This Disconcerting Happiness: A Pride and Prejudice Variation

by Christina Morland

  Even ten minutes of near silence—a rather loud clock ticked on the mantlepiece—in Matlock House’s drawing room could not deter her. She sat tall, stared straight ahead, and kept her hands folded neatly on her lap, just as Mrs. Annesley had advised.

  It was Darcy who fidgeted, who stood and paced, who glared at the clock telling them that their hosts were late for the appointment they themselves had set. Finally, he sat next to her, put his hand over hers, and said, “Your poise is admirable.”

  She smiled. “Would you like to join my next lesson with Mrs. Annesley? I believe we will be discussing how many times it is appropriate to blink during a conversation.”

  “I do not think your poise comes from Mrs. Annesley’s tutelage. Certainly your wit does not.”

  “But I am in earnest, Sir! She did in fact suggest we discuss when and how many times to blink. Apparently, there was a scandal during her Season many years ago when a young heiress with a good deal of money but very few family connections was presented at court. She blinked 45 times in a conversation with the Duchess of Somerset’s daughter, and as a result, remained a spinster all her life.”

  She had meant the story to lighten Darcy’s mood, but his frown deepened. “You ought to have told me how ridiculous Mrs. Annesley’s teachings were. I should not have foisted her upon you.”

  “No, Mrs. Annesley is a kind soul, and amusing at times, though I do not suppose she always means to be. I laughed at her story of the blinking heiress, but Mrs. Annesley was quite serious. I fear that I never will be quite so accomplished, for I could not possibly count the number of times a person blinks while also listening attentively to the conversation.”

  “Listening attentively is not a skill that fashionable people consider particularly useful.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “So I have learned in my many calls.”

  Darcy drew closer to her. “Can you forgive me for putting you through all of this?” He looked about the room, shaking his head. “They are dallying with us, making us wait so that we—so that I especially—learn our place. It is maddening!”

  She leaned forward, cupped his face, and murmured, “All will be well, I promise.”

  He had just begun to kiss her when a sound near the door caused them both to jerk apart. The door remained closed; it was the wind, Elizabeth realized, causing a branch to scrape one of the nearby windows. She and Darcy exchanged a glance and then laughed before settling back into another long silence.

  It was now Elizabeth who found herself unable to maintain the quiet stillness propriety dictated. Something about Darcy’s outburst—or more likely, his near kiss—had stripped away the veneer Mrs. Annesley had worked so hard to help her create. Elizabeth first felt a compulsion to move, causing her to blink (naturally). Then the sensation of restlessness found its way into her toes (which were being pinched mercilessly by her new and fashionable shoes). She hunched her shoulders (“Proper posture, Mrs. Darcy, is essential!”), bit her lip (which at least had the benefit of making them appear redder and fuller, or so she hoped), and tried to breathe in as steady and silent a rhythm as her corset would allow.

  Finally, she had to speak: “Tell me about your sister.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She could see by the tightening of his jaw how she had reminded him of all his fears and felt sorry for it. Yet she plunged forward: “You have told me of her preferences for music and art, described her taste in reading, and even mentioned her favorite foods. Her letters display a beautiful hand and love of lyrical language. Still, I feel as if she is a stranger. Does she laugh often? Is she as amused by your tendency to stare out of windows as I am, or does she scold you for this habit? Does she scold you at all, or are you to her the perfect older brother who can do no wrong?”

  She supposed it was her fear that had made her so inconsiderate, for how else could she explain why she had raised these questions—particularly one in which she had reminded him of his role as a brother—at a time so fraught with tension?

  He seemed more bewildered than angry. “I hardly know my sister.” This admission came in such a low voice that she almost thought—hoped—she had misheard him. Then, in a louder tone, “I most certainly cannot comprehend why she chose to remain here!”

  In the manner of almost all people who find themselves sinking in quicksand, Elizabeth scrambled for a lifeline, only to sink herself further: “After living at both Pemberley and in London, I have some idea of why she might have chosen to remain in town.”

