Mr. Darcy Broke My Heart

by Beth Pattillo

  “We visit our aunt three or four times a year,” the colonel said, casting a glance in that estimable personage’s direction. By this time, Lady Catherine had succeeded in transferring Anne’s escort from Mr. Humphreys to Mr. Darcy.

  “And is their engagement of longstanding?” Elizabeth asked with a nod toward the couple, even as she despised herself for the contrived artlessness of her question.

  That much I remembered from the final version of Pride and Prejudice. Darcy and Anne were supposed to get married, if their mothers had their way. Clearly, Lady Catherine’s designs on Darcy had survived Austen’s rewrite.

  The colonel paused. “Engagement? I am aware of no formal pledge, Miss Bennet. Only an understanding between my aunt and Darcy’s mother. A sisterly inclination, but nothing more.”

  Indeed? Hope sprang to life in Elizabeth’s breast. If there were no formal engagement… And then she stopped, quite literally in the midst of the path, a flush heating her face and neck.

  So Elizabeth had fallen for Darcy rather early on in this version.

  “Miss Bennet? Are you unwell?” The colonel drew her off the path to a plain wooden bench beneath the shelter of a beech tree. “Shall I fetch you a glass of water? Or some wine?”

  “No, no. I am quite well, Colonel. I am sorry to inconvenience you. Pray, join the others and leave me here to collect myself. I really am quite well, I assure you.”

  But the colonel would not dream of leaving her unattended no matter how Elizabeth might urge him to withdraw. Though her inquiry had been slight and almost innocent, she recognized in her heart the seeds of hope. Mr. Darcy’s strange attentions to her over the last week could only be ascribed to boredom. Certainly she should not make assumptions simply because he so often turned up just as she was setting off for her daily turn about the park, or because he offered to turn the pages of her music when Lady Catherine commanded her to the pianoforte in the evenings. And yet here she was, shamelessly culling information from Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  “You said when we met that you had been too long from your regiment.” She vowed to fix her attention on the colonel and keep her eyes from following the tall figure moving toward the stables. “Do you plan to return to duty soon, then, sir?” She knew from Lady Catherine’s boasts that the colonel had fought valiantly against the French.

  He grimaced. “I am to sell out, Miss Bennet, at the end of the summer. So, no, I am not to rejoin my regiment.”

  “You sound as if you regret the choice, sir.”

  His weather-beaten face grew tight. “I do, Miss Bennet. Indeed, I do. But my father has made me an offer I cannot refuse.”

  “What sort of offer, sir?”

  “A small but handsome property that adjoins our family pile. The rents are modest but not insignificant, and I may enjoy the life of a gentleman after all these years of following the drum.”

  It sounded rather like Longbourn, which caused her heart to twist in her breast. “And will you miss soldiering?”

  “I will. I will indeed, Miss Bennet.” He was no older than his cousin, she surmised, and yet he seemed to have an air of experience that even the formidable Mr. Darcy did not possess. Yet his manner was softened by something. A hint of weariness, perhaps?

  “But you will be glad to settle in one place, surely?”

  He smiled. “It is human nature, I suppose, to always want what we do not have. For many years I longed for a home and hearth of my own. And now that I am to be a settled gentleman, I find that I’ve still a great deal of the soldier in me.”

  “Change is always difficult.” Elizabeth laid a hand on the sleeve of his coat. “Time will aid you in coming to terms with your situation.”

  He looked up, and his gaze held hers. “Do you speak from experience, Miss Bennet? Pardon my directness, but I wonder at your optimism.” He paused. “I mean, given your situation. I do not mean to speak ill of my aunt, but—”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “A woman’s ability to adapt must serve me in my circumstances,” she said, regret and longing in her voice, she was sure. “Men have the means to be independent. You do not need to learn acceptance in the same way we must.” Sudden tears swam in her eyes, and she turned her face from him. Of all things, she did not want his pity. Or anyone’s, for that matter.

