This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Christina Morland

  Deciding she had best take charge of the situation, Elizabeth said, “Mr. Darcy, I hope you may spare a moment for my father during your visit. I told him you took issue with Gibbon’s portrayal of the early Roman emperors, and he is most interested in hearing your reasons for this.”

  Resuming his serious facade, Darcy bowed. “I am at your father’s service.”

  “Are you sure that it is wise,” Mary asked, “for Papa to debate the merits of pagan emperors, Lizzy? I do wish he would have asked you to read Fordyce instead of Gibbon.”

  “Will it comfort you, Mary,” Elizabeth said as she led Darcy out of the drawing room, “if I allow the gentlemen to speak only of the emperors who converted to Christianity?”

  After he had shut the door behind him, Darcy said, “I hope I will not be discussing any emperor, Christian or otherwise.”

  Elizabeth smiled up at him. “Are you suggesting that I am sinful enough to tell a lie?”

  “I am suggesting,” he said, “that you are kind enough to offer me a means of escape.”

  “Oh, I am not allowing you to escape. I will not force you to discuss Roman emperors, but I am certain my father would like to hear more about Purvis Lodge.”

  “As would you, no doubt,” said Darcy, following her up the stairs. “You must feel as your youngest sister does, that I should have consulted you before making any plans, but with so little time before the wedding—”

  “You must never accuse me of sharing Lydia’s feelings on any issue!” Elizabeth said, laughing. “And do not think I share my mother’s concern for attic space, either. Purvis Lodge is not far from Longbourn, and, as far as I am aware, has a serviceable roof and walls. Those are my only requirements.”

  As she reached for the handle to her father’s chamber door, Darcy placed his hand over hers.

  “Thank you, Elizabeth,” he said, quietly.

  For a moment, she could not speak; she had forgotten, even in the few days of their absence, the way his touch stole her breath. “I feel I should be thanking you for your willingness to remain in Hertfordshire.”

  He said nothing as he put his other hand on her shoulder. She leaned forward, hoping he might thank her—and that she might thank him—in a more intimate manner. Then she saw how his eyelids drooped.

  “You look quite terrible,” she said, raising her free hand to caress his face.

  His lips turned up ever so slightly. “These are, of course, the words I hoped to hear on returning to my betrothed.”

  “Since you prize honesty above all other virtues, I thought you would approve of my candor. Perhaps you ought to save your discussion with my father for another time. Go back to Netherfield and rest.”

  “Are you not going to inquire about my family, about my visit, about why I have returned so soon—and with no gift?”

  “I might inquire as to why you seem to give so much weight to Lydia’s comments when you know quite well that she is being silly and vindictive. As for your trip to London, I am assuming, from your demeanor, that it went poorly. I supposed that you would tell me the details when you are ready.”

  He pulled away from her and turned so that she found herself, once again, staring at the nape of his neck. Wondering if she had offended him, she said nothing. Still, she could not stop herself from reaching up and touching his shoulder.

  “Your mother was correct when she called me impulsive,” he said without turning. “She might also have called me weak and been accurate.”

  “Fitzwilliam…”

  He spun on his heel, his face animated. “I was not always this way, you know. Had you met me before Wickham’s perfidy, you would have met a man whom no one, not even his elders, would have questioned or crossed, a man who did not doubt his course of action—a man of great pride.”

  “You are the very best of men.”

  He shook his head. “My uncle and his family would not agree. Even Georgiana…” His voice broke. Then he took a deep breath and turned toward the door of her father’s chambers. “I should pay my respects to your father before leaving. I do not think it wise for me to remain for dinner.”

  Elizabeth’s shoulders drooped. “Of course.”

  She led him into the room, watching with stinging eyes as he exchanged a few, terse words with her father. Mr. Bennet did not seem to mind his future son-in-law’s brusque behavior; indeed, he smiled at the news about Purvis Lodge and then fell asleep before Darcy could finish describing the house.

