Enough of these niceties! There are ways…things I could do to her to make her wed me and ensure that Darcy forces a marriage as well. The thought spurred him to act.
“Kitty, I have tried to reason with you, but enough is enough. I am through with reasoning, because you are beyond it.” He grabbed her wrist and dragged her across the room, tossing her bodily onto the couch. As he came down upon her, she screamed.
“Shut up.” He yanked the edge of her dress down off her shoulder. She was a pretty little thing, so the act wouldn’t be odious. “Because you will not relent, I will simply have to take you.” He kissed her collarbone, at the same time securing her flailing arms. “You see, Darcy has all the money in the world, and I need it, and I need you to secure it for me.”
“Help!” Kitty shouted at such a decibel that he released her for a moment to cover his ears. She pushed against him and made to run, but he was quicker, and grabbed her hair, yanking her backward.
The ruckus distracted him, so he did not hear the door erupt open, nor did he know that Darcy was charging across the room until the man jerked him back with impressive force and threw Albert down to the ground. Darcy moved and stood between Albert and Kitty, becoming a formidable shield.
“You are to leave my house and never return. You are to never write to me or speak to me again. Leave now, before I summon a constable.” Darcy’s normally soft voice held a very hard edge.
Albert rose from the ground, making sure his hands were up in mock surrender. “Now, now, old chap, the girl was begging me. We are to be married, Kitty and I. I am to be tied to you forever, Darcy.”
“Not while I live,” Darcy growled.
“But Darcy, you cannot throw me out; you made a promise,” Chalmer said, reminding him of the stupid oath Darcy’s pride had forced him to keep all these years.
“Hang the promise! I have paid you back a hundred times, and I am sick of your face. Out of my house this instant! Or I will have you thrown in jail. I am the magistrate and I promise I will not be an impartial judge.”
“Miss Bennet, are you sure you’re all right? We could call a doctor.” Mr. Denton sat in the chair across from Kitty as she tried to regain her composure.
She had not known he was in the house, meeting with Darcy, until he rushed into the room while Mr. Darcy was yelling at Lord Chalmer. The ever-considerate Denton had come to her side and held her hand. He had spoken to her in his calm, reassuring manner, telling her she was safe now.
And that was it.
As he held her hand while her brother-in-law yanked Albert out of the room, it came to Kitty that Mr. Denton was the only man she wanted to spend the rest of her days with. If she couldn’t be with this kind man, then she’d be a spinster.
For the longest time, she had thought she needed a wealthy man in order to live comfortably. She had dreamed of a man who could provide her with fine horses, fashionable bonnets, and vacations abroad. But suddenly it came upon her that she cared not if she ever saw Vauxhall or shopped the stores on Bond Street. Once, those things had seemed so important, but she had been sorely wrong.
What she had wanted, and what she dearly needed, were two very different things.
She needed a man who was patient with her, one who drew out her secrets and wanted to know every inch of her mind. Kitty needed a man who would want her beside him in his labors, who enjoyed her company, and who looked forward to all their shared moments. She needed a man who loved her as she was.
“I need not a doctor, Mr. Denton, but I finally know what I do need.”
He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
She swallowed hard.
“You.”
“You need me? I am at your bidding. I will do anything for you, Miss Bennet,” he answered, oblivious to her meaning.
“All this time, I have been blind and foolish, looking for my future in all the wrong places. And now I see that it is right before me, with you.”
His expression changed to shock and his jaw dropped. “Are you sure? Could you care for me?”
“I do care for you very much, Mr. Denton. I believe I’m in love with you, though I realized it only just now.”
Denton dropped to one knee. Taking Kitty’s hand, he pressed a kiss to the back of her fingers that set her heart to pounding in her chest like a runaway carriage.
“I have loved you since the moment I saw you in that mud puddle. I wanted to scoop you up in that instant and take you home. I haven’t much to my name, but I promise to adore you for the rest of our days. I love you, Kitty Bennet. Say you’ll marry me.”