  “Miss Bennet—” He took her hand from his sleeve and held it in his, and Elizabeth closed her eyes at the touch.

  He was a man accustomed to protecting king and country. No doubt when he chose to take a wife, he would protect her as well. If only his cousin were more like him. She refused to think of what had happened the evening before, at the top of the stairs. She refused to think of Mr. Darcy’s eyes, or the way she had felt when he had kissed her.

  Kissed her? My mouth dropped open in astonishment, and I was very sorry that Harriet hadn’t found that particular section of the manuscript.

  “I think the others have returned to the house,” Elizabeth said, shaking off her melancholy and turning her attention to the moment. “They will be expecting us. I believe Mr. Humphreys mentioned that his housekeeper possesses a dab hand with lemon tarts.”

  He wanted to say something more, Elizabeth knew. He made a slight grimace at her change of subject but followed her lead. “Yes, I was made to understand that as well. Shall we see if the actuality bears out the advertisement?”

  Elizabeth nodded, grateful to him for his discretion but also anxious at his mode of address. She liked the colonel far too well for her own peace of mind. He had a way of setting her at ease with his competent, confident manner that made her long to rest her cheek against the front of his coat and bide there until she felt stronger. But he was not Mr. Darcy, and she could not dictate the longings of her own heart.

  The section ended abruptly. Disappointment flooded through me, and I suppressed a groan. When I looked up, Harriet sat in her customary chair beneath the window, knitting needles in hand. She met my gaze.

  “Everything all right, dear?”

  “Mr. Darcy kissed Elizabeth? At Rosings?”

  Harriet chuckled. “Apparently so, although that part was missing when the manuscript was given to me.”

  “Are there a lot of holes? In the manuscript, I mean?”

  “More than I would like.”

  “Do you think someone else might have them?”

  Harriet shrugged. “I’ve no idea, really. None of the other ladies are in possession of the missing bits, unfortunately.”

  I nodded. “Do you have regular meetings, the Formidables, where you discuss these things?” I took a sip of tea, lukewarm but still fragrant. I was intrigued by the idea of the Formidables. How many other secrets did they possess?

  Harriet smiled but shook her head. “I don’t even know who all the others are, to tell the truth. Only Mrs. Parrot does.”

  I paused. “Look, Harriet, I’m not exactly sure how I got tangled up in all of this—”

  “Because you were kind to an old lady, of course.”

  “Yes, well, in any case, I don’t think I’m the best person to help you decide what you should do with the manuscript. If you don’t think you’re up to it, the job really should fall to Eleanor.”

  Harriet snorted. “Definitely not.”

  I returned my teacup and saucer to the tray.

  “Would it really be a bad thing to let Eleanor have the manuscript?” I asked. “She is your daughter, after all. And if she wanted to give it to the university—”

  Harriet returned her knitting to the bag at her feet. “The truth is, if Eleanor could get her hands on the manuscript, she ’d have it sold before you could say ‘Bob’s your uncle.’”

  “Sell it?” My fingers tightened on the pages in my lap.

  “It would fetch quite a good price, I imagine. Enough for Eleanor to give up teaching and work on her own writing.”

  “But if you asked her not to…”

  “Children are a tricky business, Claire. No matter how one tries to mold them, they come into the world
a certain shape. It’s almost impossible to alter certain…aspects, shall we say, of their personalities.”

  I thought of my sister and our complicated history. I had often wondered whether we weren’t destined from birth for our particular brand of sisterhood. “I understand. At least I think I do.”

  “Eleanor’s very practical. I’m sure that must be a good thing.” Harriet’s eyes grew misty. “Sadly, her practical nature often fails to account for other people’s feelings.”

  “She loves you,” I insisted. “Despite your differences.”

  “Yes, yes, she does. That’s what makes it so difficult.” Harriet looked up at me, tears in her eyes. “Love complicates things terribly, you know.”

  I could only sigh and nod in agreement with her statement.

