Fitzwilliam Darcy, Poet

by Jennifer Joy

  “You cannot think of walking home alone in this rain, Miss Elizabeth. It would be highly improper. You must take my carriage,” Miss Bingley offered.

  If Elizabeth had been disinclined to accept Miss Bingley’s assistance before, she was even more so now.

  “Stay, Lizzy. Please, stay,” Jane repeated, her fever-bright eyes brimming with tears, her golden hair sticking to her damp forehead.

  Miss Bingley sighed. “Of course, you must stay,” she added as if it had been her idea to ask … and not prompted by Jane’s desperation. “I shall have the maid ready the room next to this one and will dispatch a servant to Longbourn to acquaint your family of your change in plans as well as to bring back a supply of clothes.”

  Forcing a smile, Elizabeth said through gritted teeth, “Thank you, Miss Bingley. I am grateful to accept your kindness for my sister’s benefit.”

  Miss Bingley’s air of condescension weighed heavily on Elizabeth’s pride, but she would do anything to ease her sister’s discomfort — even stay at Netherfield Park, where she would be made to feel unwelcome by everyone except Mr. Bingley and perhaps that other interesting fellow, Mr. Wickham.

  Chapter 7

  As Elizabeth expected of a household overseen by Miss Bingley, dinner was an elegant, formal affair. A bit stuffy for Elizabeth’s taste, but she took comfort in her ability to blend in with those who believed themselves her superior. Still, she was sorely tempted to slurp her white soup from the spoon just to raise eyebrows.

  Elizabeth was pleasantly situated by Mr. Wickham, which provided her with the perfect opportunity to learn more about him and, if his tongue loosened, the other diners at the table.

  Dabbing his napkin against his forehead, Mr. Wickham said under his breath, “A bit stuffy in here, is it not, Miss Elizabeth?”

  She raised her wineglass in acknowledgment. “Indeed, Mr. Wickham. As you are more intimate than I am with our present company, I wonder if you might satisfy my curiosity on one question.”

  “Nothing could please me more. What do you wish to know?”

  Elizabeth felt Mr. Darcy’s eyes on her, but she was not to be deterred. “While I understand why Mr. Darcy might seek out the company of Mr. Bingley’s sisters, I do not understand how he and Mr. Bingley became friends when their contrasting characters would oppose such a friendship.”

  Mr. Wickham’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You believe Mr. Darcy to be too proud to befriend a gentleman whose family’s fortune was earned in trade? You think he is as haughty as Bingley’s sisters?”

  That was precisely what she thought, but frankness tended to limit conversation rather than encourage it. Softening her words with humor, Elizabeth said, “You attempt to intimidate me with your blunt speech, Mr. Wickham, but allow me to assure you I have a very poor opinion of Mr. Darcy — an opinion he has earned by means of his own arrogant indifference since the moment of his arrival to Hertfordshire. Nothing you say against him would surprise me.”

  Underlying her words with a smile, she challenged Mr. Wickham to prove her wrong. If he could.

  He chuckled. “You are a quick — and might I add accomplished — judge of character, I see. I shall have to speak carefully in your company lest I reveal my true nature.”

  Mr. Wickham was as charming as Mr. Darcy was surly. Were Elizabeth to discern Mr. Wickham’s nature, she doubted she would find anything displeasing. Perhaps shocking — a gentleman as handsome as he was, with such smooth manners, was bound to have many admirers.

  It was wicked of Elizabeth, she knew, but it elevated her pride to be the recipient of Mr. Wickham’s attention when she had been scorned by others at the table. If pride was before a fall, then perhaps Mr. Wickham would be around to catch her. She imagined his conversation to be the equal of Walter Wyndham’s — high praise, indeed! Mr. Wickham was not so handsome as Mr. Darcy. Few men were. But character was more important than appearance.

  A glass set down with a thud on the tablecloth, and Elizabeth looked up to see Miss Bingley glaring at her.