A flood of warmth washed over her as she looked into the blue horizon of his eyes. “Yes. Of course.” Her voice was only a whisper.
Denton let out a joyful laugh as he swept Kitty up in his arms. But then, a breath away from kissing her, the color drained from his cheeks. “But what of Darcy? Your brother will have my head. I should have spoken to him first.”
“Mr. Darcy won’t reject you. He cannot! He is your friend.” Kitty gave Conrad’s hand a reassuring squeeze.
“It is his right as your protector. I love you, but your brother knows I’m just a clergyman, Miss Bennett. You deserve a man of Darcy’s circumstances. He can’t possibly accept my suit.”
“Hush. We’ll make him see that you are the only man I could ever love.”
A laugh at the door drew both Kitty and Conrad’s attention. Darcy smiled broadly and strode forward. “Look at the two of you, presuming all manner of things about me.”
Kitty spoke up. “Mr. Darcy, before you speak, I must tell you that Mr. Denton is the best man I have ever known, I love him.”
Darcy nodded. “And Mr. Denton is exactly who I would pick for you Kitty. The union has my full consent.”
Denton clasped Darcy’s outstretched hand. “Thank you Mr. Darcy, I don’t know what to say. I promise to treasure your sister forever. I don’t deserve her or your blessing, but I will endeavor to live a life worthy of both.”
“We’ll run the banns this week and you shall be married by the end of the month.” Darcy placed a hand on each of their shoulders as he spoke.
Neither Darcy nor Kitty heard from Lord Chalmer or his mother again. There was a rumor that mother and son lived out the remainder of their days in America, but who could give credence to such an outlandish report?
Mr. Darcy was true to his word. Kitty became Mrs. Denton by the end of the month, and she filled every inch of Graceacre with her love and laughter.
On a warm summer’s eve, Kitty and Conrad would sit in the gardens and watch their four children, playing in the woods with their three Darcy cousins. Occasionally, the six Bingley children could be found running among the same trees, sharing secrets and finding frogs with their relations.
At such times, Kitty would sigh and think of her wedding day. At precisely the moment that the couple were being pronounced man and wife, she knew that—for the first time in her life—she was number one in someone’s heart.
And so she was, and remained.
A Good Vintage Whine
BY TESS QUINN
Tess Quinn is a right-brained individual working in a leftbrained profession who writes fiction to feed her soul. A fan of Jane Austen since her first introduction at age thirteen, she indulges in what-if scenarios and exercises in character, and at present is working on her third novel-length piece. When not writing for fun, she gets equal pleasure from traveling wherever funds will take her, photography (though she’s running out of wall space), or relaxing in a comfy chair with a good book, her cat, Fergie, in her lap, and a nice cup of Yorkshire Gold tea. She is a U.S. native currently living in New York, yet her heart often can be found in other places and times, mostly Regency England.
This short, humorous engagement story is based around a simple conceit (being locked somewhere) and what it does to people (makes them say things they normally would not).
“Bingley, how on earth did you manage this?”
“I am sure I do not know
, Darcy—it just…happened!”
“Well, stand aside, man, and let me try once more.”
Bingley moved to the other side of the enclosure, well behind Darcy, and watched as that gentleman put all his concentration—not to mention his shoulder and considerable weight—into forcing the door to open.
“It is of no use!” He finally gave it up, rubbing his shoulder. “It will not budge; indeed, our attempts to force it, I believe, have only wedged the obstruction more tightly.”
He glanced at his friend, laughing in spite of his own irritation at the panicked countenance Bingley wore, and said, “It appears we shall rest here yet a while then, until we may be discovered.”
Despite Darcy’s outward calm, Bingley was quite clearly agitated. “But…what if we are not discovered?” He looked around him frantically. “What if we are not missed and are confined here for days? How long can we survive? The air will become putrid—we have no food or water. What if there are rats—?”