  When Mr. Bennet began to snore softly, Darcy looked to Elizabeth.

  She glanced down at her hands. “You need not keep up the conversation for my sake. I will see Purvis Lodge soon enough.” She rose from her chair and began fluffing the pillows around her father’s head. “In fact, I have seen the inside of it once—or perhaps twice, I cannot quite remember. Mr. Purvis is notoriously unsociable, but my mother, sisters and I did call on Mrs. Purvis before she removed to Bath permanently. For health reasons, or so we have been told, but then Mama thinks—”

  “Elizabeth.”

  She managed a laugh. “Papa said just a few hours ago that I had become quite silly, and I suppose my rambling proves him correct.” She moved past Darcy toward the door. “You should return to Netherfield before I infect you, as I am told that silliness is catching. Certainly, in this house, it spreads even to the most upstanding, for I believe Mr. Bingley has become sillier than all the rest of us combined.”

  They went into the corridor, but before she could head for the stairs, he gently took hold of her arm and turned her around. “I have made you miserable.”

  “I am not miserable.”

  “Then why,” he asked, pulling her toward him, “are you crying?”

  She rested her head against his shoulder and sniffed. “I am not crying, but if I were, your jacket would be accumulating a damp spot.”

  “I do not care a whit about my jacket.”

  “I am well enough,” she said, pulling back to meet his gaze, “but I hate that you are miserable.”

  “Neither of us is as happy as I would wish,” he conceded, “but when I saw you this afternoon, I felt my burdens lighten.” He paused and then said, “Would you accompany me to my horse?”

  “I will get my wrap while you bid farewell to the rest of the family.”

  They met again in the front hall, but neither spoke as they headed outdoors. Instead of moving toward the stable-yard, they wandered across the park so that Elizabeth found herself once again leaning against the stone wall separating Longbourn’s park from the road. As she gazed at the orange horizon, she whispered, “Your uncle…”

  Sighing, Darcy wrapped his arms about her waist and rested his chin on her head. “He will not press suit.”

  “But that is wonderful news!” Elizabeth tried to pull back so that she could see his face, but he held firm. “Is it not?”

  “I suppose. Now, as to your misery—” he began.

  “Must I tell you again that I am not miserable?”

  “No, but if you do not, then I will have to speculate.”

  “Very well,” she said, smiling a little, “please explain to me, Mr. Darcy, my own heart and mind.”

  “You know very well that I cannot hope to understand such complexities. I suppose,” he added, his voice softer, “that you are distressed about your father. Forgive me for saying so, but he does not look well at all.”

  “No, he does not.” She sighed. “Yes, my father’s declining health weighs on me, yet…”

  “Yet that is not all,” Darcy finished for her when she lapsed into silence.

  She broke away from him and turned back to the wall. “I stood at this very spot earlier today and wondered why I should feel so unsettled. The only thing I could determine was that, strange as it might seem, I will miss this place.” She managed a strangled laugh. “I never thought I would be one of those women who desired to be settled so near her family. Again, I cannot thank you enough for leasing Purvis Lodge.”

  “In different cir
cumstances, I think you would not be a woman who wished always to be near Longbourn. It is understandable that you should wish to remain in Hertfordshire at the present time.”

  “Yes, I suppose.” With a sigh, she turned toward him. “I asked Jane today if she was at all ambivalent about becoming a wife. She sounded so certain, so unafraid.” She ventured a glance in his direction. “I am, quite honestly, terrified.”

  “And why should you not be?” he asked, placing a hand beneath her chin. He tipped it up so that their eyes met. “When you leave Longbourn in three weeks time, you will leave this house forever.”

  “It is the same for all wives, is it not?”

  “Yes, I suppose so, though your father’s illness must magnify your sense of loss. My own mother…” He sighed. “I was reminded on my trip to London of how my mother, though she loved my father and though he loved her, was unhappy with her lot in life. She loved London and society; Pemberley must have felt like something of a prison to her.”

