Fitzwilliam Darcy, Poet

by Jennifer Joy

  He had written about her. Again.

  Chapter 9

  Elizabeth started at the sound of a bird singing outside the bedchamber window. She had drifted off for too long. It had been a long night.

  Mr. Jones had come early that morning, leaving a draught which gave Jane some relief and enabled Elizabeth to give the housekeeper (who was sent several times to inquire by Mr. Bingley) some good news regarding her sister’s health.

  Jane rested now, finally enjoying some moments of peaceful slumber. She had breathed with great difficulty the night before, and not knowing what else to do, Elizabeth had made use of the abundant supply of pillows Mr. Bingley had sent up with his housekeeper. Propping Jane up, she had told her of the conversation she had enjoyed at dinner with Mr. Wickham.

  Jane, of course, was willing to believe the best of Mr. Darcy immediately. She was so much kinder than Elizabeth could ever be.

  Given Mr. Wickham’s favorable opinion, Elizabeth decided she would try to be kind to Mr. Darcy if their paths should cross during the course of the day. Of course, she would certainly not make a point of seeking him out. It was a far easier task to be agreeable to disagreeable people when you did not have to see them.

  It was on the hope she and Jane would quit Netherfield Park sooner rather than later that Elizabeth had written a note, sending for her mother. Surely, Mother would see how miserable Jane was, and she would spirit them home so her daughter might recover in the comfort of her own home. One look at Jane’s swollen, red nose and watery eyes would convince her of the necessity before Mr. Bingley caught Jane looking less than her best.

  However, even should their mother ready herself in record time, Elizabeth did not expect her to call at Netherfield Park before the hour.

  With another look at Jane, Elizabeth tiptoed out of the dark bedchamber in search of the library. She needed a dose of daylight to brighten her morning, and the book room was the safest place she could think of.

  Miss Bingley was so busy trying to impress Mr. Darcy with her many accomplishments (of which reading was not included, despite what she pretended), Elizabeth would not be disturbed by the lady or any of the other residents there.

  Mr. Darcy was too proud to seek out the knowledge abounding on the bookshelves Mr. Bingley admitted were poorly stocked. He probably thought he knew everything worth knowing, so why expand his understanding?

  Elizabeth shook her head at herself. She was not doing a very good job giving Mr. Darcy the benefit of the doubt. Then again, he had left little doubt of his opinion of her and her limited prospects — how no gentleman of consequence would consider her because of her and her family’s numerous faults.

  Mr. Wyndham would not trouble himself with circumstances beyond her control when a lady’s values were what he esteemed. An independent spirit, an improved mind, family loyalty, and honesty — those were qualities a true gentleman of Mr. Wyndham’s calibre admired.

  A maid pointed Elizabeth in the right direction, and she soon found the one room where she felt at home in any residence.

  She closed the door behind her, and her heart dropped when she saw shelf after empty shelf lining the walls. Mr. Bingley had warned her as much the evening before, but Elizabeth had not believed him until that moment.

  How did one live without books?

  Crossing the Turkish carpet, she drew the curtains open, letting the light of day inside to illuminate the room.

  The improved lighting failed to produce the literature she sought. Not one tome graced the floor to ceiling shelves against the largest wall. However, the shelves on either side of the fireplace at the other end of the room were full. She let her fingers trail against the smooth velvet upholstery on the chairs placed around the fire.

  The buttery soft leather bindings comforted Elizabeth as much as a warm blanket. She walked down the short row of books and perused their titles. Unless she wished to read tomes pertaining to land and estate management, she would have to look higher.

  Just within her reach, she found volumes with material more appropriate for a lady seeking an escape from her surroundings. Diaries of exploratory journeys beckoned to Elizabeth to pull them from their perch and join them in a marvelous adventure. But Elizabeth resisted the urge to indulge her taste.

  Jane might wake before their mother arrived, and Elizabeth ought to select a book suitable for distracting her from her discomfort, not adding to it with accounts of strange creatures and assaults from the weather. Jane had suffered enough from the weather recently.