  After that, I helped Harriet clear away the tea things. The small kitchen at the back of the cottage boasted a fine view of the rear garden, but little in the way of modern amenities. Harriet swished the cups and teapot in the ancient sink, and I dried them with a dish towel embossed with pictures of Prince Charles and Lady Diana.

  “You said Eleanor wants to sell the manuscript?”

  “Yes.”

  To someone like James, I realized. A publisher.

  “Would that be such a bad thing?” I asked. “After all”—I paused, wondering how to say what I needed to say in a delicate way—“you may find that the income would be helpful—”

  Harriet wrung out the dishcloth and hung it over the faucet. “To pay for my care, you mean.”

  I bit my lip. “Yes. Maybe the money could be put into a trust or something. To pay for whatever you need. And what’s left could be given to Jane Austen’s House Museum.” I’d read about the little cottage in Hampshire on the Internet.

  “Yes, it could.” But I could see the disappointment in Harriet’s eyes. That look, more than anything else that had happened, hurt.

  “If you want it to stay secret,” I said, “then just give it to Mrs. Parrot.”

  Harriet rested a hand on the kitchen countertop as if to balance herself.

  “The problem with owning something so valuable,” she said, “is that after a while, you become too caught up in it. You lose your perspective.” She looked at me with those piercing blue eyes. “Perhaps it is the right thing to do to let Eleanor have it. Perhaps I’ve been wrong, all these years, to keep it hidden away. That’s why I need you, Claire. To be my conscience for me.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “But do you know what to do?” She patted my arm. “That’s the more difficult bit, isn’t it?”

  Her question lay between us, something tangible like a rug or a length of sofa cushion.

  “No. I don’t. I don’t know what to do at all.” And not just with regard to Harriet and her manuscript. I didn’t know what to do about James. I didn’t know what to do about Neil. I didn’t know what to do about Missy. And I certainly didn’t know what to do about me.

  “Ah, then, perhaps it might help to read some more of the manuscript.”

  “There’s more? I thought you said you didn’t know where the missing bits were.”

  “I’m sure I can turn up something else by tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. The word seemed somehow comforting, as if knowing that Harriet would be waiting for me made my troubles a little easier to deal with.

  “Tomorrow, then,” I said as I hung the dish towel on a little hook beside the sink. I would have wanted to come back to see her in any case, manuscript notwithstanding. “About this time?”

  “That would be lovely.” Harriet ushered me from the kitchen, and I went with a surprising amount of reluctance to the front door.

  “Thank you again for the tea,” I said as I left the house. Harriet stood framed in the blue doorway, her smile as soft as the afternoon breeze.

  “It was my pleasure,” she said, and then the door closed and I was left standing on the path that led from the door to the garden gate.

  I turned and let myself out of the gate onto the sidewalk beyond, and then I paused. Back to Christ Church? Or away from it and the problems that awaited me there?

  Yet one more decision that I felt ill-equipped to deal with. Denial, though, was often an excellent short-term strategy, so I turned my back toward Christ Church and set off in the opposite direction.

  I hadn’t gone far before I realized that someone was following me. I turned and saw an older woman with bright orange hair and a wildly flowered dress marching along a few yards behind me.

  I knew without a doubt who it was. I waited as she approached me and then came to a stop a few feet away.

  “Mrs. Parrot.” I nodded. “I assume you want to speak to me?”

  The older woman drew herself up to her full height, which was considerable.

  “Yes, Miss Prescott, I did want a word.” She peered at me with disapproval. “I’m afraid my friend Harriet isn’t thinking very clearly. I want to make sure she doesn’t make a mistake. An enormous mistake.”

  “As big a mistake as sneaking into Christ Church to leave me a note? Or as big a mistake as trashing my room, looking for the manuscript?” The best way to deal with a bully, I’d always been told, was to go on the offensive.