  What she had meant was that she could see how the bustle and excitement of the city might appeal to some women, particularly young women who had grown up in quieter circumstances, but she had not meant to include herself in this category. Indeed, she anticipated their return to Pemberley with all the pleasure of a soldier returning home after a difficult war. Yet Darcy turned to look at her as if she, too, were a stranger to him.

  Before he could respond, the door to the drawing room opened. They entered, a whole procession of Fitzwilliams, chatting and laughing as if they were unaware that anyone awaited them.

  The exclamation of “Oh, Darcy!” from the oldest woman of the group contained such surprise that Elizabeth could almost believe she had indeed forgotten the invitation.

  Hurrying forward, her hands outstretched, the woman said, “Darcy, of course! Do forgive us our tardiness! We were quite caught up calling on Lady Havisham, who you may remember never stops talking if she can help it!”

  A stiff bow and curt “Lady Matlock” served as Darcy’s only response.

  The rest of the party—Elizabeth counted four women and two men, but then she was too anxious to trust her powers of observation; there may very well have been a few more or a few less amidst all that finery—stopped talking and stared, first at the pair of Darcys, and then, it seemed to Elizabeth, at her alone.

  “How,” Elizabeth had once inquired of Mrs. Annesley, “is any thinking person supposed to remain serene under the impertinent gaze of others?”

  Darcy had been in the room with her when she had asked this question, and his laughter had been so deep and ebullient that Elizabeth had, upon hearing it, begun thinking of ways she might dismiss Mrs. Annesley for the remainder of the afternoon so that she might be alone with her husband.

  “Pretend you are an actor,” Mrs. Annesley had replied, undaunted by either Darcy’s mirth or Elizabeth’s wandering attention. “I know how well you both like the theater.”

  “Perhaps Shakespeare ought to have written, ‘All the drawing room’s a stage,’” Elizabeth had responded, earning more laughter from her husband.

  Now, though, as she stood before the Fitzwilliams, she found herself struggling to find humor in the idea of acting—and for Elizabeth, for whom humor had always been such a welcome refuge in times of difficulty, this made the situation a difficult one indeed. That serene and proper smile, which she had practiced often with Mrs. Annesley and on the many callers she had received in the past few months, now felt so brittle that she supposed it would shatter if one sharp word were spoken to her.

  “We neither of us perform to strangers,” Darcy had said to her that fateful night in Netherfield’s music room, and Elizabeth knew that she was not, despite her love of the theater, capable of behaving like someone she was not. If only she could watch the scene instead of perform it! To laugh at the foibles and pretensions of others would have been so much easier for her.

  And then it struck her, somewhere between the dip and rise of her curtsy as her husband introduced her: why could she not be her own audience? She would be Elizabeth Bennet, that girl who laughed at everything, sitting in a box next to Darcy—her Darcy—who wore no mask and liked to laugh along side her. They would watch this silly scene play out however it might, and go home at the end of it all, together.

  The smile on her face softened, and the voice she used sounded almost exactly like her own as she said, “Lady Matlock, I am honored to meet you.”

  “Mrs. Darcy,” Lady Matlock
replied—only two words, but they were spoken with enough warmth to give Elizabeth hope that the next hour of her life would not be as painful as she had long feared.

  In fact, the hour that followed was just as painful as she had feared, though the sources of her discomfort were wholly unexpected. There would be no screaming matches between the earl and Darcy, no fits of tears by any of the ladies—only a series of difficult moments that required her to smother every natural emotion in the name of propriety.

  To start, how was one to convey all the love and anticipation she and Darcy felt with a mere curtsy and “How do you do?” That was to be the extent of her meeting with Miss Georgiana Darcy, who waited patiently for her turn to greet the new Mrs. Darcy as Lady Matlock introduced each lady of the party in the drawing room.