  Mr. Wickham noticed, too. Leaning closer to Elizabeth, he said, “I hope you will forgive me for making you the target of Miss Bingley’s ire, but I do so love to see the haughty put in their place. She must be the center of attention, and I am knowingly provoking her by conversing with you when we both know we were placed beside each other at the table as her guests of the least consequence.”

  Elizabeth nearly burst with merriment. What a singular gentleman! His honest humor delighted her sense of the ridiculous and satisfied her desire to discomfit Miss Bingley. Now, aside from Mr. Darcy’s friendship with Mr. Bingley, Elizabeth simply had to know how on God’s great earth the lofty gentleman had befriended such a man as Mr. Wickham. “You digress, sir. You have yet to explain Mr. Darcy’s friendship with Mr. Bingley, and now I am perplexed as to how you came to befriend him.”

  Mr. Wickham’s countenance grew more serious, an effect Mr. Darcy seemed to have on everyone around him. Elizabeth had yet to see Mr. Darcy smile. She wondered if he knew how.

  Dropping his voice so that Elizabeth had to strain and lean closer to hear it, Mr. Wickham said, “And now, it is my turn to shock you, Miss Elizabeth. You expect me to speak against Darcy, but I am bound to disappoint you. Darcy’s pride sometimes gets the better of him, as is common in most great men.”

  Mr. Darcy, a great man? Elizabeth waited for the sarcastic laugh, but it did not come.

  Mr. Wickham was serious.

  Elizabeth, however, was not easily persuaded. “Great men” did not cut ladies publicly at assemblies. Nor did they refuse to be introduced to or dance with them when gentlemen were scarce. Even Elizabeth had been forced to sit out two dances for lack of a partner. And gentlemen most certainly did not state their opinions about a lady’s prospects to those who would delight in her misfortune.

  “You do not believe me?” Mr. Wickham asked pointedly.

  “My experience with Mr. Darcy, little though it has been, is quite different from the image you portray of his character,” Elizabeth answered cautiously.

  “Well-put. I am one of Darcy’s oldest friends, so I may speak with some authority when I say his talent in giving offense is extraordinary. However, I beg of you not to sketch his character too hastily. Does it not stand that a gentleman who chooses a friend such as Bingley, who appreciates the qualities which form the backbone of his character — honesty, kindness, and generosity…? Could it not also be possible for Darcy to possess those same qualities?”

  It was food for thought, but Elizabeth had held her poor opinion too long, and Mr. Darcy’s faults against her were too many to be easily swayed. She pressed, “What of your friendship with him? You mentioned you are old friends?”

  Mr. Wickham smiled, the warmth in his expression that of one remembering the past with pleasure. “My father was Mr. Darcy’s land steward. Mr. Darcy was my godfather. He saw to my education and granted me a living with which I would be able to support myself as a gentleman. He was a good man who cared for the people who relied upon him. When he died, he left me the curacy at his estate.” Mr. Wickham shook his head. “Can you imagine me as a clergyman?”

  Elizabeth could not. His manners were too coquettish. While the wives would have enjoyed going to services, Elizabeth imagined the husbands would not. “Clearly you could not see yourself as one.”

  He chuckled. “Neither could Darcy. While his father meant well, we agreed that my employment would be better directed elsewhere. So, we agreed on a sum, and I sold my living, granting the position to a gentleman more suited to the profession. We have maintained our friendship over the years, and I can attest that there are few hosts so thoughtful and generous as Darcy.”

  Since Mr. Wickham was a generous source of information and forthright in his comments, Elizabeth took the liberty of continuing on the subject. “The image you portray of your friend is vastly different from my own observations, so pray forgive me for being hesitant in accepting it. How do you explain Mr. Darcy’s ta
citurn manners? His arrival sparked a good deal of excitement in Meryton, but within an hour of entering the assembly, he had offended most of the villagers. How do you explain that?”

  Mr. Wickham sighed, pressing his eyes closed and shaking his head. He looked around him, and in so doing encouraged Elizabeth to do the same (after all, their conversation was hardly appropriate.)

  Finally, he said, “Darcy is proud. You would be hard put to find a gentleman born in the first circles, master of a large fortune and an impressive estate, who is not. But his tenants adore him.”

