The Only Way: A Tale of Pride and Prejudice

by Ola Wegner

  She cocked her brow. “Do you object?”

  He shook his head in slow motion. “Not at all.”

  “As you are aware, I was brought up in the country,” she reminded him as they started walking again. “I have seen many examples of life creation, both in animals and humans even.”

  “Truly? Even humans,” he teased.

  “Yes, the quick roll in the hay is something rather popular around here.”

  “It is quite popular in the north too. We may try it one time at Pemberley, we have excellent haystacks,” he said with straight face.

  She bit her lip. “It is rather difficult to imagine you so unrestrained, Mr. Darcy.”

  “I cannot understand why,” he spoke slowly. “You mentioned something similar before, claiming that I was proper.”

  “Because you are. You seem rather uptight.”

  “Do I?”

  She nodded. “However, you failed to answer my initial question, or rather assumption, whether I am the first woman you desired.”

  “What are you asking me exactly?” he asked, his voice changed, without the playful note to it.

  She looked up at him, hoping to see the expression in his eyes, but he was stubbornly staring at the fields above her head. “You do not know? Should I use more specific words?”

  He faltered with an answer for a longer moment, only to come up with another question. “Why do you want to know about it?” He seemed very uneasy.

  “I am about to marry you, in less than a month,” she said evenly. “You think I have no right to know about your past?”

  They walked for some time before he spoke.

  “There is nothing for you to know. You are the first woman I have loved; I have never had such feelings for anyone before. I think that this novelty is the reason I was so frightened at the beginning, why I tried to run away from you.”

  “I see, we can safely state that you are indeed an innocent in the matters of the heart.”

  “I am.”

  “But not in the matters of flesh?”

  Her words made him stop, and look down at her with a heavy gaze. “Where do these enquires lead?” he asked, his tone reminded him how he had spoken with her at the times when they had argued in the past, before his proposal.

  “My enquiries bother you then?” she guessed.

  He hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

  She lowered her eyes, peeking at him from behind her eyelashes.

  “How many?” she asked at last.

  He straightened up. “Excuse me?”

  “How many women have you desired in purely physical terms before meeting me?” she clarified.

  “I do not understand, Elizabeth,” he offered, his voice cold. “Why do you need to know about such matters? It is all in the past. It does not concern you.”

  She noticed at once, that she was called Elizabeth, not love, dearest or Lizzy. She would not allow him to intimidate her. She had gone this far, and she would not back down now. “Would you not like to know how many men I…”

  “What men?” he barked.

  “I understand that you would like to know about the men, if there were any.” She looked into his eyes, which were wide and furious. “There were none. You are the first to touch me the way you touch me, kiss me. My point is that you would like to know whether—”

  She did not finish because he interrupted her. “I would not want you in such a case for a wife, a mistress perhaps, but not a beloved wife,” he announced bluntly. “I owe it not only to myself, but to Pemberley as well. I could not bear it if you belonged to another before me.”

  Proud Mr. Darcy was back full force it seemed.

  “What if I was a widow?” she questioned contractively.

  He scowled again. “What is the point of this discussion?” he asked tiredly.

  “Well, you have not answered my initial question,” she reminded him, her lips setting in a stubborn pout.

  He observed her through narrowed eyes. “You will not let it go?”

  She lifted her shoulders, only to drop them a moment later. “I do not understand why you do not wish to be sincere with me on that subject.”

  “Do you want an exact number?” he asked angrily.

  She nodded.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ten,” he answered, his voice indifferent, no emotion visible in his face.

  “That many?” she gasped.

  “You think that it qualifies as many?” he sounded doubtful.

  “It certainly does,” she murmured, not looking at him, only thinking frantically.

  He had been with ten women before he met her. Ten! She never thought him an innocent. Even when they first met, she had known that he had to be an experienced man. There had been something in his eyes, his moves, his voice. His recent kisses and caresses only confirmed that. Obviously, he was not a fumbling youth. He knew exactly what he was doing with her, how to touch her to elicit the response he wanted. She had suspected that there had been two or three women in his past. But ten? He was not even thirty years old. Was he a rake? Who was this man she had agreed to marry?”

  Would he settle with only her in the future? She could not imagine how she would bear the humiliation of her husband keeping a lover. Perhaps it was the way things were accepted in the higher circles. She recalled some gossip and stories about Georgiana Cavendish, the Duchess of Devonshire, whose husband had openly kept a lover for years and had several illegitimate children, even with the servants. Darcy’s uncle was an earl, his family was not simply gentry like her father; they were aristocrats.

  Why had she not thought about such a possibility earlier? What had she agreed to? Would he send her down to the country once she had given him the token heir and a spare so that he might have his freedom to enjoy his lovers? She knew so little of him. Was it too late for her to rescue herself from the disgrace? No, she could not turn back. Everything had been arranged and paid for.