He looked to go on indefinitely, his words coming faster and louder as he spoke. Darcy walked back to his friend and put his hands on Bingley’s shoulders, holding them there with some steadying pressure until Bingley looked at him. “Get hold of yourself, Charles!”
“I beg your pardon, Darcy.” He tried to settle his mind, to focus it upon his friend. “I am afraid I do not do well in confined spaces. I have not the temperament for it. I cannot think…cannot breathe.” His eyes darted about the room. “We are lost—we shall expire here! What a singular turn of fate—just as I have secured my happiness, it is cut short!”
“Bingley!”
Having both silenced Bingley and drawn his attention yet again, Darcy set about to ease the man’s nerves.
“Consider, man. We are hardly lost. We are in your own wine cellar, for pity’s sake.” He picked up a lamp from the nearby table and moved it slowly around. “We have a lamp—and spare,” he added as he pointed the light toward candles resting on a low shelf. “It is only two hours or so until the Bennets arrive for dinner. Do not you think if we fail to appear by then, we should be searched out?”
“Do you truly believe it, Darcy? We will be found? Two hours?”
“Very likely sooner. The housekeeper will send a footman for wine for this evening; we could meet our rescuer at any moment.” He added, “And you will have forgotten it all by the time you face your lady across the table.”
“Oh! Yes, of course. My gratitude, Darcy, you have indeed put my mind at rest.” Bingley calmed somewhat at that, though he could not fully relax.
Darcy guided Bingley over to the table and into a chair to await their rescue. He had not been completely truthful. Keeping the man calm, for both their sakes, had forced him to give in to a little falsehood. He rather thought any wines or spirits for this evening’s dining would already have been collected for the decanting of those which required it. It could well take the failure of their appearance when guests arrived to initiate a search for Darcy and Bingley. The best hope was that, on discovering them missing, some servant or other might recall having seen them descend to the wine cellar. Darcy was certain they would be detected, but not so assured of its imminence. They could be here for some while. And the last thing either of them needed in their close quarters was an outbreak of hysterics.
Now that he had somewhat assuaged Bingley’s fears, he wanted a diversion to maintain the calm.
“Shall we?” he asked, pointing to the row upon row of libations around them.
“What?” Looking up from the table, Bingley caught Darcy’s meaning. “Oh! Yes, I suppose we may as well. Pick what you like; it is all the same to me at the moment.”
Darcy had only just arrived back at Netherfield, having been in town the past several days, when Bingley returned from an afternoon of shooting. Darcy had not been expected for another two days, but Bingley’s welcome was warm. Bingley wasted little time in confirming that an engagement had been formed between himself and Miss Bennet; whereupon he added that he expected the Bennet family to dine that evening and was delighted that Darcy would now join their party. Darcy’s own delight, had Bingley but known it, was tempered by anxiety about how his presence might be received by that family—and one member of it particularly—given the regrettable events of the day before.
They were disheveled from their activities—Bingley from the hunt and Darcy from the dust of the road—and determined that, as each must bathe and change his attire, they might as well dress early for dinner. Upon doing so, they then met in the billiard room, where, over a game, Bingley asked Darcy for his assistance. He wished to select a particularly fine port for Mr. Bennet’s enjoyment after dinner. And so, armed with glasses and a wine screw—for which Darcy now silently thanked Providence—the two men had ventured down into Netherfield’s cellars. They had only begun to peruse the casks and shelves when the heavy door had in some manner broken free of its holding latch and slammed shut. The loud clatter which immediately followed suggested that something additional had dislodged and fallen across the door as well, resulting in their present predicament.
Darcy passed by the port now—their situation called for something slightly less heavy—and settled at last upon a pinot noir of good vintage. Bingley watched him as he took up a nearby rag to wipe the bottle of its fine coating of dust. He inspected the cork down in the neck before applying the screw to it; it came free a moment later with a satisfying puh.