  Would Mr. Bingley have novels or poetry? Miss Bingley had colored all the way to the tips of her ears when Mr. Wickham had teased her about hiding them on the top shelves.

  Elizabeth twirled slowly in place, searching. Where was a ladder when a lady needed one?

  Rising to her toes, Elizabeth stretched in vain to see the top row. If she had a library of her own, she would see that all books of interest to a lady were within the ability of her height to reach them. Too often, gentlemen saw the library as their domain, and they tended to place the books more likely to impress others on the shelves that were easy to see.

  Elizabeth had no patience for others’ vanity when she had a sick sister to entertain and no way to see what the top shelves contained.

  That decided it. Glancing around to ensure she was not observed, she selected the chair that would give her the least trouble and heaved it over to the bookshelf.

  She looked around again. It really would not do for anyone to see her climbing on Mr. Bingley’s furniture, despite what his sisters thought of her hoydenish ways.

  Removing the half-boots which had been cleaned for her during the night, Elizabeth climbed on top of the chair.

  As she had hoped, her effort was rewarded when she saw a row with a few books tossed on top of it. One in particular seemed to be the right thickness, and since it had the same color binding as her Book of Poems by Walter Wyndham, it was her obvious choice.

  While the chair enabled her to see, it soon became evident that it also limited Elizabeth’s reach. She had not placed it close enough to the shelf. And, of course, the book which most enticed her was a hairbreadth beyond the tips of her fingers no matter how she leaned against the shelf and stretched her limbs to reach it.

  She was too close to consider getting down from the chair to move it over the inches required for her to free the volume from its mahogany perch. Leaning forward a touch more, holding onto the bookshelf with her other hand so she would not topple over onto the edge of the fireplace mantel, Elizabeth stretched to the point just this side of losing her balance.

  “Allow me to help you!” said a deep voice behind her.

  Startled at the sound, Elizabeth lost her hold on the shelf, sending her lurching forward. Flailing to grab ahold of anything solid, she lashed out with her stockinged foot … and tripped over the arm of the chair.

  There was only one way to go.

  Down Elizabeth went, her legs tangled in the fabric of her dress, her arms braced in front of her to break what was sure to be a spectacular fall.

  This was going to be painful.

  Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for the worst.

  Chapter 10

  Elizabeth never did hit the floor. She paused mid-fall. There was no crash against the polished wood or blow against the chimney corner. Instead, she was pleasantly wrapped in warmth.

  Too stunned to realize where she was or what had happened, it took her an embarrassingly long time to come to her senses. The manly scent of shaving cream and leather did not help clear the cloud of disorientation muddling her mind. Nor did the closeness of two startlingly intense blue eyes staring down at her.

  She was in Mr. Darcy’s arms.

  Elizabeth removed her hand from his chest, her fingers burning.

  His breath brushed against her face in ragged bursts. She looked over his shoulder to the door, judging the distance. How had he made it to her in time?

  “Are you hurt, Miss Eliza
beth?” Mr. Darcy asked, his hold around her softening.

  He was so warm. Not at all marble-like. “I am not certain. It all happened so fast, I do not feel anything at all.” (Except for a buzzing tingle spreading like warm honey through her body, but she did not think that was what Mr. Darcy inquired about. And it definitely did not hurt.)

  Elizabeth doubted her legs would hold her up, but that had more to do with Mr. Darcy than with her fall. The damage would have been far worse had he not come to her rescue.

  Then again, she would not have fallen had he not startled her in the first place.

  The need to thank Mr. Darcy battled with her urge to scold him.

  He said, “I apologize for startling you. Of course, your position on top of the chair was rather precarious…”

  He dared to censure her when she ought to be reprimanding him? Elizabeth’s flash of anger twisted into mirth at the irony of her situation, and she made the grave mistake of laughing.

  Oh, the pain! Agonizing stabs pulsated at her side, running from the top of her head to the tips of her toes and coiling in nauseating intensity in her stomach.