  Elizabeth drew her breath in loudly enough to draw several looks from around the table. She reached for her wineglass and sipped.

  Mr. Darcy’s eyes lingered on her while everyone else at the table was quick to ignore her small outburst.

  Lowering her voice, she said, “Your speech is shocking, Mr. Wickham. Mr. Darcy has scorned all attempts of forming an acquaintance since his arrival here, and now you tell me he is a favorite with the lower classes in Derbyshire? Is he so contrary?”

  Mr. Wickham looked around again. Their intimate conversation could not continue much longer.

  “It is true. However, if you knew more of his history, I do believe you would understand his reasoning … faulty though it is,” Mr. Wickham whispered.

  Elizabeth was on pins and needles.

  Miss Bingley’s sharp voice interrupted Mr. Wickham before he could say another word. “What is so interesting, Mr. Wickham? Pray share with the rest of us. It is not fair for Miss Elizabeth to be the sole recipient of all of your conversation.”

  Elizabeth’s curiosity would have to wait for satisfaction, and patience admittedly was not her greatest quality. She thought considerably less of Miss Bingley for her untimely interruption.

  Mr. Wickham straightened his posture away from Elizabeth and smiled directly at Miss Bingley. “As Miss Elizabeth has not had the privilege of traveling much in Derbyshire, I was comparing Netherfield Park to Pemberley.”

  Mr. Darcy narrowed his eyes at Mr. Wickham, and Elizabeth looked down at her plate before he met her eyes. It was a small lie, but one she knew Mr. Darcy would read on her face were he to look at her. It ought not to have bothered her — the lie was harmless enough — but it did.

  There were few subjects Miss Bingley could speak about with more passion and authority than Mr. Darcy’s home, as the next few minutes of conversation proved. A finer estate than Pemberley was not to be found in the entire Kingdom, nor a more accomplished young lady than Miss Georgiana Darcy, over whom Miss Bingley doted in blatant adoration.

  Elizabeth was tempted to ask Mr. Darcy if everything Miss Bingley said was true, but the muscles twitching at the side of his jaw gave her pause. He was annoyed.

  On closer observation, Elizabeth saw his nostrils flare every time Miss Bingley poured compliments on his little sister. Either he resented Miss Darcy (highly doubtful), or he resented Miss Bingley for presuming an intimacy with his sister she did not possess. Having a number of sisters of her own, Elizabeth recognized the protective nature Mr. Darcy displayed. He must love his sister dearly.

  Had Elizabeth not witnessed it herself, she would not have believed Mr. Darcy capable of expressing emotion at all, but he was clearly perturbed. His restraint was visible.

  Interesting…

  There was a crack in Mr. Darcy’s brooding exterior after all. And for the first time since she had met the gentleman, Elizabeth was inclined to think kindly toward him — at least where his sister was concerned.

  Maybe Mr. Wickham’s praise was not entirely unfounded. There might be a beating heart under Mr. Darcy’s marble facade after all.

  Chapter 8

  It had been torture listening to Miss Bingley praise Georgiana. Darcy did everything possible to shield his sister from ladies who would use her to elevate themselves. The insincerity of Miss Bingley’s endless compliments, repeated and affirmed by Mrs. Hurst, had been painful to hear. But not nearly so painful as watching how easily Miss Elizabeth and Wickham had fallen into conversation.

  They enjoyed each other’s company like old friends who had reunited after years of separation. Darcy recognized the jealousy kindling in his breast, but he could not fathom the reason for its presence. He was not in a hurry to fall in love — to make himself vulnerable to the whims of an untrustworthy female. No, Darcy would be true to his word and teach Bingley the role of the master of an estate. And then, he would leave Hertfordshire for good. There was no reason for him ever to return.

  And yet, Miss Elizabeth’s curious gaze met his from further down the table. He tried to keep his vision focused on safer things — his plate, the wineglass, the candelabra…. But the struggle not to look at her was greater than his self-mastery, and every time she laughed, he felt the corners of his lips twitch in response. What were she and Wickham talking about to bring her so much delight?