  “You need not worry on that account,” Elizabeth said, leaning into him. “A willingness to live in the country is the one benefit of marrying a country miss instead of a well-bred young lady.”

  His smile was half-hearted. “Yet, when the time comes, I will be taking you to London, not Pemberley.”

  He told her of his failed plan to bring Georgiana back to Hertfordshire, as well as the ensuing argument with his family. “My uncle has deigned to meet you, on his terms of course, and with a critical eye.”

  She smiled up at him. “Have you not yet realized, Fitzwilliam, that my courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate? Of course, if that were actually true, I would not be so apprehensive about the wedding.”

  “Perhaps it is not the wedding but all the changes that will come afterward,” he said. “Frankly, I am anxious about the future, as well. If only I had been able to convince Georgiana to return with me. If only I had not, once again, been so damned weak!”

  “Fitzwilliam…”

  “It is clear that she feels more comfortable with my uncle’s family, and why should she not be? I had a good deal of time to think on this while I travelled back to Hertfordshire, and I realized how little time I actually spent with her all those years she lived as my ward. Between sending her off to school and my travels and business, I did not take the time to understand her.”

  “You are being too critical of yourself. She must trust and love you, or else she would not have told you of her plans at Ramsgate.”

  Darcy shook his head. “Her actions at Ramsgate speak more to her inherent sense of duty than of any trust I might have inspired. She certainly did not trust me enough to protect her from Wickham here in Hertfordshire.”

  “Might it not be her great love for you that has kept her in London? It seems to me that her choice stems entirely from her desire to spare you any difficulties. To leave London so abruptly would have created a great deal of tension in your family, and had she come to Hertfordshire, she knew you would be fretting over her.”

  “So you approve of her decision.”

  “I am not expressing my opinion, only speculating on your sister’s motives.”

  “Then what is your view on the matter? You cannot possibly convince me that I have not failed my sister. Twice now I have let her be taken from me.”

  Elizabeth leaned back and looked up at him. “I cannot help but wonder if you are more distressed for your sister’s sake—or your own.”

  He frowned and said nothing.

  “I do not doubt your love and devotion to your sister, but you have spoken less of her and more of yourself—your failures, your weaknesses, your hurt.”

  Releasing her, he turned so that she could only see his profile, dark in dimness of the winter twilight.

  “You said earlier that you were once a man of great pride,” she continued softly. “You remain a proud man—in the best sense of the word. But you must not allow your pride to trick you into thinking you have failed your sister. She is a thinking, feeling person who, from the sounds of it, is trying to make amends in the best way she knows how.”

  “She has no reason to make amends!”

  “You do not think so, but she seems to feel quite differently.”

  “Then I have failed her, for I should have been able to make her see the truth of the matter. Her desire to remain with my uncle and aunts, who have made quite clear their disapproval of her behavior, is a testament to my ineptitude.”

  “Do you truly believe that she prefers their pettiness? Do you think she was lying to you when she explained herself to you?”

  “You do not understand! If you had been there, if you knew Georgiana as I do…What kind of man allows a dispirited younger sister to make his decisions for him?”

  Elizabeth grimaced. “Why must you put it that way? Why not instead ask what kind of man honors his sister by allowing her to make up her own mind? Your actions were not weak, Fitzwilliam. You must have felt that when you were in London. You have allowed the intervening time, time you have spent alone with only that disparaging voice in your head, to convince you otherwise.”

  “You mean to say that I do not know myself. And you—a woman in love—are somehow more objective, more insightful, I suppose?”

  “Oh, I may be a woman in love, but believe me, Mr. Darcy, you are doing nothing to endear yourself to me at this moment! Were I blinded by emotion, I might call you arrogant and conceited, but as I am being objective, I will conclude that the unpleasantness of your family, combined with a lack of sleep, must be at fault.”