  “Do not,” he spoke forcefully, lifting her chin up so she would look at him. “I should have not told you that. I should have known better. I can only imagine what is going now through your head.” He let out a troubled sigh then stared straight into her eyes. “You are the only woman in my life.”

  “What about the future? I have heard that rich men from the aristocracy like to keep mistresses after their wives give them an heir and a spare.”

  “I am not that kind of man, Elizabeth. Have I ever given you reason to doubt me in such a way?”

  “You have been with ten women,” she reminded him, still horrified with the information.

  “Elizabeth, we will not speak about this any more,” he commanded harshly. “You have nothing to worry about,” he added more gently. “I love you, and I will always be faithful to you and our wedding vows. Always. I would never dishonour you or myself, my family name for that matter, in such a way by betraying my promise before God and man to love and cherish you always. It is not the Darcy way. My father did not teach me that.”

  “Now come,” he took her arm again, setting a quick pace. “Mr. Phillips expects me in half an hour. I do not wish to be late.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  They did not speak for the rest of the walk to Meryton. Elizabeth wanted to ask more questions, but at the same time she dreaded to hear the answers. Her imagination was working, as usual, to her disadvantage. Perhaps she should show more trust in him? He said that he would stay faithful to her. He spoke with such sentiment about his parents’ marriage, how they had loved each other. Surely, if he wanted a respectable, happy marriage for himself, he would not entertain the possibility of keeping a mistress.

  No matter how hard she tried to convince herself not to make a big affair out it, the thought of those ten women bothered her. Who were they? Where had he met them? Were all men like him? In her view, ten lovers seemed a very high number for a man of eight and twenty. He seemed so busy, had so many responsibilities, his sister, his estate. How
had he found time? Had he loved them? No, surely he had not. After all, he had said himself that she was his first and only love.

  She could not imagine him visiting a brothel - he was too proper, too fastidious for that. On the other hand, he had told her that he was not as proper as she perceived him to be. She shook with abhorrence as she visualised him with one of them. She wanted to cry, scream, and claw those unnamed women’s eyes out.

  Only then, the shocking realization dawned upon her. She stopped, rooted in place, staring blankly in front of herself. She felt possessive of him. She was simply jealous of those ten women with whom he had been before her. How could that be? She did not have those kind of feelings for him which could justify jealously.

  “Elizabeth, are you well?” he shook her gently, his head bent down, so he could see her face.

  Slowly her vision focused on him. “Yes, I am well. I am well.”

  He sighed. “Please do not tell me that you are still thinking about what we discussed before.” He cupped her face, despite them standing in the main street of Meryton. “You have nothing to be concerned about,” he spoke with quiet intensity. “You are the only one in my heart.”

  She gave him a pale smile. He seemed so sincere, and she wanted to believe him. “I was thinking about what present you should buy for your sister.”

  Judging his expression, he did not seem entirely convinced that it was the only matter which she was thinking about.

  “I shall look around the shops, and you go to your appointment with Uncle Phillips,” she proposed.

  He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, hesitating, but then nodded and said. “Very well. I shall not be long.”

  Elizabeth took her time, walking from one shop window to the next, looking at the displayed products. She concentrated her thoughts on the perfect gift for Georgiana to keep them away from the person of her brother and his colourful past.

  She had no idea what Georgiana Darcy would like to receive. Surely the girl like her lacked for nothing, and it was difficult to find something for her which she did not already own. Selecting a gift for her own younger sisters, Lydia and Kitty, would be easy for Elizabeth. They always craved new ribbons and bonnets in bright colours. Georgiana, however, was a challenge.

  As she came to stand before one of the favourite shops of her younger sisters, the one which carried the wide selection of hats, parasols, gloves, stockings and other smaller articles of clothing, she felt someone’s presence behind her back.

  “Miss Elizabeth,” she heard all too familiar voice.

  She turned. “Mr. Wickham.” She thought he had already left Meryton, as the militia was to be stationed in Brighton for the summer.

  He began speaking hastily, apologizing for his absence during the funeral. She looked at him without emotion. She did not wish to respond to his polite enquires. His presence reminded her how immature and judgmental she had been. She had fallen too easily for his cheap charm and good, pretty-boy looks. She had a feeling that he would turn fat and bald in ten years.

  Rudely, she stepped back from him, turning on her feet, without even nodding in his direction.

  She thought that she would simply walk away from him, leaving him alone there in front of the shop, but she was not so fortunate. He blocked her away.

  “Are you not speaking with me now, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, his expression still pleasant.

  “I am Miss Bennet to you,” she spoke coldly. “You are correct that I am not speaking to you. You should not be allowed among polite society.”

  She noted with satisfaction that Wickham paled, his eyes widening. Soon though, he composed himself, a smiling expression plastered back on his pretty face. “I do not understand, Miss Elizabeth,” he smiled, stressing her name.

  She narrowed her eyes, “You understand very well. I will not waste my time talking to you. Excuse me.”

  She was about to walk away, when he grasped her elbow.

  She looked down at his hand touching her arm. “I advise you not to touch me, and let me pass.”

