Fitzwilliam Darcy, Poet

by Jennifer Joy

  Darcy’s heart thrummed rapidly. What had he done to deserve this?

  She continued before he found his tongue. “You care nothing for the feelings of others, but what of Mr. Bingley and the people with whom he has already formed attachments? Would you deny them his friendship merely to appease your own vanity while you disparage mine?”

  Darcy’s throat went dry. Had he possessed the words necessary to reply, he could not have spoken them. However, such an attack on his character could not go unanswered.

  Had Miss Elizabeth been a gentleman, Darcy would have challenged her. He would have proved his superiority and delighted in watching her eat her words.

  But she was not a gentleman, and apparently, she did not think him much of one either.

  Chapter 11

  Miss Elizabeth does not think I am a gentleman. The realization stabbed Darcy to the core. She had much to say on the subject, but Darcy heard only the echo of her accusation.

  A knock on the door interrupted her diatribe against his character.

  Good Lord, let it be the surgeon, Darcy thought, raising his eyes to see Wickham standing in the doorway with a stupid grin on his face. Had he overheard their conversation? Darcy groaned. He would never hear the end of it.

  “I hope I am not interrupting,” Wickham said, knowing full well he was.

  Miss Elizabeth turned in her seat, her breath catching and her eyes squinting in pain.

  Darcy could have kicked himself. How could he allow himself to be provoked by one injured? If he had failed to act as a gentleman, it had been when he allowed his emotions to overpower his reason and forget Miss Elizabeth was hurt at his hand.

  It was a mistake he would not make again. He would prove to Miss Elizabeth that he was everything she claimed him not to be. He would be the most gentlemanly gentleman she had ever met.

  She accused him of pride, but were not the prejudices she so easily expressed the manifestation of her own arrogance? Did she trust her hastily made judgment so implicitly she was blind to truth?

  Darcy delighted in exposing her error. And he would do it … as soon as he got rid of Wickham.

  Wickham was a leech — attaching himself to Miss Elizabeth’s side and sucking the patience out of Darcy. Would he never leave?

  Miss Elizabeth had recovered from her fall enough to ply Wickham with smiles as they discussed the excitement of the militia coming to Meryton — a topic of constant discussion and of which Darcy, frankly, was tired of hearing. He struggled not to fall into a surly attitude. He could not leave Miss Elizabeth before the surgeon arrived, nor did he dare abandon her to the company of Wickham, who was more concerned with exuding charm than in ensuring the lady’s health.

  Darcy could still hear her cry. The wide-eyed terror in Miss Elizabeth’s eyes when she had lurched over the edge of the chair was an image he would not soon forget. The memory sent shivers down his spine.

  Her eyes did not reflect fright now. They turned up at the corners just as her lips did. Miss Elizabeth’s was a merry face — one which inspired others to share in her merriment. But the slight arch in her brow and the twinkle in her fine eyes bespoke of a cleverness behind her humor.

  If she was as clever as Darcy supposed her to be, he would have to be cautious. Isabella had been clever, too.

  Miss Elizabeth grabbed the book beside her. “I really must return to my sister. She might be awake now, and I do not want her to worry.”

  Darcy realized he had been silent for far too long. How easy it was. Much easier than exerting himself in conversation. And yet, that was what he must do to prove himself a gentleman.

  “Miss Elizabeth, I beg of you to wait for the surgeon. A maid is sitting beside Miss Bennet. You bear the pain well, but you took a dreadful fall,” he said, hoping his compliment would soften her view of him.

  Wickham was all astonishment. “A fall! What is this? Here I am sitting beside you, and I had no idea such a traumatic event had occurred. You truly are a credit to your sex, Miss Elizabeth. Just imagine if Miss Bingley had suffered as you have. The entire household would have been made aware of it, mark my words.”

  She chuckled, grabbing at her side and holding her breath.

  Darcy glared at Wickham, annoyed he had added to Miss Elizabeth’s suffering by provoking her laughter. Even worse, he had so easily minimized the effect of Darcy’s subtle compliment with his own dramatic praise.