  She could see, even in the growing darkness, how his face hardened, how his posture rigidified. She would not have been surprised had he turned and marched away without a farewell.

  But then, shoulders falling, he sighed. “I am arrogant and conceited, only I wish you had not discovered my flaws until after the wedding.”

  Laughing, she reached for his hand. “Oh, I think there will be more flaws for both of us to discover.”

  “Forgive me,” he said, pulling her toward him until his lips were against her ear, then her temple.

  “There is nothing to forgive, except that you have taken far too long to kiss me.”

  “Then let me ask again and again for your forgiveness.”

  She smiled as he kissed her other temple, her cheek, her hands, and then finally her lips.

  A disconcerting happiness indeed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Oh, just think, my girls!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, hugging Jane and then Elizabeth. They stood just inside the front doorway of Longbourn, watching as Bingley and Darcy mounted their horses. “The next time you see them, you will be wearing your wedding dresses!”

  It had been a fortnight since Darcy had returned from London—a very long fortnight. For all her concerns about marriage, Elizabeth felt that the wedding day could not come quickly enough. Now that it loomed, just a sunset and sunrise away, she felt her stomach clench—with as much anticipation as anxiety.

  “Get them away from the door, Fanny!” cried her aunt Phillips, pulling at her sister’s shoulder. “You do not want them to have red noses tomorrow!”

  “Oh, Euphemia, my girls never have red noses,” said Mrs. Bennet.

  Despite believing her daughters impervious to the cold weather, Mrs. Bennet took her older sister’s advice and ushered the girls into the warmth of the drawing room where the rest of the boisterous Gardiner clan had gathered. Elizabeth smiled at the sight of her uncle Gardiner and young cousins sitting near her father who, despite his declining health, had made the effort to be a part of a gathering that he would have, in healthier times, avoided.

  “It is a lovely picture,” said her aunt Gardiner, coming to stand next to her. “I only wish…”

  Elizabeth grasped her aunt’s hand. “Yes, I know.”

  “Forgive me, my dear. This is a time to be cheerful, is it not?”

  She glanced at Margaret Gardiner who, despite being a matron with three children, appeared
almost as young as Elizabeth herself.

  “Will you tell me, dear aunt, your secret to remaining so youthful?”

  Margaret laughed. “No, I will make you discover it on your own. Yet there is something I should like to discuss with you. Rather, there is something I have been requested to discuss with both you and Jane.”

  “Oh?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “If the topic is what I suspect, then I can only be grateful that it will be you and not our mother. “

  “Actually, the conversation will include your mother and Euphemia, as well.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed.”

  “Then at least assure me that we will have this discussion after dinner? I would not want to ruin my appetite.”

  Yet just an hour later (a half hour before dinner), Mrs. Bennet said, “Tomorrow evening, girls, when you are alone with your husbands, I want you to think of the theater.”

  Elizabeth gaped, then glanced at Jane, who appeared equally flummoxed. They, along with their aunts and mother, had gathered in Mrs. Bennet’s bedchamber to discuss what that matron had labeled “a very important issue.” So when Mrs. Bennet began discussing the theater, Elizabeth was quite certain that she was, in fact, dreaming the entire conversation.

  Yet even Elizabeth did not think she could have imagined such a strange scene. There were not enough chairs in the room—only the one in front of Mrs. Bennet’s vanity, as well as a footstool—so Elizabeth found herself hunched over mere inches from the floor (the footstool was really quite small), staring up at everyone else. Her mother and Aunt Euphemia, having kicked off their shoes, sat cross-legged on the bed, grinning and looking far too young for the matronly bonnets covering their graying hair. Aunt Margaret, perched on the edge of the bed, appeared slightly more serious, yet even she sported a playful smile. Jane, after much debate with Elizabeth, had taken the only proper chair, though she squirmed in it as if it were the most uncomfortable of seats.

  “Lizzy, are you paying attention?” Mrs. Bennet wagged her finger. “This is very important! Now what did I just tell you?”