  “You are hurt. It is my doing. I must have bruised your ribs when I rushed forward to catch you. I am sorry,” he repeated, his hold around her firm and steady as he walked her over to the couch and gently set her down.

  The concern furrowing his brow, the penitent sorrow in his eyes, did not permit Elizabeth to remain angry. Mr. Darcy looked like a puppy caught doing something naughty, and she simply did not have the heart to punish him. Especially when she had been the one climbing on top of a chair.

  She took a tentative breath and tried to sit up to a more respectable position.

  Mr. Darcy reached out to help her. “Pray allow me to assist you. You took a horrible fall, and I fear you are injured more than you are willing to admit.”

  The effort of sitting up made Elizabeth break out into a sweat covering her body, but she gritted her teeth and sat up as if her life depended on it. Mr. Darcy’s touch did strange things to her insides, and she feared she might get sick all over the tops of his polished Hessians if she allowed him to help her more than he already had. “I am well enough. It only hurts when I breathe,” Elizabeth said with every shred left of her dignity.

  She only realized how silly she sounded when Mr. Darcy arched an eyebrow and his lips twitched.

  “How unfortunate,” he said in a dry tone that tickled Elizabeth’s humor.

  Clutching her side, she controlled her merriment. “It is. I am rather fond of breathing.”

  “As am I. How sensible of you,” he said, pulling the chair that had caused this whole mess over to the couch. Sitting down in it, he leaned forward and watched her.

  Elizabeth did her best to look however a lady was supposed to look after suffering a spectacular fall in front of a gentleman who had proclaimed her “barely tolerable.” Why could it not have been Mr. Wickham to come to her rescue? Why was Mr. Darcy befuddling her with his nearness and concern, challenging her poor opinion of him with his gentle attentiveness?

  This Mr. Darcy was not meeting up to her imagination’s expectations of his character at all.

  Miss Elizabeth grabbed the edge of the couch, using her arms to help her stand when she ought to rest.

  In his effort to reach her before she crashed against the hardwood floor, Darcy must have struck against her ribs. That he had saved her from worse harm did nothing to appease his guilt. That he had noticed from the supple feel of her in his arms that she did not wear a corset to bear the brunt of his blow made his ears burn and his cravat tighten around his neck.

  “I must return to Jane,” she said, rising to wobbly feet. The determined clench of her jaw, the strain she attempted to disguise covering her face bespoke of a stubbornness to prove to herself — and likely to him as well — that she did not desire his assistance.

  Darcy admired Miss Elizabeth’s determination even if her reasoning was unsound. He had suffered blows to the side in pugilist matches in his university days. There was nothing to be done but to wrap your torso as tightly as you could stand and wait for the pain to subside. Sometimes it took months. Darcy prayed Miss Elizabeth would not suffer so long.

  If only he could have caught her sooner. If only he had not startled her. His intention had been to help, not hurt. What a daft fool he was.

  “Please, Miss Elizabeth, sit for a moment and allow me to send for the surgeon,” he begged.

  She did not pay him any heed, instead pressing her hand against her ribs and taking a deep breath as if to prove she was in perfect condition. Stubborn woman.

  “Please rest for a moment,” he insisted when she winced.

  She, of course, ignored him and stood.

  A more calculating female would have asked for his help, but Miss Elizabeth avoided him. He had the distinct impression she might bite him if he so much as reached toward her. And so, he went out to the hall to request that his groom ride to Meryton to fetch the surgeon. He would be the quickest about it.

  Miss Elizabeth was in the same spot where Darcy had left her. Not knowing what to do with his hands, Darcy crossed them over his chest and regarded the lady in front of him for clues as to how he could best keep her still.

  Without a word, she sat down on the couch. Good sense had won over her stubborn impertinence. An impertinent minx, Darcy thought, struggling not to smile at the warm memories of the last female who had provoked him to use that particular phrase to describe her.