  Darcy reached for his glass. He must cease these contemplations. They meant nothing. She was nothing.

  While Darcy determined Miss Elizabeth to be of no import to himself, she was a dedicated nurse. Immediately after dinner she excused herself to sit with Miss Bennet, thus inciting a renewal of tenderness from Bingley’s sisters (who had all but forgotten their unwell guest until then.)

  When Bingley summoned the ladies to join them for coffee, Miss Elizabeth remained with her sister.

  Wickham strolled over to Darcy. “How disappointing. Miss Elizabeth is lively company, do you not agree?”

  Darcy did not wish to discuss the charms of Miss Elizabeth with Wickham, of all people. “She is precisely where she needs to be. Otherwise, why did she come here?” Darcy said drolly.

  Taking a seat near Darcy, Wickham said, “It is only right for a lady to join her host and his family in the evening’s entertainments — whether she takes pleasure in their company or not.”

  “I do not concern myself with the pleasures of young ladies, and I suggest you give her the same consideration.” That came out more pointed than Darcy had intended, but he sensed Wickham was up to something, and until he knew what it was, he did not trust the rake with a country maiden like Miss Elizabeth.

  Wickham sighed, leaning against the cushion of his chair. “Ah, but I require amusement. You know how it is, Darcy. Boredom breeds mischief, and if a lady can offer some entertainment in exchange for her own pleasure, then who am I to deny her?”

  “You will keep your distance.” Darcy locked eyes with Wickham, his heartbeat vibrating through his every fiber.

  Wickham smiled. “You like her. Admit it.”

  Never. “Your loose manners are overlooked in town — even invited in certain circles — but they are unwelcome here. I will not have you acting in a way that could call into question the reputation of any young lady while we are both residing as Bingley’s guests. Do you understand me fully?”

  The devil’s smile broadened to a grin. “I do. Better than you think.”

  Fortunately, Mr. Hurst chose that moment to suggest a game of cards. Wickham was one who never lost an opportunity to gamble and was soon distracted playing loo for stakes he could hardly afford.

  Doing his best to avoid everyone in the room, Darcy had one of his books brought down from his room. Holding it up like a shield separating himself from the rest of the party, Darcy felt how thin and flimsy his barrier was when Miss Elizabeth walked into the drawing room.

  Mr. Hurst, who was padding his pockets with the contents of his competitors’ purses, begged her to join in their fun.

  But Miss Elizabeth was not a gambler. She refused, choosing instead to amuse herself with one of the books lying on a table across the room.

  Miss Bingley teased, “Miss Eliza Bennet despises cards. She is a great reader and has no pleasure in anything else.”

  Stopping in place, Miss Elizabeth said, “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure. I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.”

  Bingley added jovially, “In nursing your sister, I am sure you
have pleasure, and I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bingley. I hope so too,” she said, continuing to the table where she held up a book to see its title.

  “The selection is not great. I would be happy to fetch the rest for you to see — all the books my library affords if it pleases you. I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit, but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever looked into,” Bingley said, blushing at his own admission. Sometimes he was honest to a fault.

  “Again, I thank you, but I am certain I shall find something of interest here. Pray do not trouble yourself,” Miss Elizabeth said, picking up another book to examine.

  Wickham added, “The best books are on the uppermost shelves where ladies like to hide the novels the more upright in society claim are inappropriate for the weaker sex to read.” He looked pointedly at Miss Bingley, who promptly changed the subject.

  “I am astonished my father should have left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!” she said, resuming another round of endless praise for Pemberley, himself, and Georgiana.

  After the longest evening in the history of Darcy’s lifetime, Miss Elizabeth finally left to check on her sister, giving him an opportunity to retire to his bedchamber. He practically ran up the stairs. So many emotions ran through him, he had to put quill to paper to make sense of them — to give them a voice and, in so doing, restore order to his own being.

  The feel of the parchment gliding under the side of his hand, the scratch of the quill over the paper, the tension melting from his shoulders as the words poured forth from the depths of his soul… It was the greatest relief Darcy knew.

  Until he had calmed enough to read over the pages.