He filled the two glasses and placed one in front of Bingley on the table. Placing the other glass across the table, he took a seat in one of the remaining two chairs. Another chair lay in pieces on the floor at the entry. Bingley had employed it unsuccessfully to ram the door. Blasted English oak! thought Darcy. It could withstand any barrage.
Bingley had continued to follow Darcy’s every action with concentration, as if only the sight of his friend could keep his own alarm at bay. Now, as they sat together, they raised their glasses.
“To your happiness, sir!” said Darcy.
“To an early release!” replied his friend. “That will ensure my happiness!” Both laughed, though Bingley’s held an element of nervous disposition.
Oh, blast, thought Darcy. I must take his mind from this imprisonment. Reaching into the interior pocket of his coat, Darcy brought out a small book. He offered it to Bingley.
“Poetry, Darcy? You surprise me, I confess.”
“I comprehend no reason for your astonishment. I read a great variety of material—treatises, essays, and, yes, poetry—even, if you will credit it, the occasional novel.”
“I do credit it, all of it,” replied his friend. “I know you to be a great reader. Nonetheless, I find it a revelation that you carry verse in your pocket.”
“It is Cowper—lyrical without being too maudlin or sentimental, for the most part.” He added, “The nature of verse allows one to peruse it in brief moments of idleness.” He stopped, considered again, and said, “Must I justify my choice of reading to you, Bingley? Do you desire the book or no?”
Bingley took it then. He opened it at random, somewhere in its middle, and began to read, moving his lips as he went through the words. After only a moment, however, he broke off and handed the diversion back. “It is no good, Darcy. You know I am not much for reading at the best of times.”
Darcy began to return the book to his pocket when Bingley added, “Perhaps if you were to read it, Darcy—to me. I might find more comfort in hearing the verse spoken aloud.”
Darcy regarded Bingley incredulously, prepared to offer a caustic remark; but he was met with an earnest appeal in the man’s eyes. At length, he sighed, flipped through the small book to a random work, and, stopping first to refill their glasses, he began to read:
“Ask what is human life—the sage replies, / With disappointment lowering in his eyes, / A painful passage o’er a restless flood, / A vain pursuit of fugitive false good, / A scene of fancied bliss and heartfelt care, / Closing at last in darkness and despair…”
Darc
y glanced up at Bingley and saw that perhaps this was not the selection to soothe his breast. He moved forward through several pages and settled upon an offering a bit lighter in tone, first slaking the thirst his exercise had induced before beginning again.
“Though nature weigh our talents, and dispense / To every man his modicum of sense, / And Conversation in its better part / May be esteem’d a gift, and not an art, / Yet much depends, as in the tiller’s toil, / On culture, and the sowing of the soil.”
This was better—Cowper’s observations of a less dire nature:
“Words learn’d by rote a parrot may rehearse, / But talking is not always to converse; / Not more distinct from harmony divine, / The constant creaking of a country sign. / As alphabets in ivory employ, / Hour after hour, the yet unletter’d boy, / Sorting and puzzling with a deal of glee / Those seeds of science call’d his A B C; / So language in the mouths of the adult, / Witness its insignificant result, / Too often proves an implement of play, / A toy to sport with, and pass time away.”
Darcy’s deep, well-modulated voice and the cadence of his recitation did appear to assuage Bingley somewhat, and so he continued, breaking off now and again only to taste of his wine.
When Darcy had finished Conversation, for which he received the compliments of his audience for his measured recitation, he filled their glasses yet again and moved on to The Task; but soon he noted that Bingley’s interest—and, indeed, his own—had waned considerably. “Shall I go on reading?”
“No. I thank you, Darcy; I feel I have had enough poetry for one afternoon.” He gave it thought a moment before adding, “Do you know, I do not understand the penchant for this poem. The first you read, I found superior; it had a pattern to it, at the least. But this latter one—what purpose can there be in calling it poetry if the composer can stop and start wherever he pleases? I believe even I could write such lines without the onus of forming rhymes. But then what would be the point?”
The Road to Pemberley Page 21