  That she saved Georgiana for last was no doubt due to protocol, for Georgiana was the youngest of the party, and yet it felt to Elizabeth as if the waiting were a deliberate test. She found it difficult, nearly impossible, to keep her attention focused on the others in the party—Lord and Lady Grantley, as well as the Countess of Sheffield, formerly the honorable Miss Sophia Fitzwilliam. With each introduction, Elizabeth wanted desperately to look at the girl she almost knew, from the portrait at Pemberley, from Darcy’s stories of her, from the fact that she grew up in the house Elizabeth now called home. Yet she greeted each of the Fitzwilliam cousins with all the respect and attention that propriety demanded of her.

  When she was at last allowed to look upon Darcy’s sister, Elizabeth could not help the tears that sprang to her eyes.

  “Miss Darcy. How do you do?” she said—for no other words were appropriate—certainly not, “I am so happy to be your sister now; please call me Elizabeth!” or “I will do everything in my power to ensure that you may return home with your brother without causing familial discord!”

  Elizabeth allowed herself a moment to study the girl who had become so central to her own happiness and found she was looking not at a girl but a woman—a rather dazzling young lady of quality who wore one of the finest day gowns she had seen in town (and she had studied many of them, at the behest of Mrs. Annesley), with a coiffure both simple and elegant and a bearing so regal yet natural that she looked nearer to Elizabeth’s age than Lydia’s. Was this truly the shy young woman whose portrait hung in the gallery at Pemberley?

  “Mrs. Darcy,” Georgiana replied, taking her by the hands. “I am so very glad to meet you.”

  The last man to be introduced coughed; Georgiana dropped Elizabeth’s hands and stepped away.

  “I am Lord Matlock,” the gentleman declared without moving forward to bow.

  Elizabeth, at least, did her duty and curtsied. Upon rising, she could not help herself: she met his gaze squarely. Mrs. Annesley would have been interested to know that Elizabeth did not blink.

  Lord Matlock, however, did. He then gave her a belated bow. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat and looking away, “we meet your wife at last, Darcy.”

  Darcy ignored his uncle, for he was embracing Georgiana. The siblings held tight to each other for one long moment, and then they pulled apart, both appearing grave.

  “Yes,” Darcy said, turning to his uncle and offering a curt bow, “you meet Mrs. Darcy at last—on the very date you arranged for us to visit, though not quite at the correct time.”

  Had the words been spoken with even a hint of a smile, Elizabeth might have supposed her husband to be teasing. She had learned, over the months of their marriage, that he could be just as witty as she when he wanted—but never in public, and certainly not with the man he held responsible for keeping Georgiana from him.

  Lord Matlock frowned, and his wife laughed—the kind of high, tinkling laughter that brought to mind annoyance, rather than amusement.

  “The Havishams are so very talkative,” said Lady Matlock. “We had promised them a short call, only to be trapped by Lady Havisham for twice as long as expected. But then, they were ever so complimentary of our dear Ana, especially Lady Havisham’s son.”

  “Unmarried son,” added Lady Sheffield with a giggle.

  “Ana.” Darcy’s voice radiated disapproval. “Is this what they call you?”

  “Oh, yes, it has become our pet name for her.” Lady Sheffield giggled again. “It seems so much more fitting than staid old Georgiana.”

  “Ana has ever so many suitors, Fitz, and she is not even out!” cried Lady Grantley. “I would like to claim credit for introducing her to these beau, but then your sister is simply too beautiful for any of the eligible young men to resist.”

  Darcy looked at Georgiana, who said, blushing, “My cousin exaggerates.”

  “Oh, hardly!” cried Lady Grantley. “I remember my own days of just being out, and though I was quite popular, I do not think I had half so many suitors as you, Ana!”

  “Yes, you were quite popular,” remarked her husband. “Those were the days.”

  Lady Grantley chose to ignore her husband’s sarcasm. “Why, Darcy, you look quite flushed! Are you well? I, too, find this room rather stuffy.”

  Darcy’s face was indeed red, though Elizabeth doubted the color stemmed from the temperature or airflow in the room.

  “My sister, wife, and I will walk to Hyde Park,” Darcy announced, taking Georgiana and Elizabeth by the arm.

  Lord Matlock cleared his throat, and Lady Matlock waved her hands about frantically. “Oh, but you cannot go out now! We have had no time at all to talk with your wife.”