  Mrs. Parrot’s eyebrows arched. “I hardly a think a note is a mistake. As to the other,” she said with a huff. “I never—”

  “I’m sure we both want the same thing.” I steeled myself to go toe-to-toe with this woman. Yes, she was intimidating, but I was no pushover either. “We want what’s best for Harriet.”

  “Of course.” She sniffed. “But the manuscript—”

  “Belongs to Harriet.” I hitched my purse strap higher on my shoulder. “And it is her right to decide what will happen to it.”

  Mrs. Parrot took a step toward me. “She agreed, when she joined the Formidables, to keep the existence of First Impressions a secret.”

  “And now she may want to unagree,” I shot back.

  “She’s easily influenced now.” Was that real concern in Mrs. Parrot’s eyes? “Please, Miss Prescott, help her to do the right thing.”

  “You can be sure that I will.”

  We stood there toe-to-toe for a long moment, our gazes locked. Finally she stepped back.

  “Very well. As long as you understand what is at stake here.”

  I nodded. “I’m quite aware what’s at stake. An elderly woman’s peace and comfort.”

  Mrs. Parrot pursed her lips. “Quite so.”

  She spun on one heel and marched away, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  There was definitely a reason they called themselves the Formidables, and I was very glad to see the back of Mrs. Parrot. With a little luck, maybe I could avoid the front of her in the future as well.

  On Thursday morning, I once again avoided the Hall at breakfast time and paid a return visit to my accommodating Starbucks barista. Much more of this, and I would make prowling Oxford early a habit. I was leaving Starbucks, mocha in hand, when I saw James leaning against a bus stop ten feet away. He was obviously waiting for me.

  “Good morning.” I tried to remember to breathe and to close my mouth rather than letting my jaw sag at the stubble that framed his square jaw. He didn’t look as if he’d slept at all, which, irritatingly enough, made him look all the more attractive. “What are you doing here?”

  He pushed away from the bus shelter and stepped toward me. “I followed you.”

  “That’s a little spooky.” Only that wasn’t the right word for it, really. Thrilling would have been more appropriate. I couldn’t look at him without remembering that kiss and its devastating effect on me. As well as the devastating effect of his rejection immediately afterward.

  He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I wanted to apologize, but I couldn’t find you after class yesterday. Where were you?”

  I twisted the cup of coffee in my hands and tried to play it cool. “I did some sightseeing. Just knocked around Oxfor
d for a bit.”

  In truth, after my encounter with Mrs. Parrot, I had walked several miles, not really sure of my destination and not paying that much attention to my surroundings. I had stayed close to the river so that I could find my way back. As much as I had walked, I hadn’t been able to escape my problems. Still, my solitary ramble had given me a great deal of time to think.

  “You were avoiding me, weren’t you?” He took a step closer. He was wearing a button-down shirt, the cuffs rolled back to reveal an expensive gold wristwatch.

  “No, no. Of course not.” Heat flooded my face, and some self-destructive impulse drove the next words out of my mouth. “Actually, yes, I was. Avoiding you, I mean.”

  I stepped around him and walked down the pavement. It was all I could do not to break out into a jog. Or preferably a sprint. I couldn’t have outrun him, though, and in any case he caught up to me within thirty feet.

  “Claire, wait. Please.”

  I stopped, and he swung around in front of me again. “Look, I need to explain some things.”

  His dark eyes were clouded with some strong emotion. That sight kept me frozen to the spot for a long moment. “Like what kind of things?” I took a drink of my mocha to cover the fact that my hand was shaking.

  “About the other night—”

  “It’s not a big deal. Just a little summer romance.”

  I hated to even use the R word, but maybe my assertion would clear the air, the decks, my brain. If he was like most men, he would run in the other direction at the mention of romance, and I would realize how futile any hopes I’d had of him had been.

  He shook his head. “It’s more than a summer fling. You know it is.”

  “I think you made your feelings pretty clear the other night.” I wasn’t the kind of woman who had a lot of experience with the opposite sex, especially not with men who were “players.”