  Taking note of her discomfort, Wickham’s face went solemn. In a serious tone, he said, “I swear to be as grave as Darcy is right now. I have no doubt he has acted the perfect gentleman and sent for the surgeon immediately. He has probably been attempting to entertain you to pass the time as well, I daresay. Darcy is nothing if not a proper gentleman.”

  Finally, someone who spoke in his defense! Darcy nodded at his friend in grateful acknowledgment.

  At least, he was grateful until he saw the incredulity cross Miss Elizabeth’s countenance.

  Who was she to blaspheme his conduct when she was the one who had stood precariously on the edge of a chair? A lady of quality would never have resorted to such hoydenish behavior. Of course, most ladies were not nearly so determined as Miss Elizabeth was proving herself to be. Nor could their interest in literature compare to hers.

  “As my dear friend seems to be tongue-tied, I shall speak for him. Darcy is the best of men. You would be hard-pressed to find a finer gentleman in all of England, or a truer friend.”

  Darcy glared again at Wickham. Really, that was carrying his praise too far.

  Miss Elizabeth did not scoff or laugh, but that eyebrow. It arched again, and Darcy read the disbelief in her open expression as clearly as if she voiced her opinion aloud. “Indeed?” she asked.

  One word. But the incredulity she expressed with it inspired awe … among other things.

  Darcy willed Wickham to keep his mouth shut, but when Miss Bingley entered the room, fate conspired against Darcy’s desire for silence.

  “Imagine finding everyone here in my favorite room,” said Miss Bingley. She crossed the floor to the sparsely stocked bookshelves and plucked a tome decisively off the shelf. “I have been all anticipation to resume my study of…” She looked down at the volume she had selected, continuing with as much confidence as the subject allowed, “…animal husbandry.”

  Darcy cleared his throat and looked away while Miss Bingley composed herself. He dared not look at Wickham, and he most certainly could not look at Miss Elizabeth. Her blasted eyebrow would be raised, the side of her mouth lifted in a lopsided smile.

  Smoothing her skirts, Miss Bingley sat in the chair beside the couch facing Darcy. “I declare there is nothing so agreeable as a book. If you are so fortunate as to visit the library at Pemberley, as I have, you would understand why I am encouraging my brother to give more attention to the book room.”

  She paused, batting her eyelashes and waiting for a compliment. She would have to grow accustomed to disappointment. Darcy knew better than to pay her compliments.

  Wickham, however, was not so cautious. “Yes, Darcy extols the importance of improving the mind by extensive reading. I did not know you were such an enthusiastic student to select a topic relating to…” He looked at the book she tried to hide between the seat cushions, adding, “…shall we call it … estate management? How very dedicated of you.”

  Miss Bingley blushed crimson, and once again, Darcy riveted his gaze to the floor. Though he limited his vision, he did not fail to hear the lady’s unhappy huff. He imagined Miss Elizabeth clutching her side and biting her cheeks to keep from laughing, but he had to eliminate the image from his mind when he had to clear his throat again to cover the chuckle bubbling up in his chest.

  It was time for him to take charge of the conversation. He could not rely on Wickham to return the topic to a subject more appropriate for their present company.

  “Georgiana has been devouring the novels of Frances Burney. Perhaps Miss Bennet would enjoy listening to you read Evelina. My sister declares
it to be her finest work,” Darcy said to Miss Elizabeth.

  The genuine smile she gave him made Darcy feel better about the surprise with which she replied. “You allow Miss Darcy to read novels? How delightful! I admit Evelina was my favorite when I was Lydia’s age, but I appreciate the complexity of her later work. If only she was not stuck in France, I suppose she would have written more.”

  Miss Bingley raised her nose in the air. If there were any novels on her brother’s library shelves, they were not there by her doing.

  Darcy sprang to his feet. He had made several recommendations to Bingley on the chance Georgiana might join them in Hertfordshire should she need a reprieve from the excitements of her boisterous cousins and the busy London life. However, had Darcy been present to see to the positioning of the books on the shelves, he would have ensured the novels were at a level adequate for a lady to see.

  Sure enough, Evelina was on an upper shelf. Stretching to his full height, he pulled it off the shelf and returned to his chair in front of Miss Elizabeth, his hand extending the book for her to take.