  “You were much more accepting of my company in the past,” he reminded her. “Did Darcy forbid you to socialize with me? He bought you, after all. He is in a position to tell you what you can do, who you can speak to,” he goaded her, still holding her arm.

  She gave him a polite smile, responding in low voice. “Mr. Darcy is now across the street in my uncle’s office. Should I inform him that you bothered me?”

  He let go of her arm instantly, and stepped back. With satisfaction, she noted that he was glancing anxiously around.

  Without a second glance at him, she turned on her heel with the intention of walking away, only to see Darcy hastily making his way in her direction. He looked furious.

  “Did he try anything?” he questioned as they met in the middle of the road. “I saw him touching you.”

  “Nothing happened, calm down, please,” she said, making sure she held his gaze. “He wanted to speak with me. I refused, but he attempted to stop me from leaving his company and grasped my arm.”

  Darcy stepped forward, his face twisted in an ugly grimace. She stopped him with her body. She did not need another public scene caused on behalf of her person.

  “Nothing happened,” she repeated firmly. “He thought I was alone here. However, when I said that I was waiting for you and that I would tell you that he was bothering me; he instantly let me go.”

  Darcy stared over her head with a deep scowl, and she could only guess that he was looking at Wickham. She gazed back, to see Wickham disappearing into one of the side streets. She could not allow Darcy to go after him. What was now visible on his face could only be described as pure hatred. Nothing good could come out of those two talking now.

  She wrapped her hand over his arm, saying, “Let us go, Fitzwilliam. He is not worth this.”

  “I should have guessed that he might accost you here,” he spoke after a moment, his voice still tense.

  “It was enough to mention your name to get rid of him,” she assured. “Now, I was thinking about the present for your sister,” she started with enthusiasm, hoping to draw his attention to the task in hand. “Does she have a journal?”

  This seemed to bring his attention. “A journal?”

  “Yes, my father always bought me one. We can find them in the shop nearby. They are quiet large, and look like any leather bound book, only the pages are blank,” she explained. “You can write in them, or draw pictures. You mentioned that your sister liked to draw.”

  “That is a sound idea. I do not think that she has one.”

  She smiled in agreement and led him in the direction of the mentioned shop.

  “You said that your father bought journals for you?”

  “Yes, he did,” she smiled fondly at the memory. “Once I finished one, the new one was already waiting for me.”

  “Finished? You mean that you write a diary?”

  “No, I do not write a diary.”

  “What do you need them for then?” he wanted to know.

  She hesitated. “It is too silly to be mentioned, to be honest.”

  “What exactly is silly?” he persisted.

  She shook her head. “Tis nothing important.”

  They reached the front of the spacious shop which sold books, newspapers, stationery, tobacco, and writing utensils. Elizabeth had developed a custom of visiting it at least once a week.

  “Why do you not want to share this with me?” he asked, his voice laced with hurt.

  She looked at him and rolled her eyes. “There is nothing to share. They are only silly stories.”

  “You write?” he cried enthusiastically. “Why have you never said anything?”

  “Because it is not something worth mentioning, and it is personal,” she almost growled at him in her irritation. “No one apart from Jane and Papa know about it, and you will not tell anyone.”

  “Of course I will not tell anyone, “he agreed readily. “May I read your stories?”
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  She frowned. “No, you cannot.”

  His face fell. “Why?”

  She blew out some air before responding. “They are children's stories, about fairies.”

  His eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “Fairies?”

  “Yes, fairies who live in a forest.” She pointed her finger at him. “Do not dare laugh at me.”

  He lifted his hands in a defensive gesture. “I am not laughing. I think it is most delightful. I cannot wait to read them.”

  “You will not read them.”

  “Your sister and father read them, I am guessing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not me? I will be your husband, the closest person to you. I have the right to read them too.”

  “They are only mine,” she spoke fiercely, curling her fist on her chest. “I write them for myself. Papa read some of them, only the ones I decided to show him,” she stressed. “Jane read some too, because she was very curious.”

  “I am very curious too.”

  She glared at him. “Can you not respect my decision? Leave this alone, please.”

  “What was your father's opinion about your stories?” he asked, as if not hearing what she had just said.

  She shrugged. “He liked them, encouraged me to write more.”

  “They must be very good then.”

  “Can we stop this conversation?” She turned on her feet, making her way to the entrance of the shop.

  Inside, there was only a young girl behind the counter, no older than fifteen, whom Elizabeth greeted with enthusiasm.

  “Lizzy,” the girl exclaimed, bringing Darcy’s attention. Elizabeth winced. She could only guess what he was thinking; his future wife being on the first name basis with the girl working in the shop.

  He did not know, of course, that Anne was the daughter of the owner of the shop and the Gardiners’ cousin.

  “You are alone here today, Anne?” Elizabeth asked pleasantly, taking a step closer to the girl. She noted that Darcy walked away towards the shelves with books, clearly intending to give them some privacy to talk.