  “The idea of coming to call only to leave for a walk is preposterous,” Grantley added with a snort.

  “Only as preposterous as being made to wait a half hour for your arrival, and then to learn that you have gone against my wishes and paraded my sister about the Ton as if she were out!” Darcy glared at his uncle, as if daring him to argue.

  The older man looked as if he would cooperate when Elizabeth said, “Allow me to remain behind so that we may become better acquainted while Miss Darcy walks with her brother.”

  Before Darcy could argue, she gently unhooked her arm from his and said to Lady Matlock, “I had rather hoped to learn more about these beautiful vases I see all about the room.”

  “Oh, are they not the most stunning pieces?” Lady Matlock quickly took hold of Elizabeth’s arm and ushered her to the far corner of the room where they might admire a set of three vases that, to Elizabeth’s untrained eye, looked exactly the same. As Lady Matlock launched into a detailed explanation of how they were, in fact, quite different from each other, Elizabeth strained to hear the conversation on the other side of the room. The fact that there were no slammed doors or raised voices gave her some hope, and by the time she and Lady Matlock had made a complete circuit of the room, Elizabeth found herself to be the only Darcy remaining.

  *

  The moment they stepped outside, Darcy felt better—and yet by no means did he feel good. Only his natural reserve, heightened by the public setting, kept him from turning to his sister to demand what in the blazes was going on. As it was not in her nature to speak first, they were silent for the first quarter hour of their walk.

  This was for the best, as it allowed them time to wander away from the busier sections of Mayfair and find a quiet stretch of Hyde Park, where the new-green of the leaves and the occasional spots of color from budding crocuses calmed him enough to ask, “Is this truly the life you want for yourself?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  The words startled him (for he had supposed the question had only one answer, and certainly not an affirmative one), but it was the tone—steady, confident, even defiant—that brought him to a sudden halt.

  “Then I will respect your wishes,” he managed, though he felt as if his throat had tightened to the point of choking, “and interfere no more in our uncle’s plans for you.”

  “Oh, Fitzwilliam.” She placed a hand on his arm, and gazed up at him with eyes so much like their mother’s that he nearly forgave her for becoming, in a mere four months, a stranger to him
.

  Elizabeth had warned him, in too subtle and teasing a fashion for him to have recognized it as a warning until the difficulty was upon him, that girls of sixteen could be changeable: “They wear a different personality each week, throwing it aside like an unfashionable frock when they have grown tired of it.” Elizabeth had been speaking of Lydia, and Darcy had refused to believe that his sister had anything except age in common with hers.

  Yet he saw now how different she was, after only a few months apart, and also how she pitied him—she, this slip of a girl who, only half a year before, had been ready to throw her life away on a worthless cad like Wickham.

  “How can you,” he burst out, “you, who have loved Pemberley, prefer this, this…” He waved a hand toward their surroundings, which he realized almost immediately were not the best example of London’s faults. They had reached that part of Hyde Park he loved best, where from a very particular angle, one could see more trees and grass than roads and buildings.

  “Fitzwilliam,” she said again, her eyes growing bright.

  It was relief, rather than guilt, he felt on seeing her tears. He knew, after all, how to manage a crying Georgiana.

  “Here.” He handed her a handkerchief, took a deep breath, and then somehow forced his lips into something resembling a smile. “I believe you embroidered this for me last winter. Excellent planning on your part.”

  “A jest—and in the midst of a disagreement? I am not the only one to change. Your Elizabeth,” she said, folding the handkerchief neatly into her reticule, “has been a good influence on you.”

  For more reasons than he could articulate, this comment stung. “You might be better able to judge her influence, had you chosen to leave town with me in December.”

  “I knew you had not yet forgiven me for my decision.”

  “No, I did not mean…” He took another calming breath, hoping he might somehow swallow his anger. “Georgiana, forgive me. I do not blame you; it is our uncle who is at fault. I understand why you made that choice, and your concern for our family does you credit. But surely you can see how our uncle uses you?”