  Their fingers did not touch, but their eyes met, and the effect was just as jolting. Darcy forgot to let go until Miss Elizabeth tugged the book out of his hand.

  Miss Bingley, seated as she was beside Miss Elizabeth, chose that moment to pet her arm and lean forward. “Now that you have two books with which to entertain Dear Jane, you will want to return to her side.”

  Miss Elizabeth had been attempting for several minutes to leave the room to see to her sister, but Darcy was determined she should stay as still as he could encourage her to be until the surgeon arrived. Now, with Miss Bingley’s dismissal, he wished more than ever for Miss Elizabeth to stay.

  Gold sparks flashed in her brown eyes, and her cheeks colored, but she gripped the edge of the couch to stand.

  Darcy did not know from whence the question stemmed, but before he could stop himself, he blurted, “What do you most enjoy reading, Miss Elizabeth?”

  She paused, perched against the edge of the couch, her knees dangerously close to brushing against his. Like a gentleman, he pushed his chair back, but he did not stand lest she imitate his posture.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Do you really wish to know, Mr. Darcy? If you are sincere in asking, I shall give you a sincere answer, but I must warn you to brace yourself for the conversation to come.”

  He smiled. It was the perfect answer, and one he would have given had she posed the question to him. “I could no sooner reply differently than you have. Allow me to assure you I am up to the challenge.”

  Miss Bingley interrupted. “Mr. Wickham, has my brother conversed with you yet? He told me he meant to extend his hospitality to you and invite you to stay while Mr. Darcy is our guest. You are most welcome, and I declare your presence will make for diverting company among our other guests.”

  At that, Darcy pulled his gaze away from Miss Elizabeth. Had Miss Bingley lost her mind? Why would she presume to speak for her brother just now when even Wickham knew she held him in little regard?

  Wickham would never turn down an offer which guaranteed him a comfortable bed, good meals, and the prospect of hunting on someone else’s property. He jovially accepted. “We will make a merry party, providing the best medicine with which Miss Bennet and Miss Elizabeth can recover.”

  Miss Bingley was confused. “Have you fallen ill too, Miss Elizabeth? You do look rather pale and gaunt — not at all well.”

  Darcy thought Miss Elizabeth had never looked finer.

  “I am quite well. It was only a little fall when I reached for a book on the shelf. Mr. Darcy’s concern is wasted on me,” she said abruptly.

  Darcy felt like he had been kicked in the gut.

  “I mean…,” Miss Elizabeth added quickly, continuing, “I am not as hurt as Mr. Darcy believes me to be, though I am grateful for his kindness in seeing to my welfare.”

  Miss Bingley did not like that reply. She bore the pinched expression of an ignorant child tasting her first lemon — an expression which only intensified when the butler entered the room and announced the arrival of the Bennets.

  More Bennets.

  If there existed a test designed for men to prove their gentlemanliness, Darcy was confident Mrs. Bennet would play an important role in it. Few people brought out Darcy’s disapproval like Mrs. Bennet and her gaggle of girls. Already his hackles were raised.

  But, drat it all, he would behave like a gentleman.

  Chapter 12

  Elizabeth’s neck burned. What had possessed her to speak so plainly to Mr. Darcy? He could offend half of England, and she would not care. To be sure, he had deserved a good set down, but why had she taken it upon herself to be the one to attempt the impossible? Men like Mr. Darcy had no need for humility. They did not need to consider how their behavior affected others as they were accustomed to always being pleased, to having others pander to them.

  Resolving to think no more of Mr. Darcy and her harsh words of earlier, Elizabeth swallowed hard and stepped into the parlor where her mother and younger sisters waited. She was not surprised to see her sisters, though she had hoped Mother would have left them at home.

  Mr. Bingley sat comfortably opposite them, at ease and smiling. Thank Heavens he did not share Mr. Darcy’s low opinion of her family.

  “How is my dear Jane?” Mother asked, her voice quivering, her hand clutching the fichu at her throat.

  Elizabeth bit the insides of her cheeks. Laughter would hurt, and she doubted her humor would be appreciated by anyone who did not understand how her mother had denied Jane the use of the carriage and prayed for rain. As far as Mother was concerned, Jane’s illness at Netherfield Park was a gift from above.