  “I must return to my sister. I only came here to fetch a book to read to her,” Miss Elizabeth said softly.

  She was not going anywhere until the surgeon arrived. “If your sister is as considerate of your health as you are of hers, she will wish for you to sit here until the surgeon arrives.” He continued before she could protest, “How is Miss Bennet this morning?” Perhaps, if he kept her talking, she would be still.

  “She was sleeping when I left her.”

  “A maid can sit with her until you are able to return. I see you are anxious.”

  Miss Elizabeth looked at him then. Their eyes met, and the mixed emotions present in her expression made Darcy feel increasingly more uncomfortable.

  Popping to his feet, he went over to the bookshelf. She had been reaching for a book on the top shelf. Further down, out of her reach.

  As tall as he was, even Darcy had to rise to the balls of his feet to see. “At Pemberley, the bookshelves have ladders. If Bingley decides to stay at Netherfield Park for a length of time, I will suggest he install them as well.”

  He looked over his shoulder at Miss Elizabeth. Once again, she attempted to sit forward.

  The temptation to hold her down overwhelmed Darcy. She tried his patience like no other.

  Scrunching up her face, she relaxed against the cushion again. “Is Mr. Bingley not planning to stay very long at Netherfield Park?” she asked.

  Ah. Darcy understood now. He had said the wrong thing, giving her reason to worry Bingley might leave Hertfordshire … and her sister.

  “Bingley’s father wished for him to purchase an estate of his own, but Bingley thought it best to let an estate to ensure he could properly manage it before making such an important investment. That is why I am here.”

  Her eyes sharpened. “And do you find Netherfield Park to your liking?”

  “It has been empty for some time, but it does not show the normal signs of disrepair common in most unoccupied residences. The gardens need diligent care, but the fields have benefited from their disuse. I daresay they will produce bountifully when they are tended to properly, which bodes well for the tenants who rely on the land for their income as the master of the house does. For that alone, I would encourage Bingley to stay.”

  “You give your advice freely. What of the neighbors? Do you approve of them?” The edge in her tone encouraged Darcy to weigh his words carefully.

  “I do not have the advantage of acquaintances outside of my circle.”

  She scof
fed. “Why did you not form acquaintances at the Meryton Assembly when you had the opportunity?”

  Why did she attack him? Darcy explained, “I do not have the ease of forming acquaintances easily with strangers.”

  “I should say not when you refuse introductions or to even dance at a ball when gentlemen are scarce. I daresay you find our company barely tolerable and cannot wait until you are able to depart for those more suitable to your position in society.”

  Darcy turned to the shelf, finally seeing the book she had been reaching for while he waited for his face to cool. He did not know what to make of her bold speech. “Barely tolerable.” He had said that. He had intended for her to hear him say it. But he had not expected Miss Elizabeth to use his words against him. She must be in a great deal of pain.

  Stretching to reach the book, he slid it off the shelf and turned to hand it to her.

  She did not take the book from him, and Darcy did not much like standing in front of her with his offering. So, he set it beside her and resumed his position on the chair in front of her.

  Pain often made people say what they ought not utter, and Miss Elizabeth was no different.

  His calm returned, Darcy replied, “I do not feel it right to form attachments when I have no intention of staying.”

  She snapped, “Yes, attachments are dangerous things. God forbid you encourage strangers to think of you as a gentleman.”

  Her accusation was a slap in the face. Darcy was nothing if not a gentleman.

  His limbs trembled, but he kept his voice steady. “You call my conduct ungentlemanly?”

  “I can forgive your insult against my vanity. I can even overlook your poor estimation of my prospects, but you would lead me to believe that Mr. Bingley, a man you call ‘friend,’ is so easily swayed by your opinion, you only have to say the word and he will pack up and leave Netherfield Park. You have taken care not to form any attachments, and you did well, sir. The people beneath you would only get burnt if they risked drawing close to such lofty company as yours. We are clods of dirt of no use other than to be trodden upon and crumble to dust in the presence of the grand sun named Darcy.”