs. Bennet laughed. “No, and neither can I. So you see, it will all turn out well for you, too! Mr. Collins is a very good catch!”

  Elizabeth considered telling her mother that she’d had another offer—a much better offer by all accounts. Surely Mr. Darcy’s fortune would quiet her mother’s talk of Mr. Collins!

  Yet she said nothing; she felt, deep down, that Mr. Darcy’s offer had not truly been an offer at all. It had been a whim, a rash declaration, and Elizabeth, sensible Elizabeth, had urged him to reconsider.

  It seemed he had listened to her.

  To the surprise of everyone except perhaps Mr. Bingley, who never doubted his friend in any circumstance, Mr. Darcy had made a late appearance at the ball. A mere hour after he had spoken to her of love, Darcy had spared her a frosty glance upon entering the drawing room. Otherwise, he did not speak to her, and he did not ask her to dance.

  Elizabeth could hardly blame him for his neglect; it was very sensible of him to keep his distance after such an evening. He must have come to accept her reservations: that she would bring nothing beneficial to their union; that he was sure to be disgusted with her family; and, worst of all, that he was risking his sister’s happiness for a fleeting fancy.

  She would not fault him if he decided not come to Longbourn and propose again this morning; indeed, some part of her wished he would not, for she suspected that the asking today would be as perfunctory as the asking last night had been passionate. For all of his talk of her representing a choice, he really had no choice at all. She despised the notion that she had become the trap he had been trying so urgently to avoid.

  And yet, perverse creature that she was, she hoped that he would call, for that would mean that the previous evening had been something more than an improper interlude between two desperate individuals.

  “A better match could not be found!” her mother continued, patting her daughter’s face with affection. “Why else do you think that spinster friend of yours—a no good friend, if you ask me—was so eager to please him? You do not want to be like Charlotte Lucas, do you?”

  No, she did not want to be like Charlotte Lucas, though hardly for the reasons her mother supposed. There were a good many things to admire about Charlotte, yet if there was one flaw that Elizabeth could discern, it was her friend’s desperate need to marry. Charlotte was not to blame for this condition; society made it nearly impossible for a lady to look forward to anything else. Yet Elizabeth had never expected to find herself in such a situation; she had always been so certain that she would marry for love, or not at all.

  How foolish she had been to think that her decision would be so simple! She did love Mr. Darcy—there was no
use denying that. Still, she felt it was a selfish kind of love, for it made her want him, and such wanting was in direct opposition to Mr. Darcy’s best interests. If she loved him as she ought—if she loved him in the purest and most selfless form possible—she would never allow him to make such a terrible match.

  Faced with a paradox, Elizabeth responded paradoxically: she began to laugh and cry at the same time.

  “There, there,” her mother soothed, putting her arm around her daughter’s trembling shoulders, “you will not be a spinster.”

  That, of course, was the crux of the problem.

  *

  “What did you say?”

  Darcy did not like to admit it—he preferred to keep his failings to himself—but he tended to gape when surprised. And Bingley’s announcement had most certainly been a surprise.

  “I said, I have asked Miss Jane Bennet to marry me!”

  Closing his eyes (and his mouth), Darcy tried to convince himself that he was still upstairs, asleep. It was no wonder that he had felt so fatigued when he awoke this morning; he had never really awakened after all.

  “You are disappointed in me.”

  Bingley’s forlorn voice forced Darcy to open his eyes and accept that no, he was not still asleep and yes, his friend really had proposed marriage.

  “Disappointed?” He nearly smiled, remembering Elizabeth’s words from the night before: Rather hypocritical of you.

  Darcy’s almost-smile must have appeared more grimace than grin, for his friend said, “You are disappointed.”

  Bingley jumped from his chair at the breakfast table and began to pace the room. Still reeling from his friend’s announcement—not to mention a lack of rest; he had stayed up much the night debating the merits of his own proposal—Darcy could not restrain himself from issuing a curt order: “Sit down, Charles.”

  Without hesitating, the younger man did as he was told. Then, eyes wide, Bingley exclaimed, “That is why I did not consult you! I knew you would attempt to talk me out of it…and I knew that I would listen!”