  Mr. Bingley, being the gentleman he was, related the measures (and they were quite extensive) he had taken for Jane’s benefit. From the remedies his housekeeper swore by to the daily visits and draughts from the apothecary, and the bone broth Mr. Bingley’s cook insisted was more restorative than any medicine Mr. Jones could provide.

  Mother could not have been happier.

  Miss Bingley could not have looked sourer had she swallowed vinegar.

  Mr. Darcy… Elizabeth expected to see his face marked with disdain. But something else was there — something she could not identify. Something concerning.

  But she was through thinking of him. His opinion was of no matter to her.

  It was the perfect time to bring an end to her family’s call by suggesting they go upstairs to see the patient herself.

  However, before Elizabeth could utter a word, Mr. Darcy spoke to her mother. “It was thoughtful of you to send one of your daughters to care for Miss Bennet. We hope you do not find her worse than expected. Miss Elizabeth is diligent in her care.”

  Elizabeth studied his face, searching for signs of sarcasm — an arched brow, a sneer, a raised chin. But she found none. By all sound and appearance, Mr. Darcy had paid her a compliment. And in front of her mother! Did he not realize the danger to himself in showing even a modicum of interest in any one of Mother’s offspring?

  Mother pulled out her fan and waved it, sending the tendrils of hair around her cap flurrying. Fortunately, Mother had so long thought ill of Mr. Darcy, she was not too quick to change her opinion of him.

  Elizabeth would ensure she did not have cause to alter her view of the man.

  “Shall I show you to Jane, Mama? The sooner you see her, the sooner your fears will be allayed.” Elizabeth gathered her relatives and whisked them upstairs to the sickroom, no little feat when Mr. Wickham entered the room and her youngest sisters showed no inclination of wanting to part from the handsome gentleman’s company.

  “You can be properly introduced later, but first, Jane,” Elizabeth hissed, pushing them out to the hall. She felt her skin prickle and warm. Someone watched her. Elizabeth did not have to turn around to know it was Mr. Darcy.

  What madness had come over him? Had she inadvertently struck him on the head during her fall? Elizabeth co
uld not recall. She looked at her hands. Her knuckles were swollen and red. Now that she had noticed them, they hurt. Cradling her hand against her stomach, Elizabeth led them up the stairs and down the hall to Jane. Surely, she had not struck Mr. Darcy … or had she?

  Her mother chattered incessantly, but Elizabeth did not hear a word. Not until they opened the door to Jane’s bedchamber and saw her sitting in front of the mirror brushing her hair.

  The last few hours of sleep had done wonders to restore Jane. Her cheeks were rosy red, but her eyes had lost their feverish brightness. And while she admitted her throat still hurt, her head did not ache as it had the day before.

  Elizabeth was thrilled! Jane was much improved, and their carriage was sitting in the drive waiting to convey them home. Sweet relief!

  Mother fussed and fretted, but finally she said, “I am satisfied you are not in any apparent danger. Your illness is not so alarming as Lizzy made me believe in her letter. But, Jane, you must be cautious not to recover too soon or else you will have no reason to continue on at Netherfield.”

  What? Elizabeth shook her head and blinked her eyes. “Mama, you cannot wish for Jane to remain ill just so she can stay. We have already imposed on the Bingleys’ hospitality and will become nuisances if we abuse their generosity beyond reason.”

  “Nonsense. We happened upon Mr. Jones in Meryton, and he does not think it at all advisable for Jane to be carried home so soon after falling ill. Just a few days more should do the trick.”

  Elizabeth bit her tongue. Were it up to Mother, she would wish for Jane’s cold to last as long as it took for Mr. Bingley to propose. It was clear she had not intended to bring Jane home at all.

  Fluffing Jane’s pillows and smoothing her brow, Mother declared her eldest daughter’s cold a grand success and ordered Jane to return to her bed. Her future practically secured, Mother ushered her daughters back to the breakfast parlor where three unmarried gentleman (and two inconsequential females) invited them to stay a moment longer for tea.